Manifesto Page #2

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Rubber and rain are our sweat.

We bleed and burn.

We thirst.

Our blood is vigor.

I say unto you, there

is no beginning.

And we do not tremble.

We are not sentimental.

We are furious wind, tearing

the dirty linen of clouds

and prayers, preparing the

spectacle of disaster, fire,

decomposition.

We will put an end to

mourning, and replace

tears by sirens screeching

from one continent to another.

Pavilions of intense

joy and widowers

with the sadness of poison.

To lick the penumbra and

float in the big mouth

filled with honey and excrement.

I spread demoralization

wherever I

go, and cast my hand

from heaven to hell,

my eyes from hell to heaven.

One dies as a hero or as an

idiot, which is the same thing.

The only word that is not

ephemeral is the word death.

You probably enjoy life, but

you've got some bad habits.

You're too fond of what you've

been taught to be fond of.

Cemeteries, melancholy,

the tragic lover,

Venetian gondolas.

You shout at the moon.

If you weren't so cowardly,

sinking under the weight of all

those lofty thoughts or

non-existent abstractions

you've been forced into,

all that nonsense dressed up

as dogman, you'd stand up

straight and play the massacre

game, just like we do.

But you're too scared

of no longer believing.

You don't understand that one

can be attached to nothing

and be happy-

We see everything.

We love nothing.

I am against systems.

The most acceptable system is,

in principle, to have none.

Abolition of logic, Dada.

Abolition of memory, Dada.

Abolition of archeology, Dada.

Abolition of the future, Dada.

Dada is still sh*t,

but from now on...

From now on we want to

sh*t in different colors,

to decorate the art zoo with

all of the consular flags.

Dada is neither madness,

nor wisdom, nor irony.

Dada means nothing.

And you are all idiots.

You know, you're all complete

idiots made from the alcohol

of purified sleep.

You're like your hopes, nothing.

Like your paradise, nothing.

Like your idols, nothing.

Like your political

men, nothing.

Like your heroes, nothing.

Like your artists, nothing.

Your religion, nothing.

No more painters.

No more writers.

No more musicians.

No more sculptors.

No more religions.

No more Republicans.

No more royalists.

No more imperialists.

No more anarchists.

No more socialists.

No more Bolsheviks.

No more politicians.

No more proletarians.

No more Democrats.

No more bourgeois.

No more aristocrats.

No more armies.

No more police.

No more fatherlands.

Enough of all

these imbecilities.

No more anything.

No more anything.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Before I come down

there among you,

to tear up your rotten

teeth, your scab-filled ears,

your canker-covered tongues...

Before I rip off your

ugly, incontinent, cheesy

little dick...

Before all of that,

we're gonna have

a great big bath in antiseptic.

And we're warning

you, it's us who

are the murderers of all

your little, newborn babies.

What we need IS

works of art that

are strong, straight,

precise, and forever

beyond understanding.

The best and most

extraordinary artists

will be those who,

every hour, snatch

the tatters of their bodies

out of the frenzies cataract

of life.

Who with bleeding

hands and head,

hold fast to the

intelligence of their time.

To sit in a chair for a single

moment is to risk one's life.

Children, lunch is on the table.

Darlin', lunch is ready.

Thank you, Alice.

Robert, could you

please feed Poppy?

Yes, Mama.

Children, lunch is ready.

Did you brush your hair?

Darlin'?

John?

Where's Daddy?

I don't know.

Well, we'll

just begin without him.

I am for

an art that is political,

erotical, mystical, that

does something other than sit

on its ass in a museum.

I am for an art

that grows up not

knowing if it is art at all.

I am for an art that embroils

itself with the everyday crap

and still comes out on top.

I am for an art that

imitates the human,

that is comic if

necessary, or violent,

or whatever is necessary.

I am for an art...

I am for an art that takes its

form from the lines of life

itself, that twists and extends,

and accumulates and spits,

and drips, and is heavy, and

coarse, and blunt, and sweet

and stupid as life itself.

I am for an art out

of a doggy's mouth

falling five stories

from the roof.

I am for an art that a kid licks

after peeling away the wrapper.

I'm for an art that is

smoked like a cigarette,

smells like a pair of shoes.

I'm for an art that is put on

and taken off like pants, which

develops holes like socks, which

is eaten like a piece of pie,

or abandoned with great

contempt like a piece of sh*t.

I say

to all:
abandon love.

Abandon aestheticism.

Abandon the baggage of wisdom,

for in the new culture,

your wisdom is ridiculous

and insignificant.

Only dull and impotent artists

fail their work with sincerity.

Art requires truth,

not sincerity.

In the

distance shines our tomorrow.

Hurray for the

transparent, the clear.

Hurray for purity.

Hurray and hurray

again for crystal,

for the fluid, the graceful,

the angular, the sparkling,

the flashing, the light.

Hurray for

everlasting architect.

Architecture has to be

cavernous, fiery, smooth, hard,

angular, brutal, round,

delicate, colorful, obscene,

lustful, dreamy,

attracting, repelling,

throbbing, alive or dead.

If cold, then as cold

as a block of ice.

If hot, that as hot

as a blazing wind.

Architecture must blaze.

For the electric chair with..

Blue discharge of

car exhausts scented

with the dynamic

modernity has exactly

the same emotional value

as the beloved talents

of our exquisite modernists.

I mean, man is not a

systematically balanced

clockwork mechanism, is he?

I mean, ideas often

run off the rails.

They never follow on

continuously from one another.

But they're simultaneous,

and, you know, intermittent.

Because logic-

logic is a mistake.

And the right to wholeness

is a monstrous, f***ing joke.

I mean, the whole world is

conducted like a f***ing

amateur f***ing band.

I mean, who raised the

question of sincerity?

Oh yeah.

Just a moment,

ladies and gentlemen,

while we shovel out more coal.

Who of is the most sincere?

Those of us who purify

and crystallize ourselves

through the filter

of personal emotions?

- Leave me be.

- Or what?

All of those artists

whose only concern is

to ingratiate themselves

with the amorphous

crowd and scanty audience.

Audience of f***ing

retrograde, f***ing idiots,

f***ing f***ing art dealers.

My madness

has not been reckoned with.

Truth never occurs

outside our own selves.

Life is but a system,

open to the rains

that fall at intervals.

Things have no conceivable

intrinsic value.

And the poetic parallels only

flourish in an inner dimension.

We seek truth, not in the

reality of appearances,

but in the reality of thought.

We must create.

Man no longer imitates.

He invents.

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