Election

ELECTION BY ARTHUR PARSONS

They are coming for the artists next You and me, we, us Every single half-way queer And full-blown poser The poets, drag folk, jockeys Lip-sticked thick-dicks with pockets full of posies

Yes, next it will be us Every nondescript everyman, everywoman and everychild If you have dyed hair or a fairy grin They will kick you twice And then start stomping Oh, and I suppose this goes without saying, But

You better not be black

When they come for us There will be nowhere to run

Nowhere to hide

Nowhere to paint, write, sculpt or shiver They will point at us And murmur

“There they are the scoliosis of the working dead”

When they conquer the artist And celebrate the death of creation

Molotov GOMA, nuke the Louvre and piss into the blackboard sky, Do not fool yourself, do not say you tried, Just shut your mouth, put down your pen And wait

For as sure as hate

We shall return

As broken as we have made them