No picture on its own may honestly bespeak, what needs to be said

The partiality for artistry,

that I live in every breath,

what I give is never enough

and never will it be,

because every work that I create

remains ever too meager to a degree.

No picture on its own may honestly bespeak,

what needs to be said as critique,

all the heaviness at peak,

the misery, the weary crime of time,

to demonstrate and illustrate,

bowing down in humility and to contemplate

before each picture,

like to a company sign depictured of modern times,

before which we kneel and bow down,

crown and testify also

only the decay in every way.

To say what nobody says,

and also to question what nobody to question dares,

so shall the work of the artist be.

And no human being, no critique,

no poke and no fuck,

no click and no clack,

yes, also no capital

will my worldview unsettle.

An adapted artist

always resembles a circus monkey,

and the people with stares so hungry,

will nevertheless only remain zoo visitors.

But one day he’ll be ready,

when his soul screams incredibly,

he’ll come to his senses,

the zoo visitor out of his senses

will recognize the true creation

and in the partiality for artistry,

what once was cursed,

he then found,

what he was longing to find at first.

May The White Lord Forgive Us by DENKSTAHL