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the dada magazine about nothing

N A D A


it occurs to me that you must think I’m stupid, otherwise you wouldn’t send me this. Seriously, How the fuck did you get a degree in creative writing? There are illiterates that write better prose than yours. ICUH8N (what the fuck), Why would you just plug your band? Did you think I would print that, Why just put in illegible symbols? I really want to know, what were you thinking? It’s a fucking to-do list, That isn’t a story about nothing- just a story about a douchebag. "move stuff out with dad and have dinner with him" ahh, fuck dude, it’s like there’s a subtle hint that the character’s parents are splitting. Sounds like the lamest subtext to a story about a mopey white kid ever. Which leads me to the crux of the problem:

"I am using an iphone" Jesus fucking Christ, it almost excludes even the most dark and ironic humors. It was this line that helped me to realize that you really are dumb; because otherwise, if you had even some sembelance of rational thought you would not write that. It makes you sound like a rich white asshole who feels entitled (to apparently, musical- and perphaps in what you could call a post-modernist lit way- literary success- because what your story is about is you ( the author himself) which is why ( as I read more and more) I think you’re an asshole) Don’t talk about politics, make that a rule. Possibly the greatest and effective criticism of the occupy movement in general, and one, which, I happen to agree with, is that it consistently settled on the most pathetic demands of a few rich white kids, which is what getting your music stolen by some street kids is. A lame excuse to complainespecially to those that could really only laugh, at you, I mean, at your pain, as if you were a dog. “i know that the weed and the drink prohibit me from achieving the success that i deserve.” It’s not that you write about yourself, all writers do that. Or that you clearly don’t know yourself that well, plenty don’t ( do I? i don’t know? but I doubt it). Its that you just use art to peddle the lamest commodity that i could think of - the one that is like an enormous pillar that you must walk with, through the CD, over lake washington, back to the abyss of Mercer island - yourself ( i only hope that you learn how to read or learn how to die). You’re a fucking jerk.


= = -


Bob Arkvin doesn't let you pee, because it doesn't fit his party line, I don't walk forwards anymore, only sideways, crabwalking onto the edges of the earth and peering off, then slithering back into the middle, you see this planet is only in its first stanza, of the great epic poem it's going to be, live out, for eternity, but already I'm bored, how about you? doesn't fit your party line either? And why shouldn't it, we're only aksing for murder, for sticky fingers to pierce your temple, for you to be our dog- when you cower I get that tingling sensation, like my ears aren't waterlogged after a decade of having been so. There isn't really a line that divides the central district from any other neighborhood, just its thin ugly plateau, curved streets and old worn-down houses- sometimes abandoned sometimes left open, only boards closing the eyes of the buildings, as the sun sets on the central district, day after day, as I walk back to my home, everything is light, all I can smell is stale piss, then I forget that I'm not allowed to pee (those are reserved for mondays and thursdays- You mustn't overindulge in urination, comrade!) I like to think of the people of the central district as scales, lined up in the chinks of armour long disregard, all parts of the whole, comrade. Our bodies create their own wage relation with bodily fluids, think about it, the honourable Elijah Muhammad told me that after he bought me. (see he liked to buy young boys to jerk him off) Elijah never pees, he also insists you call him Honourable, that's all, none of that Muhammad shit. Mohammed was a prophet, but he still peed, Jesus and Elijah, never, not one day in their life did they ever pee. They really are living gods, men without equal, which is why jerking off Elijah Muhammad wasn't so bad, except for, perhaps, the smell, that was truly awful. Like catfish and bear shit. The honourable Elijah Muhammad likes it when you put a finger in his asshole as you slowly massage the shaft of his cock (counter clockwise in slow repetitive motions-his honour doesn't like that fancy shit) sometimes, when he cums (from the lack of peeing)it's just blood and maybe a little bit of semen- he's basically sterile- then he shouts, looking pretty red there comrade- then we all laugh, except Elijah, of course, he never laughs. One day, when I turned fifteen, too old for Elijah, he made me lick his boots for three days, without ever stopping, then he said for God I should never stop looking, for people who are pure I should never stop licking thier boots, it's the only way to succeed, then, like an elephant, the Honourable Elijah Muhammad sauntered off into the prarries of Oklahoma and died under an oak tree. When they found his stiff body in the early light of a January morning (crisp and clear, the placid sick grains withered and golden like an old and fabulous wonder, that had shifted under the grate of the earth) he had his balled fist up his ass- his dick was hard as a rock, the ground was saturated with piss, it spread over three counties.


