You—
the last refuge of man,
you—
the final provision
for the journey
of nihilism1—
you dragged
art
into vulgarity.
O servants
of cancerous masses,
O slaves
to herds
of likes
and scrolls,
like sheep
whose heads,
instead of green pasture,
are buried
in a black mirror2,
their mouths
ruminating
the word
more3.
Art,
seen too often,
turns whorish.
And what does a whore care
for being pawe…