“You artists live in great and happy times. Above you the most powerful and understanding patron. The Führer loves artists because he is himself one. Under his blessed hand a Renaissance has begun. Oh, century of artists! What a joy to be part of it!”
Dr.Joseph Goebbels
To fulfil the noble mission they perfected the lie,
Gave their souls in tribute to the state for resurrection,
Hearty farmers, happy workers, soldiers armed for the ultimate crusade,
Once again feeling the ancient gods in their blood.
In a paradise of thatched rooves and folk dances
Proud naked bodies reached out to the swastika sun,
Glad for a while to be relieved of freedom,
Bewildered lives justified, their thinking done for them,
The promise of greatness to make good every sin.
They would exorcize the demons with flaming swords,
Offer sacrifice at their ancestors’ altars,
Purify the earth and air, purge their homes of evil.
Clean beauty would banish the scrofulous imaginings
Of aliens and degenerates infected with foreign ideas,
Money-lust and machine-life, Babylonian corruption.
In the squares of small towns never visited by theatre
Jackbooted actors erected stages under the sacred flag,
Performing the mystery plays of the God-King.
The Enchanter conjured pageants, autobahns, arenas;
Every event was grand opera, ecstasy for the masses,
Chaos ordered by architecture, with flesh for stone,
Each petty life commanded to become a monument.
Immaculate kitsch adorned executioners’ offices,
Art that asked no questions and did as it was told,
Marching in uniform, expressionless, in step,
A kef of frozen gestures and vacant calm.
The tight-lipped mouth said “purity”,”harmony”,”truth”,
Then bared its teeth in a masterful cinematic smirk,
Biting the silver bullet of so many clever lies,
Spelling eventual death to the werewolf’s heart.
They crowded the galleries with classical male nudes,
Olympian conquerors immune to suffering, striking forced poses,
Stunned by their own inhuman perfection.
Their women were all flawless, smooth-skinned and ripe,
Hallowed mothers of the Master Race, vestal whores,
Their bellies the barrows of Teutonic kings.
Massive ashlars uplifted by will to crush all opposition
Conjured imaginary cities of austere majesty,
Blank cathedrals of power, built by rote,
Obliterating every small human gesture’s challenge.
Plutonic in his necropolis, the Master of Ceremonies
Dictated the obligatory virtues of culture;
The smallest artefact must embody the whole,
The ideal family clustered around the Father,
Technically perfect, the detail obsessive, minute.
Wagnerian puppets, they strutted brave in costume,
Making the Bavarian Alps their son et lumiere;
Playing with toy soldiers in the nursery,
They fended off Mongolian hordes in the dark.
Throwing giant shadows with the sun at its zenith,
They exulted in their destiny, their genius supreme,
Till the chisel slipped, carving the face of God,
And the wolves raced out of the fairy-tale forest.
Their castles collapsed. Their rhetoric choked on bones.
Reality wrung the swan-like neck of style.
Floral still-life turned into dead soldiers’ boots.
Crucified on their T-squares, the future’s architects
Arranged their smug delusions into a final pose,
Their glamorous uniforms the booty of collectors,
Their antique dream shipped to the auction-house.
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