eyes are ribboned by birth
sight to vision

the ache in our sordid bones is from the recluse of the lizard
who fucks in human skin.

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An idiot's point of view as criticism is really the limitation of his vision.

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Freedom!
Vicariously assassinated at birth!
for you freedom
they slain
to cage you in a state of the insane.

This insanity is not the one of brilliance and misconception.
but, of mediocrity and devious denial in desperation for power,
pitifully, only measurable by economy.

I tell you, the real power cannot be bought and sold or even exchanged, moreover, certainly cannot be leashed by a group of people for other people.

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Vladimir Mayakovsky.
These eyes write.

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an automatic message:

solitude is multitude.
nice one, nice one, mice won.
in the white hot impossible.
i am afraid the world might be an end.
if i wasn't ridiculous, i could have been a pompous bourgeoisie twat.
hidden in the mad ridden youthful waste of me.
there is deep faith in making nonsense out of everything deemed correct and complete.
don't temper with mad love.
dozens of songs at one go, the other evening.
in the meantime,
wolves are eating each other over a sheep in a wolf's clothing.

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"Everything leads to the belief that there exists a certain point of the mind at which life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future, the communicable and the incommunicable, the high and the low, are not perceived as contradictions. It would be vain to attribute to surrealism any other motive than the hope of determining this point. It is clear, moreover, that it would be absurd to ascribe to surrealism either a purely destructive or a purely constructive character—the point at issue being precisely this: that construction and destruction can no longer be brandished against each other. It becomes clear also that surrealism is not at all interested in taking into account what passes alongside it under the guise of art or even antiart; of philosophy or antiphilosophy; of anything, in a word, that has not for its ultimate end the conversion of being into a jewel, internal and unseeing, with a soul that is neither of ice nor of fire. What, indeed, could they expect of surrealism, who are still anxious about the position they may occupy? On this mental plane from which one may for oneself alone embark on the perilous, but, we think, supreme reconnaissance—on this plane the footsteps of those who come or go are no longer of any importance, because these steps occur in a region where, by definition, surrealism possesses no listening ear. It is not desirable that surrealism should be dependent on the whim of this or that group of persons. If it declares itself capable of uprooting thought from an increasingly cruel serfdom, of bringing it back to the path of total comprehension, of restoring to its original purity, it is indeed no more than right that it should be judged only by what it has done and by what it has still to do in the fulfilment of its promise..."

Andre Breton, 1934


This promise is the one that will not perish as long as we are in human form.
This is precisely my position between awareness and motivation. Call me an artist or a musician and I will break your nose. For this spirit have always been inherent in the intelligent men's psyche across centuries, countries, traceable back to our origin. My duty is to destroy creatively in order to reconnect the internal knowledge that sustains any form and language from taking precedence over another one with regards to value in virtue. Call me a philosopher and I shall slap you. I will bring you back to the path of total comprehension through what I am capable of doing. The only voice of truth, Poet.

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In Breton's Surrealist Manifesto of 1924 he defines surrealism as:

Dictionary: Surrealism, n. Pure psychic automatism, by which one proposes to express, either verbally, in writing, or by any other manner, the real functioning of thought. Dictation of thought in the absence of all control exercised by reason, outside of all aesthetic and moral preoccupation.

Encyclopedia: Surrealism. Philosophy. Surrealism is based on the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of previously neglected associations, in the omnipotence of dream, in the disinterested play of thought. It tends to ruin once and for all other psychic mechanisms and to substitute itself for them in solving all the principal problems of life.

This deserves a full explanation. And I am at the level of finishing the creation of this pretext in sound and image.

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Pieces rust that work the hour.
Time.
The very idea of measurement.
The imposed civilisation.
Where did this ambition to progress come from?
Whose need was it to sit on foam?
We know that economy has nothing to do with numbers,
it consumes souls,
embodies their bodies,
Always new on the market. 
A tube of hair gel, dynamic curves of cars for different seasons,
and thanks for the records now all beating with a permenant pulse, 
drums of africa is finally ringing in the western world, what a  massive jungle without the wild, peopled and dying for recollection because it suspects a beginning.
History, it's loyal terrorist, whose brainwashing acquits many villians and cannibals for
the grotesque party of misinformation.
Beware! Somethings never happened.

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Who is the shrapnel stuck in my mind,
in the gentle idea that
I am a leader?

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All masks are off
names and numbers must die
get out from where you hide
traps must be reset,
for liberty,
that cannot be owned by a state or a statue,
it's mine and like minded mines of brilliant stuff like me.

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If you are an artist, musician or a writer that means you are disabled in spirit.
It's because, unlike your idols, you aspire to wear the costume of great spirits' vocation.
The form you are looking for is your own, the human form in the map of the universe.

There is only one place you will be reminded of this overwhelming truth, that consumes your petite occupations like vice does to man, even though you may be ascending heavenwards.
The slap of this higher awareness, the surrealist revolution, will not take place at bloody squares... or in your private screens or even in front of your eyes.
It may happen in the mind of anyone who is imaginative enough to think about their own death, when one is immersed in the image-sentiment immersed in everything at once!

When?

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poet admits himself to the terrain through firmament.

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psalms inside palms
wisdom
a last morsel of words

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Without youth
inside your grand head,
I am the most ingenious idiot
recalling
you as a wave of hypnosis
that creates

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