Showing posts with label Jugs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jugs. Show all posts

Sunday, 9 May 2021

Cancel Culture: the reality for one artist

Cancel Culture: Introduction

From time to time, someone on social media asks if 'Cancel Culture' is real. This is my account of what I have experienced, on and off, since 2010 - it is not definitive, or necessarily representative, but it is authentic. It is one artist's experience of a mix of censorship, threat of the same, or 'de-platforming,' (being disinvited after an invitation has been accepted, confirmed and, in some cases signed off as part of a contract,) over a period of eleven years. I also discuss the impact and reasons why it happens.


2010: Shattered, Keighley Castle

Summary: the road to Hell is paved with ignorance and good intentions

After two years of planning and 30 days before opening, I received an email from the exhibitions organiser at Bradford Metropolitan Council’s Museum’s and Galleries, to say one of my pots would be withdrawn from the proposed show, ‘Shattered,’ because of the ‘clear vagina imagery.’ I noticed they'd used an image of that pot for their publicity and pointed that out. I also lobbied locally among people of influence I knew. A diligent local journalist noticed an unusual silence about the forthcoming show so investigated. He found me and my blog posts and wrote an article in the Keighley News. The local vicar complained it was censorship. The battle raged. I won a partial victory. The pot was reinstated, but only one side was made visible. Visitors complained that they couldn't see the work properly. I sought compensation and got it - in kind – in the form of magazine quality photos of the show. 

For the record ‘Shattered’ comprised five pots, each 2 metres high. It was ‘Princess Hymen’ that was withdrawn. There is no vagina imagery as such. The image is woman opening her make up bag. It is a visual pun, certainly, but hardly likely to offend. During the installation of the show, I was told that one of the complaints was that I'd ‘criticised their culture,’ by denouncing FGM, criticising hymen reconstruction, and questioning the entire concept of the virgin body. 

Princess Hymen is, first and foremost, a feminist work. It is about the concept of virginity, the obsession with the virgin body that only ever applies to girls and women, and the devastating impact this has on girls and women of all ages. The immediate assumption was that feminism would ‘offend the local Muslims.’ No one had thought to consult any of the local Muslim populations though, so on what basis was this decision made? And by whom? This was the second time a Museum had slandered both me, my work, and their own audiences, notably their Muslim audiences, and tried to dress up their own grotesque cultural relativism and cultural and religious ignorance, and present them as anti racism or at least some kind of community sensitivity. The first time was the same work which was to show at a venue in London. A similar anxiety was expressed. That time organiser understood and accepted that she couldn't know everything so, wisely, sought advice from someone who knew more. After a meeting, her fears allayed, the show went ahead. It was extended for a week by popular demand - notably from the local Muslim women. 

2016: Five Jugs

Summary: racism masquerading as anti-racism, coupled with incompetence.

After the above fiascos, I had sworn I would never show in a public sector space again. I broke my own promise when I was invited to show five jugs in an exhibition at People's History Museum, Manchester. 













There was a complaint by 11am on the first morning. I had represented, on a jug, a protest by French Arab women in Paris. One of them had written ‘Fuck the Sharia’ in English on her stomach. I depicted her and her slogan. The complainer declared she was offended shouted about it on Twitter. Her call to outrage was largely ignored but I responded with some care, as is my habit. I do it for the silent readers. By lunchtime the same day, I received an email from the Museum director saying they'd withdrawn another jug with a picture of a weeping man on it. ‘We thought it might be the Prophet Mohammed and that someone might be offended.’ In this case, no one had complained. I explained that depicting the Prophet isn't blasphemy - venerating the depiction is the blasphemy – and that to take sides in what amounts to a sectarian disagreement is extraordinarily ill advised. I also observed that there is no prohibition of blasphemy in British law. The title of the show, by the way, was ‘Ideas Worth Fighting For.’ 

All three of the above occasions were examples of a common art world problem. It can be summed up like this: ‘There's a great big hairy scary Muslim out there and I’m afraid he's going to OBJECT and possibly explode.’ It is fear of conflict, fear of disapproval, fear of peer group disapproval and ignorance of the issues, and acute anxiety about their own audiences brought about by simply not knowing who they are. It is also, it must be said, straight forward racism.  All of these are masqueraded as anti-racism. 
















