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EP Robles Mar 1
ONCE is less than MORE    but if you go off
allow something to grab you if you fall
   inside pollen-eye bites when you
   taste blue and smell summer zeros hiding
   a hookah vision ,,__,, defies logic
      bends the Divine Proportion of smAll
   a supra sutra deluxe rule fights cRhyme
      sends the devils running
           higher fly these angels
   so heavy to consider this;
        once is less than more
             is less than
              than zero

A Simillacrum Jul 2019
for all my preparation
this project begins to slip away
what if my great fantasy
hinges on a banal happiness?
the ink of ballpoint pen
takes me as far as sorrow's edges
i confess best to myself
wetness skin to skin, with sweat's sweet and
sour accompaniment is as close to happiness
as i can steer this sinking ship
as of late there's nothing left
of the sweat to cleanse my dead palate
A Simillacrum May 2019
I have no perspective, I
bring nothing new.
I absorb everything, I
am pressed to consume.

I consume. They press me,
to consume me, to imbibe,
to savor the flavor of
the fruits to their labor.

I'm impressed you haven't
yet guessed my game correctly.
(. . .rebranding. . .)
I'm impressed you haven't
yet guessed my game.

If I'm alive, then we're ******.
If I die, then you're ******.
Die. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.
Lou Mar 2019
I woke up with a universe dried to my hands.

Post observable,
Post ****** of;



scratching at a birth canal.

Who is hungry?
Merry Aug 2018
Contemporary art
Dada and surrealism
Paint in my heart
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
Baroness Penniless stripping for your art

creaming up your body like an apple ****

tomato bras and candelabras that's your dada art

take a side, not suicide, looking for your place

don't be a *****, be the **** descending staircase

Duchamp, your champ,  your ready -made not taking any chances

A sheet of glass and your fine *** declines your *** advances

Marcel, Marcel, I love you like Hell, take me to your mountain

we will not stop until the top and there I'll find my fountain

Marcel, Marcel, can it be true, the thief is here what will we do?

Forgotten like this parapluie am I by you

Baroness Elsa von Freytag- Loringhoven Mother of Dada Art

sitting in the jolly inn playing out your part

Berlin, Berlin and there within the forming of a ylem

you end your ways and count the days in a pyschriatric ayslum

Baroness Penniless stripping for your art

creaming up your body like an apple ****

tomato bras and candleabras that's your dada art
Tribute to Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven founder of Dada Art
Julian Revà Feb 2018
let's forget eachother - let's forget who we are
where we are going
let's forget and just remember
names and streets where we met

why did we fall in love?

where are we going?

let's forget where and why we met
where we fell in love
streets and names
let's forget ourselves
forget who we are
just remember

where we met, just remember
let's forget where we are going

why we met?

let's forget eachother
let's forget who we are
names and strets
let's forget

why did we meet?
where did we meet?
let's forget
who are we?
where are we going to?
let's forget streets and names
just remember to forget

forget remember
where are we going to?
names and or streets, forget
forget what we were supposed to forget
let's forget ourselves
what? why? me? she?
let's forget what is "we"

Originally, this was a dada poem.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Rebellion – for too long the status quo,
is, in our day, a predictable show.
Antichrist irony, absurdity
shockingly daring incongruity
no longer shock the bourgeois, you know…

Alone in the temple of glass with a rock,
you’re out of traditional symbols to mock.
Surrealists did it much better than you –
and it meant a lot more in ’32.

You chew your cud on the cattle-wagon
overused shock-tactics (moo ! ) now draggin’
(or herding) aboard the iconoclast train
(b)lowing through boxcars your bovine refrain:
“to, um –  make people think…”  Oh Lord, how uncouth.
Nihilist narcissus – tell me, what’s Truth?
Must creative always be subversive?
I discern, in your frenzied discursive,
a dull and predictable lack of life.
While you brandish that plastic butter knife
I  seem to note, in your constant ******,
dearth of artistic ability.  Must
bohemian acolytes (some yawning)
ever be deer in the headlights, fawning
before the ironic gesture? It’s sad;
the bitter is sweet but the art is bad…

They circle hors d’oeuvres on opening night
like moths around white wine in candlelight,
cerebrating in a modernist void:
contemporary aesthetes, overjoyed
to know once more that life has no meaning;
the planet is doomed; that kings are queening;
that chic just arrived, escorting philosophy
(Forgive us, Duchamp, for all this monstrosity).

I long for Hudson River School sunsets
Old Dutch Masters, religious art, portraits,
Red, green, or black propaganda-art?  NO !
The view does not merit the price of the show.
I’m dada-ed to death, beyond the surreal.
Conceptual gimmicks have failed to conceal
your want of ability, values, and faith
In the book you despise it is written: “thus saith
the fool in his heart: that there is no God…”

You: Postmodern Art – **to the firing squad!

  ► ¡ BANG !
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Some mornings,
I want to leap
from bed:

pluck the eyes
from anacondas,
beat monkey butts
with broken spoons,
and steal flowers
from cemetaries
to warm
the homeless.

But this

I'd  much rather
stay in bed
with your warmth,
your deep kisses,
your long sighs

and let the anacondas,
monkeys and homeless
fend for themselves.
Not a Dada morning
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