Music : Chriss Ons & Dirk Vollon // Words : John Hymers, interpretation : Santiago Janssens
© 1994 (ex-) Renaissance
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.
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