2019: And the Door Opened - event planned for Crossbones Cemetery, Southwark

Summary: I am accused by sex workers rights activists of whoring myself to oligarchs 

Venue: Crossbones Cemetery, a 17th and 18th century burial ground for the "outcast poor," including a great many sexually exploited and prostituted women and girls. It was an early experiment in full decriminalisation of the sex trade. The women were licensed by the church to be exploited without fear of arrest so that men could abuse them with impunity. The women and girls were still denied Christian burial so were buried there unmarked and unremembered. My event, in partnership with women@thewell, an exiting service based in Kings Cross, was to be a memorial event, involving the smashing of a pot, to remember and name of all the women and girls murdered in prostitution since records have been kept. The host organisation, Bankside Open Spaces Trust, (BOST,) was keen and the event was agreed as was Arts Council funding. Then came the email: it was decided we couldn't proceed this event because, to paraphrase, ‘you sell your work in a Mayfair Gallery. You're too commercial.’ In fact, what had happened, was this: I had been invited to give a presentation of the proposed event for ten minutes to BOST and Friends of Crossbones. Half way through the presentation, three Phd students came in and proceeded to grill me for an hour. ‘It's too negative. We're "sex positive.”’ (“Sex positive?” I thought that old chestnut went out in the 1990s.) They were among the volunteers from Friends of Crossbones and disapproved of the event on political grounds. They duly withdrew their volunteer labour leaving BOST no option but to pull out. 














I had notched up another cancellation. Yet again, feminism was silenced. This time I had the wrong political response the sex trade and, again, those doing the cancelling were evasive and not entirely truthful. The ‘commercial’ line was a smoke screen and BOST knew it but wouldn’t admit to the real issue. They were also possibly in breach of contract which may have accounted for the studied silence. Fundamentally though, people who cancel, ‘no platform,’ or censor, always lie about the reasons because they know, damn well, they're doing something wrong.

The impact: 

i) Constantly watching over your shoulder to see where the next hit will come from. 

Add to these, two more instances worth discussing. One, in 2018, was to take part in a show about Clause 28 to be held at Sussex University. I was asked what I had learnt from Clause 28. I replied that a central part of the legislation was an attack on free speech and expression and suggested showing 'Ballad of Sister Bergdorf,' a new piece just completed. I also stated that if any of my work was shown, I would ask them to sign a contract to agree to leave it on display no matter how many people complain. At this point, all contact ceased without explanation. This may simply be that none of the work I offered was consistent with the aim of the show but, after a while, one becomes a little paranoid – hence my insistence on a contract. (Edit: Jan 4th 2022: the curator and director of this show was Dr Francesco Ventrella, the lecturer supporting and advising the students who repeatedly threatened Professor Kathleen Stock.) 

ii) The chill factor

The other instance worthy of note was in 2017. The Woman's Hour Craft Prize stated in the T&C's – paraphrasing again – ‘No blasphemy and nothing that might offend. We reserve the right to remove work from shows as needed.’ I had considered applying but, instead, wrote to the organisers to complain, received a ‘holding email’ and have heard nothing since. The prize was organised by The Crafts Council, the BBC, and the V&A. The Crafts Council is a QUANGO - now, I think a govt department - the V&A is also a QUANGO. These are not neutral spaces, their CEOs are government appointees. They also, apparently, see fit to make up laws when they feel like it. The result for artists is either to self censor, or stay out of it. I, along with a number of others, chose the latter.

iii) Harassment

Then there is ‘TERFs Out Of Art.’ This is a Twitter account. It is a network of some four thousand artworldists, about half of whom are professionals, some from major art galleries, museums, universities, and studios. Their followers include some well known writers and curators - people who can make or break you. They listed me as ‘verboten,’ within 24 hours of the launch. On top of that I was listed by Oxford Brookes University LGBT society as a ‘forbidden’ artist shortly after I had given a talk on the right to free expression in 2018…

What does it all mean? Why does it happen? Who benefits and from what?

In the art world ‘cancelling’ someone is a way of constructing networks and communities. – gangs, if you like. In large part, cancelling someone, and showing you've cancelled them, is a way to advance your career and, potentially, secure an income or even make some real money. Politics, especially the politics around equality of opportunity and advancement, has become thoroughly corrupted. These days, unfortunately, the words "diversity" and "intersectional," have lost most of their meaning if, indeed, they were ever fully understood. 

Who does the cancelling?

