minute of elation

Elation in Elisions

The odious neglect of the scab Crab Nebula yelling: I Zimbra, I Zimbra, dada, dada, dada, doo! At the Cabaret Voltaire after hours parties degenerate into clean well lighted chess matches in top hat and overcoated teas with perfectly dictioned inflections and timbres of sonorous dejection odes to propriety. No one moves as Breton enters—trailing Leninisms and Trotsky ice picks, well before the weapon was chosen in dim back alley Mexico City. ¡Viva la huelga! ¡Viva la huelga! Tzara cries out—he’s Romanian of course, but he knows Breton has a weakness for Spanish. No one strikes, but they are all stricken with peripeteia and aposiopesis—walking in circles and leaving things unsaid. There is a full minute of elation, some confusion about elisions, and then someone dims the lights.

This is fall in Jamaica Plain, MA, on 10/17/2021, at
8:48 a.m.

“Everything from porn to nonexistent WMDs can be sold to us because we are perfect receptors for dada poetry, made pliable by a relentless history of nonsense and nonstop pitching.”

— Andrei Codrescu / The Posthuman Dada Guide

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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