the dada magazine about nothing
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Myopianist International Communique no.1 Revolutionary Party
Comrades! For too long now we have suffered under the tyrannical yoke of forethought and its henchmen of conscience and sound judgement. For too long has the consideration of consequence robbed us of our own beautiful childlike spontaneity. For too long have they denied us our birthright of stupor and unsteady gait. For too long have the chains of hygiene bound the sweet scent of our liberty. The time has come to break free from this oppression. The time has come to tear asunder the confines of self-restraint. No longer shall the looming ghost of the morningâ€™s labours deny us our rightful imbibement. No more shall cold walls of porcelain confine our gastric expulsions. Never again shall reactionary threads of dental floss entwine our halitosised gums. Conformist pigs of all echelons of society, our demands are as follows:
instantaneous gratification of compulsive urge or bodily appetite.
The liberation of the contents of all libatious containers, that to advance down our throats and therethey may reside provisionally until a time of their own choosing.
occupants be free 2. their upon our stomachs where
The immediate cessation of personal responsibility, notwiththe procurement of hard drink.
The throwing open of the prison chambers of prophylactics which our genitals; revolutionary optimism ensuring that we will pull out in time.
Brothers and sisters, the myopianist moment is now for tomorrow belongs to our oppressors and their lackey running dogs. To the vanguard of the bar and the checkout stand, that the sweet taste of freedom would kiss our lips. This is a call to arms. Lechers of the world unite! Signed, Myopian Revolutionary Council 6 April 2013
I wonder if my pops dated prettier girls than me when he was my age. I’m pretty sure I fucked more, but if you averaged them all out I think he was batting a little higher. I’m Googling pictures of various girlfriends, mistresses and wives of dead writers. Brautigan I guess had a thing for girls much younger than himself and would use photographs of them on the covers to some of his books. One of Kerouac’s lovers wrote a book about the Beat guys she fucked and said he was a shitty lay which surprised me not at all, I wonder how Papa was in the sack or Bukowski. Judging by how much those guys drank I’m shocked they could get it going half the time. I’ve got the pictures up on one tab and some porn playing on another, just for the sound, but it’s not working for me. The girl must be European, French or Czech or something, and her moans sound different, less guttural and satisfying. I drink some whiskey and absent-mindedly yank at my dick. “Oui, oui…” she starts. I think about Molly Bloom at the end of Ulysses, that ravishing insane ending, and how the French translation would end with ‘Oui’ – it’s beautiful in a different way I suppose, lighter, airier, and I’m good and drunk now, staring at the youthful smiling faces of Brautigan’s girlfriends, trying to pretend they’re French and next to me, breathing, “yes, yes…”
My cock stabs forward past everything in its path thrusting for blood praying for vomit and tonight I'm giving it all to god yeh, tonight I'm going to give it all to god he'll say to me "Son, I never knew that pain could feel so good that a scar could mend like a stitch" i'll reply with "baby don't you ever tell a man something that he already knows no compliments are for the birds and besides I never meant to give you any pleasure" he'll smile and go in for a kiss I turn my cheek his patron saint of anal annihilation i'll find myself back on earth a fading glow hovering above my head head home to a shot and play connect the dots with the holes in my arms the fire of youth finally flickering out
“…..Probably, that’s what happened, but its not certain, it could had been five angry members of the new black Riders ( they ride for the emancipation of all black people) , trained in the art of killing, came upon a white man out on a casual stroll or coming home from a bender- who am I too judge? But then, it probably wasn’t the New Black Riders, probably, you know, was some black kid looking for change and some tough guy starts running his mouth, maybe the word nigger was tossed around, you know nigger this, nigger that, I aint scared of any too-bit nigger ( “ Yeah I get it” “ Yeah yeah, just paint ing the pic-ture, see”) Kids pulls out a knife, and happens to not only know how too use the god-dang thang, but also be a psychopath, robbery gone bad, another case closed, that son of a bitch is probably long Dad-dy-Go-ne. * -Who the fuck are you? -I’m Detective Thomas P. Walters, who the fuck are
-I’m the reporter, remember ?My names Robert Noddingham. I showed you my press credentials, I meant more in the sense of what the fuck is wrong with you, I mean, are you shitting me, I haven’t been on the crime beat long, but still, The words ‘ Heaven made seeing and hearing men have rule’ ( pg. 755 Cantos CIII) are carved into this mans chest, which was done when he was dying or dead, in any case incapacitated, I don’t know, I’m not a detective . But I can damn well tell you, this was not some street robbery where some black kid with knife skills went crazy for twenty bucks. -You dumb son of a bitch, I have been on the force thirty years, and that’s as a D-E-T-E-C-T-I-V-E (DETECTIVE), might I add, go write your blog and die you little piss ant. -You’re an idiot.