Then I found Hegel, a man whose piss is like a clear moonlit night, surrounding us, The piss of the poor is the purest drink I have ever had. See I may be the petit bourgeoisie, the big gaping hole in the room (sucking out all the air, until everybody's suffocating- with that burning question) Who is this asshole? I'm always present, under the shadow and between the slathered concrete holding the bricks together, I ooze all over this city of swine. Surveying the lands of the poor before dry humping the sidewalk back to belltown. I got books in the closet and the broomstick always at the ready- to sweep away all the evil in this world, its foul stench and closed hands, because in truth, if you won’t deal with it, then I will. It's simple, really, take that evil and stuff it all away, take that burning feeling over your cunt and cock and then hold the seal in place, never let evil leave your body, (or enter, for that matter). Yeah, I've licked my fair share of boots, in fact, I've run the gauntlet for the social justice movement- they've stuck through noses and eyes and toes in every crevice of my body, I wandered up the great hill of intolerance, numbness, and wide-eyed innocence, and I've shed them all, I feel the pangs of power and it fills me- body and soul like my body is on fire- it steers the path. My fate, my body yearning, as I double over and pass out, I've drunk too much coffee comrade. But soon it will be Thursday, let the purge begin, comrade.


Dave Grohl Doesn’t go shopping at Wal-mart He emancipates the cadavers of all the unpaid Immigrants buried in cash registers And whirly racks Waiting for their rock messiah To part the rivers and aisles of Zombies With half dead eyes Mumbling about discounts On hot pockets And generic batteries Later to sit on couches Unguilted about a slave-trade They gobble in the name Of Savings. Dave Grohl Doesn’t go swimming at Meadowbrook He cleanses the chlorine Of baby pee and jacket smells Until it’s a fountain of Youth imparting Lyrics and riffs To all attentive swimmers With proper hairstyles. Dave Grohl Doesn’t drink beer He drinks juices of the earth With superfood value Intoxicated off the mere Existence of the juice, His face, A mug.

Dave Grohl Doesn’t host parties He frequents towns Crowding characters And edibles and boogeytimes Just by lounging On the bench By the bus tunnel That closed down. Dave Grohl Is not looking for attention Nonetheless he is Your hip laughing T-shirt, Grohlpedia of endless drum jokes The high five of so many With nothing real in common But a name Like Steven Seagal Or Chuck Norris You know, I know, We all know Dave Grohl Only wants The best, the best, The best, the best Of you.


It’s not that he’s pretentious. Or his words are over students’ heads. It is the way his voice dips and peaks Pair----Uhh----Fir---Knee--Leah. From tenor low to high bell Words exceeding three syllables Sound like questions, Questions he doesn’t know Well enough to answer or leave alone. During his chapters and footnotes Rambling and coffee-sweated hand gestures The class sleeps, Tweets, Reassigns lesson plans that would Be more relevant Digitized. He makes a paleontology joke Referencing age And extinction. One guy laughs, Holding his belly He gets the situation. And while bright-brained Girls in their late teens Love the fact that Professor “Doesn’t Realize” He is so intrinsically aware, Involved in thought and Process that he is back Full circling disconnections From reality in his under-skin Dinosaur cave. And it is this fact, His dinosaur-like Strangeness Oldness Mythic speech That causes Students to photoshop his Face on Usher’s abs Virally spreading Secret love and misunderstanding Towards a man Who memorizes National Geographic Articles to impress his Ex-wife In voicemails he leaves weekly.


