Fuld begyndelse på endeløshed

Jeg var nødt til selv at sidde og oversætte begyndelsen på mestermonstrummet Tristram Shandy til min WA-kommentar om tykke bøger, fordi jeg ikke kunne nå at få fingre i den officielle overstættelse, og oversatte mere end jeg behøvede:

"Jeg vil ønske, at enten min far eller mor, eller faktisk begge to, da de begge var forpligtet til det, havde tænkt på, hvad de havde gang i, da de undfangede mig; havde de pligtskyldigt gennemtænkt, hvor meget der afhang af, hvad de gjorde – ikke bare produktionen af et rationelt væsen og selve hans bevidstheds beskaffenhed – og endda, de kunne ikke vide andet, at hele hans hus’ skæbne kunne afhænge af det humør og de dispositioner, som da stod i første række– Havde de pligtskyldigt overvejet og gennemtænkt alt dette, og fortsat i forlængelse heraf – er jeg overbevist om, at jeg ville have gjort en helt anderledes figur i verden end den, læseren med al sandsynlighed vil anskue mig i. (…) Hør, min kære, sagde min mor, har du ikke glemt at trække uret op?"

Sidste forestilling aflyst

som afslutning på kommentaren i dagens WA Bøger om tykke bøgers tykhed, sådan lød første version:

"Det forbryderiske er velmenende, velformet kedsomlighed, en helt anden sag er aggressiv, flosset kedsomlighed som Dan Turèlls 411 sider tykke Sidste forestilling bevidstløse trancebilleder af eksploderende spejltricks igennem flyvende tidsmaskine af smeltende elektriske glasfotos, pågående, fuldt intenderet ulæselighed. Hvordan få for meget af det? Med ømme øjne falder læseren ustandseligt hen:

  ”FLIMRENDE LUFT/ I SKRIGENDE ULTRAVIOLET SKÆR – ALT SAMMEN I SVINDENDE LYS – FLAKKENDE ANSPÆNDTE LINIER – ILLUSIONER I DET TOMME RUM – FLADE GENNEM U-RUM U-TID – INTET TRÆKKER SIG TILBAGE – GALAKSER AF RADIOAKTIVT BLY – SÆT ALARMHYL PÅ ALLE TEGN – SONDERNE : SØGERNE : SKÆRMENE MED SKIFTENDE MENINGSLØSE MØNSTRE – ENDELØST BØLGENDE FORMATIONER MOD VILKÅRLIGE LYS – FARVEDE PRIKKER DANSENDE PÅ MAGNETISK SKÆRM”

  Kort sagt: Skriv langt som en girafs hals!"

Lawrence F 100

City Lights-grundlægger og beatdigter - OG LYSLEVENDE!

Retired Ballerinas, Central Park West

 

Retired ballerinas on winter afternoons   

          walking their dogs

                      in Central Park West

    (or their cats on leashes—

       the cats themselves old highwire artists)   

The ballerinas

                leap and pirouette

                           through Columbus Circle   

         while winos on park benches

               (laid back like drunken Goudonovs)   

            hear the taxis trumpet together

               like horsemen of the apocalypse   

                               in the dusk of the gods   

It is the final witching hour

                when swains are full of swan songs   

    And all return through the dark dusk   

                to their bright cells

                                  in glass highrises

      or sit down to oval cigarettes and cakes   

                              in the Russian Tea Room   

    or climb four flights to back rooms

                                 in Westside brownstones   

               where faded playbill photos

                        fall peeling from their frames   

                            like last year’s autumn leaves

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, “Retired Ballerinas, Central Park West” from These Are My Rivers. Copyright © 1981 

SUSANNE J 75

DEN PRIMÆRE JORN, SUSANNE, BLIVER 75 I DAG'

Her et yndlingsdigt på en prik eller to fra det første hovedværk, Epigrammer, 1977:

I mongolfolden

den mærkelige
gamle mand
kadte mig
frk. Udenfor
og frk. Rundøje

bagefter
tissede han
på mit hus

Her en sekvens fra hendes smadrende gode, splintrende nye bog, Ny og næ, der udkommer i dag:

(side 76)

støv

(side 77)

usynligt støv

(side 78)

har lagt sig

(side 79)

siden jeg
kom ind i

(side 80)

støvets.  år

(side 81)

jeg vil altid
være støvet
nu

(side 82)

for
man kan ikke tørre
´det støv

(side 83)

af

Iggy om at være objekt for kritik (og vigtige bøger)

(fra interview i New York Times):

Are there books or critics about either your music or punk music that you think are especially valuable?

