Dada Declaration


“Madness is its own reward,” Rimbaud

Get ink and weep.

Creativity is anarchy.

Losses are riddles,
but the road cannot
be refused.

Craft beauty from
time’s deadly lacerations,
words from lips with
nothing left to say.

Burn through whatever
brain cells remain.

Let love’s ominous tongue
laps at you even
in death’s cold house
where magick has fled,
where the air splits
into black branches
like old glass.

Know penury and poverty.
Accept handouts from
hollow-cheeked ghosts.
Avoid fevered exploding crows.

Reject all filters.

The air shivers similes;
the earth drones metaphors.
Write them all down
before the brave day sinks
into hideous night, 
in sessions of
sweet silent thought
before wasteful time
collapses into decay
and your bootless cries
fade like train horns.

Strike like lightning,
gone before it illuminates
the comedy of despair.

Get ink and declare
your plangent portion
of all that is.

Chuckle your way
to the final circle.

Get ink and laugh
loud out loud.

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