the word has gotten out about this dive bar. not in a taking-backback-the-blue-collar hipster way, but in a suddenly-this-dive-baris-crowded-with-people-who-forgot-they-existed kind of way. it’s the meeting place for all the purgatorial social circles that everyone, including the milquetoast members of said groups, refuse to acknowledge for fear of the bottomless pit of self-deprecation it will evoke. the restaurant seating in the front of the establishment is always empty except for one or two people standing between chairs left askew. they look vacantly at the wall, cell phone to ear, frozen, in a deserted room that is doing nothing. the bouncer doesn't exist. i think i looked at him as he looked past my i.d. at his own hand. i can’t remember now. the smokers outside don't exist. their smoke has no smell, produces no reaction from the non-smokers whose drunkenness in any other circumstance would remind them that they really should pick up smoking. i feel weakly irritated by this bar. it’s not terrible enough to be so crowded. the old drunks aren't sad enough, the burly men aren't angry enough, the chicks aren't sloppy enough. the bar wraps around the center of the next room. it's padded like the side of a boat. it feels like the deserted fascist architecture forgotten here and there around europe. the bloated crescent is surrounded by booths occupied by parties of northface jackets and empty purses. the bartenders, old ladies wearing dangly earrings and colorful scrunchies, wear placid scowls. it's a lukewarm, complacent saltiness. all the drinks are brown. if i go to the bathroom and cry maybe you’ll text me something cute about how much you miss me. it is karaoke night. the crowd goes ballistic when they hear the first bars of "love shack.” i scream in rage but it disappears behind the bowling ball of sound spewing from a mess of three girls with low self-esteem and a low end, heavily abused a/v set up coming to you from Y2K. a middle-aged drunk man ignores me. i want to fight him. a group of young professionals are in costume. There is no apparent theme linking the man in a mullet wig and gold windbreaker with the blonde bob desperately sucking in her exposed toneless midriff. the midriff moves erratically, churning sexy into paper pulp bile. She's attempting a "sexy nerd" costume. Sexy nerds don't exist. nothing exists, except the white college twenty somethings' flawless rendition of "return of the mack." that is very real, and it's coming to get you. something makes me attempt to sing a song. it’s for me i think. who cares if these cattle don’t appreciate blondie. i don’t even see the karaoke host. i’m starting to think there has been some kind of coup. this is anarchy! i wait for the biggest asshole in the place to take my scowl as an invitation to flirt with me. he sees me through the crowd. he is beside himself. his cartoon gestures drip drip drip to the ground along with who-knows-what-else. he’s yelling in my ear. you’re so beautiful he says but why did you do that to your hair? i stare. seriously, you have a pretty face, i’m telling the truth. i stare. but your hair... why??


i’m sorry, i’m just really having a hard time right now. i really shouldn’t be putting all of this on you. i’m so sorry please forgive me i’m usually not this crazy it’s just been hard lately. really, don’t worry about me, this happens sometimes i’m used to it. i’m just at this party and i’m really drunk and i think someone is trying to date rape me. lol.

i know now that i am miserable because there are no pictures of me on the internet looking happy.

i can guess which of your facebook friends you’ve had sex with. i can tell because i look at their pages three times a day, and i can tell you had sex with them.

your shirt is boring and stupid.

your white shoes look ridiculous.

you look like a total. fucking. douchebag.

2) i will take that unsolicited feedback as an invitation to comment on your appearance now:

1) i don’t give a fuck if you think i have a pretty face.


Now we wander the shops and alleyways side by side your ghost and I chloroform to my existence a memory as precious now as spoiled milk rotten meat bursting at the seams and spilling its foul nostalgia all across this wretched place

Never did get it Revisiting the idea from different angles perceptions nothing changing regurgitateannihilatemedicatedilatemasturbate you screamed only to be heard by smoky wet-eyed sympathy tonguing your neurosis Do you remember the night a curtain of noise parted above us and our moon was low and swollen in the summer sky We took in its presence and prepared for the worst