Lester Bangs and Nick Kent are two people I can think of, off the top of my head. Both of them, in sort of a flailing, wild, highly subjective way. But why not! At least the two of them were treating what they write about like it’s actually important.

I read the stuff Lester Bangs wrote about me and thought: “Oh no, I’m a buffoon! But wait: I am a salient blowtorch of nihilism. Cool! Wait, am I cool or not? I’m not sure!” I have one of his books in hardback. I’ve had it for a long, long time. It’s sitting on the shelf along with “The Andy Warhol Diaries,” the collected works of Allen Ginsberg and a few other books. I look at their spines and think: “O.K., this is what’s important!”

Kærlighedsversionen

af min anmeldelse i dag af Inger Christensens Essays, som blev lige lovlig egenknudret og citattung:

Pege-Inger. Inge Christensens intrikat tankedansende essays genudgives i ny, musikalsk, elegant sekvens, visdom fås ikke heftigere

Fugl Fønix: Findes stadigvæk ikke

Ingen Christensen: Essays – del af labyrinten & Hemmelighedstilstanden. 264 sider. 299,95 kr. Gyldendal

Af Lars Bukdahl

Efter endt, rundtosset læsning af sønnen Peter Borums re-komposition af essayene i Inger Christensens to navnkundige essaysamlinger, Del af labyrinten, 1982, og Hemmelighedstilstanden, 2000, til et samlet bind Essays og efterfølgende, adspredt bladren i sidste års kæmpebind med efterladte papirer, Verden ønsker at se sig selv, har jeg opdaget, at der er en uskrevet tekst af Inger Christensen, som vi fatalt mangler! Og som det forekommer yderst vigtigt at notere og begræde fraværet af:

  Christensen skrev til den såkaldte skriftrække Krise & Utopi, udgivet af Gyldendal og redigeret af IC, Niels I. Meyer og Ole Thyssen, i de første fire af de fem bind, der 1979-1981 nåede at udkomme, fire opslag til et ”Forsøg på utopisk ordbog”, ”Afrealisering”, ”Arbejde”, ”Energi”, og ”Broderskab”, som i deres frygtløst skarpsindige forfra- og gennemforgrubling af alt og det hele ville have elevateret hende til instant europæisk mesterfilosof,-status, hvis de var udkommet på fransk i et lille, nøgent Galimard-bind i stedet for skjult i en sen-70er-mudret såkaldt skriftrække.

  I de efterladte papirer optræder nemlig en utrykt tekst, ”Utopisk ordbog. Fortsatte brudstykker”, med små definitioner, der henviser til både systemdigtet alfabet, 1979 – ”frygt: angst, ængstelse,, uro, bekymring, skræk, panik, rædsel, forfærdelse, gru (se desuden terrorbalance/ Fugl Fønix: findes stadigvæk ikke” – og til de fire tekster i Krise & Utopi-bindene. Og nu kommer vi omsider til kriminalistikken: Under opslagsordet ”kærlighed” står der:

  ”(se Krise & Utopi nr. 6, endnu ikke udkommet)”

  Det vil sige, at hvis Gyldendal ikke havde stoppe skriftserien, så havde Inger Christensen fortalt os, hvad kærlighed er! Og det kunne vi jo nok have brug for at få at vide. Læs bare det sidste, hun skriver om det skrumlede, gamle ord ”broderskab”, som hun nemlig pudser helt nyt og lysende:

. ”Hvis det falder mig ind at sige ’jeg er en fisk’ – så er jeg selvfølgelig ikke nogen fisk, men det primære er at jeg med denne sætning kn få en viden ikke alene om fisken, men også om mig selv, som jeg ikke kan få på andre måder./ På en sær måde er det det samme, når jeg siger ’jeg er et menneske’. Jeg er selvfølgelig et menneske, jeg ligner et menneske, men ved at lytte til selve udsagnet, og denne lytten er en undren, fik jeg en viden om mig selv, men også om mennesket. Her begynder broderskabet, som en afrealisering af min undren over at være menneske.”

