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Critics who squeal like stuck pigs serve to remind us that we have hit a nerve in them that only worsens as our work painfully reflects their impotence …the critic’s deformities you will be quick to recognize by the abscesses on his rotted tongue and the blindness that curses both his eyes!
We all know what a Bottom Feeder is. It’s the critic who feeds and steals crumbs from the rest of us as they follow our shadows in attempt to feed themselves. Those of us who may not be at the top fret naught for we at least know we’re in the game and we’re fighting for every bite we take or give. Yet the bottom feeders are content with the crumbs they steal away like filthy spavined rats who perversely give us their turgid lucubration’s and reasons he sees fit to justify his spurious need by The Arts. Amazingly he’s also so imprudent as to malapertly stand close to us as he cloys his deficient aestheticism all the while praising, scorning, or malapropos giving us his putrid assessment of our prowess. As such, not wanting to ever validate a critic’s existence by acknowledging the remoras’ useful purposeness, I simply wish to acknowledge and praise the aesthetics temperament in regards everything the critic finds fault in. As far as him ever ascending to heights the aesthete easily climbs, the critic will always find this ability impossible to ever possess.
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In this modern day I see, read, and hear critics perceive themselves as anachronistic men of letters who then and now I see as effete in terms of everything that stands opposed to what they are or aren’t is manifested in men of action. Men of action do what the impotent man of letters cant, wont, or ever do. But to be a man of action you must first be inspired. And to find inspiration means to be touched. Not to misconstrue, for the virile man of action, thus the creative man, the man whom is slave to his Muse, the man who needs for himself no explanations for the actual gift he possesses, I wish not to include with this sort of filth. That is to say, amongst the company of artists we will always find a critic the most offensive and mephitic in smell, sight, and all that is not empyrean. Is that perhaps why these men of letters disguised as critics many of times abuse the very essence of what they can never be.
Before I give these epicene sycophants a dose of their own medicine I’d like to exculpate the few critics out there who merely offer interpretive critiques but who are otherwise exempt from this invective censure. These are the critics who, rare as they are, offer a critical or otherwise non disparaging, non-condescending, and useful interpretation of someone’s work. And in regards those who falsely deem and label themselves artists, 
poets, or the like, and who don’t live this way of life, they will never understand what it is to be cursed with that of creativity, afflatus, or gift. Though they act as if they’ve the propinquity of artistic or creative license, they share all that engrosses impuissant and insipid critics. You know them, they’re the ones whose been writing that book or script for twelve years now but won’t let anybody read it. The artist that talks about all those foibles his favorite artist has, begrudging his very namesake and art the more.
Why are critics always impugning the lack of proficiency or histrionic nonce? Why are they always repugning against those who they find lacking of the aesthetic? Critics who squeal like stuck pigs serve to remind us that we have hit a nerve in them that only worsens as our work painfully reflects their impotence. Yes, impotent is what a critic is! He’s the jealous begrudged man who stalks what you stand for so as to imitate the very nature your work possesses. If they know so much about it I ask myself, why isn’t it they who tell us, or better yet show us, what only they seemingly understand. Truth is, they’re no where nearer that aesthetic than is the layman of lumber or brick building. Truth is, critics are as introverted and intellectual as two dogs fucking. A critic is as tacky and classless and uncouth as is the man who complains about the dinner and wine you invited him into your home for. Telling a poet his Muse doesn’t exist because he can’t see it rips the poet’s heart out of his chest. He’s the man who tears the poet’s soul apart by telling him everything the poet knows to be true and real doesn’t exist. All the more a fool for not allowing the poet to believe in all that he knows doesn’t exist yet must believe in to live his life.
He’s like the spectator peering up at the gallows and lecturing the condemned man for not so much as breaking the law but for his pompousness in not fearing what the breakage results in. The condemned man never absconds from the consequences nor does he flinch for fear of the gallows by not partaking in that chance. My point, a spectator, the critic, will always be that which he will always be. The one who stands by and watches life go by because he's too scared to live it for himself. His bane shows itself in the sadistic pleasure he derives from beating up anyone who takes that chance for which he’ll always resent the aesthete.
So I ask, how can critics’ critique something of which they presume to know but lack the pulse of creativity that courses through their veins, hearts, and minds. At least in the subjective sense to be sure. Why do critics always seem to circle the border of creativity and the aestethic yet daring never 
to enter? Could it be they know the origin of their own absent aestheticism yet not the heart to confront it? Of course there are those who spend a life time in scholarly discipline who think that by virtue of their education they are the closer to it. But this only proves to me that they seek from other sources that which can not surfeit their own creativity. Or lack thereof!
Why I ask? When even in light of this, are they always appearing out of nowhere to tell us whether were holding true to this or that, doing this in proper form, rhythm, timing, and structure. Whether we’re technically and historically holding to the integrity they know nothing about. Imposing their stagnant thoughts upon the aesthete to decipher whether the aesthete’s own motivations or creations are near enough the critics pedantically purchased Ideal that only they seem to have the power to conjure or knowledge to possess. Do Critics not seek the understanding and origins of their own Hamartia and Manque in other peoples work thereby ascribing whatever attributes they have or lack to our work. Are they not the embezzlers and peculators of the artistic world! Or are they too afraid to seek their own failure, and too lazy to unravel the mysteries of all that encompasses their heart’s desires, their frustrations, the painful ideals, meaninglessness, and deafening creativity.
