Music Mondays: Part XVI

In The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde famously says that “those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.

In writing, there is no ugly meaning — even if the meaning is to expose the ugliness of moral corruption and vanity. Exposing, revealing, and reflecting can in no way indicate an ugly purpose; in fact, by Wilde’s standards it would be considered a beautiful meaning because it is composed as art for the sake of art.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” This rings true for all art. A piece that deals with themes of depravity or devolution is not morally corrupt; it is quite noncombatant. Art serves as a narrator, a biographer of what the world might be or could be.

Allow this playlist to serve as your narrator. Find out what your writing might be.


Happy writing! 🙂

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ugly meanings in beautiful things

in love
I begin by deceiving myself
in romance
I end by relieving myself
of scars that streak red
across waxen faces
of lines that sag cruelly
against youth’s graces

in love
I begin by deceiving myself
in romance
I end with perceiving myself
as sallow with
the age of my sins
but only upon
my painted on skin

in romance
I am older
than my friends
older than
any end
that in striving for
becomes what I am dying for —

but my face is clean
clean of the sin that boils
my heart
clean of the pride
that spoils each part of me

that could be redeemed

in love
with myself

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

Dorian

My throat is streaked with
the age of my sins; they are older
than my friends, older than
any end that in striving for
becomes what I am dying for —
but my face is clean,
clean of the sin that boils
my heart, clean of the pride
that spoils each part of me
that could be redeemed, if
to be redeemed did not require
forgiveness, for how can I aspire
for what I don’t profess?
In the end my throat is pocked
with my offenses — but only in oil,
only in my reflection.