Pornography: The Only True Art

What A Slut.

Man is void if not base. Nothing more motivates him in his endeavours but the desire for endless, rampant fornication. His eyes glisten with the combined fantasies of a million potential deviations burning like a galaxy of corrupted stars. His potency is his lifeblood, without it he is sterile, useless and without procreation, every aspect of his life becomes futile. Man is a canvas, drenched in the sweat and seed of a million rapes and conceptions.

And only art carved onto this canvas in strength and suffering can truly speak to man. There is no resonance in the cracked sepulchre of his heart, just the Tintinnabulum of endless desire that echos within his broken mind. The greatest art has no appeal but the erotic; in Caravaggio, Michelangelo, the only true aesthetic appreciation is for the perfection of nudity, bodies fragile and vulnerable rendered into being out of the ideals that swim in the ether. No man looks at the Mona Lisa without the sole imagining of her performance of fellatio upon him - what more is there to the image than her coy look and hint at illicit sexual practice? The painting’s fame come from those harlot’s eyes, that follow the observer around the room; he is never free from her incessant desire. Unable to obtain her, his frustration causes him to idolise her, revere her as something great, and as a consequence feign an appreciation of the painting as ‘art.’ It is nothing but, merely a ruse for his disgusting perversion.

The modern age has seem an exponential growth and availability of hardcore pornographic material; businessmen now forgo coitus with their wives to revel one handed in the appreciation of eastern European sex slaves forced into humiliating acts by desperation or drug addiction - they feed and glut their lust and aesthetic whims on the suffering of an impoverished female underclass, an underclass who are nothing to them but devourable, physical commodities. Acquainted to them only by their own wrists, they feed on the combined misery of these souls, sucking them to nothing but husks of being, life without life, physical being with no higher essence, until they are nothing but rocks or the eternal phallic redwood.

The Opium of the People - Art by Thomas Ruff

And yet this is the only art that speaks to man. The feeling in his heart when he sees a vulnerable young maid embuggered by a probable rapist transcends and massively exceeds that when he considers even the most apt Kandinsky or Warhol. This the one art that affects man, it affects him physically, causes his body to morph, to become potent by it’s mere observation. How can one argue that Van Gogh has anywhere near this influence? Compared to ‘Filthy Sluts 6’ he is nothing, a mere speck on creation who is of no care to anyone. Pornography on the other hand, it is the solace of every man, and unites man, rich and poor, of every creed and colour, all over the earth in simple desire and rampant, animalistic fornication. There is no hope for humanity, only the despair of the base and the crystalline perfection of pornography that casts cupid’s arrow into mankind's blackened heart.