The war on art,
Is a war on women,
Because a war on art
Is a war on sex.

We reveal and reflect
The human animal
As artists do,
As women do.

We do not pay for art.
We do not pay for sex.
We do not pay for feminine attributes.
We pay for weapons.
We pay for security.
We pay for heavy lifting—
“I’ll do the heavy lifting!”
The men say,
hoping to display his
most masculine aspects,
And charge a premium,
Your money
Or all the days of your life.

But
We
Do
Not
Pay
For
Sex.

We “democratized” art,
relationships,
beauty
With the internet.
Which is to say,
We made it valueless.

They seized our contents—
THIS IS A FUCKING RAPE—
And left us penniless,
without recourse..
Name me an artist
Who’s not called a fag
Or a dike?
Ridiculed for feminine aspects?
Name me an artist,
Who is not feared
for their outrageous femininity?
Who is not told by new acquaintances,
“No, it’s fine, it’s very good,
To be so free…”
While their eyes are darting,
And their hands are shaking?

An artist reveals human nature,
And sex is what animals do.
The closer to sex,
The closer to truth.
And sex is so brutal up close.
So varied, and brutal
And
So
Hard
To
Take.
It’s too revealing.
It’s too much.
It’s disgusting.
It nauseates.
It is like looking into
The hot molten soup
That made us
Where we could not breathe,
Could not exist,
Should not be,
But then, 
There we are,
Vomited up,
And the world turns
A cool mint green.

Yes, let's skip to that part!
Yes, it’s easy to say we don’t want it—
Do not need it in our view.
Yes, it’s easy to want things easy.
And a little obscured.
A bright light is described as harsh, after all.

But what’s more,
We can’t let the women know.
How brutal,
And how coveted,
And how much money could be made…
How much power could be had…
If they only knew the hold they have…
If they only were the ones to hold sway,
Why we’d all be slaves to sex!
Men would thwart themselves,
Their aims,
And live by the whims of their withholding queen—
If women only knew how much they’re wanted—
The twisted lengths the swarming mass of men go to obtain their charms—
They win an Oscar,
Invent electricity
Trap a girl in his basement for seventeen years.
Take the shitty job they don’t want,
Learn not to cry,
Beat the next woman who rejects him to death in front of a bar—
And these stupid fucking bitches
Just submit, when you neg them?
We cannot let them lead—they’re too gullible!
Look how we trick them every day!
They deserve to be led
By brutal men,
Who shield them from
Information
They can’t
Handle.

The war on art,
Is a war on women.
So strange,
The trad-wife movement!
Why should free young girls
Be drawn to homestead videos
And cottage-core?

They wish to be a wife and mother,
Come the comments.

A different word.
Her own vocation:
She wishes to be an artist.
A witch.
A maker of magic,
Life,
And beauty.
She wishes to conjure it herself,
Out of herself.
These are the feminine aspects
So degraded,
And yet so coveted,
A busy man will make time in his day
To enslave a woman
And call her his wife.
He knows he is a king,
When he has his own court jester,
Nurse,
Flower arranger,
Set designer,
Actor,
Costume designer,
Communications specialist,
Playwright—to tell him what he’s feeling and explain his motivations—
Painter,
Crafter
Artist.
Witch.
We do not pay for art.
We do not pay for feminine aspects.
The war on art
Is a war on women.
All the artists suffer.
All artists are called women.

But we DO NOT call ANYONE an ARTIST.
Just who the fuck do you think you are?
JUST WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?
Who are the Masters?
Not some dumb little jobless housewife.
Not some dumb little unemployed drifter.
DaVinci! Rembrandt! Michaelangelo!
These are the Masters!
You think yourself a master?
You are sweet, and that’s enough.

When the artists fall,
We are poised for gendercide.
A war on art is a war on women--

And what of the men, huh?
What happens to us,
when the women rise up
and pick our pockets,
hold us at bay,
put us in chains
and enslave us!
This is a war,
and you want to take our weapons!
This is a war,
and you expect us not to fight?
It's you or me, bitch,
and you want me to pick you?
Don't I love you when I keep you alive?
Can't you see this is a war?"

We erase our art,
we erase our sex,
we erase ourselves
and everything is war.
Everything is men.

Too much war
makes you want 
a little sex.
Am I right? 😉

A little beauty,
and magic,
and tenderness.
And here you are,
over a barrel,
asking yourselves again:
What do women want?

We don't want you over a barrel.
We want what all artists want.
We want to come together.

But there is no sex in a war zone.
Those gay Greeks told us so.

Now lay down your weapons
and love on us.
Just try it 😉
C'mon.
Just try it!

okay, folks! gather round! it’s time to Pass the hat!

It feels good when you put drop a token of appreciation in the hat! Try it!

.

“for the love of god, i’m just going to say it. this is rude. it’s rude to not just ask for money–but you want me to figure out your price point for you? fuck you, man, and fuck pay-what-you-will. like, i know it’s charitable or something, but how the fuck am i supposed to know what this is worth? it’s a fucking poem. what do you pay for poetry? why are you sending me down existential spirals as a punishment for enjoying your stupid fucking poem? i don’t like this!!!

Hey, man. I get that. And I even respect it. I got something for you, too.

Amazon wishlist

This is just, like, shit I always need. A few bigger items that will really make my life easier–like an ebike converter kit. My bike is my transit, and I can go further if I can go faster. But there are also staples, like banjo strings. And picks. They cost like 5 bucks. Household items like toothpaste. Some fun work related items, like crafting supplies. Potting soil for my garden. So there’s a gift for anyone to be able to get, and all of them are things that when they’re taken care of, it’s a load off–every one of them makes it more possible for me to make SmutMag. I really like the idea of getting gifts instead of money (but go ahead and give me money, I really, really don’t mind). But it just seems like a more enjoyable interaction.

Money is great. It pays my bills. But this ensures I have the tools I need–which is honestly just as important. Not more. But just as. So, for instance, if you think this poem was worth me being able to bathe with soap, then a gift of soap is wonderful, my friend! I appreciate it! And every time you read my poems, you can think, “She’s clean because of me!”

It just feels so good, doesn’t it?:)