  Derfra skulle definitionen af kærlighed begynde. Stavekontrollen sætter en rød streg under ”afrealisering”, den utopiske ordbogs centrale og første ord, som Christensen har opfundet selv som en modsætning til tidens løsen om at realisere sig selv: ”Min selvrealisering, min magt til at lede og fordele min hverdag og dens uhyggelige tryghed bliver eksemplarisk for den vestlige kulturs realisering af alt, rub og stub, i billedet af den vilde vækst.”

  Christensens formuleringer er så højspændt, traktatagtigt koncentrerede og hendes formler for samfund og eksistens så suverænt marsbo-originale, at jeg virkelig ikke tør parafrasere. Dette er så tæt opslaget om afrealisering afslutningsvis når en definition af samme, hold tungen lige i hovedet:

  ”Med min særlige disposition (mine anlæg, som er det hvormed jeg henvender mig til andre) genkender jeg verden på én gang som den er og uophørligt finder sted og som den ikke har fundet sted. Ikke før. Det er dette ikke-sted, som hver gang et menneske fødes, med rette kan kaldes en utopi.// Hvis denne utopi er opbrugt den dag barnet træder ind i det vi kalder de voksnes rækker, begynder barnet at realisere sig selv, for at der dog skal være noget til stede, i stedet for at afrealisere sig selv, fordi alt allerede er til stede.”

  Så giver jeg lige min og læserens hjerne en kort pause!  

  Begge nu sammenbragte og ”sammenflettede” essaysamlinger er opsamlinger af tekster skrevet til alskens sammenhænge 1969-1994, i de seneste år fortrinsvis tyske sammenhænge, eftersom Christensen på den anden side af grænsen opnåede stor anerkendelse og måske faktisk større, på grund af anderledes selvfølgelig genirespekt, end hertillands. Den ufærdige serie af opslag til den utopiske ordbog ligner et fragment af det hele, fuldendte poetologsiek/filosofiske værk, Christensen aldrig fik skrevet. I deres lynblinkende brogethed kan de samlede essaysamlinger minde om Per Højholts essayopsamling, Stenvaskeriet, bortset fra at Højholt da allerede havde skrevet hele to boglange poetikker. Til gengæld ligner forfatterskabet som helhed, med den lille perlerække af poetiske mesterværker, det, Brev i april, alfabet, Sommerfugledalen, og så disse spredte, men brillante essays, slående T.S. Eliots forfatterskab (bortset fra at Eliot ikke skrev tre brandoriginale romaner oveni). Mens selve Christensens mix af poetisk tænkning og tænkende poesi i dag praktiseres familienært af Ursula Andkjær Olsen.

  Udover den utopiske ordbog tæller brillant-teksterne det store essay, bogens yngste, om den kunstneriske proces, ”Tilfældighedens ordnende virkning”, credo-essayet ”Terningens syvtal” (”Gud er ikke død, siger jeg til mig selv. Gud er den samtale mennesket fører med sig selv, eller omvendt: den samtale universet fører med mennesket for at komme til bevidsthed om sig selv”), inspirations-essayet ”Hemmelighedstilstanden” og den hypnotiske remse om Roms fontæner, ”Vandtrapper”, der virkelig ikke hører hjemme i en essaysamling, men det har den så besluttet at gøre alligevel.

  Blot fremragende er fodnoterne til det og alfabet, de alt for korte nærlæsninger af Dante, Ewald og Aarestrup, barok-præsentationen ””Jeg tænker, altså er jeg en del af labyrinten” og de mere traditionelle, men samtidigt ekstremt Christensensk tætvævede erindringsessays ”Frihed, lighed og broderskab i sommerhuset” og ”Samspil”.

