Turds of Misery

Every thousand years or so an event so transforming and paradigm shifting occurs that society itself has no choice but to embrace the change or be cast onto the pyre of fateful irrelevance and go quietly into the night.




Siddhārtha Gautama,

Turds of Misery.


Don’t scoff here, let’s look at this.

Who among us has not had first hand experience with their own Turds of Misery?

That any group or person, poet or not, could single handedly capture such a powerful human condition is itself, pure artistic genius.

Much like the oft cited six word story reference “For sale: baby shoes, never worn”, the precision with which “Turds of Misery” captures the evocative radiance of man’s will against his own body overshadows, in its economy and power, this better known Hemingway reference of our fragile human condition.

Art, it has been said, is only art when it serves no useful purpose, everything else is pornography. Turds of Misery blurs this line in a masterful expression of both art and carnal knowledge. Much like “Shit in a Can”, Turds of Misery both cast doubt and introduces new questions as to what art actually is, or actually represents.

Simply existing to be pondered, individually, quietly, and in silent repose, Turds of Misery presents a soulful reflection in simple terms of pain, pleasure, tension, and release.

At once conjuring references to life’s pinnacle achievements and disappointments through sweat, toil, pain, and effort, Turds of Misery is a mountain climb of a concept that’s truth in its brutal honesty.

Behold the genius here. Innocent, as art often is, these young artists captured best life’s often awful pageantry.

I hear they rocked a cover of Wild Thing too. That’s a total bonus.

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