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the dada magazine about nothing


Maria Auxiliadora Mary auxiliary Mary S.O.S. Mother Mary, come to me as a two-tongued being. When the blood is lucky there is a mother tongue and a father tongue expressed across lands in the womb From a father's father tongue and a mother's mother tongue. One tongue licks fire builds sonnets does the work so the other can taste history, tell it on. They both escape in my laughter at the family table, rolling from woman's mouth to woman's mouth to woman's mouth

There are days that pass now. I don’t know how to describe them. I came here alone and when I came here I wasn’t even totally sure what this place was. I guess this is the sort of reward you get for what I’ve done. This is the sort of punishment. I think of that mad philosopher who spoke in detail of the world freezing over, then dancing lightly over the glistening layer that remained. There are a million ways that the world can consume itself, I am only one meager example. But really, to put it all together, you have to understand where I have come from and what the meaning of this all is. No. I’ve changed my mind. The story itself is irrelevant. It sounds the same as a hundred thousand others and I doubt you would be able to pick up the subtle differences that make mine unique. When you get down to it there are a few things to note. First, I only ate him out of spite. Second, it gave me pleasure beyond words of description. And third, I would do it again a hundred thousand times and with only a moment’s notice. What you really need to know to understand all of this is how the world works. There are certain specific mechanisms that fall into place when one makes certain decisions. I know this is vague but it seems to be the best way to communicate this to me. I get caught up in petty discussions that don’t go anywhere. I get lost in my thoughts and spiral around for hours until…

Until nothing. Until I fall apart in a haze or wake up from the dream. I sit and berate a stray hairpin for hours for reasons you could not begin to fathom. And this is the way of the world. This is the way things happen. Denying it is fruitless, so you might as well join in. To say the days blend together would be an understatement. Some days feel like one long month sporadically punctuated by short bouts of sleep. Some months feel like a single long day, waxing under the heartless sun, a pathologic repetition hemming me in moment after moment. I feel this burden in the small day to day activities. These things are like torture devices to me, embedded in my own home, surrounding me like a low lit dungeon in some smoky Catalan province circa fourteen hundred and fifty. I take it all in stride but it is hard to ignore the small chunks it takes out of your day to day. You try to cover them up but this is just cosmetic, just a brief treatment, just something to keep the neighbor’s children from pointing fearful through their tears.

Here’s another thing to know about the world: no emptiness is truly an emptiness. But then there is the corollary as well: even that which appears full to overflowing is only full of emptiness. I know it seems strange but it is about as true as you can get. The whole world is like this and these properties are magnified here a thousandfold. It’s when you speak to others you feel it especially. There are certain phrasings in their words, certain inflections in their tone that give you a sense that there is nothing there. That their words are empty to the extreme. There is no nutrition, no sustenance. Just the simulacrum of communication. You babble on at each other in a storm of noise and it all just gets lost on a few stray air currents on the way over. I’ve grown used to it I suppose, though there are still times I yearn for something greater. There are still plenty of times that I wish the world had some greatness to it, there are still plenty of times.

If you saw what I saw you would have done the same thing. You just can’t say otherwise. In the dark and with all the noise and disoriented like I was. You would have done the same. It wasn’t the taste, it wasn’t the evil, it was simply the act. It was simply the situation itself that forced me to do it. Truthfully I remember none of the act itself. One moment I was standing on the precipice of good taste and the next I was lying at its bottom, covered in a whole mess of fluid. There was an awful taste in my mouth, too. I tried to clean myself off but it was no use. Just a waste of time. I think if anything I just rubbed the blood in deeper. You have to wonder sometimes if the things we love, we love only because they happened to arrive when we are most bored, and they supply us with interest at critical times.

I wake each morning to the slaughter of my cousins. Shotgun blasts disrupt the rhythm of my toothbrush. Each poor soul explodes into goose down pillows. They scream a bit, but softly. So softly it’s almost comforting. Notice the subtle transition to decay. The gentle smell of hope is oddly similar to that of unwashed youth. The sharper pitched rumble of a missed mark. Fire-less works. An underwhelming apocalypse. A disappointing disaster. A genocide that fails to meet expectations. Inefficient explosions.

