"The world changed so precipitously. From this time
forward, it was the painful theater of
an animal struggled all out."
The muse has been colonized. Not just my muse. Your muse too. Colonized. Slaved. Caved. Un-braved. De-brained. Refrained. Enchained. Enchanted. Recanted. Caked, canned, and de-ranted. Fake demons exorcised. Over and over, both un-real and unrealized. The cauterized spirit is neutered and neutralized. Donut try that in a small town? It's all Ready bin Done! Osama bin Overwith. Long time ago. Garbage bin-wire fences, festoonl'd with thorns.
Burn dem. Burn dem all down. But.... Stalin? Why....
Turning something bad into something good, I suppose. Like a diamond tiara made of beercans.
"It have some sinners coming,
with them I go be dealing
Because the things that they do we,
I want to fix them personally"
Sinners? Diamond beercans? Burn dem? I'm down. When do we begin? Wait, you mean like the Ku Klux Klan? Or a bunch of South African farmer killers? On second thought.....
What if we threw away the colonial, constipated sound of "Try That in a Small Town" and put the lyrics in the slick, stylish torpedo shell of "Burn Dem" by Black Stalin? That would be a culture bomb worthy of attention. Cuz the lyrics of "Try That with a Real Band" don't suck. The sound was conquered long ago, but the sentiment could stand. As it is, the lyrics of "Try That in a Vibrant Musical Culture" are trapped like Bobby Sands in a starving prison cell of over-produced colonial compressor-noise that patronizes its audience by assuming it doesn't know the difference in real music and colonial sound product. I declare a musical fatwa on the noise of the artless — a decree, a crazed, impassioned plea to clear the streets of cultural scree, to sweep at long last away the drab and dying day, an aural hunger strike against the accumulation of gray and grinding gristle, of every weaponized, missile'd epistle and thoroughly-thistled sonic tumbleweed caught in the thorn-wire that lines the lanes of utilitarian, refried, free-ride sentimentality, a Tropical Irish Calypso Re-pocalypse, in honor of Bobby Sands, Bobby Fischer, Black Stalin, and the Jews, just to piss people off.
"We were looking on a puddle, like wood chips floating
with which a child was verifying the resistance,
throwing pebbles always heavier."
I made a poster for it. Pablo Sands was Bobby's Mexican alter-ego. He liked beer, freedom, and Calypso music. And probably still does, for all I know.
So, to decolonize your muse, start listening to Calypso music on mad, ecstatic loops. Let the anti-colonial beats fly around your head like so many sparrows of resistance. Sparks and sparrows passing through the nets of the destroyers, even as they set the nets aflame. Turn your heart into a stampede of dancing elephants that crush the poachers and their implements of compliant death into drums of steel. Add a gunpowder clause to all your sonic input from here on out. Burn dem heretics at the musical stake. Get down to some tropical, diamond beercan beats. It will help clear out the spiritual cobwebs that were back-doored into your heart and mind alongside the auto-tuned content installed into your soul by your wannabe creator.
The time has come, perhaps, to find a new Creator.
"The ships resisted to the onslaughts but the tempestuous
rage was starting to devour the sails."
Oh and, lest ye think music and art should be colonized by the artificially-propped-up creators of compliant, colonial content, remember that we live in a world full of "gospel" musicians who cash in on your misplaced belief in their sincerity before "falling away" from a faith they never had so they can spend the money as they wish... an heretical world of unappreciative godlings in which this is NOT considered a gospel song:
Unless, of course, you're down with the colonization trip, and think that by owning nothing, you'll actually be happy. Shadow disagrees, but what does he know. His music can't be colonized. Must be a white burrito supremo-cyst.
Tons of sour cream on that guy. "Poverty is hell." What a negative thing to say. Not a peaceful, ignorance-affirming genre, Calypso. A lot of sinners and burning and poverty and hell. Here's the Calypso "Kumbaya," which is resistant to disingenuous, maudlin displays of colonial emotion. You can tell by the title.
"We're all one, my ass, and if you touch me or my family, I'm Ah Kill Ah Man." Lord Blakie is so resistant to colonization I can't even find his lyrics online. Here's a depiction of his muse (and probably your muse and my muse too), fleeing from the fleet of colonial content creators that want to stab her virgin land with syringes, flags filled with experimental poison, foreign substances and symbols planted on the idyllic beaches of freedom, love, and inspiration. The colonizers want to inject her with experimental ideologies that will enslave her body, soul, and mind to endless hell, sin, and poverty.
Burn dem. Burn dem all until they float like ashes to the floor of the sea. May their experimental gasoline spills never extend beyond the floors of their stunted, emotional latrines. May their desire for control be confined to the smoking tenements of their denied and dying dreams. Are they fleeing their own self-created wake of destruction, pleading with the muse to hear them?
Or are they trying to enslave her, so that they might strip her of her evening gown, her faith and love and resources?
Whatever the case, may she be ever unaware of them.
Thanks for listening.