There’s always a point thats worth going past. In relation to the previous ‘Misfortunes of the Immortals’ post, this is in the same arena. This whoever is by no means the last version, ideally. Built over a jaunty junkyard percussion track, this developed on an idea of the Dada word games and the Exquisite Corpse game.

This mix became very noisy but on the whole I find it fairly coherent. I went through several of Dadaist Texts & Manifestos and particularly the work of Tristram Tzara & Andre Breton. One would hope the David Cronenberg would make a fictionalised biography of their relationship at some point (I’m up for doing the OST if needed).

When compiling the spoken/chatter aspect I was watching ‘Arrival’ so there are some spots of dialog from that, also quotes from TZ, AB and other mental interruptions. It goes like this.

The 391

Take the words

Submit to the light

Take a news paper, take a pair of scissors

I am against manifestos

Choose a paragraph that is the same length as the poem you wish to make

Be true to the article

Place in a bag

Copy consciously, and there you are, a writer

Original,

and endowed with a sensibility, beyond the understanding of the vulgar

Travel around the world

Every page must explode

Art must be un-ascetic

Cut out the article

Shake gently

The poem will be like you,

Rich, articulate & nihilistic – like meeting death

Funny guy

The 391

The 391

Profundity, nausea

Useless & impossibly to deny

The 391

Anyone who wishes to become a President, can become one

Marie!

Marie!

Pause the mechanism

391

391

The three nine one

The three

Nine one

Bride above

A reservoir of love, gasoline

391

The Batchelor grinds his childcare himself

Definitively incomplete

Cracked

The three nine one

Collapse

Collective

Direct

Three

Nine

One

The comprehensive mechanisation of every field of activity

Attraction

Three

Tantalising though

Nine

Are you the One?

Cities of light, daily meals for artists

Marching bands

Whorehouses for the leaders

And a chopping block

Art is putting it self to sleep

To bring about the birth of the new world

The talent that cannot be learned

Consolidate the exact harvest of calculation

And piss down the hole designed for musical, gastronomic and sacred nonsense

No more looks

No more words

No more manifestos

I’ve forgotten something

Where?

The 391?

Chameleon alterations infiltration

Thought is made in the mouth

There are some people (journalists, lawyers, amateurs, philosophers) who even think

That other forms: business marriages visits wars conferences politics accidents dance halls economic crises, fits of hysteria, are variations of Dada

Is simplicity simple, or Dada?

To sleep on a razor?

To be intelligent?

To die in the field?

The 391!

The three nine one

To make faux pas?

To prettify life life in the lorgnette?

Oil on on every knot?

Of every machine?

Of a new born baby?

Dazzle them with the basics.

The root of all civilisation

Language ‘just talk to them’

Bring coffee, donuts

Call the police

And bandages

Appendages

The egg

Three nine one

The president is lying

The bullfrogs are singing

The Russians are coming

Changing yet changeless comrade

Evergreen

Ever red white & blue

And we are using them to deposit new contents inside

Chaotically to bear new fruit

Google & Xerox, search & copy

Literally speaking, literally

The death of optimism is a blessing in disguise.

Look at the fragments oh-so-urgent

And forget the box they arrived in

391

The three nine one

The three

Nine one

Bride above

A reservoir of love, gasoline

391

Kerosene

“You ready?”

Gravity is nominal

Bring it up

“You OK?”

“Oh Fuck!”

The three, the nine and the one.

The three, the nine and the one.

The three, the nine and the one.

The three, the nine and the one.

The three, the nine and the one.

The Canary has stopped breathing