‘Cancel Culture,’ for artists rarely takes the same form as it does for journalists and academics. In my case it has been my work, rather than me, that has been ‘cancelled.’ 2019, the Crossbones Cemetery debacle is the exception - though for other artists, that is now becoming the rule. The ‘Shattered’ fiasco involved Bradford Metropolitan Council and Haringey Council so it is clear that the impulse to control and censor most often comes from organisations close to government. They are powerful. If you ignore Cancel Culture, and delude yourself that it is just and a few students and that the main source of complaint is from ‘the Tories’ or ‘racists’ or whoever your favourite target is, you leave yourself open to the same treatment. As you have seen, most of my experiences of cancellation have been motivated by ignorance, racism, and misogyny, not by knowledge, anti-racism, or feminism.

The Consequences

I have provided a snap shot of what 'Cancel Culture' is in action. For the artist, it is both demoralising and damaging. If you cannot show your work in public spaces, your career will eventually die. It never happens to the big people - Grayson Perry, for example, has never been cancelled. It only happens to those of us regarded as disposable - which suggests it is done so the canceller/censor can parade their own credentials to their target audience rather than any serious desire to protect their audiences from whatever they perceive as harmful. I do not believe for a second that any of these people really believed I was doing or saying anything harmful. They were appeasing something or someone they understand to be powerful or influential. The losses are significant for me though. Bit by bit the cancelled artist falls away from the artworld radar and becomes invisible. Both I and my work is perceived as troublesome and, contrary to a widely believed myth, the artworld seeks safety way ahead of creative risk. 

Edit 4th Jan 2022: I have now left the gallery that represented me from 2017-2021. There are many reasons but among is that I don't want to bring trouble to their door. This isn't altruism on my part, it is self interest. The situation for artists has heated up considerably over the past year and more and more female artists are coming forward having been hounded out of studios, dropped from exhibitions, excluded from selling sites such at Etsy, and deplatformed by universities. In spite of the heightened rhetoric, the majority of artworldists are still shockingly ignorant of the issues and are therefore wholly unequipped to fight the battles when they come. For this reason, I judge it is better to be independent for the time being. 





Suvivors and Fighters, 2021



Thursday, 11 June 2020

Comrade Corbyn's Allotment, 2018



Another excuse to satirise Labour Party politics of 2015-20 and its leader, Jeremy Corbyn, in particular. It seems unbelievable and horrifying now that he could have held that position for so long.  The background to this pot is the attempted murder in 2018 of former military officer Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia in Salisbury - presumably on Putin's orders - using the nerve agent, Novichok. There was a repeat use of this chemical weapon that killed two UK citizens. Corbyn refused to condemn Russia for an attack that might have resulted in the mass poisoning of much of the population of a British city. 

Comrade Corbyn's Allotment, (based on Mary Mary Quite Contrary): 

Comrade Corbyn
Puppet of Putin
How’s your allotment grow?

With Novichok
PIE
Antisemites and a
Spy
Poisoning pretty maids
And then
Lying
Low.

Corbyn leans on his spade, a basket of beetroot at his feet. There's a story in that but it is a minor detail for this pot, anyway. Shami Shakrabati waters the allotment as Niobe, 'all tears,' as she fondly strokes an Ermine and John Mcdonnell is wheeling away the skull harvest in his barrow. 

Death calls by and does a final sweep. 

The Ballad of Sister Bergdorf, 2018




A Pilgrim vase - about 30 x 30 cm approx

Some Background 
The Ballad of Sister Bergdorf grew out my observation that an unholy coupling had occurred between religion and politics. 'Art discourse' was one of its most obnoxious offspring. I have discussed 'cultural appropriation,' since the 1980s, theorised 'appropriately,' particularly on ceramics, since the 1990s, debated with feminists on transgender politics, among other things, since the late 1990s, and argued with transactivists since the early 2000s. I've held forth on social media - mostly on Facebook -  about all of it since 2010. I have even been described as a 'veteran of the culture wars,' by the writer Jo Bartosch so, if that doesn't convince you that I am familiar with this territory, nothing will. It took some time to find my satirical voice - or at least to find a way to express it on pots - but the jugs that I started making in 2015 gave vent to the first collection of work that deals directly with the increasing madness of politics. Looking back now, I can see the satire clearly enough in Nightwalker, (2014,) and there are probably hints before that. 

