It’s not a mirror.
Is it art,
Trivial, menial diets
Of cutting life into scenes,
Edited, primed and methodically
Structured like murder.
It’s a seismic process of conjuring compositions
Irrelevant to the mundane prescriptions of life.
The screen is xenophobic. Almost, totalitarian.
Jungian dualities in the vain of stimuli –
Victims sat bandaged before the canvas of a moving image,
Their interval requires an oxygen mask and a refill of their intravenous drip.
The projection eliminates fear, perhaps develops a psychosis of delusional cruelties that become a replication of the visual act. Sexualities are awakened,
Genitals ruptured to the impossible beauty of the sirens that win the hearts of
The Proletariat boys and girls. The depression of reality diluted by the Omnipotent stars of the show. The screen is not a screen but an altar to deter
The scars of personal heresies. The dark. The spotlight. Such an abyss! The Puddle of dreams within a frame, singing, dancing, crying and aching
The cameraman turns and seeks the man with a gun in a shopping mall,
The offender will shoot and kill innocent lives and it will be recorded.
The screen decays into a scapegoat, a devil even.
Everybody will blame the television,
The screen and not the fingers that pulled the trigger.
Reality TV is the hearse of our abundant crapulence.
It is anthropologically backward,
“I wanna shoot that guy down just like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.”
It’s not a mirror.
Is it art.
Concrete stars of
Cast of runaway regrets
And a stage for
Iwo Jima vets.
Eva Braun divas
On sets of
Aryan shores of
Deluding the plastic
Prosy and pernicious
The phallic lens
That ejaculates you
Scenes of maimed
Damsels in godlessness.
Through wombs of blitz and glamour –
Queen Mary of Mansfield;
Medium wide shot of her
Own ‘death show’,
Live for the Tinseltown
Sappho, Dido, Monroe,
Sit in the front row
For anti-septic rapes
Of political pillage.
“Happy Birthday Mr President”
Intercut with genocide,
The atomic bomb, Dachau,
Mao, Stalin, Pearl Harbour,
Dildos, Pro-life, Jim Jones,
The Somme, the Alamo,
The emperor Nero,
Proletariat zero, the man,
The ape, Manila massacre
And the ever-increasing
(Jump cuts back to bourgeois ignorance)
The hidden clip found in Oswald’s rifle:
“Happy Birthday my beautiful liars.”
Behind the red curtains
Hung on abattoir meat hooks
There lies this Judas Boulevard;
A long road of despair and
Of insolent butchery –
A studio of narcissistic fucks.
Thus Spoke Tinseltown
Star names erased on the boulevard,
Replaced by the likes of Schopenhauer, Mao, Jung, Goebbels and Kierkegaard.
The Hollywood sign torn down,
Instead, A Christian temple as great as the White House stands before beautiful Tinseltown.
Guts in animal fur, seizures of the aesthetic profoundly
Foam at the mouths as dead liberals contort in a macabre dance;
A vomiting parade, a syphilis extravagance of a burning economy.
Nothing to exist but flesh that is striving to excess,
Although, that excess is in fact their blind desire to suffer,
Such suffering becomes knowledge, such death-defining truths
As the mob of fundamental destruction film each other
For the voyeurism of the masses.
Only to find that the films become that of a ‘snuff’ movie,
The hangings, the shootings, stabbings, rapes and mass murder –
Alas! Becomes the reel of ‘real’ under the veneer of fame;
Nothing to blame but the animal and the detrimental intellect.
Wagner concertos play to the empty streets of Hollywood
As its stomach rumbles and begins to eat itself like
The Aryan philosophy that it is.