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A gut reaction to the filth that sometimes passes as art. |
I know I should apologize for feeling that obscenity is obscene. Swallow my loathing and embrace the words that open the gutters of the soul - but they sicken me. And I know you'll rail and cry, "Self-expression above all!" But what makes you want to rob me of my sleep by the pictures you've painted of voluptuous shame and the animal hunger that brutalizes people? That reaches from your page to run its fingers through my hair and whisper that I am no longer a person, but a victim to be tortured, meat to grasp, a face to smack and a child spit upon, with venom that poisons the mirror I look into each morning? I reached for your poem with the hope that in this bitter world, we might find comfort in the meeting of the minds. But I found only the pain of a rabid dog's bite cruelly snapping at the hearts of your trusting readers. And I know you'll raise your fist and cry, "Right to free speech!" But where in your bill of rights does the right to swing your fist end? At the point where I am bruised and bloodied? Or merely cringing on the floor, abused by thoughts you trained to sink their fangs in me? I would have loved you as a brother. I would have seen through your eyes and sung with your voice and learned from your pain. But you got there first, forcing your way violently into my mind before I even knew your name. And I know you'll shrug and say, "Life is about these things," But life is also about self-respect and decency. And burying the dead, and paying bills, and asking forgiveness and so much more than four stunted letters that speak of dung and creaking beds can begin to adequately describe. |