* Careless in the art of killing, it did not take long for even a small minded detective too find Daniel Barrington, he happened to be walking past the crime scene on his way home ( he lived in the house next door to the crime) when he heard a man reading, incorrectly, that rather bleak line, at least given whom Pound believed should be “ rulers of the men” , waiting for their argument to end so his entrance would be as calculated and gallant as possible, Daniel walked firmly up to the men and whined ( though he believed that his voice was full of what he fondly called- if he had any friends to tellprimitive bravery) “ its hearing not seeing, Man must hear first, before he can see, and certainly before he can rule.” The two men
stared blankly at him, seeming too both squirm until liquid and gravely shrug as old soldiers do at news of death or defeat, eyeing each-other with a restrained gestured smile, seeming of the faint recognition that this was one of many twists and ruptures and bends all leading toward an inevitable crumbling, all leading to death and perhaps worse (But what’s worse than this, they said too themselves, to the other silently, hoping in vain to have grown an antenna or learned telepathy, anything to close the gap), neither appeared to react, at least not suddenly, too Daniel’s shirt, covered in blood. “ The line goes” Daniel began “’Heaven made hearing and seeing men to have the rule’, you must understand Pound meant for every word to have a meaning both practical and sublime, please say it right, if only for the memory of dear old Ezra”. If it weren’t for the intervention of Robert Noddingham, Daniel would had been dead the minute the he uttered Dear ol-, the detective having a natural aversion to literature as well as a deep seated belief that a trace of pure evil was in every criminal. Before Walters had even slapped on the cuffs Barrington was insisting on telling the story, his desire turning feverous when he learned the second man was not a cop but a reporter. “Listen”, came the increasingly whiney voice of Barrington, “ My house is next door, I have tea and donuts and if you want something stronger, whiskey, beer, if you’re the adventurous sort, some Grade A weed, oh please officer, I do want to tell my story to a reporter”. Walters had a whiskey and a beer too wash it down, Robert rolled himself a joint, sitting in the living room, before nodded at the other, discreetly ( for the sake of their host?) that this was one of those moments which would never be spoken of, which would never happen, they vowed in the precise lowering and then tight lifting of the jaw that they would bury however long this took with their lives if it came to it, the sting of embarrassment enough to send both to suicide anyways. Daniel, having never had any friends resorted to strange and novel ways to preoccupy himself, as there was nothing he loved more than the sound of his voice and believing his story telling skills were above par and unique, had invented an odd method of breaking any story down into chapters, the names of which he said aloud. The chapters to the story of his murder began as all stories about murder begin with serial killers; his childhood, they followed as so: My earliest memory, the dilemma of the butterfly and the tin soldier, the soap box derby and the dastardly Wilsons, Finally Boarding school has come, has gone, My first year at Dartmouth; the trouble begins, traveling Europe- murdering gyspies and immigrant, My return to the states and the end of my criminal career. If one were too review this conversation as a novel, as Barrington, indeed intended, overall the results would be dismal, a chaper by chapter review would be best in finding some of the hidden gems.
