Art in the Third Reich

15 Dec


so classical

how fanatical

must one stand still?

expression made them ill.

soul whispers under the soil,

buried and fired,

reminiscence, as jazz music dilutes towards the background,

snap snap,

enters professor Thorax

carve away, says a command with out a face,

a uniform,

demanding the grandiose,

what is grand anyway.

A picture perfect,

perfect they say,


make it PERFECT.

Heroic only

the erect?

Still souls wonder,

aiming not to squander.


what sort of reality were they after?

What sort of a reality had they created?

Hands to the side,

the body wants to give in and join the dance of life,

instead around this corner,

like the image on the poster,

one foot at the time

they marched ahead towards a journey, not their own.

leather boots on the feet of soldiers,

creating a tune,

static as stone.


– Nicole Matta Santos



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