Putting Holes In Happiness (Marilyn Manson Essay)

Kneel down humble men and become the height of our children. Let your heart crawl into your knee and realize that all knowledge lives through imagination. This is the nursery business, always get a photocopy.

Our cultures may continue to disintegrate but we just rebuild with abusement parks, filming the process and replaying it as situation comedy. We wear ribbons, hold hands, celebrate and concentrate on camps that train our kindergartens to shout out "star-spangled" banter.

We will medicate the lunacy of "degenerate" art with heavy doses of old-fashioned (original recipe) family virtues.

"Let's make sure all of these offensive forms of entertainment are shown publicly, and burned immediately as a warning to us all!"

In the meantime, try to stay conscious. We are sitting in the EMERGENCY ROOM waiting for the doctor, a newly elected aesthetician, to come and pronounce his diagnosis. The grotesque, malignant cancer that is our expressions and our views is no longer the disease. We are being told that the sounds and images of art are now the symptoms of the creator. We as the artists, are now considered unhealthy and incurable.

Let me remind you that the deformed scar of one man, is "love's pretty dimple" to me. The generation that lived through WWII accepted the concept of "total violence" as a solution to the world's problems. The mathematics of creative suffering and the milk of human violence are the formulas that our grandparents bottled and passed down to our parents.

These are the "traditional" values that have built "protective," moral walls around our children's world. And it is, indeed, a small world after all.

MM



Saturday, June 19, 2010

A Bard Speaks To Himself On A Lonely Corner, Alone Except For The Haunting Memories Of Yesterday He Holds In His Left Hand


Touch
a feeble minded harrier on the flight crossing paths with a blue mockingbird
funny aye? birds mixed up in lines, standing at attention, what funny things?
Sit back and watch and hate how you're mistreated (and know I've been there too)
this voice, such a feeble voice, needing to be heard but falling apart at the thought
fear a chain i use as my middle name, I struggle in finding a middle ground but the only middle ground is my head stuck in the cement
submit and press play, pause, and reverse, stuck in a cycle I call my life
this my life, this mold is fading and I'm sticking to the surface
I can't call this my home
Maybe once, but this no more
a mask, glued and bled with the leeches still attached
I can't be put back together, I can't stop moving for fear of losing another part of me
Frantically I turn and write until my fingers bleed
I turn in circles and forget what exactly I was turning forward
Stop, start, rewind, and start it all over
The cycle is never complete, nothing is complete under the sun
Start again my friend, reach out and touch what you can never have, feel the glass and know that you will never break through what is you
I grow tired at times
Picking my way through vast forests and screaming to the trees just to be herad
But they don't hear me, no one does
They say they do, but they turn deaf ears to my cry
I drop this all into a casket I reserved
Maybe you'll find it before I do, I hope so
This and 15 bucks I own in 3 weeks from yesterday, I hope you understand but my references are pointless
Today is tomorrow, and God is Christlike
So the ladies dance and I watch and feel a weight much like a moving shadow upon the wall
Hope what hope?
Such a word was cast away into the ocean in which i dug my buried grave
So take these words and spit them out
they're here for you to try and to run into the ground
Lord knows, they'll be gone by this time next week.
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