  Men jeg vender forbistret fascineret tilbage til den utopiske ordbog, som samtidens økokritiske poesi stadig ikke er i nærheden at indhente. Den her smukke, vilde passage er ikke tænkt og set fra Mars, men fra Neptun mindst:

  ”(…) Således er vi med vores kroppe som dele af biologiske rum en slags afbøjning, en underdrejning af et brat og udifferentieret varmespild, en slags omvej, en rumlig forsinkelse af solens død, som er det vi kalder liv./ Sådan set er vi en slags plaster på en diskontinuitet, en krusning over et brud, sammensmeltede med de dampende sår vi prøver at hele ved ustandselig forvandling./ Vores trang til fremtid, vores forplantning og vores arbejde, hele vores utopiske funktion er vores evne til at transponere energi og formilde, måske ligefrem forskønne nedbrydningen ved vores blotte eksistens.”

  Hjertet bliver klogere af at læse Inger Christensen.

Pauseklovn de luxe

Så godt som indkørt, så godt som aldrig udkørt!

Samuel, 13 måneder i dag!

Thee Missing Manifest

- det dada-manifest, jeg savner i dag i min anmeldelse i WA Bøger af den pga. det kæmpemæssige omfang af ALTING uundværlig antologi Avantgardemanifester, redigeret af Mikkel Bolt:

Dada Manifesto On Feeble Love And Bitter Love (1920)

by Tristan Tzara

12th December 1920

preamble = sardanapalus
one = suitcase
woman = women
trousers = water
if = moustache
2 = three
stick = perhaps
after = sightreading
irritant = emerald
vice = screw
october = periscope
nerve =
or all this drawn together in any old savory, soapy, brusque or definitive order – drawn by lot – is alive.
It is thus that over and above the vigilant spirit of the clergyman built at the corner of every road, be it animal, vegetable, imaginable or organic, everything is the same as everything that is not the same. Even if I didn’t believe it, it’s the truth of the fact that I’ve put it on paper – because it’s a lie that I have FIXED like a butterfly on a hat.
Lies circulate – welcome Mister Opportune and Mister Convenient: I arrest them – they’re turning into the truth.
Thus DADA takes on the job of the two-wheeled cops and of undercover morality.
Everyone (at a certain moment) was sound in mind and body.
Repeat this 30 times.
I consider myself very likeable.

Tristan Tzara

 
II
 
A manifesto is a communication made to the whole world, whose only pretensions is to the discovery of an instant cure for political, astronomical, artistic, parliamentary, agronomical and literary syphilis. It may be pleasant, and good-natured, it’s always right, it’s strong, vigorous and logical.
Apropos of logic, I consider myself very likeable.

Tristan Tzara

Pride is the star that yawns and penetrates through the eyes and the mouth, she insists, strikes deep, on her breast is inscribed: you will die. This is her only remedy. Who still believes in doctors? I prefer the poet who is a fart in a steam-engine – he’s gentle but he doesn’t cry – polite and semi-homosexual, he floats. I don’t give a single damn about either one of them. It’s by pure (unnecessary) chance that the first should be German and the second Spanish. Far be it from us, in actual fact, the idea of discovering theory of the probability of races and the epistolary perfection of bitterness.

 
III
 
We have always made mistakes, but the greatest mistakes are the poems we have written. Gossip has one single raison d’être: the rejuvenation and maintenance of biblical traditions. Gossip is perfecting itself, encouraged by the state-controlled tobacco company, the railways, the hospitals, the undertaking industry and cloth factories. Gossip is encouraged by the culture of the family. Gossip is encouraged by Peter’s pence. Every drop of saliva that escapes from a conversation is converted into gold. Since the people have always needed divinities to protect the three essential laws, which are those of God: eating, making love and shitting, since the kinds are on their travels and the laws are too hard, the only thing that counts at the moment is gossip. The form under which it most often appears is DADA.
There are some people (journalists, lawyers, amateurs, philosophers) who even think that other forms: business, marriages, visits, wars, various conferences, limited companies, politics, accidents, dance halls, economic crises, fits of hysterics, are variations of dada.
Not being an imperialist, I don’t share their opinion – I believe, rather, that dada is only a divinity of the second order, which must quite simple by placed beside the other forms of the new mechanism of the religions of the interregnum.
Is simplicity simple, or dada?
I consider myself rather likeable.
 

