I hope my art is obscene

Celebrating the life of our voice: a prose poem in response to everything and everyone trying to control art and force it to shrink and conform. In the hope of creating an environment in this country where creativity does not have to be pre-defined by the powerful, where art can take up space unapologetically.

1. I have a vision of our voices lying somewhere in a ditch while the rest of the world burns. Imagine our voices like broken bones, like bleeding wings. Our tongues cut and thrashing about like fishes denied water. Our words turn to smoke before they can catch fire because they’re used to what follows now. Premonition. I have a vision of the world burning and all of us watching, forced to watch because we couldn’t speak. 

   
   

2. The insides of our art, a violent red, splashed across the streets like a dead rat. Its eyes still open because it couldn’t, wouldn’t stop seeing. And it wants to see if it will be seen too. Like a proof of our times, the evidence of a crime. Rasping for breath. You cannot ignore it. You look down to see the mess that’s been created. Face brutality, flinch for a second, walk on. The postmodern mantra. 

   
   

3. We gather here today, in sorrow and remembrance, to celebrate the life of our Voice. The message its death sends is a song, a haunting, lilting tune, traversing countries and seas. Timeless and languageless. 

   
   

4. The ditch where our voices lie has half-formed poems scribbled untidily, the second or third version of a script, a joke slashed out. Lines written down in a haste in class. Words conjured out of thin air right before you sleep, or in the middle of a shower. All the mystery of creation caught in a fishnet and left to consume. 

   
   

5. So inaccessible, that overripe, tender part of us deep inside that has the ability to be swayed by song, more inaccessible than a heartbeat. That’s a good thing. 

   
   

6. Because they can’t contain what they can’t measure. We can’t contain what we can’t measure. Preserve the mystery of creation like a secret world in your cupboard. Like a childhood lullaby. Like an embarrassing dream, like a lover’s scent. 

   
   

7. When art burns, its ashen residue is entertainment for the cultureless. Content. Defined by spectacle and volume. For the masses. 

   
   

8. I pass dead rats on the slope that goes down my house almost every day. I hope the ugly absurdity of the metaphor makes you squirm. I hope you wince at the image. I hope my art is obscene. By my own definition instead of yours. Look down and see its bloody insides out, its open eyes. Its cut throat, its redness staining your streets. 

   
   

9. Far away from the scene they gather around the table, licking their lips. Bite their rotten teeth into all the meat, something thick and alive dripping down their chins, spilling over their shirts. They revel in the abundance. So much to take from the dead and voiceless. A gluttonous last supper. They eat like beasts, hungry for more. 

   
   

10. Then they choke on our bones and die. 

    
    

11. The dead fish crawl back up their throats and reclaim the feast. This time, they make noise.