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the dada magazine about nothing



"Truly realistic and revolutionary art and literature show the people the most beautiful and most noble things of human life".

-tristan tzara

“Dada is a dog a compass the lining of the stomach neither new nor a nude Japanese girl a gasometer of jangled feelings Dada is brutal and doesn't go in for propaganda Dada is a quantity of life in transparent, effortless and gyratory transformation�.

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Between glass and the illusory carpets- thumbs pulling back curtains of skin- our hearts are beating pulsating rib cage bone (meatless) under streetlights hailing taxis at mercy too the wind ( of bologna and processed cheese blowing up a gale on 3rd Ave) Between gestures and wordless songs sung with sand, our tongue rattles the cage or under cement loathes the unbearable stretching of nostrils by the pampered and rose wood larks, plain and simple, it is art by numbers. We are uncovering ourselves, screws loose and all, opening the canopy, we are breathing true form in union of zipper lips and purple eyes that gush at criminality ignorance and blindness; within ourselves armies raised from Napoleonic times waits to plunge us ( ourselves!) into the dark threshold of knowing and borders. We grasp too the light of this absurdly cruel concrete world, holding onto each other, we declare ourselves neither living nor dead, reborn as swallows, we create truth one lie at a time.

1914, Bosnia, in a swirl of unforseen events, a member of the serbian terrorist group, the black hand, assasinated the Austro-Hungarian Duke, Franz Ferdinand. Gavrilo Princip, the assasin, whose name fades to the point of denial. In a matter of 1 month 5 countries were commited to war (with their own alterior motives) other prospective nations wait on the sidelines to join the bash. This is the back-ass-ward-ness of the most advance piece of european diplomacy. One man dies and he's taking everyone down with him. The struggle would last 4 years, and consume nearly 40,000,000 lives (KIA,WIA, and MIA). In the wake of the September 11th demolition of the twin towers, by Islamo-madman Osama Bin Laden, George W. Bush lauches the War on Terror, and so troops made their way to the asshole of the earth, no vietnam was closed, nice and tight, and the US wasn’t going to blindly poke and prode until they knew what they were going to fuck, This was Afghanistan and they’d been here once before. 3 months in, American Airpower blows the face off the mountain Tora Bora, bin Laden escapes in the dust, and Bush remarks "I don't know where bin Laden is. I have no idea and really don't care. It's not that important. It's not our priority." Troops would stay in Afghanistan A war in Iraq would erupt A change in the US presidency A new commander for US troops in Afghanistan 10 years have passed, and after an extensive search, bin Laden is reported to have retired to his villa in Pakistan. President Osama.... (excuse me Archie Bunker’s ghost became me for a second), President Barrack OBAma made good on this decree "We will kill bin Laden. We will crush alQaeda. That has to be our biggest national security priority."

I can only imagine the debriefing to SEAL team 6, "execute with extreme prejudice" the civilian man says to Captain Willard before he embarked into the jungles of Vietnam, to travel into the face of terror. "Apocalypse Now!" screams a crusader dying a pool of dismembered bodies, the distinctive smell of shit lingers in the air. And so SEAL team 6 would ride in, helimobile style, Wagner a roaring, hopped up on PCP (Pre-Combat Prejudice). The battle of their dreams is just moments away. each one replaying the dream in their heads, of how it would all happen, as the helicopter whirls forward. As the helicopter hovers the Pakistani villa, the SEALs (and one combat dog) fast rope down, a team on the roof and a team on the ground. one over zealous copter pilot, circles around before crashing the $60,000,000 piece of hardware into the villa wall. It wasn’t napalm, but it still smelled like victory. The SEALs inside shot, killed, exploded everything in sight, bullets penatrating skin, crumbling bones, and shitting blood upon the walls (still humming Ride of the Valkyries), even the dog got in a couple bites (he too humms, rufrufruf ruff ruff, rufrufruf ruff ruff). Obama and his cabinet watch the events from the safety of homeland (it’s not Downton Abbey, but it will do), it’s televised by an unmanned drone. With the majority of the occupates out of commission the Seals move up to the boss level. But of course, you must first fight the minibosses, the wives I mean, A shot in the leg is really all it took, that and a shoving. There now was nothing between a smoking barrel and Osama’s open body. And here it is an afternoon in Sarajevo. A man stares down the sight of his gun and discharges it. How many more would die in the future?

