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letra de arbiter - lice

tears for the slug crawl
of culture and art in this
wavering, insipid age?
no! it’s the punching fist
that springs from my pure
inexhaustible g*nius!
to bludgeon the false-arbiters
and fad-loving, corpse-f-cking
tasteless, trusted literati, whose
love can purchased through pr reps
the product is this:
our people are made
inert! inert! inert!
is it i, seulement, who must say
though it seems clear?

this strange new thought came to the artist, who mulled it in silence, surveying his companion: a young salivating music journalist, praising him at his publicist’s orders
feeling an impulse to question the press’ bearing on art, there’s a pr-ck in his neck. his head turning to that of a horse, he stamps thrice in the dirt and speaks this verse: ‘neigh! neigh!’ (though inside he tries to articulate: ‘though i’ve a voice, its only heard as a noise! though i’ve a voice, its only heard as a noise!’)

‘direct hit’ whispers coehn’s man parked out the window, returning a blowgun to his pocket. inside, the journalist’s mouth fills with saliva
‘ooh tell me more’. he turns to a great ectoplasmic ball that envelopes his muted companion, wriggles and glows, then speaks this verse:

the music journalist’s hymn

it’s good enough for them
their souls won’t be overfed
begone, those who ask for too much!
begone, those who question this pact!
begone, those who look too far forward!
begone, those who ask for too much!
begone!

- lice

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