Hey Penny Arcade
Let me tell you, let me tell you... because I'll think you'll understand.
I'm sitting in the front row and I'm listening to you preach. And I know you are right, I know you're right.
Forgive me for being so rude, we haven't been introduced. I'm the Vile Arts, the homeless critic, known as the Ghost Derrida, Criticulous or when my hormones are high, Mad Cyril.
I'm sitting in the front row and I'm listening to you preach, and yeah. I know you are right.
But let me tell you, it's the homeless critic. It's voice I'm sure, a voice not ready to be silenced and I wonder what you think of critics.
I mean, I wouldn't blame you, the quantifiers of aesthetic worth. They hold up passion to the light as if through a jeweller's eyepiece and pronounce.
Pronounce, not preach. And here's the expert opinion, a reading from the state of grace.
But I'm not like the other boys. I'm the homeless critic, I'm Mad Fucking Cyril and when I hear the objective truth, I pray to God to save me from delusion.
Because I'm not mean enough, not yet. People think that critics are mean, but a homeless critic is the meanest mother fucking you are going to meet. Set up a homeless man against a salary man, and see. One of them is fighting for survival, the other for comfort.
Could be a homeless woman, could be a salary woman. We know some things go past gender now, don't we?
Some people have sex for pleasure, some people make love to reproduce. The homeless critic will seduce because it means night underneath a roof.
Who speaks with authority - you know. It's those outside.
Hey Penny Arcade, I want to hear you preach. I want you to say the thoughts I have, about the young adrift from history, the sinking of the human mind into the mire of advertising and the soft police state.
You said the 1960s were a police state. You said 2015 is 1984. You said you took acid for five years (hey, we both know that tolerance means you'd have felt nothing after a week of tripping unless you were on a tab to the power of 5 000 after about a year, but hell, the kids don't know). You speak truth and you speak it staring
into their eyes.
I love you Penny Arcade, and I don't want to be safe either. But I'm homeless and I don't seem to have your address in my email, or your press release.
Preach, Penny, preach.
I'd like to tell you because I think you'd understand.