Art Of The Disenfranchised Manifesto

This is an art that repulses and infuriates traditional modes of unwitting puritans, in that it breaks all rules known to craft a lawless expression of all violence of mind’s hidden homes.

Love, rage, joy and jealousy are all antonyms in a warm embrace over coals of time’s tragedies flaring up in this cave, as these are fuel for an art of the disenfranchised faced with random odds and vices.

For those whom peril is bread among bombshells and oils leaks, theirs is a life worth depicting, not to romanticize but calculate like a sum of all evils veiled in man by flesh.

Our skins become canvases for scars and wounds to draw portraits of our travails, our chapped lips sweetly cursing crucifixes and monuments in a language of rebel machines.

Here is an art not indebted to prism gazes filtered by fears of prisons and other savage punishments of deviations from the norm, not some actualized structure in panic of pandemics, but a safe haven for leprous souls beaten by Jazz and designer bibles.

At the base of it all holds frailly sweaty palms of womenfolk, warning of diseases among pockets of survivors who prostituted their wills, with each step ascending to assassinate pimps and gods for the sake of children.

Flowers and other faded laurels become fodder for furnaces we burn into pages of sacrificial registers and death certificates; and bones pave routes of our escape once these cage doors implode.

With that art, soil will be sacred, and urinals divine for those tanning skins to make scriptures for cults of spiritualized nudists and mineworkers. 

That art will soak like varnish into scabs of hopes, burn into pores of rock and cast spells on governments and sphinxes paling under radioactive breezes.

Ours is a letter to born-again strangers in automobiles blistering through shrubs and scotched tree trunks lining freeways to never-land, past all glories and saints sacked by rogue profiteers. 

As we explode their vaults and fortresses built on nukes, our codes will be rancid words and knuckles clutching codes and brushes, chisels and saws grating skeletons of ancient poets sagely epistles – calling on death’s secrets and designer wars.

And our art will live, with spears protruding from its rear, with blades for nails scratching etchings, with pangs of hunger and thirst sculpting altars for tomorrow’s lie.