Tristan Tzara

 
IV
 
Is poetry necessary? I know that those who shout loudest against it are actually preparing a comfortable perfection for it; they call it the Future Hygienic.
People envisage the (ever-impending) annihilation of art. Here they are looking for a more art-like art. Hygiene becomes mygod mygod purity.
Must we no longer believe in words? Since when do they express the contrary of what the organ that utters them things and wants?^* Herein lies the great secret:

Thought is made in the mouth.

I still consider myself very likeable.
 

Tristan Tzara

 
A great Canadian philosopher said: Thought and the past are also very likeable.

---

^* Thinks. wants, and wishes to think
 
V
 
A friend, who is too good a friend of mine not to be very intelligent, said to me the other day:

a shudder	IS ONLY THE
a palmist

WAY PEOPLE SAY

good morning good evening

AND

WHICH DEPENDS ON THE FORM

THAT HAS BEEN GIVEN

TO	its forget-me-not his hair

I answered

YOU ARE RIGHT

idiot prince

BECAUSE I AM

CONVINCED OF THE

contrary Tartary

naturally we hesitate

WE ARE NOT (DO NOT)

right. I am called	THE OTHER
wish to understand

Since diversity is diverting, this game of golf gives the illusion of a “certain” depth. I support all the conventions – to suppress them would be to make new ones, which would complicate our lives in a truly repugnant fashion.
We wouldn’t know any more what if fashionable: to love the children of the first or second marriage. The “pistil of the pistol” has often landed us in bizarre and restless situations. To disorder meanings – to disorder notions and all the little tropical rains of demoralisation, disorganisation, destruction and billiard-breaks, are actions which are insured against lightning and recognised as being of public utility. There is one known fact: dadaists are only to be found these days in the French Academy. I nevertheless consider myself very likeable.

Tristan Tzara

 
VI
 
It seems that this exists: more logical, very logical, too logical, less logical, not very logical, really logical, fairly logical.
Well then, draw the inferences.
“I have.”
Now think of the person you love most.
“Have you?”
Tell me the number and I’ll tell you the lottery.

 
VII
 
A priori, in other words with its eyes closed, Dada places before action and above all: Doubt. DADA doubts everything. Dada is an armadillo. Everything is Dada, too. Beware of Dada.

Anti-dadaism is a disease: selfkleptomania, man’s normal
condition, is DADA.
But the real dadas are against DADA.

The selfkleptomaniac.

The person who steals – without thinking of his own interests, or of his will – elements of his individual, is a kleptomaniac. He steals himself. He causes the characters that alienate him from the community to disappear. The bourgeois resemble one another – they’re all alike. They used not to be alike. They have been taught to steal – stealing has become a function – the most convenient and least dangerous thing is to steal oneself. They are all very poor. The poor are against DADA. They have a lot to do with their brains. They’ll never get to the end of it. They work. The poor are against DADA. He who is against DADA is for me, a famous man said, but then he died. They buried him like a true dadaist. Anno domini Dada. Beware! And remember this example.

 
VIII
 
TO MAKE A DADAIST POEM

Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes 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.
Them poem will resemble you.
And there you are – an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.*
 

---

* Example:
when dogs cross the air in a diamond like ideas and the appendix of the meninx tells the time of the alarm programme (the title is mine) prices they are yesterday suitable next pictures/ appreciate the dream era of the eyes/ pompously that to recite the gospel sort darkens/ group apotheosis imagine said he fatality power of colours/ carved flies (in the theatre) flabbergasted reality a delight/ spectator all to effort of the no more 10 to 12/ during divagation twirls descends pressure/ render some mad single-file flesh on a monstrous crushing stage/ celebrate but their 160 adherents in steps on put on my nacreous/ sumptuous of land bananas sustained illuminate/ joy ask together almost/ of has the a such that the invoked visions/ some sings latter laughs/ exits situation disappears describes she 25 dance bows/ dissimulated the whole of it isn’t was/ magnificent has the band better light whose lavishness stage music-halls me/ reappears following instant moves live/ business he didn’t has lent/ manner words come these people