My interstices are full of neurology The doctors' phrenology defeats me In group—the waif, the Jersey-haired widow, and more— Their urothelia have been disintegrating, with blood and a little urine mixed in; Doctors convinced them to swap some liver enzymes and hair follicles for ten years more of sin. I ruminate first, medicate next. Between group, it's the Christians who grab me, ready with Bible verse when the pills don't work, or the clinic is full. Every doctor won't pick up the phone, leaving my ghost heart beat, unseeded. One body won't fit their algorithm: My ghost organs fail repeatedly, unseeded. Musculoskeletal Creativity and Peer Review, Save me. FDA, save you.

This year has been a frustrating and frankly flat dress rehearsal of Whitney Houston's final devastating interviews on hot 97’ before she went to Israel before Jesus understood that having a throne was just another shitty trick and all he got out of it was a brutal torture scene that only Mel Gibson and the Marquis De Sade seem to understand completely son of god or not its no fun being in pain or being around people in pain, just think of James, and what a fucked up identity crisis he went through, and really its the only part of the bible that makes sense on an emotional level People trying to deal with an unknowable equation logic wrapped around the umbilical cord of horses in the end everybody either dies or feels bad about something they can’t help *

if I could listen to a dog fight only through the pulse of heartbeats via concrete I would sitting in mud trying  to see myself reflected in torn snouts minor wars of attrition over nothing are something like a talisman for me and I don’t have the right to complain anyways born as I was into the bare particles of a priceless dream (an eagle that bore George Washington and Sun Ra from the same yoke return at the end of the American era as Apollo and Dionysus ) I saw this among other unsung war songs that pointed to the way out in the waiting room of Woodridge Hospital

which despite its extremely poor service it was there and maybe there alone that I was graced with a short affirmation of love, almost everybody (somehow even complete strangers) know This year is easily the worst year in an almost three decade march to insanity * Its true by the way, what you said about the warmth of ones own skin in connection to the often junior high shower effect of others, but I eat erratically and really I’ve lost weight in tremendous strides my stomach reduced to the size of a golf ball eating my intestines I’m freezing and your hands are the only ones that can stave off hypothermia *

Towards me towards you we could call it a non alignment pact and turn ourselves into a fog of spittoons lining a suburb outside of hamburg, or perhaps we only could be celestial in practice and we are each others fork in the road. * As much as all of this is for you its for me more. I am lifting up hands trying to forget the sensuous measure you gather while pronouncing brick, straw, black elderly and death. We shouldn’t be but we are blankly aware of evil in us and others and try as we may there is no better way to write the casket then to embrace the serene endurance of transit drivers and school girls walking the edges of malls on Sundays, the face of absolute pleasure is congruent to pain and the perpetual process of removal. *

I’m going to gather my bones from the ribs of St. Anthony who has been keeping them there for safe keeping these last few centuries build an alter to a second boy born in time and body with me but ultimately lost in the spaces that even memory can’t touch * how happy he was.

tu culus est i tu as trop de merde dan ta bouche ii you think your so phucking s m a r t ? sos boludo!iii whats that you say? you didnt understand? you had to go look it up but argentine slang isnt in youre spanish dictionary i guess youll never know then you pasty pompous pedantic prick. you Aristotle’s Poetics chapter 22 lines 19 to 25,iv line 25 in particular Aristotle. Aristotle's Poetics: Translation and Analysis. Trans. Kenneth Alderman Telford. Lanham: U of America, 1985, 43. fich dich! küss mein arsch v 冬 に な り 日 は 長く な る くそった れ め vi id tell you to go to hell but your already there you fascist fuck. say hi to ts eliot for me.

i ii iii

Latin: You are an asshole.

French: You have too much shit in your mouth. Spanish: You are an idiot (loose translation).


“The virtue of diction is to be clear and not abject. Diction arising from authoritative words is clearest, yet abject… On the other hand, diction that uses strange words is dignified and alters what is idiomatic. By strange words I mean foreign words, metaphors, extensions, and all besides authoritative words. But if one were to produce diction entirely from words of this sort, the diction would be either an enigma or a barbarism. v

German: Fuck you.

Kiss my ass.

vi Japanese: winter has arrived but now the days grow longer you’re a stupid asshole

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yoJ htiw reviuQ I dnA...

Š 2014 evitcelloC sserP llewkcoR 62# 3SN devreseR sthgiR llA

Nada3 26 - ...And I Quiver With Joy  
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