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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
Arthur dear, don’t fret.

Papers, papers, get your papers.  

I have never been to the sea.  I always wanted to go to the sea.  

No, never since my husband died.  

Oh aye, a sight to behold.  

The rascals of Ballydrim out in force.  

The maid peept out the window.

The fryar and the nun.  

An old man is a bed full of bones.  

Is he not, is it not, is it not?

Rose is red and rose is white.  

New new nothing.  

Row well ye mariners.  

I have never seen the sea.  

The pauper and the layman, the priest and the scoundrel, all moving
with intent.  

Sometimes, fleetingly, never anything less.  

Profound, very, yes dreadfully profound.  

Labour in vaine.  

In great concentric circles about the time your husband died.  

Biting the bullets one by one, out on the green fields of Amerikay.  

Interest rates climbing on the national stew fund.  Spiralling into a new dawn of exoneration of traditional values.  

Gracie did all those things and more.  

And the quaker danced.

Rose is red and rose is red.  

For judge and jury.  

Very very far.

Quite near actually.  

Further than strictly possible.  

In all reason dear.  

75 miles from the sea.  Exactly.

And another.

And another.

AND another.  

Drawing to a conclusion.





Have at thy coat old woman!
Andrew Wenson Nov 2014
Mud, mud, mud
Can't cha get enuff?
Nup, tuft.
Alleviate normative
Chairtime penalties
Helper Scalper!
Oh, I drew the crucifix!
I must cruise for a fix
and machinate my auto-licks.
Guitars all bent from rotten trips
into acid bath houses of Babylon!
no editing of course.
Janek Kentigern Oct 2014
Geometric Considerations and Nomenclature for Reflectance, U. A march section in B flat minor follows.
Cordelia is nervous about her father's tax position but does not tell the others. Japan's Olympic judo team.
Rehberg married his high school sweetheart, Jan, a water attorney who represents farmers and ranchers. In four games, he had been sacked 23 times and had a pass intercepted 12 times.
Eastern Europe, and conspired to spread communism throughout the world. There are 55 schools in Kortrijk, on 72 different locations throughout the city, with an estimated 21,000 students. Go through all tools, materials, and so forth in the plant and work area.
I received this gorgeous piece of abstract prose in my spam email folder. I was struck by how it was so effortlessly random and nonsensical in a way that I could never dream of achieving if I was trying to write it like that. I also love that it gives the reader no hints about the purpose of the spam email ie: what is being sold or what even what ideas are being conveyed. I like the idea that some computer somewhere wrote this, totally blind to the fact that anybody might find it amusing. A bit like a monkey with a typewriter. I consider this a 21st Century equivalent of Marcel Duchamp's Ready-Mades. Whilst I did not create this I will claim ownership over it until the genius who wrote it comes forward.
Luis Mdáhuar Aug 2014

the free wheel turns
and from the asphalt
the chains dissolve
after every consonant
like a sphere walking on heels
sums the response of your epoch
the sound continues


on a sleeping tree
that spits butter
every other morning
MERZ came along
dancing on neglected values
like the horn of whales
bending water at every
in the slums of egotism


art has no meaning unless
art has no arms unless
art devours brains unless
art verifies stupidity unless
art has to be edible unless
art sleeps like an idiot unless
art bleeds through my fingers
unless art


falling like dominos
will turn the bipolarity of the glass
only to be slashed
so I can see
my pillow that rebells
to the murdering machine
every night
every night with gloves
filled with blue feathers


we are born
we are children
we grow
we die
in between, there is a shadow
covering the ghost
slowly piercing your skull
singing on tip toes
in the enchanted forest


I call
for the un-trembling hand
amidst the violence
and humanity
against the frozen word
breast of black matter
where spring holds her veil
river stones and milk
ghost of love


garbage laying
daughters of despair
renounce the yolk of logic
senses shall play
as it was intended
do not let reason fool you
she’s no more than a


who disbelieves
imaginary facts


the betrayal of reason


Popart popart
garbage of the past


a malicious smile
Hans Arp, Raoul Hausmann, Hannah Höch
and Richard Huelsenbeck
out of the ruins of German culture
all conceivable materials
the union of art and non-art


continue to study the natural world
childlike and convoluted
the elated and troubled
new forms of typography
a new visual language


The **** regime banned
all your creative activities
Primiti Too Taa

rakete rinnzekete 
rakete rinnzekete                                                       ­  
rakete rinnzekete 
rakete rinnzekete 
rakete rinnzekete 
rakete rinnzekete 




the movements of the poem
string, cotton wool or a pram wheel
equal with paint
to reverberate
carved on its journey
repeating them in many different voices
a relentless momentum


new people, new shapes, colors, and details


blast the institution of slavery
blast the educational system
blast the paper cup morals

simultaneous happenings
will reign in the hearts of men
and turn them small and


Imaginary facts and the marvelous
appearances of the right moment
which is a woman
or a dice
with the shape of a cloud
******* on happiness


find a place


The nose is a myth


feign of death
the modern man
Homage to Kurt Schwitters
Patrick Kokos May 2014
What I see is
in the eyes of

John is sleeping.
John is kicking the ball.

Dear Papa,
why the cosmos is
the cosmos.
The reverence shines through
my hole.

The whole swimming pool was left in the ocean.

Dear Papa,
please tell me how to
written a few seconds ago
Da dana da da dana da,
Da dana da da da;
Dana da ddana da,
Da dana da dada.

— The End —