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the dada magazine about nothing










up you


















and of

your remember





empty trances












her to
















And the octopi echo translucent show-tune lullabies to dilute their headaches

That beep in strawberry cream flavored farts, making inebriated mouths water

Till crepes scuttle through their dreams in little glass crab-shaped cars












"And then she washed her face..." "Now I fail to see how that alone would ruin your, or anyone's night. In fact I feel that cleanliness, especially in a female is a highly attractive quality... Or habit as it were." "You remember Orwell's description of the prole whore?" "What is that? A book thing? You know my stance on literature, Charles: 'The page is a shackle, a cup which overflows with the propaganda of the bourgeoisie.'" "He describes it as caked on, matted. This was her. She washed her faced and..." "Now performance art. The medium of liberation. The voice of the worker. Genuine art!" "She...transformed. Like, became a different person. And after all that time together, four whole hours. Dancing with an impostor, roaming the streets with this... this..." "Ah, there was more to her than met the eye. And without the makeup? What did she look like?" "Hideous! It was all a disguise! I can't even describe it. Suffice it to say I was fooled." "A ruse."        "Precisely."     "So did ya pork her?"     "What?"     "Did ya poke her?" "Well now. I'm not going to waste all that time and effort with no reward. Am I?" A pause. "I made sure to kick her out right afterwards." "Bravo, sir. Integrity, sir." "Her face, however, is seared into my psyche. Those dull eyes, the thin lips, double chins. Truly a horrendous sight. Such deception." "Truly the greatest con. I feel for you my friend."  "She even had the...tremendous gall to ask for my number." "And your response?" "I said 'You may not have my number. And our number, dear, is 17. To the Italians: diciasette. V-I-X-I. Thus our life together has ended. Au revoir.'" "Charles, you are full of them! And her response?" "The stunned look of an intellectual inferior, naturally."

= = -

It calms you with abrasive colours of autumn. I’m now explaining what colours are associated with autumn. I’m telling you that they are warm and vibrant. Bitter to some, the warm colours associated with near freezing temperatures. Most aren’t used to the leaves turning brown, when the happy woods die down. Not complacent, yet content in settling down. Comfortable with insanity, comfort found in the gun and uniform, not to mention monetary “freedom.” Not many know or understand this, it is new on the scene. How many natural born killers have you met?

“It don’t matta, jus drive,” he said to me with a heavy West African accent. My dispatch computer told me it was 03:55 am; Saturday morning. It had been a disappointing evening. It hadn’t been slow exactly, but the fares had been short distances. Having checked out my cab nearly ten hours before, I would have hoped to have at least paid off my lease. But now, at this point in the evening, nobody was left hailing cabs on the street and the few calls in the system were hours old. I had been about ready to give up for the night when this came in.

Taxi Driver (starring myself rather than Robert De Niro, sorry)

“I can’t very well take you anywhere if you don’t know where you want to go,” I replied, already irritated. “I jus need some head, man. Jus go east on Colfax.” “I have to take you somewhere, man. I’m not just gonna cruise around.” “Here,” he handed me twenty dollars. “Jus start da meter. When it gets to twenty dollahs, I’ll give you anohtha twenty.” A twenty dollar bill and the prospect of more of them made for a very compelling case so I shifted into gear, started the meter, and headed on my directed course.

“So do you want to give me anything more specific than ‘go east’?” “No jus drive man. And slow down if you see a girl.” and then he took a long drink from a twenty-four ounce can of Natural Light. It occurred to me that I was now complicit in the black market sex trade and perhaps there might be something morally reprehensible to this. However, I needed the money. And also, this was kind of interesting. Was I using the need for money to justify my fascination with the illicit sex trade or was I using an academic interest in the margins of society to justify the fact that I too was willing to do just about anything for money? Either way I was able to set aside any reservations I may have had with an unsettling ease

