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Meuny
My voice is in prison
My brain is the executioner
My heart is non facere
Wall that surrounds the soul-albatross.

Take a wild guess

Silly fella

Scholar of the first sin

Under the bridge

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Experimental series: Dead Poetry

Posted by Meuny - February 7th, 2024


Another tragic stanza dies necrotic, full of the desire to be something more; It can't go beyond what is real. Rooted in the material, the pen doesn't take me beyond where I am. I can even try to go beyond the now by returning to the past, but what would I be doing if not conjuring up dead truths? But if I don't, how much more alive would my work be anyway? I can no longer cope with the nonchalance of my fellow inkers. I'm offended by the laughter of their petty art. I won't hold back my urge to vomit until the truth is told. I'm no better than anyone else, but this emptiness pains me. I see the melancholy tragedy of these people reduced to a lament; hysterical laughter limited to a small smile because if they laugh at the miserable they are being cynical. Lying hypocrisy that insists on this minimum. 



I saw someone trying to mock society and instead of laughing at those who mistreat them, they ended up laughing at the beggar. they reiterated the status quo of a false sense of enlightenment. They humiliated a brother in Christ while claiming to be a Christian. You pointed your rotten finger at the flesh that did nothing for you and sold your soul to the king who made you poor. You committed the gaffe of an exemplarily superficial humour that only reflects in itself the image of our bloody reality. I can no longer tell who is more hypocritical: you for making fun of your brothers or those who consider you an exception - and if anyone laughed at what you said, it proves that your words are not nonsense, but the anthem of a narcissistic collective that can't see beyond its own nose! 



The laughter that once pointed out the irreconcilable has now become the weapon of such petty people. We can no longer describe our tragedy without a hypocrite comparing us to our executioners! The more society appears to be faltering, the more we will renounce the spirit of enlightenment we were promised! The comic is crumbling into agony and darkness, and laughter has become nothing more than an inhuman predicate. Poetry has been transformed into gratuitous offence, and art, which was once the playfulness of the human spirit, has become the provocative and ironic grimace of advertisements. 



The human spirit has been destroyed and what remains is the spirit of conformity!


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