Sine arte
A satire against modernity in the arts

O modern beast our captive arts release,
The laws of Nature wished your reign to cease.
What beauties does this modern art restores
By turning vestals young to Russian ******.
How strange the painter draws his new reforms 5
Reducing Nature’s shapes to foggy forms.
All, I may add, by rambling thoughts conceived
If Nature’s order’s razed the goal’s achieved.
‘‘What then?’’ A tasteless judge if dared to ask,
To which the answer wears pretentious mask: 10
‘‘Dear Sir! ’Tis art, all ***** mere symbols made,
And *****, though crude, denotes the father’s shade’’
Go Man admire the fruits of twisted state,
Interpret ***** as something deeply great.
Let ***** Cupid stab his precious heart 15
To make our poesy more interesting art.
Let Cyrus wreck the might of Shakespeare’s throne,
And use her tongue to lick his hallowed stone.
Thus, give the verses blank to frenzied beasts,
Or let Rihanna burn Miltonic seats. 20
A simple critic might her craft enjoy,
But witty minds oft do their gift employ.
New Cornus comes with broken tools to teach
Yet none can bear to hear postmoderns preach.
They mumble days upon the wage and race 25
For them the world’s a strife, that is the case.

prayer is kept for the poor, a mere thought
is kept for the rich, but the rich hardly "think"
to mention the "name",
   the poor pray, but hardly
think about "him",
while the rich "think",
but hard;y pray about him...
ego-*******-maniacs that they are...
i find that mere thought
as acknowledgement is always
besides the point...
whatever point was ever to be
made in gesticulation of a prayer...
i only believe in him
not in the sense of perpetuation,
but as the case less celebrated
in service of scolded celebration,
and more: a framework of
the objectivity of justice given...
none of this human subjectivity of
justice servitude...
a truer objective jurisprudence...
      than this subjective bologna...
i can't stomach that bollocking...
  it feeds me the taste of *******
wrapped in shrimps...
and i don't like that...
there's absolutely nothing north korean
about it,
          there's no salutation,
no siegl high....
    no roman caesarian ave salute...
            i have no prayer romance
with a deity, i have a case of law on
my hands, and giving my secrets,
i'm as omniscience as the omni-almighty...
as ever -
          mort non est enigma...
death is no secret....
      the only secret is life (in) itself -
           omni enigma est vita per se...
and all i said unto myself:
make sure you drink into the third hour
past midnight...
   i'm 20 minutes short...
  but i'll make it;
that said, the poor pray but never think
about a god,
the rich? they neither think,
nor pray to a god...
they just love the jest antagonism,
        and by then: neither praying or
thinking come into play...
       what comes into play is the atheistic
mirror that only abides by the rich
to question:
     is there more to this mort qua nox
than what is already governing
the doubt? well, we all should be so lucky
as to spot the judases in our
accummitive momentum: who finally said:
enough of of bargaining with
fake promises! let them taste
the origins of the promising fruit, in miltonic ash.
       once upon cartesian,
when one upon a time (again) caesarian...
     then again ego as fetus,
   and the womb as a collision course
        between theory upon theory upon
theory once more,
       and it's called a "miracle"...
                 miraculous to have made
the statement, and not sanctified the guillotine
instead.