 
IX
 
There are some people who explain, because there are others who learn. Abolish hem and all that’s left is dada.
Dip your pen into a black liquid with manifesto intentions – it’s only your autobiography that you’re hatching under the belly of the flowering cerebellum.
Biography is the paraphernalia of the famous man. Great or strong. And there you are, a simple man like the rest of them, once you’ve dipped your pen into the ink, full of

PRETENSIONS

which manifest themselves in forms as diverse as they are unforeseen, which apply to every form of activity and of state of mind and of mimicry: there you are, full of

AMBITIONS

to keep yourself on the dial of life, in the place where you’ve only just arrived, to proceed along the illusory and ridiculous upward path towards an apotheosis that only exists in your neurasthenia: there you are, full of

PRIDE

greater, stronger, more profound than all the others.
Dear colleagues: a great man, a little one, a strong, weak, profound, superficial one,
that’s why you’re all going to die.
There are some people who have antedated their manifestos to make other people believe that they had the idea of their own greatness a little earlier. My dear colleagues, before after, past future, now yesterday,
that’s why you’re all going to die.
There are some people who have said: dada is good because it isn’t bad, dada is bad, dada is a religion, dada is a poem, dada is a spirit, dada is sceptical, dada is magic, I know dada.
My dear colleagues: good bad, religion poetry, spirit scepticism, definition definition,
that’s why you’re all going to die,
and you will die, I promise you.
The great mystery is a secret, but it’s known to a few people. They will never say what dada is. To amuse you once again I’ll tell you something like:
dada is the dictatorship of the spirit, or
dada is the dictatorship of language,
or else
dada is the death of the spirit,
which will please many of my friends. Friends.

 
X
 
It is certain that since Gambetta, the war, Panama and the Steinheil affair, intelligence is to be found in the street. The intelligent man has become and all-round, normal person. What we lack, what has some interest, what is rare because he has the anomalies of precious being, the freshness and liberty of the great antimen, is

THE IDIOT

Dada is working with all its might towards the universal installation of the idiot. But consciously. And tends itself to become more and more of one.
Dada is terrible: it doesn’t feel sorry about the defeats of intelligence.
Dada could rather be called cowardly, but cowardly like a mad dog; it recognises neither method nor persuasive excess.
The lack of garters which makes it systematically bend down reminds us of the famous lack of system which basically has never existed. The false rumour was started by a laundress at the bottom of her page, the page was taken to the barbaric country where humming-birds act as the sandwich-men of cordial nature.
This was told me by a watch-maker who was holding a supple syringe which, in characteristic memory of the hot countries, he called phlegmatic and insinuating.

 
XI
 
Dada is a dog – a compass – the lining of the stomach – neither new nor a nude Japanese girl – a gasometer of jangled feelings – Dada is brutal and doesn’t go in for propaganda – Dada is a quantity of life in transparent, effortless and gyratory transformation.

 
XII
 
gentlemen and ladies buy come in and buy and don’t read you’ll see the fellow who has in his hands the key to niagara the man with a game leg in the game box his hemispheres in a suitcase his nose enclosed in a chinese lantern you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see the belly dance in the massachusetts saloon the fellow who sticks the nail in and the tyre goes down mademoiselle atlantide’s silk stockings the trunk that goes 6 times round the world to find the addressee monsieur and his fiancee his brother and his sister-in-law you’ll find the carpenter’s address the toad-watch the nerve like a paper-knife you’ll have the address of the minor pin for the feminine sex and that of the fellow who supplies the obscene photos to the kind of greece as well as the address of l’action francaise.

