After three frenzied days of looting monotonous postmodern primitivism, I write a manifesto that begins to flourish in the heat of a heart of words, dada. Revolution without beginning, having invented the greatest cultural nada on the basis of a supreme supernatural force. Government ministries and agencies run aground as looters stuff their pockets with obsolete futures. “All gone, all gone.” he said, “All gone in six days.” The actual point is infinity and in principle I am against manifestos, rifles, pistols, axes, knives, and clubs, as well as bold soldiers, kings and princesses, beauty, gold, silver and copper, rocket-propelled grenades and other weapons. Accepting that reality means that we must sweep and clean vowels and consonants constantly while smashing typography and ceramic rhymes to an ignominious end, ringing with z noisy noisy explosions, boomboom. Possessing profound gravity, several thousand of the marauders organize prose into a new currency, slipping along the line but never quite writing.
Among flames, lucid and clear, troops arrive to quell the looting and storm the museum grounds. There is the bouquet of a phantom in minutes. Though each thing has its word locked in a glass display case like irrefutable evidence, some thousands of years old, words are tapestry fragments and can be smashed like ivory figurines. Everyone dances to his or her own personal tottering world and I am in them all, among the band of looters. I want words of insufficient force to tell a tale of lonely losses. In the latest appearance of dada I am seeing being destroyed in front of my eyes, the word itself preserved for safekeeping, boomboom. Boomboom soaked in gasoline, decomposition.
Everything, every shapeless invention, (boom boom (
is carried away by the looters to the artists who are waiting at the edge of perception, always writing around.