Not Nearly Enough Dada

Tristan Tzara

Not nearly enough cargo to justify the huge vessel

Not nearly enough said

Not nearly enough love for an uncertain world to maintain

Not nearly enough photosynthesis to harbor the fibrous community of alien spores

Not nearly enough gain to blunt the monster plans

Not nearly enough spirit to chase walnut contours through the flowing bastions of tango delta

Not nearly enough fools to dupe with imaginary garnish

Not nearly enough cholesterol to spank the flow of lust

Not nearly enough dumbfounded coursework to convert zombie populations to the new extremes of verve

Not nearly enough Corsican blood to establish a permanent gallery

Not nearly enough hesitation in her breath to suspect a lie

Not nearly enough stockpiled wires to immolate the turning salute

Not nearly enough bakery skirts to arrive alone with horny blahs

Not nearly enough context to make meaningful the visitation of moonfake opposition

Not nearly enough punitive infrastructure to moderate the bloody craze inside everyone’s clothing

Not nearly enough reason to ascertain the exact location of Hell

Not nearly enough broad-shouldered munchkins to dig the groovy comatose sunbath

Not nearly enough deficit to signal an impending collapse of shirtsleeves

Not nearly enough evidence to shackle the mental strategy of people in love with destiny

Not nearly enough collision to spark a destitute caravan

Not nearly enough juice to fuel the hungry siren

Not nearly enough rub to loose friction from its untoward stasis

Not nearly enough shade to soothe the romantic fuddlements of a lonely preacher

Not nearly enough costume fringe to highlight the best of what’s out there

Not nearly enough ripples in the visual field to seize these brown conquerings

Not nearly enough interlude to frost my little head

Not nearly enough syrup for the cloudswirl to swallow

Not nearly enough goat smell to inundate the allergies of person number six billion

Not nearly enough scandal to warrant a headline

Not nearly enough opossum snarl to frighten the spiders

Not nearly enough pages to finish the chapter

Not nearly enough consumer goods to stock the shifting sunlight

Not nearly enough generational conflict to sort through myriad dazes and find the essence of attention

Not nearly enough grub for lavatory chances to fill

Not nearly enough tendency to melt under the spangled melee

Not nearly enough volunteer buoys to demarcate the limits of truth

Not nearly enough forest left to run an equitable sinkhole

Not nearly enough routine practices for safe transitions into ordinary pine

Not nearly enough cause for concern when it comes to violating the troubled elements

Not nearly enough product inspired by God for real to circumvent the flaming blue lies

Not nearly enough crust on the noughtscape to eclipse the power of meaning

Not nearly enough clearance to fulfill the required access in terms of pounds per minute

Not nearly enough theatrical oomph to earn a prosperous audience for one’s ankle high diary

Not nearly enough polish to reflect the mutilated faces of the vanquished and the utterly summoned to loss

Not nearly enough forecast to ease the trepidatious pilgrims who have forgotten the object of their worship

Not nearly enough frosting to haunt the entryway

Not nearly enough monitoring of the problem for any solution to be forthcoming in the current epoch

Not nearly enough focus on mystery or lather to accomplish the big telling

Not nearly enough consensus to abolish the rotten wrongness of law

Not nearly enough examples of inequity to disprove the giant slumber

Not nearly enough disfigurement to raise the popular groan from below discordant surfaces

Not nearly enough collateral to secure a noble price for relational ethics

Not nearly enough garbage to sift through in search of pearly vision

Not nearly enough camaraderie for angry Celtic Spaniards of the poor northwest to profit from

Not nearly enough presidential veneer to resurrect the shine of Excalibur

Not nearly enough gloveless pride to stanch the greedy exculpatory witnesses as they suck the cocks of horrible men

Not nearly enough fecundity to fill the hearth with progeny or the heart with love

Not nearly enough stony pedestals to cream pedestrian symphonies

Not nearly enough crumble for American cultural artifacts to emulate in their fall

Not nearly enough challenge to pry apart thankless borders

Not nearly enough promise for the forgiveness of traitors to the Lord’s circus

Not nearly enough buildings to leap in a single hallucinatory neurasthenia

Not nearly enough mirage control around the isolated perch with no view

Not nearly enough plasma as back-up in case the surgery proves more invasive than originally planned

Not nearly enough cosmic largesse to end it all now

Tristan Tzara