#dadaism
doesNOTExist).(bellybutton bushy-
balls bouncing bleachers
thurstNow is this moment s t retched as a dying
river's tears holding /tightly\ her shores
then doesNOTeXist can never be contained
within finite space ).( bellybutton bushy-
balls bouncing bleachers is never a safe
place for ***
:: 02.25.2020 ::
Mar 1, 2020
Mar 1, 2020 at 10:26 AM UTC
Today sunny
thunderhead
loomed on the horizon
but the storm never happened
wind warm
touch of chill
blew gently
but the storm never happened
all day I waited
behind the eyes
a slot machine
spinning wheels
one round in the chamber
but the storm never happened
whit howland © 2019
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 5:50 AM UTC
marriage
of bull to cow
slamming facts
obstructing with opinion
sworn testimony
tainted evidence
equals
misplaced translation
whit howland © 2019
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 2:59 AM UTC
Arab scarabs
wielding scabbards
staggered with hilts
laid waste to
idle Cherubs in
garments
embroidered
like quilts.
They're off kilter,
with no filter, and
wear stilts where
leaves wilt, sir
please lilt yr
tactless
anachronisms
through fractured
refractive prisms
to help the mind
unbind from
shop, office, and
factory prisons
Listen:
there's a
penitent androgyne,
speaking
sentence in pantomime
as though rhyme
were no longer
a kind of
berated
creative crime: But
who
the
hell
CARES?!?!?!?!
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
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!
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC