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amiri baraka's against bourgeois art + transcription 

war on the horizon; a ship with bloody sails Andy Young slips on his Chamberlain appeasement getup he got from years listening to the CP hype Martin Luther King. is there somebody hear to record this? the US being thrown out the front door? the Russian bear coming out the back door my man suddenly clearly an apologist for new-style colonialism telling us we can't fight the US, those centuries of our dead are buried here oceans of our blood have fertilized the black nation in the South / is there someone here to get this down? can I get a -- like they say -- witness? an eye that can see through this year, in Jimmy Carter's snake-oil show, there is a room nobody talks about steel door, fumes seep underneath inside, blood and hair on the floor bones stacked in the corner photos of Goering and Goebbels and Joe McCarthy and Nixon in the nude trying to put helmets on their peckerwoods; will somebody put this stuff out?  // you walk through a museum all the colors of the spectrum but not one image... except of checks passing Pollock dollar signs de Kooning fortunes Larry Rivers pots at the ends of the rainbows. No people no love no heart and soul insides flowing out no fighting on the street no fires rip the sky no children screaming death no police no state, except it is the state, bullshitting on the wall, no peoples' struggle, just colors thrown by baby snooks a down and leaving unintellectual NO RECORD OF THIS PLACE. as wild a motherfuckin joint America is somebody should get this shit down, otherwise no one will believe it. get it down get it on the record get the hate the horror the lies the rockefeller monsters eating corpses / heey bro, say hey, what it is, dude, yeah too, to do it is, yeah? wowlaowdootieroo baybaybay-BE, carrying a radio on his shoulder eating corpses coal mines, garment center, assembly lines hot steaming steel poured through space / not any of life is there. hey poet. you, artist, he turns in the shadows suckin a marble. dribblin andy warhols lost nut / he is an ARTIST, he is a po' 8. a po' 9. his work is about everything, his work is about the universe, her work is about the universe, her work is about the stars, belching her work is about grey hair lost in the desert peeped in a teeny voice NO BABIES NO SCREAMS NO RED LIFE NO FUTURE, death peeped in a teeny voice, stupidity dripped in a sultry voice 

bourgeois poets yodel nonsense about boring absence, they think of funny ways for letters to sit on the page, concrete fullshit, arty dumbshit, they are as safe as old toilet paper. revolution swoops the world, bourgeois artists stare at crumbs of dust in the light. people change reality. but these dull imitation poets talk to us of fragmented nothingness like 2-celled creatures trying to bebop; the world is heavier than they know. they do not know. they fight knowledge with abstraction and think they cool because they talk to theyself! they are full of shit. like vultures peckin on an open grave / they uphold dying capitalism and give themselves airs they think they shit is profound. complex but the people think it's as profound and complex as monkey farts.

now, meditate.... on that!