#patrick porter

stabbing art to death

Photo Bert Stern for US Vogue August 1, 1969

“Shall we use needles or knives to realign your spine? The tissue degenerates so rapidly Perhaps it proves it is the time to cover your face And smile at me to see if I am out of sight Denying ventricle flow revel in your plight tonight You're such a wonderful person to know And my name will rest in utter disdain My resentment receives its wings for flight You deceitfully stroll on just the same into your holy light With music destroyed, we'll only create noise Sweet dissonance is all that you'll have left We'll dance across its grave The art of singing empty praise with knives of hope and peace stab art to death I've watched it on its drugs And I've seen the doctors shrug cerebellums withered up The heart is black No scalpel, pill or stitch, no religious sales pitch Will ever bring the art that's dying back And so we are the heirs, of this glowing lack of care our hearts in one discord We all cry out for blood and spit we clap, the amps are feeding back My heart is filled with the one to whom I shout And glowing you speak in the friendliest tongue in sentiments of gold And oh the sweetest songs are sung and the sweetest lies are told So spread this virus and seek yourself you pursue it quite relentlessly when Sunday comes You'll raise hands to sing what a glorious sight to see Yet I see true art, I see her, and I see you And Father you inspire me to sing to you You inspire me to sing to you Burn all the flags and the money, sacrifice and laugh The light in your eyes reflects and I see myself And all I want to be for you I'll give everything Just to linger on your lips and feel your fingertips, you are an angel Art is not the world, art is in our heart And so I am the prince of sounds that make ears ring My princess kiss me with your sweet lips and lo My heart will sing if art is in yourself Or in a class at school if art is ego and selfishness And at the mercy of primitive tools we sing sweet good-byes in screams and screeches And bury these knives in your heart No paintings or poems to let you live on We've seen the last of art as servants and lovers We wash your feet and cry out into the dark the noise, the beauty The love you bring me stabs these knives right into art art is not the world Art is in our hearts Stab art to death” -Showbread, “Stabbing Art to Death”

it's easier to speak your mind when the world loves what you have to say oh they gyrate their way, they shout when they say: "let us never see the day the sun sets on your heart." but when i am alone in the dark i wonder where i've been, i wonder where i'm going is part of being strung along being helplessly unknowing? and what of the scoundrels who lead the sheep astray? oh they question their masters, their parents and pastors, and in the hereafter they're steeped in the dark and when i am alone, in my heart i wonder where they've been and where they're going is part of rebellion conceit of the unknowing? is it difficult to speak your mind when the world hates the things you have to say? oh they screech and they bray, there is doubt and dismay, may the sun set on this day when you dragged all of them effortlessly straight into the dark while they where there they wondered: what if the kings that we've put on their thrones aren't really kings at all? what if they should fall? and all of the false gods that we're prostrated before have no gracious reign in mind what if we wake up to find ourselves coiled in their ashes? we will finally start to wonder what it is that we should leave behind we'll see the signs and realize there's never been a better time to overthrow the principalities in all our words, in all our deeds and storm the gates of hell to show them they will not prevail if all our hopes and all our dreams fall on deaf ears then let them see the gates of hell will not prevail and you've broken the chains on me i needed to be vindicated for all of my frustrations but dragging all my grievances was heavy as damnation i don't need to feel so right, but I badly want to feel alive i'm done with a contest of wills and i'm not afraid to die -Showbread, “Two-Headed Monster”

(link)

Patrick Porter, ‘Thucydides was a Realist’ (1 April 2022) Engelsberg Ideas

© Bob Stone

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtOo-1ppwO4