THEATRE

This is for you- you Masters of The Artworld.

You morticians in search of a corpse.

You've administered to the dying art of theatre long enough. We are taking that body out of your hands and when we are done she will be up, dancing and fucking in the street.

We will leave you empty handed and teary eyed, staring in disbelief at your cold bare slab and at the obscene joys of your galvanized bride.

Your time is up, we no longer need your patronage, your modes of production, or your traditions. We have proven you hopelessly obsolete and it's a matter of mere years before we will rampage into your theatres, pull the seats out of your auditoriums, tear the pages from your plays, gouge the eyes out of your audience and cut the tongues out of your actors.

There is a war coming.

For too long have your defenses- your piles of the dead bodies of high culture, failed against the entertainment industry's rising tide. Your theatre is waterlogged, and you are prune-fingered and futile. Dead on your feet.

Get out of the way. How can we dismantle the capitalist entertainment machine while you- the picture of docility, appease them? You aren't here for the future. You only hope that the bourgeoisie will continue to play at aristocracy until you personally are ready to retire. That makes you useless to us.

No more. Your replacement is ready, I am here, on the street, performing and panhandling in your lobby, breaking down the barriers you base your bullshit career on.

The Army of the Arts is on the march, and we are coming for you.