1. THE DEATH OF ART

Aborted fetuses hanging
From earlobes punctured
By the forces of fashion
Speak more clearly about
The Death of Art,
Than does some art-
Strike wanking off in its
Manifestoes of arcane shite.

Art died along with God,
But one of them has
The power to resurrect -
Not Art.
Art's self-immolation is not our Death,
But it burns us in its afterglow
Of lustily-breathed sentiment -
As rank as the air, it sucks in
And blows out.
Art is a whorish pipe
That can't swallow nor withdraw.
Art is the makeup caked
On a past tense hooker.

The priest ambles past the brothel
And trips on the condom Art forgot to hide.
Arising, kicking,
It sticks to the ground.
Our father gazes upward and
Intones :
"Our Father who Art in Heaven...,"
Blessing himself that Our Father
Is not with Art in Heaven

The johns continue to litter the sidewalk,
Their brochures,
Sticky, so sweaty,
Worn, well worn,
Proclaiming : "Exhibition ! Exhibition !
Get Your Picasso while it's in heat !"
Well, ain't that neat ?

The museum : a silence,
Witness a church in envy,
No babies crying, no nervous coughing
During the sermon : "The Last Things"
The museum : a lust,
Witness a brothel in envy,
No genitals deceased, no having to say -
"I Love You" - just come and go.

But God can't resurrect Art,
That proud seed of Man's Fall.
The Art of yesteryear dragged us down
The Art of today buries us -
The Art of tomorrow shall...
Tramp the dirt down !

The priest at the Requiem
Plugged his nose as he exorcized
The unembalmed corpse.
The altar-boy sparked a cigarette
In lieu of incense.
Meanwhile, back at the palace,
The cardinal hit his Huelsenbecks,
Hocked his Homer,
Hid his Hendrix,
Hoping to Hell that Heaven would
Have him.

But there is no salvation through Art,
No damnation either.
Only eternal emptiness into which
We escape, into which we flee,
Into which we fall.
We must claw our way back up
In order to escape today -
And to put off the future todays.
Art screams : "Carpe Diem",
Carefully obscuring the Latin's sickly
Ground : "Nihilo est, ergo requiesce",
A cheap-jack but seductive formula for
Suicide to which Art itself abides !

Necrophilic voyages to pharaonic shrines.
Virtuous voyeurs of self annihilaion.
Hold Art to ends
And no great endeavour results !
Heaven screams to Earth
In apocalyptical anger :
"Is your art different than your factories ?
Is your mastery of form different than
Your mastery of nature ?
Your desire for dominance
Lessened your prominence !

"The the Fourth Angel poured forth
His bowl from the sun and it was allowed
To burn people in its fiery heat."

The Earth shrugs.
Brother, The Death of Art is clear :
Frère, il faut mourir...

Shoot the messenger.


2. ARCHWAY

a/ INDUSTRIAL

Front end Sister Sun
Technology Ship sets sail
From her frame of light
Into simulated day
Optically Isolated
Converter domes shape the Light
Ghost waveforms illuminate
Home, the neon dome
Reflects the sorrow beams
Human artifact : Industrial Sunrise
Scan start - Wave optimized
Multiplication - Phase compared
Inaudibly ticks the master clock
Astral portrait, She knows my Vision
Meaningless outskirts
And Triptych Silhouettes
Daylight is just a lifetime away
Yet if one could
One would shoot for the stars
And diamonds for her eyes
Technology Ship sets sail
Some Ships do collide
Some Ships even die
Human artifact - Industrial
We throng to synchrotate
In dismal torpor
Mechanswers to our biolost Physyndrome
Rearguardous in our errorbits
Unabashed by the high-technonsense
Voiceless on a Screen, soon...
Industrial

b/ WINDOWS

The House of Cards
Comes tumbling down
My faith ain't real
It's something written in the sky
Twined in a mental coil
Visions through stained glass
Inclining marble statues
The Contours of all Time
On deserted plains of Shadows
Shadows deformed within our minds
Man on the edge :
Come now join in the Dance
Psychic movements used to be
Experience all around
Neglectful alter ego
Trespassed Immaculate Ground
With open eyes, yet nothing I see
Unable to
Behold the Celestial Form
Here before me
My image, the fall
The Dawn inside
We feel
You, my Counterpart
But is there any link
Looking through Windows
My ecstasy at large
Screaming out for your
Love
Do come over and enjoy
This mutual feeling of Agreement

c/ TIRED BLOOD - VAUDEVILLE

In you all hope resides
Remarkable how colored and adorned
The things are that lay ahead
How twisted these strange ways are
Does anything really endure
Or are we just stringing a puppet ?
And why bother in the first place ?
I mean, no one's safe
On these Slippery Rocks
Emotions,
They evaporate
Did you know that ?
Sometimes it seems like they're
Not Really There
Evaporating into the sky
And just when you think they're gone
It starts to Rain
That's when the Tune sets in
It doesn't keep me up at night
'Cause it's like
Slow water, or
Tired Blood
And it's hip
To watch it drip
From this giant
Rollercoaster...
Motherfuckers ?

Send in The Clowns
Don't bother, they're here...
The Coin spins, decide
'Cause the harsh words, lesser speech
What they evoke is second rate
Send in the Clowns
Welcome their Play
From Time Immemorial
Remembrance is a shroud
The past it has fled
With the clip-clop of horse's hooves
The Hourglass is the mould
You're fit into
Why foster every second when
You're up to your neck in the Sand ?
Open up,
Open these grey doors and lemme in
I only came here to buy some time
Or trade for a handful of Hybrid Rhymes
So send in the Clowns
As always

The trade of all Hybrid Rhymes
The Clowns
Please welcome their Play
The Tune
Hear it setting in
Like SLow Water, or like
Tired Blood