and off we went. It was at about Colfax and Holly that we encountered our first occupied bus bench and my esteemed client accosted me to slow down. Now I had driven past women waiting alone at bus stops at four in the morning scores of times in my tenure as a cabbie, often wondering, ’what is she doing waiting for the 15 at this hour? Could she be one of the prostitutes this neighborhood is reputed to have?’ And I would admonish myself just as quickly. ‘Who the hell do you think you are to just assume that any woman taking the bus home late is out hooking?’ But now here was my chance to find out for sure. “Hey girl,” my new friend shouted as he rolled down the window, “Lemme holla atcha!” I assure that American Ebonics is most amusing when spoken with a Nigerian accent. Somewhat to my surprise the large Negress on the bench was not put off in the least at being hailed by a stranger in a taxi in the middle of the night. She approached the cab with an inconsistent gait and grinned broadly to reveal that of her original teeth there were now only a few hangers on, as it were. “No fuck dis, drive man, drive,” and I did as instructed. We stopped a few more times but rejected our potential suitresses outright. Finally as we approached Peoria street I suggested we give up but my client was adamant in his resolve. “No turn around but drive slow. We gonna find ha.” Before too long, making our way back westward, a secondary objective came to preoccupy the gentleman. “Yo, poolova man, I godda peese.” “Im not sure this is the best place for that,” and I made my way two blocks up to 17th Ave where, iconoclastically, ten thousand square foot mansions stood turning a blind eye to the squalor of east Denver. “Oh fuck man, you had to take me to da Jewish naybahood!” he remarked as he generously sprayed urine on the front yard of one of the more affluent denizens of our humble town. “Actually, this isn’t a Jewish neighborhood. That would be a bit further to the south.” “No man. Dis is da Jewish naybahood. Look at deez houses. Day have all dee money da Jews. Dey control everyting.” So the gentleman I had sold myself to for the hour was not only a whoremonger but an anti-Semite as well.

This was about the time that a more morally upstanding cabbie would have thrown his passenger out but we were up to sixty dollars on the meter and I needed the money. Also, it wasn’t every day that ran into such an obnoxious character and I was curious as to what he would say next. Was I justifying my curiosity with my need for money or using the inquisitiveness that I had towards my subject to assuage whatever guilt that would come with the next twenty? No matter. I suppose all of us are bought and sold to some degree. Yes, I might have to repeat that to myself as I try to fall asleep but I will have been up for so long that I’m sure I’ll be in the throes of slumber without any effort at all. once again we trekked eastward and this time with better fortune. “Slow down, slow down,” he beseeched me. This one, by any reasonable person’s standards was actually attractive, however she was accompanied and hence my patron demonstrated the appropriate degree of tact.

“Hey man, lemme holla atcha girl.” The gentleman in question responded with nothing more than a nod in the direction of his girl and she sidled up to my cab. “Wassup girl? Wachoo doin, you hangin out?” was my client’s attempt at a debonair come on. “I dunno. You got any crack?” was her most candid reply. Here was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and was wasting no time with pleasantries. She made a valid point I suppose. Why trade sex for money to trade for crack if you could just trade sex for crack? Unfortunately for my friend he was unbeholden of any crack. “Fuck dis. Drive man, drive.” He had now given me four twenty dollar bills and was up to seventy-five dollars on the meter and I was gently suggesting that perhaps we were chasing a red herring. But his resolve held steadfast. We made our way back westward for the second time as I proposed that an escort service might be cheaper when once again I was ordered to slow down. A hefty Negress was ambulating across the street.

After dropping our interloper off at an apartment complex on 13th my accomplice finally despaired. “Alright, fuck dis man. Jus take me home.” The night had been a success for me finally. My lease was paid and as we made our way westerly I could begin to see the foothills of the Rocky Mountains begin to be illuminated by the coming dawn and wondered to myself why a whoremonger with such fussy standards would choose to cruise the streets for two-fifty a mile when so many escort services abounded the back pages of the local newspapers when suddenly I heard, “Wait man, poolova.” We were back once again at our first bus stop at Colfax and Holly and there stood a not altogether unattractive Hispanic woman. “Wachoo doin girl, you hangin out?” “Maybe.” “I jus need some head. How much?” Our lady of the night heaved a sigh and glanced about as if bored and searching for something remotely more interesting. “Seventy.” “Alright, get in.”

