And hence my banal repetition of a banal word, "death"- mirror image of myself.
Hence my denunciation of all values, my insistence on following my own awkward and fluctuating caprice, my self-contradiction, my sour grapes, my bile, my bellyfull of spite-
And thus i conceive of Art as a weapon, poems and words like a hail of bombs, incendiary devices, blasts of shrapnel. Catharsis, bad feeling exorcised. Art is a weapon i can bludgeon myself into lucidity with, a blade of connection, a cutting edge of release.
A weapon to kill off the unnecesarry, the exploiters, the liars, all the deathly clingers-on of aristocracy and priviliege, but also a weapon to enliven, and bring to birth the nascent revolutions-
Which will be revolutions of the spirit, pure or foul, wholesome or degraded, but in any case having their basis in what is passionate, powerful, and true.
And that's my ideal, to contravert, to undermine, to deny, to destroy in order to wholeheartedly create. Free of the burden of guilt, the complexities and absurdities of a dead culture, the weight of babyboomer nostalgia, the deadening cults of cynicism and frivolity.
Am i all alone in this generation?