Torture porn

Torture porn

Every generation gets the art it asks for.
Every epoch sports the culture it requires
To develop and disseminate its wisdom,
To advertise its fears and desires.
Every great leap forward in our understanding
Of equality and all that that should mean
Is tarred with the tallow from a history of harrowing,
And feathered with the repression of dreams.

I understand the value of shock tactics,
I appreciate the art of the outrage,
But the depths of depravity cut my teeth like a cavity,
Am I the Mary Whitehouse of my age?
In my opinion, Eli Roth is not an artist;
He’s hardly even artful at his best.
All he does is rake subconscious silt and serve it back to you as guilt
I’d not urinate on flames at his behest:
I’d not urinate upon his flaming vest.

All he’s done to fill the silence
Is to combine sex with violence:
It’s no secret recipe, is this cocktail, oh, my boys;
It’s no secret recipe, oh, my girls.
But the lovers and the haters and the messageboard masturbators,
Detractors and fanatics, all have sworn
That with his dreary Hostel, a new medium was born:
A medium they’re calling “torture porn”, oh my boys,
A medium they’re calling “torture porn”.

Does my plea for decency make me a deviant?
Does my requirement for some depth make me a prude?
If a film finds a home in our cinemas today,
Does it necessarily follow that it’s good?
Can we be surprised by the success of this franchise,
Given the foundations on which it is built?
There’s no better bedfellow, it seems, to lurid lusts and violent dreams
Than a vengeful God and good old Catholic guilt.

And you may very well protest your atheism,
Or whatever other faith you subscribe to,
But the hand of history holds you and its legacy enfolds you:
The bad bits of the Bible, they imbibe you, yes they do:
The good bits, yes, but the bad bits, they do too.

When Jehovah recommends rape as a weapon of holy war
You wonder whether feminism is even worth fighting for.
Isaiah, thirteen: fifteen to sixteen, oh my boys;
Isaiah, chapter thirteen, oh my girls.
But the idealists and dreamers and the anti-social schemers,
Feminazis, fools and faggots, all forlorn,
Will try to do away with torture porn, oh my boys,
They’ll try to rob us of our torture porn.

Censorship’s a sinking ship they tell me.
In the Free West even Fred Wests should be free
To publish and create things, film themselves masturbating:
Call it art, screen it and charge a fee (for entry),
Call it art, screen it and charge a fee.
As long as the Daily Mail can be outraged:
As long as they can clamour for a ban
Alongside all their own published sensationalist salaciousness
And articles about how immigrants raped your gran, raped your gran,
About how immigrants will definitely rape your gran.

I know it can sometimes seem funny
But bear in mind people pay money
To poison their brains with this heavy horse shit, my boys,
To poison their brains with this, oh my girls.
You can watch the squabbling of the right wing and the left wing,
Shake your head and wait for a mild morn:
But the grass will be soaked with a dew of blood and semen

Because our culture’s geared to worship torture porn, so it seems;
Our culture’s geared to worship torture porn, in any form;
Everybody likes a dose of torture porn, so they do;
Everybody loves torture porn,
(Except me).

Appears in:
Mistaken for art or rubbish [2013]

Video:

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