WE HAVE HIJACKED THIS LOVE LETTER STOP (Dada Manifesto) 12/98

A COMMUNIQUE FROM THE DADA-SURREALIST INTERNATIONAL PARTY STOP

You have, in a way, changed me and the way I look at the world *through puce-colored squares of semi-transparent cardboard. Free me from the prison of your cheesecake delights while midgets dance their sadistically rhythmic ballet in step with the war-machines of Lower Saxony! No more can we decide to arbitralily create art and call it art--we can now only refer to it as the excrement of several airborne beluga whales, whose names are Malevolence, Confusion and Prostitution! There is no reason why we cannot fart the truth as we belch out the lies of existence as a corporeal ice cream sundae! Oppressors, saw the legs of the galley slaves into cross-wise sections in rapturous animosity towards Kris Kringle and his band of Merry Mermen! ...

I have already won, after all, I did find you *hiding in the dark closet of my adulthood fear of mackrel. Until you acquiece we shall waive the paisley of intentional defenstration and raspberry cookies! Not for nothing are we known by our schoolyard moniker, Henriette. Delineate me not as a minister of the post-abstractionist brotherhood of univeralist plumbing entrepeurial pantywaist Belgian refugee grammarian guerilla vat-stirrers! The rats of discord are honking with utter prescience, for they are in tune with the fundamental concept of contempt-of-court! WE accept no treatises of equatorial banana-farming! The simplest task of the enlightment is to denounce the shoelaces of oppression and the war-torn comic-strip heroes who bark in the night!

THERE IS NO GUATEMALA!

Though you cannot see through your ubiquitous shelves of the most treacherous marzipan, we are rapelling along the walls of the bourgeois River Seine! We are not the convection ovens of the gallery-mopping courtesans of Outer Eritrea!

WHERE IS THE ONE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE ILL-FITTING GARMENTS I SWADDLE MYSELF IN DAY AFTER TEDIOUS DAY?

I think that it might be the same who vexes me with sweet twitching and exclamations of, "PUDDING...HURRAH...PUDDING...HURRAH!"

THERE IS NO ANSWER TO YOUR BREAD-WINNERS! THEY FLAIL ABOUT NOISILY WHILE WE RAVISH THEIR HOUSEPLANTS!

Rampant petunias may not seem like a well-concieved tartan of jealous ambergris, but take our hasty inscription to your kidneys! The oatmeal of our discontent knows no immediate boundaries, for we have taken Liechtenstein by force, employing sharpened butter-knives.

We reject your custard and all of its pastoral splendor! Send us your paleontologists, for we will only laugh at their undergarments! You can make us cut off the tops of our skulls and eat our brains, for we will only gleefully sprinkle the finest spices of Araby upon them!

AFTER US, THERE WILL BE NO MORE CELLOPHANE SNOWMEN!

Your holy books instruct us not to cast swine before pearls, we say, cast molten butter into cannon for the immediate execution of your highly held morality!

STOP

NEW-YORK, 1998.

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