About the politics
When politics walked through the looking glass and the Labour Party appointed Munroe Bergdorf, a transwoman, as their advisor on 'LGBT' issues, it was time to respond. Bergdorf isn't gay. Transgender isn't gay - it isn't about who you love, it's about how you see yourself. Bergdorf has had vast amounts of radical and cosmetic surgery to make her body resemble an idealised, porn-woman. 'She' lives as she imagines a woman might, but she is not female - or as we used to say, 'a woman.' Her sex is male, consistent with being what we used to call 'a man.' Nonetheless she - yes I do use that term for her because I've grown used to it and do not wish to have my pronouns policed by purists any more than I do by transactivists - she opines on feminism, shamelessly lecturing women on how to do feminism better, and is now lecturing anyone who will listen on the matter of menstrual periods. This is someone who grew up a boy and has never had a period in her life. This is where we find ourselves: MtF transexual women claiming to have experiential knowledge of menstruation simply because they call themselves women and choose to ignore the fact they are biologically male. Their notion of sex (the noun not the verb,) is that it is based on faith - like religion - not on biological material reality. Put simply, Transactivists and their institutions, Stonewall and many others, have conflated sex and gender and sought to impose their beliefs on the entire population. Volumes of analysis has been written on this, so I will not add more. The redoubtable Allison Bailey, from LGB Alliance, covers most of the main points in her statement which was redacted from her crowdjustice page - as if to prove the very point the statement makes - but reproduced with permission by A Woman's Place UK.  A good ten volumes would now be required to cover all the issues adequately, and this is just a blog post, but it should make my own position clear. This piece I wrote for 'Howie's Corner,' for International Women's Day, may clarify some further issues if needed. 

About the pot
The Ballad of Sister Bergdorf is only the beginning. There will have to be more because the madness has spun right out of control but, at the time I made this, I was still finding a way to convert words like these into pots. I chose a pilgrim flask form because it has religious connotations. I also like the simple binary of the shape it has front and a back, or it can do, and it has its ceramic roots in Renaissance Maiolica which featured religious imagery, mythology and, on occasion, political satire.

I also set myself the challenge of using buzz words from academia and art-talk just for hell of it. Look out for the following: 
misgender - as in 'you misgendered me.' This means speaking to or about a transperson using the wrong pronoun - an offence for which women have lost their jobs and their livelihoods and for which some have been investigated by police. 
Othering -  a process of creating difference and distance between groups of people. I like this term and find it one the more useful ideas couched in language that academia has provided in the last thirty years or so. 
Cultural Appropriation - the assertion that a cultural artefact, performance, or custom belongs to a specific culture and is appropriated by another - often with a socio-political or geopolitical dimension that disadvantages the 'owner' or presumed originator of the culture. It is characterised by exponents as theft from a subjugated culture or people by a dominant or more powerful culture or nation. This one is a political and cultural minefield and is fundamentally dependent on Nationalist politics to operate. As such, it is inherently flawed since has become part of the most treasured political tools of people who regard themselves as anti-Imperialist. While anti-Imperialism and Nationalism certainly do go together, Nationalism cannot work with anti-racism and proponents of the ideology of cultural appropriation, for the most part, think of themselves as vehemently anti-racist - and often are, passionately so. Hence the minefield. 

Here is the text in full as it is written on the pot pictured above. 

The Ballad of Sister Bergdorf

Her novitiate completed,
Miss Gender Ring-Munroe
Bade farewell to the Convent sisters
Of St. Simpering-le-Beau

To the land of Eternal Doublethink
Our pious pilgrim was bound
Where Our Lady of Perpetual Othering’s
Shrine, in the woods, by a river, was found.

She hadn’t been long on the road
Only a mile from Doublethink Station
When Lo! She beheld the Sepulchre
Of Cultural Appropriation.

The stone had been rolled away
And there appeared Our Lady of Other,
Miss Gender was struck
By the light – What the Fuck!
I’m not a nun,
I’m a monk!
I’m a Brother!

Friday, 16 September 2016

Politicians, Preachers, Prophets, Protesters: Five jugs in 'Ideas Worth Fighting For,' 17th-23rd, October 2016, at the People's History Museum, Manchester.


The Ballad of Gorgeous George, (2015)

Meet my friend George Galloway, 
He worships Ayatollahs
He genuflects to Ba'athists

And he LOVEs the Hezbollollahs.
He entertains his Islamists in a purple leotard,
He's not much good at pussy

But he licks cream good and hard.
OH Galloway's coming to London,

He wants to be the mayor,
Anjem's lot'll love him up

But he doesn't stand a prayer.
When we've thrown him out London, 

He's off to Liverpool,
He's buggerd off from Bradford, 

No one wants him, bloody fool. 