Oh bondage I am still unimpressed Would you like to learn how to play chess? you asked me inferior dollface virgin to your scum and cheats and obsidian arms Howl while you rolled one-handed your eye fixed on a certain unattainable goal nauseous anarchy red expensive basement backyard beard scratchy night field grass rail cryptic short dress cross eye overdose glamourous You didn’t have to do that

Look you said to me once and pointed a pointless finger Pointing out nothing in particular going out of your way to do so making me feel stupid as I tripped over your words and spilled things on your shoe laces


they've come to the restaurant again on a rainy day they know it's empty and I think they're right

cackling european families scheming to build old thrones tight-knit friends sitting back to back they don't like others seeing their food

the land of cannibals tucked away beneath deadbolts behind blank faces and the uncontrollable mind

listen to the rain that trembles the concrete seeping into the valleys that wash the land

they sip the salad as quiet as before

the grey cloud that lingers showers spores of corrosion I'm through with this window and I'm done looking at you

your heart is made of mold, you cough it up it eats from the inside

they sip the soup

corner seat for two by the window overlooking the street enjoy your view of the weather it's quite nice this time of year the space heater is right behind you so don't put anything flammable next to it

squinting eyes as dust plays disonant chords on black eye lashes

the rain has turned to snow and the snow to sand now the east wind whistles and grinds the faces off our delightful characters it drills into the bare skulls and shriveled truths hidden in festering brains

a healthy tip buttoned coats and out the door

a mirrored reply relatively nothing

this salmon is fantastic he will say the chicken is excellent she replies

main course has arrived


Jorge and Alberto stood shoulder blade to shoulder blade in the grey half light of their jail cell. their breathing was distilled and relaxed, both stared fixedly into the wall, at an unknown and desirous pockmark, left buried until they had come to uncover its secret treasure. i don't know mano, the stone is a period, not an asterisk, just mice on the mill, no more, no less. jorge wheezed as he spoke, doubling over on his knees and bracing them, as if they were all that held up the world, he perked his eyes toward the ceiling, they were the color of sand (as if Jorge were an endless desert, Alberto had once thought, unable to sleep). Jorge continued on, his tone dropping a register and his spanish becoming halted, adding a strange foreign quality to his voice - which normally sounded like the yelping of a runt cattle dog - maybe we are evil, and this house of stone, just god's hand, tossing the mountain at us, as if the heavy chunks were birds. A tear rolled down Alberto’s cheek and he laid his tongue out, pushing it around the crumbling front line of his gums (the jail hadn't even heard of dental care, as far as the occasional judical reform documents were concerned) tasting the salt. It reminded Alberto of the ocean, which he had never seen, of love, which, before Jorge, he had never known. “Jorge,� came his dove-like voice, kiss my cheeks, like an inlet, leading to the sea. Jorge was unmoved, wheezing while he advanced and retracted his arm between the shadow and the light, Alberto did not notice him clenching fist, extending it, or connecting it to Alberto's jawline. He fell on his back and jorge, as if moving within lightning straddled him, licking his cheeks, his nose, even his hair. Neither said a word, either in protest or enthusiasm. A coo, a whimper, a wheeze snaking through the corridors of steel and stone, waking some with the seldom grunt or bellicose cry, while others slept unaware or indifferent. This was a common occurence, several times a week Jorge and Alberto would make love. At first there were moans among the sighs crying, now, as their assholes became laxed, used to being entered, the thrusts of either Alberto or Jorge (they took turns, sometimes one would be bottom sometimes the other, a silent game of chance, of flipping the coin - something that they shared, neither burden or privilege) became more even, less an exorcism of demons and more a game, as sex often is. They had learned one another's rhythm- as lovers always do (or nearly, anyways)


