Manifesto Page #3

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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.

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