Tears for the slug crawl

Of culture and art in this

Wavering, insipid age?

No! It’s the punching fist

That springs from my pure

Inexhaustible genius!

To bludgeon the false-arbiters

And fad-loving, corpse-fucking

Tasteless, trusted literati, whose

Love can purchased through PR reps

The product is this:

Our people are made

INERT! INERT! INERT!

Is it I, seulement, who must say

Though it seems clear?

This strange new thought came to the artist, who mulled it in silence, surveying his companion: a young salivating music journalist, praising him at his publicist’s orders

Feeling an impulse to question the press’ bearing on art, there’s a prick in his neck. His head turning to that of a horse, he stamps thrice in the dirt and speaks this verse: ‘Neigh! Neigh!’ (though inside he tries to articulate: ‘Though I’ve a voice, its only heard as a noise! Though I’ve a voice, its only heard as a noise!’)

‘Direct hit’ whispers Coehn’s man parked out the window, returning a blowgun to his pocket. Inside, the journalist’s mouth fills with saliva

‘Ooh tell me more’. He turns to a great ectoplasmic ball that envelopes his muted companion, wriggles and glows, then speaks this verse:

THE MUSIC JOURNALIST’S HYMN

It’s good enough for them

Their souls won’t be overfed

Begone, those who ask for too much!

Begone, those who question this pact!

Begone, those who look too far forward!

Begone, those who ask for too much!

BEGONE!