By the time we got back to Colfax and Madison my client had run up ninety-six dollars on the meter and let me keep the four dollars as a tip. The clouds over Aurora had taken on the perfect combination of rose and lavender as I dropped the couple off, all of us winners in our own morbid way I suppose.

“Hey girl, lemme holla atcha. Wachoo doin? You hangin out?” “Okay,” she responded and it appeared she may have not been able to articulate much further than that. “Well, get in,” he instructed and she stumbled towards the cab. “So where am I going now?” I inquired. “Jus drive man,” and he turned to his consort, “So how much?” “What?” “I said, how much?” “What?” “I jus need some head. How much?” “Oooooh…. I don’t do that,” she finally managed to slur. “Bitch what? Get da fuck oudda da cah!” Now for some reason I had finally reached the point where I felt I had to intervene and interjected, saying that we at least had to see the poor girl home.

Are you cold Mister President, I know the sun isn't as warm as it once was. no I'm fine, I used the tanning bed this morning, I haven't been sleeping, as I should be, responded the President, suddenly relaxed, light even, as he watched the sun dart between clouds and hover over the immaculate White House lawn, everything is fine wouldn't you say? His aide smiled like a dog, and nodded, though in his head, the safety of his thoughts and feelings he said to himself, well, no, everything isn't fine, the world is burning, I work too much, people are starving, egregious lies are being tossed around as if they were air, the entire planet is going, step by painstaking step, into the looney bin, of course he didn't say this, he was, after all, a prudent man. Do you want coffee sir. the President shook his head, as his aide was leaving, crossing the precipice of the door ( which Henry Kissinger once described as a rose-covered abyss ) he could barely hear a mumble which he made out as no, i'm trying to watch my blood pressure, or maybe it was just no, or nothing and the aide was sleep deprived. The President paced around the room in a frantic motion, picking up files without reading them, putting them back and then once again standing in an unbreakable serenity, as if he were waiting ( but for what?). Even before his Vice President had entered the Oval Office he heard him shouting cocksucker at a maid, he smiled to himself, Joe's always so wound up, I wonder how his heart takes it thought the president, who, while not a fitness freak worked out fairly regularly , while as biden never touched a treadmil in his entire life. hi joe, how are we this morning? asked the President not really paying attention , instead playing with a ulysses S. Grant Civil War gun that was used as a paperwieght. uppity liberals, the teachers union, everybody, that fucking robot Romney have you seen the job numbers, we're fucked, Joe sat down and buried his head in his large hands, mumbling incoherently, for a moment Obama thought he was crying, the idea of it disturbed him greatly, though he couldn't really say why, perhaps it was how much he cared, or maybe, more likely, he thought later, it was the weakness of that act, and in the most venerated room in the world no less! How did you know he was a robot asked the President, his voice soft and caring in a way that made Biden think of his mother, What the fuck are you talking about? Romney, answered the President who still hadn't turned around, how did you know he was a robot, a, what do you call it, a manchurian canidate or whatever. Christ Obama, half the country knows it, actually the entire country knows it, but most people just don't want to believe it. Well, I suppose they would have found out sooner or later, do you miss Delaware? For reasons that were unknown to the Vice President (reasons that would torture him later, keeping him up at night, he paced around his house until three or four, or when his wife told him for the thousandth time that his insomnia was reason enough for a divorce, not to mention his latent homosexuality and love teenage boys ( you are a fucking serial killer in the body of a fucking moron Joe, and thank God for that shouted his wife, to which he calmy slapped her and then forced himself onto her, until a boredom twinged with a slight remorse ( that desperate rage, as if he were in a last ditch fight for his life. No, that state is shithole and the people are fucking morons, less than rats, but perhaps that’s just the American people for you. Why? no reason, sometimes, not often but sometimes, I miss Chicago, or Rahm, more so, his blowjobs more or less. Sir? said Joe. Obama then pulled off his skin revealing to the Vice President ( he for the first time was facing him) a large lizard. joe got onto his knees and began stroking the green dick of the reptile and chief. An aide swore he heard muffled sobs coming from the oval office, a shudder ran through him like an icepack, but he silently chuckled to himself, thinking about Jesus truth and grains which from far away ( say, outer space) looked like an enormous desert being swallowed by a gaping mouth, or an eye.