 
XIII
 
DADA is a virgin microbe
DADA is against the high cost of living
DADA
limited company for the exploitation of ideas
DADA has 391 different attitudes and colours according to the sex of the president
It changes – affirms – says the opposite at the same time – no importance – shouts – goes fishing.
Dada is the chameleon of rapid and self-interested change.
Dada is against the future. Dada is dead. Dada is absurd. Long live Dada. Dada is not a literary school, howl
 

Tristan Tzara

 
XIV
 
To “prettify” life in the lorgnette – a blanket of caresses – a panoply with butterflies – that’s the life of life’s chambermaids.

To sleep on a razor and on fleas in rut – to travel in a barometer – to piss like a cartridge – to make faux pas, be idiotic, take showers of holy minutes – be beaten, always be the last one – shout out the opposite of what the other fellow says – be the editorial office and the bathroom of God who every day takes a bath in us in company with the cesspool clearer – that’s the life of dadaists.

To be intelligent – respect everyone – die on the field of honour – subscribe to the Loan – vote for So-and-So – respect for nature and painting – to barrack at dada manifestations – that’s the life of men.

 
XV
 
DADA is not a doctrine to be put into practice: Dada – is for lying: a successful business. Dada gets into debt and doesn’t live on its well-filled wallet. The good Lord created a universal language, that’s why people don’t take him seriously. A language is a utopia. God can allow himself not to be successful: so can Dada. That’s why the critics say: Dada goes in for luxuries, or Dada is in rut. God goes in for luxuries, or God is in rut. Who’s right: God, Dada or the critic?
“You’re deviating,” a charming reader tells me.
– No no, not at all! I simply wanted to reach the conclusion: Subscribe to Dada, the only loan that doesn’t pay.

 
XVI
 
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
howl howl howl howl howl howl howl howl
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Who still considers himself very likeable

Tristan Tzara

Mortismer - et udvalg

Lille hurtigt udvalg fra det de sensationelle efterladte papirer-indstik i Dit hjerte, Morti Vizkis samlede dramatik:

HVIS ALT NDET GLIPPER,
            SÅ PRØV MED SANDHEDEN

det bekymrer!

det er hovmodigt a tænke på din næste sorg

dynamo
kattepine
himlens stalde

I betragtning af karaten af (hans talent)
hans mest beregnende impulser'
gennem årene skulle de galvanisere hinandens ambitioner

VERDEN
    ER
OMVENDT!

Livsmodning.

At gå tur i sin
          lejlghed
Så man kan dø
             lykkeligt
Latent

don't go cora on me
don't go there
Mercy!

* Nåede også indkøb
af disetter og lykkepiller

Pølsevogn: Hvad skal der på?
                   Der skal fart på

komsopolitisk

a revoir/ hvabehar

grimkønt
hvidovreskønhed
hendes skønhed var duppet
            på med en karklud

        kåd
      som en
pony
         med
hat og sølvbroc
he sparkestøvle
r

PÅ DEN ANDEN SIDE 5 psykiatere og 7 venner
                                        kender til mine 5 skrækscenarier
                                        og ville kronvidne, hvis

DIN STADIG STØRRE FORVISNING
                                              OM
                                              AT
                                              DU
                                              IKKE
                                              STÅR
                                                 I
                                             GÆLD
                                                TIL
                                                MIG
                                       OVERHOVEDET
                                                DET
                                                GØR
                                                 DU
                                              NEMLIG
                                                IKKE

FORTRYLLEDE VOKALER
A     KVINDE
E      PIGE
I       MAND  
O      DRENG
U      MØDESTED

Enten ler man eller også
forvandler latteren sig til en
heksekaglen

kurv.

