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



Monday, July 12, 2010

Cutting Away With Scissors


a word in a frail hand basket
meant to feather the skies and blacken the hearts of millions
a single boy walking down the street eating black licorice thinking, "the world needs me."
I watch this from the foot of my bed
Not moving and hardly breathing
The words of millions fill my head
I find all of these fears waiting for me in the dead of night
My feet fear the floor and my hands bite the mouth that feeds
Bleeding my poors into tomorrow to feel nothing inside
I'd pay for this day, but I suppose I'm already sold
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)