“Spectators do not find what they desire; they desire what they find"

He noticed, though I only noticed after he noticed that I had let my hair down. I noticed that he had put his hair up. I had just gotten off work (serving dishes to customers) and sitting on the rooftop watching sunset called for a change from the work uniform but I still wore black work pants. (I recently was forced into joining local union #000000, as a rule union members have choosen to only wear black pants to work.) I wonder, if he’d put his hair back down if I put mine back up? A plan was forming. His sunglasses, probably one of the many in his collection, a pair for each sunny day here, averaging about 71, and clumped more towards the summer months, hid any expression he might have had. They reflected only an image of myself, staring into his eyes but only staring into mine. So I put the hair up, tied it in the same fashion as his, using his glasses as a mirror, and waited, blending back into the conversations. After some time, the hair went down. Now here is a delicate example of choice, my sphere of influence has grown a new dimension. It was a duel, a fighting game at the arcade, without touching, without talking, with outdiverting attention, a proxy war of complete passive attacks on ideas of uniquity. The soldiers in this Army wear black pants, with cargo pockets, placing C4 on steel beams to destroy the glass towers that see the last light of day, shattering to snowflakes, still only variations of the same structure. In the asymmetric rubble a piece of propaganda is playing on the CRtube, simple and effective.

The man in the video was content. He seemed malcontent, you wouldn't know it through his Gucci sunglasses. He should have got Aviators by Ray-Ban, that's a company born into greatness. McArthur, Ray-Ban's first spokesman, wore them while bathing his toe in the Leyte Gulf screaming his famous words, "Get these Japo scum off my fuckin' island!" Ray-Ban has gone through war, so they know a thing or two about industry and distribution. Brought to you by the same poeple that brought you Persol model 714 as seen on Steve McQueen, they fold up, transform to pocket size. Or the Ray-ban Caravan, Robert De niro wears a pair to accompany his mohawk, and thusly completing his own transformation. I should say: "begin by seizing something which your opponent holds dear; then he will be amenable to your will." And Man did they attack his beloved uniquity. Like they attacked Che, holding his decapitated head on a fine cotton t-shirt, selling the prints and creating a gross demand for it, something that the capitalists could supply endlessly. They built an autopress powered by Timothy Leary's medulla oblongata and the dreadlocks of 300 or so hippies. I have seen the many youths of many towns and in their faces are blank slates, humans with televised memories, impressionable, ready to be sculpted into: doctors, firemen, cops, prostitutes, prisoners, scientists, generals, pilots, eyeware designers, secretaries, teachers, rockstars, actors, service dogs, degenerates, drunks, servers, etc.

"If you could choose a cigarette that suited you, at a price that suited you, the chances are you would end up smoking Senior Service Extra."

