In the 1st world where money rules, all that is Art is just for fools. In minds made of solid gold, creativity has fallen cuckold to a world obsessed with the power of coins and the money hidden within a woman’s loins. Where thoughts turn to war and death, the artist breathes his last breath.
And so armed with just a disheveled trampled brush the artist fights against economies attempting to crush a sphere of lights where dreamers dream of new celestial orbs. A revolution where the beleaguered artist absorbs the disdain of media and jealous parliaments who welcome the last Muse’s irreverent lament.
Should not invite him in, or invoke his name by acts painted by decadent minds. Should not invite him to discourse on art or philosophy, since my mind is bedevilled with innate dangers of its own.
And I suddenly realised the room was full of faces and the world was full of even more and every face was a series of lies and with each one told another line cracks the foundation of the universe and that every fissure put together would hold the world in broken fingers and each broken finger points at a face that fills this room and all the rooms everywhere and amongst all the faces was mine. Dead from all the lies.
Shake off your shallow smile
And lend me your hate,
Which languishes in your breast
Like lead in a glowing flame;
For hate builds nations,
And lays siege to the meek.
And I need strength
To provide leverage for a burnt out cause.
We no longer fight,
But willingly shoulder yoke and harness,
Bare our backs for the whip;
Serfs to our government,
Slave to money and desire and weak…
So very weak…
So lend me your hate
So that we may be free
And raise arms against the country we love so much,
To be patriots in blood and solidarity,
To stand above ash and rubble
On a land grown green with the tears
Of forgotten forefathers
And return it to He whom blest it.