Dystopia emocional

Dystopia emocional es un blog dedicado al arte a secas... en todas sus manifestaciones y considerado este como producto de determinada sociedad en determinado tiempo. Desde cada lugar los sujetos se manifiestan artisticamente, tanto como espectadores como productores del artefacto artistico. En nuestro caso nos planteamos al arte como la emergencia de los sentimientos, ya sea rabia o amor, hacia el exterior. Desde una postura individualista creemos que el arte ayuda a tomar conciencia sobre la realidad a la que somos sometidos dia a dia, una realidad moldeada por los canones de la sociedad burguesa. Por eso es hora de despertar, de hacer del arte un arma que nos quite de encima ese velo de realidad que el capitalismo nos impone.

jueves, 18 de febrero de 2010

Punk Is Dead




Nada que decir.... el punk esta muerto, lo dijeron los crass... algo de razon tenian... los kennedys tambien lo dijeron en chickenshit conformist... ¿quienes lo mataron?....
el punk se murio antes de nacer....





Punk Is Dead.

Yes that's right, punk is dead,
It's just another cheap product for the consumers head.
Bubblegum rock on plastic transistors,
Schoolboy sedition backed by big time promoters.
CBS promote the Clash,
But it ain't for revolution, it's just for cash.
Punk became a fashion just like hippy used to be
And it ain't got a thing to do with you or me.

Movements are systems and systems kill.
Movements are expressions of the public will.
Punk became a movement cos we all felt lost,
But the leaders sold out and now we all pay the cost.
Punk narcissism was social napalm,
Steve Jones started doing real harm.
Preaching revolution, anarchy and change
As he sucked from the system that had given him his name.

Well I'm tired of staring through shit stained glass,
Tired of staring up a superstars arse,
I've got an arse and crap and a name,
I'm just waiting for my fifteen minutes fame.
Steve Jones you're napalm,
If you're so pretty (vacant) why do you swarm?
Patti Smith you're napalm,
You write with your hand but it's Rimbaud's arm.

And me, yes I, do I want to burn?
Is there something I can learn?
Do I need a business man to promote my angle?
Can I resist the carrots that fame and fortune dangle?
I see the velvet zippies in their bondage gear,
The social elite with safety-pins in their ear,
I watch and understand that it don't mean a thing,
The scorpions might attack, but the systems stole the sting.

PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD.



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