My earliest memory: The story of his birth, favorably accounts of his first maid, absent parents, rather mundane. The Dilemma of the butterfly and the tin soldier: A story about killing a butterfly with a tin soldier in a sandbox followed by an improbable reminiscing about the natural life and death, Socrates, Putin and Goebbels are quoted at length, the narrator is aged five. The soap box derby and the dastardly Wilsons: Contains original passages concerning childhood sadism and love. A dog is tortured, though by the Wilsons (who remain a nebulous mass of anywhere from three to fifteen) or Barrington himself remains unclear. The soap box derby turns out to be an elaborate metaphors for watching the two sets of parents have an orgy. Finally Boarding school has come, has gone: More sadism, more torture of animasl, A fifteen minute scene describing sex with a ferret stolen from the school lab. The ending of a romance, with a women from town, the decision to go too Dartmouth ( his parents wanted Oxford) told in a manner meant to portray the narrator as brave, though he comes off a wimp, incapable of even the smallest degree of dignity. My First Year At Dartmouth; the trouble begins: Incomprehensible. Travelling Europe- murdering gyspies and immigrants: The narrator begins to kill. A wonderfully strange description of Parisâ€™s surrounding suburbs and the far reaching country. Uneven pacing throughout, a long discussion on the subject of depravity with the Hunch back of Notre Dame, making it clear that the narrator had not read the book, even if the audience hadnâ€™t either and was only acquainted by absently watching the Disney version with their children ( at one point a space alien called Quasimodoâ€™s oldest friend arrives to fetch him for his task; the feeding of the church goats). My return to the states and the end of my criminal career: The hero returns, beaten but not broken, becomes interested in starting a new style of poetry, he decides to kill an artist because he loves him, the quote was meant to throw off the investigation, but more importantly about the authors importance to the future of literature.
“ You see, the whole thing was about the ultimate failure of love”. Detective Thomas P. Walters looked down at his half-finished beer, thumbing the edge of the rim and staring into the amber cave. Robert Noddingham lifted up his hand as at a press conference and asked in a voice that squawked bringing back bitter memories of a childhood affliction why Daniel just didn’t shoot up a school, like any other decent psychopath?
The prisoner is staked out. Frying pan and glass shards. Too many times. Black oily fecund sap inks around. Black oily fecund ink saps around. The prisoner pulls a sliver of skin off his hand and pastes it to his face. It tastes good, the lethargy. He’s poreless, skin smoother than porcelain and if you took a bite you’d taste porcelain too. The prisoner’s memories shift and snap. It’s all a horror. White oil black oil, just drink it. Just eat and drink to your hearts content. He stands up. The wind blows the few broken strands of hair on his head. He stands up for the first time. “Where are you gonna do?” That fucking dwarf had slithered up the side of the sofa again. He stands up. A pattern drums on the corrugated tin walls.
“Fuck you. You think you can sliver in here just like that? Just like you oummmmmmm…” There’s a lever that needs to be pulled. It’s somewhere in this pile of sharpened rebar. He reaches his hand in to the lovely weeping sounds of a solo cello, the points whispering against the hard back of his hand. Two, three, nine points glide into his flesh and a sap oily flows out like the beautiful wine of a cracked fontanel. Who’s even being kidded here? These poles are miles long! The prison is practically at the edge of an endless ravine here. THERE’S NO THERE
LEVER YOU STUPID FUCKER.
God just drink it in. A sleep, even the tortured kind they sell around here, which you are lucky to get even a hold of, let alone get a decent drag of. Every night I wake up and one of them is over me, I reach out to grab it, kick out scream anything to show them I fucking mean business but they always scamper off inside themselves before I can graze so much as a hair. You can’t even imagine what that feels like. Up the ledge and across the wire. That little piece of shit better bring my back a bucket of horsemeat or I’ll be up in his ass. Dodging those sentient clouds of thick black hair and brambles, those clouds which swoop down at you the second you stick out your neck on an otherwise pastoral, bucolic fucking hill top. Those clouds (its witch hair, oh believe you me) which I don’t even know what it will do to you, but you don’t want to get in its way. Six seconds of fame and you wasted it shaking your own damn hand all oily and black and covered in sap. SO STUPID! I’ve got a million regrets and you’re every single one. I’ll sing that last line to you slowly, softly, sweetly as you fall asleep in the bathtub, right before I divide you hack you up and put you in the fridge. It was consensual after all. How could they hold it against me?