You're always a cop or a medicine man, whereever you go, whatever else you may do, you're always a medicine man. You could stretch out your arms on the white sands of Thailand and you’re still a medicine man, you could hobble through the windy markets of Anarka and you're still the possessor of a thousand spirits, Lagos, Johannesburg, New Delhi, Akra, Daka, even London, Berlin, New York, Paris- you can't shake the title bestowed upon you by the spirits, my father told me this before he passed, becoming a medicine man in the hereafter. I, of course, am the owner of this title, the British have come in our time, and they have left in our time, I even in slavery, we still existed, scouring the earth, not for minerals or roots, but for the fossils of the kingdom that exists under us. I could start at the beginning, at how the years have warped my mind, how my brain is rot and blood, leaked cranium and a million dead ghosts screaming from that reservoir that I have betrayed them, sent them to a place of infinite whiteness, clapboard houses devoid of a sense of relief, the ground saturated in the red dust of dried bones.I haven't done anything all my life but live with the burden of magik, if the world wants me tone, I take the world with me. Yes, I could start at the beginning, but this would be too easy, so instead, I'll begin with the mania that birthed me, the stilted half heart herhen ritual, touching the heads of cows (to wish them, not their owners, long life!) To aid the feeble and the dumb as they cross and uncross themselves, before turning to deities that have betrayed them, the British are greater than any god if you ask me. I was five, awoken to loud thumps under our Okra tree, the sky was a misty purple song. It was days after the British had given power to their most servile hand maidens, this is Africa, afterall, and the person in the office of the president, his ministers and wealthy friends are just the head of the snake, controlling the lungs and the stomach, some peevish oxford grad from the home office, loosening then tightening his neck tie, out of the nervous heat of scandal (the british have come into the lucidly now, there is no scandal in Africa). My mother lay in a slump, under the okra tree, loose ribbons tied to her waist of purple heat and gold strings, her head tucked downwards. My mother raised her cane passed through the centuries, and beat her, the thumps becoming quieter and quieter as they paradoxically become harder and harder. Come my boy, I want to show you a human soul, and thus he reached into her battered open face, digging with the quiet fingers of a surgeon until he pulled out a silver swan, about an inch and a half in size, he slowly ripped it in half and then swallowed it. My mother wasn't even buried, her rotting corpse a smell of burned skin and wild dog food, still etched like a map in my brain.

This was my blessing, to take from this Earth what is pure and then destroy it, to, in essence, give us our cruel humanity, this is what all medicine men in the savanna must do. it was our curse that led to the British, to famine and war, to children soldiers and mass fields of bones and rape. We do this so the world may turn, Africa (the whole wasted continent, is a christlike landmass, and I pray it always will be) These business men are no better than the kings from centuries past, they all want the same thing, a blessing, but more than a blessing they want to assure their power, they want to see cruelty in the service of vast and meaningless superstition, and in this way, they are high priests, and I nothing but an abbott. There was a mining town 30 kilometers south of my family home (a lonely abyss of dung and straw, the okra tree feeding from the dried skin of my mother, the peeled hair, ripped as it was by the gulls of the desert, the bones being dragged to the bush by the hyenas) and the British consulate asked me to bless it, a request I was only to happy to oblidge. I quickly dragged the old supplies from the closet, from under the bed, things that seem meaningless, branches, animal hearts, my father’s cane. Then i set out in the opposite direction, toward the orphanage. This continent was built by ravaged men, by weak beings, who seized smiling, only those that are relentlessly pulled into light life, as if a magnet hung from the inverse carpet of the sky, can be turned to the soil, can bless it. The children of the Holy Names Orphanage (patrons of the Catholic Church) are futureless, and perhaps, because of this, are happy, by that I mean they have a natural longing for laughter, they dream of the world as if it were a sea, their parents are gone, and yet they are braver than sailors. they’re almost poets, in this way. I am like a myth, I am everywhere, in all corners of the world, and yet I am no-one, an old man with a stooped back and no teeth. I delight the children because of their innocence, pouring sweets from my hands as if they were rivers, one by one, under the watchful eyes of the nuns, I bring them to the back room ripping with the last of my strength, their hearts, which I place in a portable cooler (a gift from my current employers, dancing till I am nearly exhausted, I gather my hearts, depleting the orphanage, to make room for the next generation of abandoned children). This is the only wy to build a nation, by destroying its innocence, by the murder of children, for this is the only way we can create the future.

= = -

with regard to the bombing. You're so goddamned concerned about civilians and I don't give a damn. I don't care.

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Nada1 08 Fuckin' Decepticons!  

just can't fuckin' trust 'em

Nada1 08 Fuckin' Decepticons!  

just can't fuckin' trust 'em