How the Prophet was driven to drink (2015)

And it came to pass
In the land of the Assyrians and Babylonians
That a vile scourge of Ba'athists, Islamists and Barbarians
Did invade and ransack the ancient places.
Bloody was the conquest.
And though the fields were fed with the people's blood
Yet did they yield forth nothing
But more food for vultures.
And even the mighty seas were in tumult
Devouring small boats
Spewing forth corpses
Leaving terror in the hearts of those that reached land.
Verily the prophet did rage at the carnage
Crying out in despair:
"You bastards!" He thundered.
"Goddam! Don't you gettit, you arseholes?
It's fiction!
I lied about gays, about Jews, and addiction.
I don't care who you love, how you worship, or feast.
Eat and drink! Wine or cider! 
But for fuck's sake, live in peace!" 

Cider Party for the Corbynati, (2015) 



























Jeremy Corbyn
Likes it cosy
His beard and bonnet
A little bit posy?
Perhaps his glasses are tinted rosy,
His politics are Crap.

He's a great admirer of Hamas
Khaled Meshal is his friend.
In bed with Hezbollah
Sir Hasan Nasrullah
Doth ram-rod his glistening rear end.

So watch it if you're arty
And offend the Shariati
Or blaspheme the Cornbynati
You'll feel the force of their knee-cap

And mind if Corbyn wins the day
If you're a Jew, or if you're gay
Because jihadis want their pay
And he's a squirming in their lap.

So soddit let's just have a party
Proper Bacchanaliati
Lest Cobyn's sychophantiati
Turn off our cider tap!

























Stop The War, jug, (2015)

Stop the War!
Protest in a tweet,
Kiss Assad's arse,
Prostrate at Putin's feet.
Salute the Ayatollahs,
Appease the Caliphate,
It's Israel and America
We all love to hate. 
John McDonnell's Farm, jug, (2015)

John McDonell had a farm,
Eee Aye Eee Aye Oh.
And on the farm he planted cash,
but it wouldn't grow.
With a deficit here
And a printer there
And quantitive easing everywhere,
With normal times here
And special times there
Borrowing and spending and selling off shares,
With Osbornes here
And Camerons there,
And Tory porkers hogging the air,
With campaigns here
And protests there
and Corbyistas tearing their hair,
Poor Jonny 'Donnell's printer jammed.
His farm just had to go. 

Calipahte Seaside jug, (2015)




We are all
Stop-Start a War
HamaHezbolicious!
Come and join us at the seaside
In Islamocalificious!
We think you'll find the food out here 
is really quite delcious
The weather, beach and swimming, dear, 
is always beneficious.
Bit it's beheading infidels, my dear,
The rape, and crucificious,
That's what makes the Caliphate,
the Best Vacationicious. 


Thursday, 17 March 2016

Party time with John McDonell...



This has been described as 'equal opportunities offence,' which I whole heartedly endorse. 

John McDonell had a farm
Eee Aye Eee Aye oh!
And on that farm he planted cash
But it didn't grow.

With a deficit here
And a printer there
And quantitive easing everywhere,

With normal times here
And special times there
Borrowing and spending and selling off shares,

With Osbornes here
And Camerons there
And Tory porkers hogging the air,

With protests here
And campaigns there
And Corbynistas tearing their hair,

Poor Johnny Donell's printer jammed.
His farm just had to go...

Stop the War - the drinking jugs






























These are the Stop the War drinking jugs. I hate StW with a vengeance because they posture as 'anti-war,' but are far, very far, from pacifist. On the contrary, they are a partisan Nationalist organisation, apologists for every dictatorial regime on earth and for jihadists everywhere, and are strongly pro-war as long as it is against America or, above all, Israel. The words are a parody of their own slogans and statements. 

Jug 1 - Top two images:

Stop the War
Protest in a tweet
Kiss Assad's arse
Prostrate at Putin's feet
Salute the Ayatollahs
Appease the Caliphate
It's Israel and America
We all love to hate.

Jug 2 - Last three images:

We are all
Hezbollah
Bomb Israel
But Stop the War.
Hamas rools
Hey! Palestine!
Fuck Sharia
This ale's divine!

Stop the War
Milky and sweet
Be nice to Mr Assad
Kiss Putin's feet
Salute the Ayatollahs
Chat with the Caliphate
It's Israel and America
We all love to hate.