Aprilregn ligesom lysstriber
Jeg logge roligt og selvtillidsfuldt på marken
Mit gevir vokser frem og alle føler, at det er
                                    det allersmukkeste i hele skoven

Meget kan se anderledes ud
              i dagslys

Mennesket har bygget nogen store byer i aften
Tillid sker

Hvis du var et møl
ville jeg lægge et uldtæppe
ud til dig
                                                 

Mortis yderligere alter egoer

(fra det fantastiske bonus til Morti Vizkis Dit hjerte. Samlet dramatik 1985-2004, . red. Fine Graabøl & Kamilla Löfström, ude snart, som er ""Notater og illustrationer (...) fra Morti Vizkis efterladte papirer (acc. 2009/64), Håndskriftafdelingen, Det Kgl. Bibliotek" stukket ind mellem dramaerne, en liste ved start, en liste til slut:

APPEARANCE

Morti
Mowgli
Mortimer
Moriarty
Krishna Morti
Morti Graf von Vizki
More-Teq?
Morten
Sporty Morti
Naughty Morti
VizKid
MUJI
Morti Fourty
mrt vzk

Morti
Mowgli
Mortimer
Moriarty
Krishna Morti
Morti Graf von Vizki
More-Tra?
Morten
Sporty Morti
Naughty Morti
VizKid
Mozart Vinzent

Splatterversion

At bælge
elge
til fælge

Rispopgave

- at skrive en
ELGELEGI

Fra "The Moose"

af Elizabeth Bishop - det primære engelsksprogede elgdigt:

—Suddenly the bus driver   

stops with a jolt,

turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of

the impenetrable wood

and stands there, looms, rather,   

in the middle of the road.

It approaches; it sniffs at

the bus’s hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,   

high as a church,

homely as a house

(or, safe as houses).

A man’s voice assures us   

“Perfectly harmless....”

Some of the passengers   

exclaim in whispers,   

childishly, softly,

“Sure are big creatures.”   

“It’s awful plain.”   

“Look! It’s a she!”

Taking her time,

she looks the bus over,   

grand, otherworldly.   

Why, why do we feel   

(we all feel) this sweet   

sensation of joy?

“Curious creatures,”

says our quiet driver,   

rolling his r’s.

“Look at that, would you.”   

Then he shifts gears.

For a moment longer,

by craning backward,   

the moose can be seen

on the moonlit macadam;   

then there’s a dim

smell of moose, an acrid   

smell of gasoline.

Elgdigt-top 1

- fra min anmeldelse af Eske K. Mathiensens Samlet poesi 2004-2008:

"Hvor mange danske digte om elge findes der? Hvor mange gode, danske digte om elge findes der? Jeg ved det ikke, men jeg er sikker på, at Eske K. Mathiesen ved det, og måske har han oven i købet til en udstilling på et langelandsk galleri af en ukendt, fynsk akvarelmaler samlet dem i et lille og udsøgt katalog. Sandsynligvis fandtes der slet ingen gode, danske digte om elge før Mathiesens eget suveræne nummer i den nye digtsamling, Tranedun, der som den flyvende (titel)rosin i pølseenden følger med Bebops opsamling af »poesi 2004-2008«; sådan lyder, i al forfinet selvfølgelighed, digtet:

»Den er så stor og så tung, elgen/ men den løber så let hen over/ den lysende sne i den grå aftenskumring,/ forcerer et hegn i et svævende spring./ Jeg kender ikke noget, der kan sammenlignes/ med en løbende elg. Enten er det/ for tungt eller for let./ Og elgen er begge dele.«

Måske har Mathiesen skrevet digtet som en udfordring, en dare, til sig selv, for helst er det mere beskedne og diminutive væsener (og dele (og effekter!) af samme!), han portrætterer i sine digte (plus ingen ende på flora); i Tranedun blandt andet muldvarpevinger (!), tranedun, en død mus, »fuldstændig vindtør«, skyggen af en rovfugl, en mursejler, »smalle lysegrå fisk med røde cirkelrunde øjne,« traner, ugler, en finsk flagspætte, en sorlsorthun, en regnorm, en agerhumle(bi?), grønne geder, citronsommerfugle (x 2), et fårekranium og en tudse, foruden - til at holde elgen med selskab - endnu en undtagelse, »gårdens gamle trækhest/ en bred belgier med hvid flagrende manke,« der parallelt med elgen forener massivitet og omhu: da digteren sidst så hesten:

»Forsvandt den ind i birkelunden, der så småt var/ ved at få et rødligt forårsskær i kronerne,/ og den satte sine store hove så forsigtigt/ som vi andre plukker anemoner.«