I was searching for a tonearm for a Victrola restoration project I had been working on since finding a severed turntable top in near-good condition 8 months before. The felt was rubbed away in some spots and it had been decades since it could be considered green but it wasn’t too rusted for the turntable to spin if you gave it a push with your hand. The owner of the junk shop where I found it even threw in what he thought was the matching hand crank for free. Since I was already that far along in restoring this fantastic piece of aural history; it would’ve been silly not to complete the project. When I finally sat down to begin my treasure hunt, Dan immediately stood out as an honest guy amongst the pretentious audiophile collectors. His listing caught my eye immediately:
VINTAGE TONEARM. POSSIBLY VICTROLA. NO MARKINGS. MISSING REPRODUCER. BRASS/ALUMINUM (???) IN GOOD CONDITION. NOT TESTED. His store was pretty bare bones. No frills. No yellow comic sans text on a scrolling royal blue banner. Dn46store had nothing to prove. Member since 2000. With over 1200 items sold and 100% positive feedback. He was exceptional. I am usually very deliberate about the auctions in which I take part. I have refined and perfected my system over the years, have a talent for finding the hidden gems. I see behind the blurry, poorly lit photo or nonworking and missing parts, the treasure. This time was different. As there were still four days left on the bidding instead of ‘watching’ I placed my bid. 0 bids. Starting bid: $14.95. Without processing my next action I had already clicked the button. $49.99. Place bid. Are you sure you would like to place this bid? Yes. I was surprised by my actions. It is not unusual for me to take a bid to the next level if I’ve carefully come up with a strategy based on a psychological understanding of my opponents. But as a new Victrola restorer I was in no place to assume I knew the value of Dan’s piece. Was I acting crazy? Oh my God, what is dn46store going to think of my crazy actions? Later that night, I went back to eBay. What could dn46store be thinking of my compulsive and uneducated bid? Maybe he hadn’t seen it yet. Maybe he had seen it and was impressed and flattered by my appraisal of his antique phonograph piece. He had an undeniable power over me. Did he feel it too? Maybe I had been so off the mark that he was disgusted or even creeped out. I shuddered.
I awoke to what I thought was my alarm clock. The room was dim but the light that was coming through the window didn’t feel like early morning. It was the doorbell. I wasn’t expecting to have any visitors, so it could only be a delivery. There was a pause, the doorbell rang one more time and then I could make out the tiny “thud” of the delivery being set on the ground and the retracting footsteps on the other side of the door. A large laminated sign on my door that read
“PLEASE LEAVE ALL PACKAGES ON THE FRONT PORCH. -R. Stevens,” this ensured I never had to worry about answering the door. I stayed completely still on the ground for another ten minutes. It was the most transient time of the afternoon, when the sun sees the end of the day approaching and decides to sprint for the last bit of the way. It was nearly dark by the time I got up. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a tall glass of milk. I stood in the darkening room and slowly drank the entire glass without stopping. I was in no rush to get to my packages. I thought about what might be coming today. Vintage Halloween Vermont Teddy Bear, a selection of Adam Sandler DVDs, hand-juicer with a pink handle, olive green 70’s wall clock with a teddy bear decal on it… maybe the handmade floral throw pillow cases. The Guitar Hero drum set and wii sports accessories wouldn’t be coming until next week… Maybe the shrinky dink U.S. Presidents pin collection would be here today. The refurbished Novelty 1903 Antique Wall Phone Reproduction, the 1966 Fisher Price Magnetic Chug-Chug train, Framed James Dean poster…. I was still going through my list of recent purchases when I got to the front door. Wasn’t it nighttime when I made my last bid on that tonearm? It was late in the afternoon by this point. How long was I sleeping? Why hadn’t my alarm gone off? If my alarm didn’t go off, it must be Sunday. That’s strange, I shouldn’t be getting any packages today. I opened the door. There was only one package. A reused cardboard box, neatly resealed with clear packing tape which revealed the box’s previous brown tape cut exceptionally clean through the seams of. The last person to receive this box must have taken to it meticulously with a brand new box-cutter taking their time getting to their delivery with the utmost self-control. The previous address labels had been crossed out bueatifully with a black permanent marker. My name and address were simply typed out and printed on a plain label, the kind that you can run through a laser printer at home and use as a sticker. The type was small. No frills. In the top left corner of the box, stamped directly onto the cardboard in faint black ink was his name: Dn46store. The letters were staring right up at me from the porch. No return address. I grabbed the box and rushed to the kitchen table. I grabbed a steak knife and hacked through the new layer of packing tape. I pulled the top flaps apart, tearing off some of the tape and taking part of the cardboard with it. Inside was a piece of printer paper folded once, hamburger style, sitting on top of the green bubble wrapped shape. My heart was pounding. I opened the note. Also typewritten in the same nondescript font, were two lines of text:
Congratulations on winning the auction for VINTAGE TONEARM. MISSING REPRODUCER. Thank you for your purchase. Please visit my store again soon.
