Aland Lyrics

My Lady of the Vanguard

You know I hate to meet you
Out in the street
To have to hear of your exploits
Your noble art world conceits

With your CV and press kit
With its gold star acclaim
All the revues are all in now
My lady, you're gonna make it rain

Just how gaping is the void
At the heart of your practice
The axioms of the de-centered
Have spread you open at your axis

"By the way," you say,"…where's your next show?
Who represents you, and for how much?"
"You know, I really think I can help you.
Here's my card. Keep in touch."

You're lucky there with your trauma,
Appropriate appropriations
That retrieve from the ready-made victim
The object's post-colonization

I don't mean to say your trauma
Has left memory outside your range
There's a lexicon of symbols
That will remain barred from exchange

Ecstatic techno-sublime
Ex-static subject in mime

Surface signifier, machinic design
Production the mode of the object's divine

Conjuring the horror
of Julia Kristeva
Looking for that external text
A parodic paradise
can still save ya

But the horror's not yours
It belongs to the referent, and the sign
The empire of words that you cling to
That your work works to undermine