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My art is not mine, otherwise... It would not be art.
I am beautiful, I am a hemorrhoid
I am the succubus and the abortion
I am the disease and the cure, which of these succeeds?
Only time will tell…
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Can we trust time, that surly thief of moments
individuality is the masturbation as denial of self
dada is pregnant with redundancies for which there is no cure that mocks
and no rock that breaths for Dada, the joy of a crippled Goose
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I boom the music and suck on a toilet duck
I want what I cannot leave and spurn what is to do
freedom is an indulgence, pain a comfort
Chaos is my guide, my lover & my saint
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What inventions can limit our expression
what redemption can cleanse the stained
no turning back for the done moment
no burning black the colors of a limited life.
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So we dada boom boom, shake n rang the boozy bell
music is silence and laughter is a crime we commit every day,
like breakfast like defecation, there is no you that is not an us
no we that is not an I and no me that lives longer than the song of a single breath
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The rebel sleeps and dreams,
weeps and gleams
the vacuum cleaner sucks the dreams the rebel leaves
like footprints, like dog crap, like graffiti
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Only a giraffe can see above the cities
only a telescope can feel the distant skies in thought
only bondage can free you
only wounds can heal
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To refute dada is to feed a dog its dog food
to deny dada is to check its pulse
to kick dada is to hear it laugh
to kill dada is to give it birth
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No dada me, I am not me or you
I walk drunk as a dildo in springtime mud
a lurker of idea’s and a stealer of lies
truth and absurdity are sister in times
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I stroke the dada to climax
I suckle the dada breast like electricity needs a plug
humpty dumpty succumbed to gravity
dada will succumb to dada, reluctantly, willingly
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With no denial but the word
with no redemption but the truth
with no freedom but pain
with no voice but the anus singing
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The winking eye of god
the trumpet of sheep and wolves
we sing dada & the television blinks life, flickers,
not once, not twice, but three times again
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For the concept of art is as the form appears,
the spirit wanes the tongue bites sand & the eye hears
we see dada as light and life as darkness
from which no sound springs that is not dada
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Laughter reflects the mind
a drunk dada song
a life where nothing withers
A time without puppeteers string...
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