She only ever looks me in the eye when something is especially funny. I'm trying to scrape her eyes off my face with broken glass but it isn't working. We're both sticky with blood and she wont stop staring. 'I don't know what to tell you. It's just poetry.' That doesn't work either. She does this funny thing where it looks like she's laughing in a different frequency, without opening her mouth or making a sound. 'Alright, take me along with you next time. Maybe your poetry isn't as bad as it used to be.' My backpack between us serves as a coffee table littered with ash and ants. Little bits of paper float in our instant coffee like islands of mold. She has to be kidding. 'You are already quite familiar with my work. You'd only scare them, grinning like a menace. Besides we both know it's not a spectator sport and you could hardly participate.' This isn't going well. I've been trying to get rid of this girl for as long as we've known each other. It used to be kind of neat to have a stalker, a status symbol of sorts. That is, until she started staying at my house every night. It's not mine, it's not even a house. I sleep in the maintenance cellar of a low rent office building where the dumb fucks don't even lock the basement. She decided after we met that we'd married in the astral plane and now I'm stuck with her for good. She rolls over to the hot plate, squeaky wheels scrape against the concrete floor. I imagine her as a wheel chair assassin, chuckling manically. 'I'd scare them? Whose afraid of a cripple with buck teeth?' She scowls at me, pouring more hot water into the cup. Imagining Infinite Jest characters as inbred hillbillies brings a smile to my face. 'We can build a dragon gondola around your chair and dress you up like a pirate to distract from your creepy appearance.' I blink before the boiling water scalds my eyeballs.
At the store I stuff a bunch of bananas down the front of my pants. They squish a bit and I'm curious to see how they smell later. The basket is filling up with the bounty of multi-cultural industry: vienna sausages, ramen, Velveeta and crushed pineapple. At the check out lane I make a show of removing the bananas from my pants. 'It keeps them warm.' I stare deeply into the cashier's eyes and imagine them as pool balls that get stuck on the end of the cue. Outside I ditch the groceries in a bush and plop down on the curb. Out of habit I begin counting the people who pass by. The first guy is eating a sandwich, smells like ham. He tosses the wrapper at my feet and sneezes. I should have sat down sooner, I'd love to cut off his middle finger and stick it in my ear. Next is a little old lady wrapped in a purple cloak. She's singing Nirvana and coughing at her cigar. Number three is a balding guy I recognize from my office building. This guy always gets off the bus and says good bye to the person on the other end of his bluetooth. I like to think that he calls the same wrong number everyday just to say good bye. Two dilapidated, pre-school teacher types are heading my way. The pudgy one with brown jheri-curls is pushing a baby carriage. As she smiles at me I notice she's missing half her teeth. The other one is wearing headphones and staring at her ipod. I try to hand her one of the bananas I had in my pants but she doesn't look up. I see him rounding the corner. He isn't watching where he's going and collides with a stiff fuck walking in the opposite direction. Hurriedly he bends down and picks up the stiff fuck's exploded groceries. In the process he, Larry (let's call him Larry), steps on the stiff fuck's whole wheat bread and slips, falling on his ass. Larry continues down the street, $5's lighter. This poor bastard is having a rough day, wrought with deja vu. Lorraine hardly looks up from her loom when I walk in the door. The loom occupies a cobwebby corner between the water heater and the hot plate. I unbutton my pants in order to remove the bananas, they're almost squished beyond recognition. My crotch smells like a tropical wonderland. The ramen, crushed pineapple, Vienna sausages and Velveeta live on a shelf directly over her head. It's funny because she can't reach it. I sit down directly behind her and watch as her perverted tapestry begins to take shape. 'It looks like that guy has three testicles'. I say, chuckling. 'That was a prized attribute in those days'. She says it through her teeth, I can tell she's jealous. The image she weaves is a scene from byzantine erotica. It's always ancient porn with her. The people are angular and rather disjointed, like a mash up of flamingos in flight. A flock of hedonist flamingos fucking in mid air, colliding with hawks that try to bite off their testicles.
