A Journal for Western Man
G. Stolyarov II
What surfaced latent hoards of fear
And prompted launching your vile smear
Against all order, rhythm and form,
Techniques like a chaotic storm,
With rambling fury structures crushing,
Through vibrant canvas numb blots brushing,
Capitals nowhere to be found,
Grammar befitting quagmires’ ground,
And punctuation non-existent?
Only in murder you’re consistent,
Assassinating culture, putting naught in place,
In architecture lauding vacant space,
In music, dissonance and pain,
In books, the plotless, base, inane.
You say you show originality,
Displacing pattern, rhyme, and tone?
But the creative man explores reality;
Only a formless void have your blots shown.
Any formation you abolish;
You do not build, instead demolish.
What “creativity” is that,
Replacing prodigy by gnat?
Thought, sense, framework combined in one
In ages past did not precision stun.
Great masters worked, of glory spoke,
Delicate forebears new schools did not choke,
But learned, expanded, formed, refined,
By arbitrary nonsense unconfined,
Inspiring, seeking to portray
Not hatred, terror, and decay,
But life in vivid, joyous bloom,
This world’s ambition toppling gloom
In times when pattern, rhyme, and form
Persisted as a noble norm.
Whose tainted crafts do you applaud?
Who claimed that three dimension are a fraud?
Who, from the ghettoes, slurred trash wrote,
In music ravaged every note,
In architecture, drab crates made,
In books wrote anti-rational tirade?
You are destroyers of man’s soul,
And righteous thinkers grant you no parole.
You’ll crumble for your sins profane.
We’ll bring to you dishonor and disdain.
The proper mind submits to no control
By vile stupidity’s repressive reign.
