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Dada Manifesto - Hugo Ball

Dada is a new tendency in art. One can tell this from the fact that until now nobody knew anything about it, and tomorrow everyone in Zurich will be talking about it. Dada comes from the dictionary. It is terribly simple. In French it means "hobby horse". In German it means "good-bye", "Get off my back", "Be seeing you sometime". In Romanian: "Yes, indeed, you are right, that's it. But of course, yes, definitely, right". And so forth.

An International word. Just a word, and the word a movement. Very easy to understand. Quite terribly simple. To make of it an artistic tendency must mean that one is anticipating complications. Dada psychology, dada Germany cum indigestion and fog paroxysm, dada literature, dada bourgeoisie, and yourselves, honoured poets, who are always writing with words but never writing the word itself, who are always writing around the actual point. Dada world war without end, dada revolution without beginning, dada, you friends and also-poets, esteemed sirs, manufacturers, and evangelists. Dada Tzara, dada Huelsenbeck, dada m'dada, dada m'dada dada mhm, dada dera dada, dada Hue, dada Tza.

How does one achieve eternal bliss? By saying dada. How does one become famous? By saying dada. With a noble gesture and delicate propriety. Till one goes crazy. Till one loses consciousness. How can one get rid of everything that smacks of journalism, worms, everything nice and right, blinkered, moralistic, europeanised, enervated? By saying dada. Dada is the world soul, dada is the pawnshop. Dada is the world's best lily-milk soap. Dada Mr Rubiner, dada Mr Korrodi. Dada Mr Anastasius Lilienstein. In plain language: the hospitality of the Swiss is something to be profoundly appreciated. And in questions of aesthetics the key is quality.

I shall be reading poems that are meant to dispense with conventional language, no less, and to have done with it. Dada Johann Fuchsgang Goethe. Dada Stendhal. Dada Dalai Lama, Buddha, Bible, and Nietzsche. Dada m'dada. Dada mhm dada da. It's a question of connections, and of loosening them up a bit to start with. I don't want words that other people have invented. All the words are other people's inventions. I want my own stuff, my own rhythm, and vowels and consonants too, matching the rhythm and all my own. If this pulsation is seven yards long, I want words for it that are seven yards long. Mr Schulz's words are only two and a half centimetres long.

It will serve to show how articulated language comes into being. I let the vowels fool around. I let the vowels quite simply occur, as a cat miaows . . . Words emerge, shoulders of words, legs, arms, hands of words. Au, oi, uh. One shouldn't let too many words out. A line of poetry is a chance to get rid of all the filth that clings to this accursed language, as if put there by stockbrokers' hands, hands worn smooth by coins. I want the word where it ends and begins. Dada is the heart of words.

Each thing has its word, but the word has become a thing by itself. Why shouldn't I find it? Why can't a tree be called Pluplusch, and Pluplubasch when it has been raining? The word, the word, the word outside your domain, your stuffiness, this laughable impotence, your stupendous smugness, outside all the parrotry of your self-evident limitedness. The word, gentlemen, is a public concern of the first importance.

keep recording

"Yeah, everyone else is inside. They just took some Ambiens and drank a bit. It should be interesting."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, last night one of them said, 'Dude, why do you have three heads?' trippin' and stuff. People create shit while trippin'. Yeah, when you're trippin' you see three heads. It's like someone created the bicycle while trippin' and now we have the bicycle. Maybe we'll get three heads."
"I don't know dude, maybe."
- Alex's conversation with one of my neighbors

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Life at the moment:

dead bug carcasses
braindead whiskey shot(s) morning
(audrey sized shots, that is)
dead text messaging conversations reminding me why I hated them in the first place
a sink full of dirty dishes
classes I am behind in after two weeks
terrorism
recession
starvation
emails from scam artists
the street person out front who told me I looked pretty today. i look like shit but his standards with women are non existent i only assume
i shouldn't generalize but i am
human shit down the block
panels ruling against john ashcroft
remnants of a memory with john ashcroft singing a song that sounds like all the rest,
a song with "eagles flying"
married men feeling like shit in ways i cannot comprehend
i am just a
child
march 21 birthdays
the angry bra
bad habits dying hard, hard
day old coffee
too many images of johnny cash, kitty wells and loretta lynn records
too many cardboard plastic smiles
arthur making a kitty fort
a list of business i have been putting off for two weeks
New York and my internal excitement since everyone else has been there but me
the thought of doing what i want for once
everything normalized
sort of
i am thinking i emerged out of the darkness and forgot what the beginnings of a dawn look like
too hungover to write shit.

.

A building for psychologists


Walking in a plastic igloo
not used for security,
closure,
a place to sleep.

This is where they choose your needs.
psychological needs,
maybe waste trees,
paper
bleach
ink

for the sake of your mental
health.

come inside,
we stare at you with block board eyes.
a white bury within' dust snow
in mid winter.

a white bury
in fumes of white out
or old chalk erasers,
with plastic brushes on the end,
scraping your tongue,
waiting for the words to announce
presence
of racking demons
eating eating,
as if they were never supposed to have fun
in the cold

or dinner at the table in the first place.

Real life dreams

It's funny when I wake up from travel dreams because as soon as I do I realize that they are just a reflection of a life, not so long lived, all within' 20 minutes of a dream sequence. It's just a metaphor in a dream for my entire life and its absurdities and I find it to be quite humorous how everything can be chalked up in such a way:

I get friends together to plan out a trip somewhere. We chose Athens, Greece and get ready to go. But, somehow in the dream we never end up in Athens and end up traveling the Southwest in a really strange train mobile.

Halfway through the dream my friend who came with me and the people who did not know me disengaged me from their contact because I was not in line waiting for a ticket when the line was moving and was instead searching for a bathroom to change my clothes.

Throughout the rest of the dream if I did find these people, who I started considering old friends, they just showed their hatred and disappointment in me, wondering how I could be so absent-minded in times of seriousness within' a line to get tickets.

The entire time I was uncomfortable in my clothes. I never got to change my clothes because the bathroom kept on being stared into. A little girl was looking into my stall, "STOP LOOKING IN HERE CAN I NOT GET ANY PRIVACY?!" "Well, I am sorry ma'am but we're just so packed in here."

The majority of the "trip" was spent without my friend(s) around so I kept on meeting new people. One was a man in army attire that refused to get his hands off of me. I was stuck sitting next to this creature for quite a bit of the trip.

Traveling the Southwest and its dry lakes (dream lakes by the way) was beautiful and all but when the fuck was I taking off to Athens?

I find out I have been duped into a trip I did not ask for as a result of me playing the trip by ear. I had to pay a separate amount for the train ride around the Southwest and I have no idea how I even got on it, other than just simply following the line of people where they were supposed to go. They all seemed to understand it, except me. I just paid it and went on because when you're trapped, you're trapped. And I needed to get away from the military man who was fixated on me.

Then, I woke up.

.

In Review

A fire has taken plank in the old side of my brain.
I step out onto the board and review
the past year
while sucking on ginger root.

If only last gasp confidence
was a rat trap, if only
the scarf you handed to me was mine.

Yet the subtle puncture wound
which took over while my own
canine chewed

still felt the entirety of nonsense,
the remedial identity I
have been turned into:

A woman that feeds
your hungry imagination
the one desperate not to be buried
underneath more piss beer.

Let me out! I am trapped in a cast.
I slyly rumble out of sinister
misgivings, coffee, cigarettes
swollen lymph nodes

I stare at the rusty robots
painted orange, white, black
and they move on wheels
while you sit, stand,
lay and screw another
drunk, drunk, screwy drunk girl
who just bought a new designer
scarf