1. |
Dutch Futurismo
04:00
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2. |
Manifeste Cannibale
05:12
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MANIFESTE CANNIBALE
You are all indicted; stand up! It is impossible to talk to you unless you are standing up. Stand up as you would for the Marseillaise or God Save The King.
Stand up, as if the Flag were before you. Or as if you were in the presence of Dada, which signifies Life, and which accuses you of loving everything out of snobbery if only it is expensive enough.
So you have sat down again. So much the better. You will listen more attentively.
What are you doing here, crammed in like a lot of serious-minded crustaceans? Because you are serious-minded, aren't you? Serious, serious, serious unto death. Death is a serious matter, isn't it?
One dies a hero's death or an idiot's death - which comes to the same thing. the only word that has more than a day-to-day value is the word Death. You love death - the death of others.
Kill them! Let them die! Only money does not die; it only - goes away for a little while.
That is God! That is someone to respect: someone you can take seriously! Money is the prie-Dieu of entire families. Money for ever! Long live money! The man who has money is a man of honour.
Honour can be bought and sold like the arse. The arse, the arse, represents life like potato-chips, and all you who are serious-minded will smell worse than cow's shit.
Dada alone does not smell: it is nothing, nothing, nothing.
It is like your hopes: nothing.
like your paradise: nothing
like your idols: nothing
like your politicians: nothing
like your heroes: nothing
like your artists: nothing
like your religions: nothing
Hiss, shout, kick my teeth in, so what? I shall still tell you that you are half-wits. In three months my friends and I will be selling you our pictures for a few francs."
Poem: Francis Picabia
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3. |
Enemy Alien
04:57
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Enemy Alien
Standing on a high mountain
I felt free
I danced to the music
the mountains make together
But while I dance
clouds hid the mountains
and when they cleared
I found myself in
this deep valley
where the clouds go walking
among ghostly tree
kszzziss saw
kszzzziss saw
with the hiss of a sawblade
death comes singing
kszzziss saw
kszzzziss saw
How about this one?
Not much left of him
EVERYBODY'S HUNGRY FOR. . .
Not Fantastic
They rarely come back
when they're this far gone
kszzziss saw
kszzzzisss saw
Papers
Have your papers ready
Any rags, any bones, any bottles today
The same old question in the same old way
DIG FOR VICTORY
ksszzziss saw
kssszzzziss saw
Midday was dim
I saw nothing
Riverside 1698
No mountains
22
No way back
22
to the mountains I had lost
ZOOM BOOM
Opened by customs
ZOOM BOOM
Have your papers ready
kksszzziss saw
The round-faced official
with his rubber stamp
ZOOM BOOM
Edinburgh Manchester
The Isle of Man
ZOOM BOOM
kkszziss saw
Says he's an artist
kksszzzzisssaw
That's how far gone he is
Pure Rich Milk
Nature's Finest
kksszzzzissaw
Poem by Kurt Schwitters
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4. |
Huelsendada
04:19
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Huelsendada
So, Huelsenbeck has put our feud in print -- HA HA
So he sneers at my bourgeois home -- my child
who cries, who has to be changed and fed
So he laughs at my solid wife -- that she's no Anna Bloom
So families are not dada -- HA -- neither is the future then
So an artisr has nothing to do with kids,
with homes, with Christmas trees
And this is commitment -- HA -- this is communist art
Well, art is not communist -- not bourgeois either
It's no club and has no party line
Not wild nights make an artist -- not drugs or manifestos
It's art -- HA HA -- that's no secret
The one who makes art -- he's the artist
His one duty-to shape the stuff that comes to hand
So he can't serve two masters --
Not art in the service of revolution
Not revolution at all -- if it fetters art
These Huelsendadas -- husks of artists --
have winnowed out the kernel
So I spit back at you, Huelsenbeck
But where you spit venom, I spit art
I laugh at you -- HA HA --
I laugh at you
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
ha ha ha ho ho ho
HA HO HO HA HO HA HA HO
ho ha ha ho ha ha
HO HO HO HO HO HO
ha ho ha ha ho
HA HA HA HA
Critics
Critics are a special kind of human being.
To be a critic one has to be born to it.
The born critic, thanks to the exceptional
sheeepness of his wits, finds out exactly
what it is not all about.
He invariably sees,
not the faults of the work of art,
not those of the artist, but his own.
The critic, thanks to the natural shee-
eepness of his wits,
becomes aware of his own deficiencies
through the medium of the work of art.
Critics resemble those well-loved men,
the schoolmasters, although it is true
the critic needs to pass no exams:
critics are born not made.
Critics do not have to give up their umbrellas
when they go to an art exhibition.
The umbrellas do, however, have to take an exam.