Jezwe'reapologists.

Jeremy Corby's Cider Jug




A Cider jug for Jeremy Corbyn - the Corbo-sensitive should look away now.

Jeremy Corbyn
Likes it cosy
His beard and bonnet
A little bit posy?
Perhaps his glasses are tinted rosy..
His politics are Crap.

He's a great admirer of Hamas
Khaled Meshal is his friend.
In bed with Hezbollah
Sir Hasan Nasrullah
Doth ram-rod his glistening rear end.

So watch it if you're arty
And offend the Shariati
Or blaspheme the Cornbynati
You'll feel the force of their knee-cap

And mind if Corbyn wins the day
If you're a Jew, or if you're gay
Because jihadis want their pay
And he's a squirming in their lap.

So soddit let's just have a party
Proper Bacchanaliati
Lest Cobyn's sychophantiati
Turn off our cider tap!

Song for Galloway - the drinking jug




Drinking song for George Galloway - who is depicted wearing a leotard playing pussy-cat (this is from a reality TV show,) while Anjem Choudary as vulture, (aroused), sniffs his bum.

Meet my friend George Galloway
He worships Ayatollahs,
He genuflects to Ba'athists
And he LOVES the Hezbelollahs.
He entertains his Islamists
In a purple leotard
He's not much good at pussy
But he licks cream good and hard

Oooh Galloway's coming to London
He wants to be the mayor,
Anjem's lot'll love him up
But he doesn't have a prayer.
When we've thrown him out of London
He's off to Liverpool,
He's buggered off from Bradford
No one wants him
Bloody fool!

That second verse should be sung, drunkenly, to the tune of 'My Old Man's a Dustman.'

Wednesday, 6 January 2016

How The Prophet Was Driven To DRink

























I'm publishing this on the evening of the 6th January, 2016, in honour of Charlie Hebdo and all the seventeen people killed by Islamist jihadists on 7th January, 2015. I made this jug depicting a furious prophet Mohammed, in 2015, for a thousand reasons. At least one was solidarity - solidarity with Charlie Hebdo, with satirists, blasphemers, and with Jews. Killed that day in the name of the prophet were: five cartoonists, a body guard, a policeman, a policewoman, a maintenance worker, two columnists, a copy editor, a travel writer, and four people shopping while being Jews.

Below is the full text on the jug, as I wrote it, in English.
Below that is the translation in French, by my good friend, Roger Surridge, who has lived in Paris for longer than I care to remember. It looks good to me, I hope it does to you too.

How The Prophet Was Driven To Drink

And it came to pass
In the land of the Assyrians and Babylonians
That a vile scourge of Ba'athists, Islamists and Barbarians
Did invade and ransack the ancient places.

Bloody was the conquest.
And though the fields were fed with the people's blood
Yet did they yield forth nothing
But more food for vultures.

And even the mighty seas were in tumult
Devouring small boats
Spewing forth corpses
Leaving terror in the hearts of those that reached land.

Verily the prophet did rage at the carnage
Crying out in despair:
"You bastards!" He thundered.
"Goddam! Don't you gettit, you arseholes?
It's fiction!
I lied about gays, about Jews, and addiction.
I don't care who you love, how you worship, or feast.
Eat and drink! Wine or cider!
But for fuck's sake, live in peace!"

And here is Roger's translation:

Et il arriva Dans le pays des Assyriens et les Babyloniens
Ce fléau vile des Ba'athistes, des Islamistes et les Barbares
Envahit et pilla les lieux anciens.

Sanglante était la conquête.
Et bien que les champs aient été nourris avec le sang du peuple 
Pourtant, ont-ils rien produit de suite
Sauf encore de nourriture pour les vautours.

Et même les mers puissantes étaient en tumulte
Dévorant les petits bateaux
Vomissant les cadavres
Laissant la terreur dans les cœurs de ceux qui ont atteint la terre.

En vérité, le prophète éprouve de la rage face au carnage
Pleure de désespoir :
“Salauds !” tonna-t-il.
“Nom de dieu ! Vous ne comprenez rien, connards ?
C’est de la fiction !
Je rigolais sur les gays, les juifs, les toxicomanes.
Je m’en fous de qui vous aimez, de comment vous idolâtrez ou fêtez.
Mangez, buvez ! Vin, cidre !
Mais, putain, vivez en paix !