Whether compositions or other endeavors of an artist’s creativity passes the bar they can never reach or whether they need be discredited for lack of which only the critic seems to know, is in my opinion the grossest and most negliable miscarriage of artistic justice we as artists, poets, musicians, filmmakers, writers, and people could ever allow to be perpetrated against us. Whether our creations, our sweat and our tears have integrity, depth, harmony, and so on, is not for them to decide. Even if gifted with talent yet choosing not to engage it except under exigent circumstances, the aesthete need not explain his work or himself. Anybody with a good eye can see the truth or attempt thereof reaching some plane that only he is privy to. It’s as if they seek retribution from all of us as they disparage, vituperate, vilipend, vitiate, and tear our work down to earn a buck or fill the emptiness of their books.
Again I ask, what possible experience can the critic possibly have. Surely he knows then that all that which must bleed from us to create be it art, music, literature, dance is the pound of flesh that ultimately he can never afford, fathom, or hope to understand. Much less purchase it. Hence, surely a critic must feel the pangs of hunger that starve him while their own impotence and incapacity to reach the Mountain further carry them off to some gehenna only meant for them.
I don’t think they do know how costly our afflatus, our creations, the cataplexic demiurge is for us. Because if they did, they would not care to pour gasoline on the wounds of those who wish confirmation from no other save their very own Muse or Afflatus. They remind me of vultures who ly in wait to pick scraps off of the moribund artist who half dead reluctantly sends his work off into the world. Sometimes having no choice other than to prostitute himself to all the would be collectors and critics in order to make a few cents. Hoping to find some momentary nourishment and panacea in all that encompasses the prostitution of his work just in order to have a little peace in his life at the expense of his glorious and sacred inspiration.
Fear not any critic out there who you think will bash your work. Just he or she taking the time to bash or praise you tells you all you need to know. That whether good or bad as they would have the world believe, your work spoke to them and sparked in them the calling of the dogs of Hades where both the critic and the artistically void live. Keep putting it out for the world to read, see, and hear…without you the bottom feeders will starve. They attack, repugn, and discredit everything yet they not the courage to put anything out for fear of failure or the same blasphemy perpetrated on them as they do on others. For I’ve always feared the man who finds no fault in himself as this tells me how afraid of life he really is. They’re always saying they’re working on it or on something that they’ve been polishing up for years yet they never seem to quite get it done.
And what about when these Bottom Feeders’ laud and praise your “groundbreaking and highly original” work. As if we need their confirmation and affirmation. Their acceptance!! Don’t they know we do the work solely because we’re cursed and the need to exorcise our demons dictates the reasons for our unveiling! Once unveiled the work ceases to have importance to us. What could they possibly know in regards as to why or how we do what we do! I guess the answer is, if they were to be also inflicted with the curse of creativity they would understand that our plight seeks not their gratifying approval. I almost feel that the work is somehow besmirched by their insensate fingertips as they touch all that’s sacred to me. Never will they know the price those of us pay to live with this affliction. Nor will they ever know the joys that sound across the Zenith when inspiration meets with the one it was intended for.
Am I really being too hard on them or just being facetituous? I don’t think so! I also won’t give them a place in the world so as to validate the aesthetes existence? But I dare say the only one we wish this recognition from is our own afflatus and inspiration that makes us search for it each day. Or should we view critics as bottom feeders, who too lazy and full of fear to unleash and wrangle his own creativity, hover above a work with a pedantic stamp that he slaps on it so at have an excuse to tell us how the more better his own harnessed creativity be thus lowering our work to his stamp and standards. The more scathing and pedantic the critical interpretation the more I see the critics need for the aesthetes work to take him closer to that which the critic simply cant reach on his own. Arguments, logic, reason, and critical interpretations are useless words where creativity for the aesthete are images that bring him closer to his need and compleat beatitude. Whether philosophically, artistically, poetic, or other; the fact is the aesthete is in a world which only has purpose for him. Not the critic!
Sure there are critics who objectively help us or understand how to do something better like someone I once trained under. As critical as he was he did it with the intentions of helping me get better at what I did. Hard on me with criticism only to better interpret that which I did not see or understand yet. He didn’t bash my inability, my lack of knowledge, or my many a times insipid creations. There wasn’t anything subjective about it.
Am I being too hard on them or do we really need critics? Tough question! To remove your self from the person and the work and objectively look at them both from a source of proficiency and technicality, I’ve already said that I don’t half disagree. But to associate and juxtapose their opinions next to mine no matter how flattering or vituperative, I think they have no right to anything other than emotive reflection or lack of affiliation with the work. Other that that, if they had any heart at all they’d be putting their work out there like the rest of us do with no concern or regard whatsoever for criticism of others. Opinions sure, we all have them just like we all have assh…