Dada Ausfahrt

'Dada Ausfahrt' by Jay Schwartz (Dada Bloq Productions)

How does one make a Dada Ausfahrt? Blend the following ingredients together: friendship, Christmas, exorcism, a psychedelic rock jam, balloons, farmer blockades, Lord Byron poetry and dada. But first, one must go to war.

Yes, it’s a dirty old shame that inner and universal peace is won only by waging war with the universe. At least, this is what happened to me and how I eventually created my new film, Dada Ausfahrt. I kid you not.
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Love Erupt

'Dada Love Erupt' by Jay Schwartz @jschwartz63

Love hides well in the shame of misplaced givings.
Love cowers in the face of a brutal ‘no’.
Love whispers from the dying throes of embers.
Love runs for sanctuary …
… and surrenders only when ambushed.

In the hope of what might be …
With the wish of things to come …
And the passion of a haunting desire …
Will dissolves …
… and the orderly becomes disordered.

Only then is love consummated.
The mind agrees and the heart nods in kind.
And the soul breathes a gentle flame.

Erupt appropriately at your discretion.

Lucky You!

'Kiki Dada Motors' by Jay Schwartz @Jschwartz63 Tribute to Kiki de MontparnasseLucky You!

Scratch-off ticket puncture wound
Admit one launch to the moon.
Holy triptych revelation
Cryptic moog insinuation.

Ride on … write off. Ride on … write off.
Ride on … write off. Ride on. Lucky You!

Cornbread fiber simulation.
Stem-cell taco face the nation.
Germinate your chocolate soldiers
Rover red send June right over.

Ride on … write off. Ride on … write off.
Ride on … write off. Ride on. Lucky You!

Laughing haha tour-bus
Magic dada mackeral can of war.
Abstain from your apathy, it’s
live and learn and then forget it

Ride on … write off. Ride on … write off.
Ride on … write off. Ride on. Lucky You!

Yellow matter mustard leaking
Lyrics rip-off no redeeming
value-added taxidermist
Lather, rinse, dial ‘9’ for service!

Ride on … write off. Ride on … write off.
Ride on … write off. Ride on. Lucky You!

Lyrics: Jay Leonard Schwartz (ASCAP)

Darwood’s Field Notes On Dadaland

Nuclear Dada
‘Nuclear Dada’ by Jay Schwartz @jschwartz63

Darwood’s Field Notes:  The Eventual Demise of Dadaland

The county pig lives in the village! It serves the good of the community by gnawing on rooftops and prepubescent annoying children. At City Hall, the town jester hunts his prey with a Geiger counter and ukulele, hoping to ensnare civil servants in order to sing to them.

In the village square, the heretic vomits on pedestrian consumers as they exit a pharmacy. A hermit, dressed in orange, watches from a safe distance, fondling his turnips. At times, he waves nervously to a priest who is fishing for compliments from his cathedral.

At the steps of the palace, a royal guard clips his toenails and sells them to the hungry and the poor. Inside the reception hall, the King lays in state, farting silently. And, in the adjacent courtyard, the town crier shoots bare-footed messengers who have gathered for communion before embarking on a pilgrimage to the post office.

On the path to the community abattoir, a streaker sits in a small park studying a Fall fashion catalog from a mail-order cheese-maker. An old hag sits above him in a tree blowing a whistle. A groundskeeper is observed planting sardines in the rose-garden … and in time, some firemen arrive and begin hosing off the sidewalk pavement from the previous evening’s defecation rituals. A temperamental mutt barks in the distance before being pounced on by a rabid armadillo.

A long procession of duck-billed platypi, not to be confused with chicken-beaked platypodes or faux anteater-snout wearing platypuses, march towards the post office. They honk in unison as they pass a little girl named Dadiana who is scolding a large tree for its vanity. Her older brother, the village sophisticate, rolls around on the ground beside her, laughing obnoxiously at his own jokes.

Yes! All was well in Dadaland … until the day a cargo freighter fell from the heavens above … flooding the village with its hold: an assorted mix of pink lawn flamingos, toy bowling pins and tin soldiers. The village was never the same … and in three days’ time descended into the annals of mediocrity as just another lost Atlantis cum Washington.

Oh, such was the glory and cautionary tale of Dadaland, the lost paradise. Such a cavalcade of exceptionalism, the world would never see the likes of again.

PS: Please contact me, if you would like to license this work for ‘Hollywood treatment’. Cheap rates.

PPS:  To learn more about ‘dadaland’, please listen to the ‘Dada Venduza’ soundztrack for free on Spotify.

To Open Twentysomethings

'Dada Youth TV' by Jay Schwartz - @Jschhwartz63

Dear Twentysomethings,

Stop worshiping 30-40somethings who are desperately trying to act like they are still 20somethings but who are managed by 50-60somethings who are forever stuck in middle-management and who are being paid by 70-80somethings to distract you until you grow old enough to get sucked into their system and a world which they continue to control.

It’s your life and your world. You can take control of both but only with:
#OpenBorders
#OpenMarkets
#OpenSource
#OpenData
#OpenSociety
#OpenGovernment
#OpenPockets
#OpenHearts
#OpenMinds
#OpenLove

#NoRulez except one: there are no exceptions.

PS: For a new word order, resistance is not futile; it’s just life.
Do something with it.
Call it your own.
Or call it ‘Dada Youth TV’ if you like.
Words.

Substitute Sales

'Dada Sale' - Jay Schwarts
‘Dada Sales’ – Jay Schwartz

“Substitute Sales”

I have no peace of mind.
I have no piece of mine.
I have no peace of mine.
Substitute rooms for sale …

My dreams have become bothersome,
both in fact and in fiction.
They betray me with the truth;
a false reality I denied long ago.
Substitute coffee for sale …

And what am I to think of love?
The most loving remains unloved.
The zealot slowly bleeds to death
of ruptured rapture.
Substitute hearts for sale …

There is chaos in the world.
You know it. I know it.
We like to think saner heads will prevail.
Bullshit.
Substitute moons for sale …

Everything must go.
All sales are final.

Sol But No Rhythm

Snow Jaywalking
“Sol But No Rhythm”

For the first time in months, I sat on my balcony,
in my woolen clothes, and drank in the Sun.
Sol … but no rhythm …

Please understand,
I am NOT patient; I am stubborn.
Please don’t confuse my smile for my defense mechanism.
An inner storm always rages; it is a force of nature.
I cannot control it … but it is who I am.
And yet, I am too stupid stubborn to come to terms with it.

So I think to myself …
“why hide when you can simply masquerade?”

Forever the cat, dreaming he was a dog.
Forever the dancing baton in a requiem.
Forever an undressed window looking out into the foreign.
Curtain-less.
Shameless.

Soul but no rhythm.
Poisoned by white tempo …
with increasingly fading vision …
and the buzz of white noise in my ears.
Not even sure when my heart skips a beat or two,
but surely it must …
Death, always advancing, never seeking an element of surprise.
And me?
Too stubborn to accept the calm before the storm.

A misappropriated cliché:
That which doesn’t harm you, kills you.

Soul … but no rhythm …
Why aren’t I Miles Davis?
A better question yet …
Why aren’t I Jay Schwartz?