(a rant, brought to you by a nonconformist naturally.)shiiiiit shit shit i don't even know where to begin, i just, i don't, and i understand this brings a whole lot of controversy to the table and this isn't going to be read so i might as damn well attempt to collect my thoughts in an organized manner
i only have 40+ watchers, it's a laugh, and thank god for this
on lowercase letters, on passion for art, on taking art seriously, on this fucking website becoming weheartit 2.0 with asinine comments and zero respect and admiration--on this fucking website becoming as genuine as a pathological liar, fucking sit down.
this website is glorious--glorious as in, there are cowards. there are frauds. there's no longer literature that sounds like birds tweeting in a garden. literature that's sold to a gullible audience. fed to a naive audience. fed to the masses.
you've got the front page, it features a poem: 'i'm gay.'
you click it.
your eyes roll and you swore they're stuck in the back of your head, permanently, until they take a second look around. or atleast mine do.
"i'm gay and that's all that matters."
all these variations are lovely.
"you're gay and that's okay."
all these variations are repetitive.
"i am gay.
why can't you accept me?"
beautiful, brilliant, bloody calming and soothing. it's all true.
it's relatable in the LGBTQ community. i'm not a part of it. i'm bi, i think. i've not discovered myself. i love women and men and their aesthetics, and i'm stuck in these poems, wondering why the hell it is relatable to such a wide audience. i'm terrified of fucking. i don't enjoy relationships. but fuck it, women have nice curves. men have jolly masculinity i adore. i celebrate it.
the comments: "thank you. i needed this. thank you for understanding."
wondering, why the hell didn't you put this in the speech category--why the hell does this have so many compliments, man?
and it's the same old rhythm. it's not art. and i love the fact i say this: anything could be art. but it's more of a propaganda. politics? not art. it's a tool. it's more of a tool, it's more of a speech--sticking your nose in something and singing kumbaya. 'we can all be in this together.'
it's been said before. it's been said various times, the same old thing, in various ways. you cannot call this poetry and get away with it. you cannot call your politics poetry. you cannot speak in poetics so naively either. you cannot say that this fixes everything. you cannot say, burn all the bigots and everything will be fine. you cannot say, if the world loved a little more, everything would be perfect.
you are not john lennon.
politics are dirty. art's dirty. art's raw. but i have to say this again: politics are not art.
politics are not art. art is not politics. art is not politics.
these are not masterpieces. these are full of air and don't stick right to the core. they don't hit the nail on the head. they bruise. they damage what you're attempting to offer.
this is what a cliche is.
it is not, "my art is lacking originality because i wrote about roses and ex-boyfriends" it is, "i will address this issue in a very inappropriate way featuring the current fuckup that is politics, because everyone else is making identity poems - why can't i"
if you add a spin to it, if you describe the bruises and the scars, if you really dig deep down under, if you really really sweat and go right to the core: that's addressing the issue.
the only thing that makes it something similar to art? to the smell of art? to the look of art? the expression used. the comments received. not the relativity.
two minutes gestures for your viewing pleasures
"your body is marked
your shoulders ache
and the wine tastes
so so bitter.
2 in the afternoon and
you have sacrificed
you have told
that you will never be
you are the demon that
lurks under the
empty wine bottles
make a ruckus.
you want to fuck
and give them
they do not
want to fuck you."
it is not politics. my poem does not feature my political stance. it's not even the nutshell. it's the feeling. it's the ache. do girls want to fuck me? no. do boys want to fuck me? no. does anyone want to fuck me? no. would i let them? no. do i want to be fucked? deep in my bone marrow. could i shutup, for one moment, and quit babbling something nonsensical? no.
everyone's hustled in the corner worried about banality. no one know's the truth: banality hasn't been around. picasso did it. dali did it. bukowski did it, because of fante. fante and bukowski were clever. picasso was clever. dali was insane. as artists, we're a mixture. postmodernism isn't here yet, folks. we'll figure out a way. shit, we've figured out a way already but it all becomes redundant--we put bows on our lowercase letters and crown them like a precious jewel, because it's what we know. no one saw it, at first. out lower case letters hushed themselves. they were hidden in the dark, only revealing themselves in the daylight when it was needed.
the lowercase letters are now heard. they're no longer a lullaby. they come in page view by page view, on the front page is where they periodically roam.
here's the thing about banality: every tip of your finger, every move and every motion you make is banal. every blink of an eye. every creation you shutter, deep down in your veins, you're banality's humor. but you treat banality as if it's something godlike. as if it's something you can achieve, as if it enhances your piece because it has not been done before.
if it's a love poem, it's a love poem. it's an art featuring a forest made of water, it's a forest made up of fucking water. if it's been done before, it's therefore recycled. here's the secret becoming original: don't be original. be a cliche. walk in a cliche. own the cliche, put it on a leash, in a cage, if you wish.
try writing about a rose.
it's not hard.
do roses bleed? no. does it break the laws of science and my mother's lucky finger (her middle one, i believe)? sometimes.
this site, you know, has a fun time and the magical super power to piss me off, immensely - i'm sure any website does. i'm sure any website that's supposedly surrounded by art and creation could indeed, make me become ecstatic in the third row watching from afar. i fuck around, recently, i've fucked around a lot. i've fooled with comments that are politically oriented or mock the art itself without meaning to. i laugh at it. i tell people to go fuck themselves to treat art this way.
but you get what you write. you write something expected.
i didn't mind the front page until i walked in and actually took a swift look at it. it's filled with sexualized images of velma, apparently a dominatrix. is it art? it's a different kind. i can't make excuses for it. it's unique, especially for velma, looking reading to suck some dick. kind of unsettling, thinking about it now.
art? no longer needed. it's passive aggressive activity from miles away.
i'm so very angry what art is becoming on this website, receiving advertisements and boosts in a different kind of audience--an audience that is young and wild and free, but not quite there yet, not quite comprehending the concept behind art itself. it makes me rather defeated. i can respect it, though. i can. i can be proud of this website for coming a long ways, and growing, from the little tree stump to a swirly oak tree.
like, fuck, website how do you stop being brilliant