Traditionally, Manchester is hard to catch. However if you look carefully the words all blend together and you can see my house from the top of this rampart, where the sheep judge passes bovine justice upon us with an impassive face.
The widest teeth in all the lands although not quite so much as to rollerskate down a mountain.
Destruction of self and the sense of identity that we foolishly carry in buckets to our aunts’ houses where we unloaded our restless tongues, lick ice cream from the clock face, a tradition kept within the closed ranks of temperament.
“all of you who are serious, you smell worse than cow shit
dada doesn’t smell anything, it is nothing, nothing, nothing.
it is like your hopes: nothing -
like your paradise: nothing -
like your political men: nothing -
like your heroes: nothing -
like your artists: nothing -
like your religions: nothing -
whistle, cry, smash my mouth and then, and then? i will tell you again that
you are all pears.”—francis picabia, dada cannibalistic manifesto (via kwesoup)