Art sucks. Poetry sucks. Everything is fucked. I suck. You suck. So if I am so anti-everything, why do I even bother "creating" anything? Well one has to do something with one's time.
Welcome to my playground. I am the Dissident Poetician. Doing Poetician stuff is what i do.
"Art is dead, don’t consume its corpse"
- graffiti in the streets of Paris, May 68.
Long live the spirit of May 68.
Piss in the fountain of dada.
things can never be the same in every single way the remnants of 2009 lost in the sands of time not the same excitement nor the reckless abandon those were the days filled with fun each day on the edge of destruction with Lindt for satisfaction bring me back to 2009 oh the good memories but we can never go back there not like then, not like before
I saw you playing with it walking in front of traffic going deaf swerving on the wrong side of the road playing with it when you should be paying careful attention just the other day I saw myself being hit by a garbage truck
call me what you will I call myself a post-modernist hippo hypocrite playing with my flashy new phone yes I'm am one of y'all now
all the noughts you have divided all the darkness that is light all the horses that ride you all the crimes not witnessed all the wrapping paper that is present all the future in your past all the oil paintings that do not last all the glass that does not smash all the oxymorons that do not contradict all the arrogance that is modest all the rings that are phoning all the contradictions that make sense all the photos snapping cameras all the digital replaced by analogue all the CDs that preceed cassettes all the the backwards going forwards all the pretentiousness that is honest all the poetry that writes itself all the dada not recuperated all the awesome that is lame all the endings that begin
feel your bones against mine dissident out of time all alone in my mind all the while, wasting time no meaning, lack of pride cut through lies with a knife wake up on the other side the oppressed, they will rise our affluence comes at price our brand new shoes look very nice one bowl of rice will not suffice so the truth takes us by surprise much beauty on this earth every day is the same waste our time, go to work you shall cry, yes it hurts the end is nigh in this world drop the bomb, kill some 'niggers' they eat dirt in the third world it's poverty for sinners our privilege comes at a price we dine like kings while people starve buy more, eat more, don't think twice we tell ourselves comfortable lies yet again, press rewind every day is the same without thought, speak your mind get ahead, play the game get so high on candy go nowhere on a treadmill which drugs do you fancy? keep climbing up that hill our way of life comes at a price we play with smart phones while they slave we celebrate while people die we'll never see or change our ways keep telling ourselves comfortable lies