Commerce killed art.
We are owned.
We are corporate property.
We are price points.
We are consumer units.
We are commodities.
We are profitable debt.
We are manipulated.
We are not human beings.
Commerce killed art.
Art is necessary for human beings.
Corporate commerce killed human art.
Corporate commerce killed humanity.
/ W B Kek, “Commerce Humanity”
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Capitalism is the beheading of humanity for the profit of the few operating the guillotine.
/ Art Wester, “Demolition Flowers”
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The universe is shaped like a woman. As above, so below.
/ Frater Ayujen Tetari, ALAM
Achene Lux Aeterna Mysticum
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Have an antic caper on Walpurgisnacht
A carefree swing ’round a solid maypole
On Beltane, when the fires of spring
Burn away winter’s dregs of darkness.
/ Owen Allen Keller
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A gimlet gaze askance
Stripped pretensions
From faked innocence.
/ W B Kek
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“Drop Hypocrisy”
Drop your snout
Snuffle leaves
Find the scent
Hound it down
Run it to ground
Bite, snarl, shake
Lap its blood
Call it prey
Like in church
Only without lies.
Howl at the Moon
Run with your pack
Raise your cubs
Protect your aged
Live wild, free, truly
Without hypocrisy.
/ W B Kek
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The tales she tells
Weaved with intricate blasphemies
Her mind broken and bent
A morose wonderland
Where darkness prevails
She knows nothing of love
Yet you give yours to her freely
/ Lisa Dabrowski
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The sound leading to the discovery of the secret that crawls out to overwhelm. That one. Keep hearing it. Maddening, persistent, and so very personal a sound.
/ geste
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Immortality is inhuman.
Reincarnation, on the other hand, is the Second Law of Thermodynamics.
Conservation of energy.
/ Art Wester
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An original haiku
Is better than a
Derivative epic poem.
/ W B Kek
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The truth is out there.
That’s why we’re kept in here.
///
lead me oh queen Boudicca
that we may drive out the invaders
and avenge your fallen ones
///
We are not free
Our liberty is an illusion
Our will is programmed
This is not predestination
It is propaganda
Collusion, marketing, conspiracy
It is politics
We are boxed
We are fated, doomed
We are consumer units
We are profit points
We are commodities
Enslaved by debt
We are done
Cheated of our lives
For others to gain
/ W B Kek
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The Art Of Poetry
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness–such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there’s a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
/ Jorge Luis Borges
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Poetry
‘No Man is an Island’
No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Olde English Version
No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man
is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;
if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe
is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as
well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine
owne were; any mans death diminishes me,
because I am involved in Mankinde;
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
MEDITATION XVII
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
John Donne
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