The Orator Reviews the State of Modern Art

Poemata XX

Imagine if your life were art
Born sublime into this caste
To write, to paint, in every part
In Avant Garde destroy the past;
Such exist, or some remain
In New York, and in the main
Every city had this class
And some of their enduring fame;

Enter the incel, a man so low
That sublimity is lost on him
In art you'd think, he could not go
Or even such a work begin;
"I believe them not that I have worth,"
Or, "I curse my miscreated birth"
Deformed perhaps, or drenched in sin
Rejected by the very Earth;

Abstract art we did promote
Against the "real" of Soviet make
Expression to be the antidote
Indiv'duals alone could now partake
No collective will or faith
No shared vision or airy wraith
Could the spell of "self" now break
Or even hope to keep the pace;

The truest artists of our age
Must leave an everlasting mark
No beauty there upon the stage
Naught but pathos, strange and stark;
Artists though, have fallen mum
Cannot outshine a single one
Whose blood and smoke complete their work
The senseless incel and his gun.