Rolling away from the loom, she tries unsuccessfully to remove the can of pineapple from the shelf. 'You didn't even have a shelf when I moved in here. So of course you decided to place it where I'd never be able to reach.' 'Correction: you never moved in, you just never left. I put the shelf there hoping to starve you out.' 'Just hand me the goddamn pineapple already.' 'Well, since you asked so nicely.' Lorraine's one redeeming characteristic is the way she eats pineapple. She takes little itty bitty bites with chopsticks. It's heartbreaking to watch a woman with one leg eat crushed up pineapple out of a can with a pair of shitty pilfered chopsticks. From across the room I watch her nibble at a strand of fruit, juice dribbling down her chin. It's the only time she looks beautiful. Today the chopsticks remind me of Larry. My hand slides along the inseam of my pants. Fingers fondling the scalpel tucked perilously close to my balls. Its lovely knowing that at any moment it could rip through the thin fabric and impale my right nut like a lollipop. Larry's eye kind of looked like that, a cherry lollipop that some kid drooled all over. I can still feel the gelatinous liquid of the vitreous humor cascading down the scalpel to my fist. It's tinged pink with blood, but with a slight hint of yellow which confirmed my suspicion that Larry had an untreated infection. I sleep better at night knowing that I've helped someone overcome an affliction. In most cases they are afflicted with apathy, comfort, security, a sense of justice. These things are death to the brain. Feeling safe has never done anyone in history a lick of good. The mind grows lethargic and greedy, wrapped up in fluffy notions of self deceit. However, in cases such as Larry's the affliction is medical rather than metaphoric. My scalpel rid him of his infection and may well have saved his other eye from a similar fate. Lorraine's wheel chair creaks towards me, her outreached hand holds the juicy remainder of the pineapple. I guzzle down the contents until some chunks appear. Handing the can back to her, I notice that her stump is oozing a yellowy liquid. She has me drink the pineapple juice because she thinks it looks like the fluid her missing leg exudes. Lorraine is very considerate sometimes. 'Come over here. Let me get you cleaned up.' If I'm not nice to her after the pineapple juice she'll pee in it next time. That's happened before.
Gently I unwind the bandage. The wound itself looks like a donut with pink frosting. It's slightly moist to the touch, but that's to be expected. We've had trouble with it in the past. The stitches were removed a few months ago and I've done my best to keep it clean and encourage healing. Thus far infection has been kept to a minimum. She whines a bit at the application of alcohol but remains still. Finally, I apply bacitracin and wrap the wound in fresh gauze. 'You didn't used to be so gentle.' Averting her eyes and smirking. I flip through millions of pages of possible responses. Each one a little more cruel, slightly more accurate. Finally it occurs to me that she's summing up our entire time together. Taken aback, I reply, 'It's impossible to be gentle with a victim. You perpetually sought out situations in which you would be offended, wronged, injured. A flawed attempt to justify your self image. Each time I saw you it was a new humiliation, a fresh abuse. What place is there for gentleness in that pattern?' A wounded smile spreads across her lips. The buck teeth shine with spittle. Looking at her face and down cast eyes I neglect to observe her hands. A bit too late I peer at them and see the bananas fly towards me. Immediately grateful that heavy objects are kept on shelves above her reach. The bananas smell of dirty genitals. We both laugh. 'You've always been such a bore. It's no wonder you turned out this way. In every simple interaction you analyze thousands of meanings and derive a person's substance from a sentence. Poetry in action, as you call it, is just a way to be a judgmental asshole without speaking.'
egrulpS + egruP
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