There was only one CIA agent that Osama Bin Laden could look back too with any fondness. His name was Blakely, a catholic and a Montana boy, a film buff who spoke fluent Arabic and Pashtun. In a way that struck Bin Laden as both terrifying and absurd , indicative of God’s unbreakable power, at any rate, Blakely would prove instrumental too Bin Laden’s Destiny. Reagan may had beat off several times to the wild majestic spectacle of the Mujahedeen, their tangled dirty hair wrapped in turbans and their archaic, medieval faith getting him hard without the visual aide of dead bodies, but mostly, outside the fantasy, they were a boring bunch. As a group they consumed western films as if they were cocaine, sticking, for the most part (occasional foray into the outskirts of the genre non-withstanding) to the classics. This was mostly due to Blakely’s influence, who loved action films, and saw genre as an encumbrance to God’s greatest gift bestowed upon us, violence, and the cool decisive hand that grants it (image). The hap-hazard brigade viewing of Dirty Harry proved disastrous, the Mujahedeen thought dirty Harry was reprehensible, a God damn shame shouted Omar, a young medical student from Qatar( they really were an interesting bunch, those brought together to face communism’s last bowel movement flung from deep within the toilet of the earth.) , How?, asked a stunned Blakely, who glibly tried to explain to the confused but kind and attentive Islamic warriors before giving up. One could say that Bin Laden was Blakely’s true pupil, the one who understand that only skin, privilege and religion/economic worldview (whichever created the arch bent of personality) was all that separated the ‘American’ warrior, from the Islamic, or the communist or the capitalist, all of them could be equally ferocious if they held onto that spark of true carnage, life par excellence is war, Blakely twisted and shuttled out with globs of spit over cigars one night. (Blakely was a man who loved his job.) One day Bin Laden happened upon a sleeping Russian solder and captured him. The Russian ( who was actually Georgian, though that is neither here nor there) did not understand English, and needless to say Arabic and Pashtun were out of the question, screamed and tucked his head into his heart, scrapping his chest so many times and with such force with his chin that blood was drawn, when Bin Laden repeatedly asked whether he felt lucky or not. (he did not, and was left buried in an unmarked grave near Tora Bora). After hard battles or the loss of friends Osama, being an excellent field commander ( loved and respected but above all, feared by his men) would put Rocky IV on the VCR, ‘ that retarded infidel shows a tenacity we could all use’ he would sigh calmly and definitively. ‘ What a nation’, Omar, cleaver as he was, would muse, ‘ they force their feeble minded to fight like gladiators, and against an inhumane Russian machine, no less’. ‘That is our victory, too all of this, God’s victory lies in Satan’s clues, pointing to his own demise’ Osama would discourse enthusiastically, rushing to his desk, writing all night.

Sometimes he thought of giving up Jihad, retiring to Kandahar and writing THE book on Islamic- Western film studies. Without a doubt his favorite film was John Carpenter’s Escape from New York. The Idea came too him while watching the film ( of course), though not in the way one would think. Little Mahmoud, his youngest son, would watch as his father watched Kurt Russell absorb his pain, which was oddly great after the embassy bombing ( a sort of terrorist mid-life crisis) and left listless. ‘Dad, why would you fly a plane into a building, isn’t that obvious?’ ‘I don’t know Mahmoud, because they would never see it…. Coming… they would never see it coming? They would never see it coming!’. Osama ran to tell his wife, who was a shrewd and intelligent woman and, used to her husbands’ flights of fancy, and direct and sweet enough to steer them toward effective Jihad. She was skeptical of the entire plan, but the learning how to fly struck her as especially suspect. ‘It’s America, even women drive planes, watch the movie.’ Omar had recently developed a heavy hashish habit, when Osama told him the plan he released a fifteen minute cascade of laughter . ‘ Omar, Jihad against the great satan is no time to get a case of the giggles; in fact, it’s the worst time’. The Duke of New York was felled by a hail of gunshots when the second plane hit the second tower. Osama was busy and had to pause the film, dealing as he was with well wishers, Snake was talking to the president, begging him too acknowledge the dead, in the a dull first grade class-room Bush’s chief of staff whispered in his ear, informing him that the homeland has been breached. The president is captured, for the world too see, dumb struck and powerless. Snake Pliskin walks with a casually triumphal gape to his step, Osama smiles and claps, a wonderful film, time and time again.

No, I can’t forget this evening Or your face as you were leaving But I guess that’s just the way this story goes, You always smile.... But in you eyes your sorrow shows Yes it [snows] No I can’t forget tomorrow When I think of all my sorrows When I had you there but then I let you go And now it’s only fair that I should let you know What you should know I can’t live If living is without you I can’t live I can’t give anymore Can’t live If living is without you can’t give, I can’t give anymore Well, I can’t forget this evening Or your face as you were leaving But I guess that’s just the way this story goes, You always smile But in you eyes your sorrow [snows] Yes it shows can’t live If living is without you I can’t live I can’t give anymore Can’t live If living is without you I can’t live, I can’t give anymore Ohhhhhh(No can’t live) No no no (No I can’t live) I can’t live (No can’t live) If living is without (No I can’t live) I can’t live (No can’t live) I can’t give anymore (No I can’t live)

feel free to tear this page out and hang it above your mantle. it’s best with Maraih Carey.