When Jorge spit on his cock and slid it into alberto, neither even bothered to close their eyes. It occurred to Alberto with a simple dull, and oddly sweet pain, that the two had drifted apart in the last two months. the sex was a short, almost brutal affair, like a small war, there were no skirmishes, and this was the only battle, the final locking of arms and bellies and tongues between two titans. both lay sheltering the other in his arms, wide awake somehow feeling disappointed, they stared into the blackness that enclosed them. Jorge lit a cigarette and lifted up Alberto’s arm that was draped over him. It's like I feel I'm crumbling from the inside out, Mano, like I have a form of spiritual aids or something. Alberto was scanning his lover's face, the grim small jaw and wide spaced square eyes, how? why? when? Alberto couldn't understand how Jorge had switched to a stranger, only minutes ago, this was the man he loved, and now, he was just some blathering queer - it was as if the union of organs between them had ruptured. Alberto pulled a shiv from under his pillow and slowly, deliberately, walked toward Jorge and stabbed him in the side. The wound wasn’t fatal. Suck my cock mano, jorge looked fearfully at Alberto, surprised by this violence, the two had, on several occasions, beaten one another to an inch within his life, but there were never knives involved. he felt a deep pain and at the moment wouldn't have minded dying, still, he put Alberto's crooked dick in his mouth, sucking it almost sleeping, he fell back into consciousness only when Alberto’s sperm ran down the back of his throat. jorge wheezed and was on his knees. He felt like he was choking, that an explosion had occured in his heart, but instead of feeling dead, on the contrary, for the first time in his life, he felt among the living. There was cum around his mouth. he pulled out some cigarettes and lit all them, smoking and tossing them purposely on the papers in the corner and the books stacked neatly by Alberto's bunk. To both of their deep, well like, excitement, the flames began to catch. Mano, it's like we’re free, Alberto just nodded and slid closer to Jorge, both had tears rolling down their faces, faces of men who are in love. As the prison burned down, they held hands and watched the fire consume them.


The only time I get goose bumps is while watching someone read the last page of a Nada Magazine. But my hairs only stand on end if there is a look of disgust or revolt on the reader’s face. Then I can hear two weeks of synapse expansion getting dumped down the spinal column. The goose bumps let me know that the human race is doomed. The screen clicks back on and a few cat hairs dance on the static glass, as another network of Charlie Brown’s parents hypnotize the nation with comedic rehashings that were stolen from homeless winos of the 1930s. At least this stacks the odds in favor of the thinker. Less competition, less jerks.


â—Š ICUH8N â—Š books++++ work on both sets+++++ sample love in this club and make cover++++ craigslist emails++++ see if sonne wants dresser and desk ~*

~* -

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make cdrs for show books+++ daniel+++

d ca o m ll e me a f a avo je r rk on e

write more story++++ post show on Facebook and twitter text with mom spray paint cds++++ tag them pay rent+++++ go to bank deposit money+++++ haircut+++++

mo re

move stuff out with dad and have dinner with him

I am using an iphone the weapon of the occupy tweet this location the 99% can use the tools of the 1% the 1% has seen this and is now trying to silence the internet with censorship this album is a triumph over the forces that resist the people who stole my music gear containing this album and 50 other cheery songs we can never hear again campers at the occupy camp positive vibes i almost gave up on music there are a select few with in the movement who are ruining it for the rest by using the occupy name to mask their destructive behavior. the occupy movement wants to separate itself from the oakland movement because of recent violence. THE SUPER BOWL instead of looking at the internet so much i should be doing something creative. twitter is not creative. twitter is a mind suck. i look at the incoming tweets and wonder how i gain more followers. this is what i do instead of living a real life. instead of taking a walk around the neighborhood and spray painting graffiti or making an electronic beat with a midi drum processor. instead of doing something that is real. trying on a mother fucking type writer. it increases when you are unemployed. the more free time you have, the more attractive looking at a computer screen with the tv blaring behind it becomes. our eyes are receptors for a million mega pixels. i know that the weed and the drink prohibit me from achieving the success that i deserve. i am a hard worker that can learn any task if i have the dedication. no one has given me the opportunity to access the internal drive i harness. the will to make my millions lays dormant deep inside.


= = -


your strength exhausted and your treasure spent


nadadadamagazine.blogspot @gmail


kreJ a er’uoY

© 2012 draoB lairotidE adaN 4# 1SN devreseR sthgiR llA

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