Only umbrellas with holes are admitted to art criticism.
The difference between artist and critic is this:
the artist creates, the critic bleates.
Poem by Kurt Schwitters
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5. |
Manifest
01:56
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6. |
Karawane
05:51
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KARAWANE
jolifanto bambla ô falli bambla
grossiga m'pfa habla horem
égiga goramen
higo bloiko russula huju
hollaka hollala
anlogo bung
blago bung
blago bung
bosso fataka
ü üü ü
schampa wulla wussa ólobo
hej tatta gôrem
eschige zunbada
wulubu ssubudu uluw ssubudu
tumba ba- umf
kusagauma
ba - umf
Poem by Hugo Ball
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7. |
To make a dadaist poem
06:32
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To Make a Dadaist Poem
Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are—an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.
Poem by Tristan Tzara
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8. |
Chair de Réve
04:15
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Chair de Réve
Les oiseaux de nuit portent des lanternes allumées dans la charpente de leurs yeux.
Ils conduisent des spectres délicats et dirigent des voitures à fines veines.
La voiture noire est attelée à la montagne
La cloche noire est attelée à la montagne
Les morts traînent des troncs et des scies vers le môle
Des goitres visqueux abattent les moissons sur les aires de fer
Les anges atterrissent dans des corbeilles d'air
Les poissons prennent leur bâton de pèlerin et dans des étoles roulent vers la sortie.
Poem by Hans Arp
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9. |
Festival of Misfits
09:54
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FESTIVAL OF MISFITS
If you are too successful, and have nostalgia for the days when you were not.
If you are unsuccessful, and hope some day success will knock at your door.
If you are too beautiful, and find men in the street are bothersome.
If you are ugly, madame, and wish you were beautiful.
If you sleep profoundly at night, and feel that it is a waste of time.
If you suffer from insomnia, and have time on your hands.
If you have teeth, and no meat.
If you have meat, and no teeth.
If you belong to the weaker sex, and wish you were of the stronger.
If you're in love and it makes you suffer.
If you're loved and it bores you.
If you're rich, and envy the simple happiness of the poor.
If you're poor, and long for la Dolce Vita.
If you're afraid to die, or find no point in living.
If you're a drunkard or teetotaler.
If you believe in heaven or believe in hell.
If you're satisfied wit the colour of your skin, or would rather change it.
If you believe in yourself and are pleased with what you do, or don't believe in yourself, and wonder what you are doing and why
then come to see the
FESTIVAL OF MISFITS
built by people who sometimes sleep soundly, sometimes don't: sometimes are hungry, sometimes overfed: sometimes feel young, rich and handsome, sometimes old, ugly and poor: sometimes belleve in themselves, sometimes don't: sometimes are artists, sometimes not.
We make music which is not Music, poems that are not Poetry, painting that are not Painting,
but music that may fit poetry,
poetry that may fit paintings
paintings that may fit....someting, someting which gives us the chance to enjoy a happy,, nonspecialized fantasy.
Try it
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10. |
Kaspar is Dead
05:22
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Kaspar is dead
Oh no, oh no, good Kaspar's dead!
Who now will hide the burning banners in cloudbraid and daily build a black mare's nest?
Who now will turn the coffee mill in its old, old barrel?
And who will lure the idyllic deerfrom its petrified paper bag?
Who'll blow the noses of ships, parapluies, wind-udders, ancestral bees, ozone spindles,
and who will bone the pyramids?
Oh no, no, no, our good Kaspar is dead! Pious bimbam Kaspar's dead!
The shark will rattle his teeth with heartrending grief when he hears his given name -- so
I sigh on -- his last name Kaspar Kaspar Kaspar.
Why hast thou forsaken us? In what form has your great and beautiful soul transmogrified?
Are you a star? or a chain or water hanging from a hot whirlwind? or a transparent brick on the groaning drum of rocky BEING?
Now our tops and toes dry up, and fairies lie half-charred on the funeral pyre.
Now the black bowling alley thunders behind the sun, and no one winds up compasses
and pushcart wheels any longer.
Who now will eat with the phosphorescent rat at the lonely barefoot table?
Who now will chase the siroccoco devil when he wants to fuck the horses?
Now who'll explain the monograms in the stars?
His bust will grace the mantel of all the truly noble men,
but that's no comfort, no tobacco snuff for a deadhead skull.
Poem by Hans Arp
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Sandor Valy Finland
Sándor Vály (1968) is an audiovisual artist born in Hungary and currently living in Finland and Italy. Vály’s art is characterised by conceptual and philosophical dimension, which he uses to operate in the field of contemporary art. His work ranges from music to cinema, performance art and literature. Vály creates holistic works of art that form extensive entities ... more
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