Dearest Kim Jong Il, I know you're dead, and so this a letter to your ghost. I recently watched your film Pulgasari, the north korean Godzilla-esque nationalist Gongfu film, and i had a couple questions:

8 00:02:57,978 --> 00:02:59,279 Let me have some water. 9 00:02:59,847 --> 00:03:00,848 Father. 10 00:03:09,890 --> 00:03:12,025 Come here, quickly. 11 00:03:13,894 --> 00:03:15,562 Inde is first, all right? 12 00:03:26,907 --> 00:03:27,908 Hey. 13 00:03:28,675 --> 00:03:30,811 Clean that up. 14 00:03:32,813 --> 00:03:33,947 That. That! Right here the cameraman zooms in on face of Ami, like the pale snow atop the mountain Baekdu. She gazes right at you, right at the camera, before vanishing behind Inde. The father was point to a pile of leaves hiding weapons, there is a goat in the foreground. At that moment when the camera hits her eyes, does she invoke the audience? That look I must say is devastating. You say in your book “A fine actor adds considerably to the quality of a production with his ideas and emotions, his experience of life, his creative imagination and talent.” If so, then do the emotions she portrays in her camera reality mirror that of her state of life? SPOILER ALERT she dies in the end. It’s martyrdom, Her blood (which brought Pulgasari to life) is Pulgasari’s only death. It seems now that this close up is the beginning to an aside, a dialogue of her inner torment and possible evidence of her ultimate fate. She says this at a glance. get back to me on that dearest Kim Jong il. Sincerely Fernando R. Rockwell

Time is circular radiance, a circumference of grins, smiles, hallways. Time corresponds with the continual breaking and finding of oneself, time is a goblin tearing at your insides, whispering abundance. (Time is terror). Once, great warriors sailed the Yangtze with a courtly courage and stern eyes, Kim Jong il sails too, with the generous spirit of a knight errant, the river Styx, hell. One foot pressed gently on the bowl as he seesaw’s his weight and stares wide eyed at the endless lush desert of hell. The Stalinist Chinese choose their next leader, their Mao without Mao ( now is a time without the need for heroes), their Mao who is force-feeding his dogs and holding hands with the Clintons ( slipping the occasional back-rub on Bill ( because in truth, nobody can resist Bill). Mao is a mask, as Stalin and Putin and bush are masks, time is hurdling toward us and disaster wears the mad man gangster or the mad-man clown mask running up and down the street threatening neighbors with the full force of automatic stars locked in underground vaults. ( Time is constant sterilization and evasion). Stolen cars rammed into the long hair of untamed prairie weeds strangling empty car lots, rural new jersey is the true hell, sighs Kim Jong il. Sometimes Kim thinks he sees Richard Burton swigging Johnny Walker’s whiskey that won’t get him drunk with a tearful Gorbachev clutching an empty bottle of his own name brand vodka, snorting flurry of prayers and curses. ‘Everything would be better if we could all get drunk- throw off these shackles ( as he trills and fawns in circus fashion around Burton, stoically seated) ) and dance in the ninth ring, laying in the ice until our bodies freeze/drown ( whichever comes first) for we have all, in some, perhaps, subterranean and innate way, betrayed ourselves.

An unleashing, thinks Kim, ( time is memorized pain and horizons drenched in orange and sea salt air) everything would be better if Elizabeth Taylor could be here, drinking without ever getting drunk, teasing whiny melancholic Gorbachev for not having the grace to face ( with serenity, if at all possible, like darling Richard) his infinite fate. That is our one true collective hell- that Elizabeth Taylor will never die. Kim mused, gazing into the curvaceous Styx. Che Guevara farts, ‘You bourgeois swine bastard’, shouts Pol Pot. Idiots, animals, filth, thinks Kim Jong Il as he daydreams of fusing with Mao. As they form into a symbiotic whole elevating the respective genius of both men ( culture and war, the perfect, unstoppable combination) into a singular unit of perfection. A wind ruffles Kim’s pompadour. He stares into the murky water of ruined blood and sees bones, steadying his gaze he believes he is able to make out the vague husk of Stalin’s mustache gleaming in a red dusk. Next to him, without a doubt, is Trotsky’s eyes, which shine like serpents or search lights ( asking why me? Why Russia? Why children and women, the poor and wretched?). Finally Kim collapsed into his seat, though you could hardly tell he was exhausted through his steel like poise. This happens every once and a while (Time is wrong numbers) ( the same sense of loss sucked through a vacuous void, a treason that lay its fault in stars as much within) ( time is constantly eating at our scars, in order to cultivate new ones) Time is a parasite.

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No one can escape fate No one can escape DADA Only DADA can make you escape fate No one can resist Bill

nadadadamagazine.blogspot @gmail

uoy ssim li’ew llits ,gnoJ miK

© 2012 draoB lairotidE adaN 01# 1SN devreseR sthgiR llA

Nada1 10 Kim Jong still we'il miss you  

ringing the gong for kim jong

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