tagNon-Erotic PoetryDeclaration of New Dada, July 2013

Declaration of New Dada, July 2013

byseannelson©

Please,
don't straddle life's fence:
soul-addled with reprehense,
dull and broken
yet still somehow "making sense,"
sold on the scripted past-tense.
Yes, in recent transience,
you've become "politic," "cautious" :
and more than
"sometimes almost the fool,"
-((soundless "Prufrock"))
though once the keenest kid
in Sharpee school

That said:
we work hard to
lose out apartment windows
vestigal tricks and tails
(along with power pretensions,)
although we rarely trash humor
or kitchen sinks...
fearing "out the window
with the window"
and other one-handed Zen slaps,
semantic shenanigans,
and other sundry rebel riddles
we Dharma bums use to "re-slum"
any citizen of New Dada
becoming again brutally brazen...

attempting to lead free sapiens
with "realist" leashes,
"calming" our commerce with strait-jackets,
or otherwise Freudiannly "slipping"
and devolving from those mutations
away from buggable "logic,"
which in past war-like days
of unintentional comi-tragedy
paraded us grave and over-brave
into depraved rat-buffet trenches
to intervene with machine guns
infuriated by bard-wired barbs
painfully picadored into John Wayne necks
bullging for sweet Lusitania devil-blasted
(while pacifically packed with tommy-guns
from "neutral" Yankee factories.)

Macabrely, this "classified fact,"
since blocking the clear need to act,
was radio-montaged with tact and wit
to be from whacked Abraham's Oval Shrine
sworn in blood as its opposite

Thus, many thousands died
(their ears ringing and clinging to
these knowing repeated lies)
and millions still sympathize,
although today's braver fractions
better embrace rebel inaction
like exotic travel among beer-eased Bosh
discussing their swelling new Robot Army
with still caged emotions...

slipping like canary songs
as Gautama's monks mallet sweet gongs
to converge pathos punks
in orange-shining throngs
from L.A. to Tokyo to Sao Paulo...
like bulb-drawn idealist moths,
daring again to dance and convulse:
fairy-dust flying off our Dada wings
as we box by the night light
of reaching aluminum street-arms

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