For The Record And Pete’s Sake:
Age slips a purgative into our reality …
The mindset manifests in spasms of release …
But we are never really free …
until our existentialism is resolved …
and then we are still left forced to deal with one another.
My sister bought the first Monkees album.
We listened to it repeatedly.
We seemed to know all the songs,
cause we had heard them all on the radio and the TV,
our mainlines to all things Pop. Continue reading
Is there some statement to be made?
A statement on what, exactly?
A social statement?
An artistic statement?
A fashion statement?
Some say that what’s needed is “perspective”.
More perspective … or more perspectives?
Hmm …
Perspectives are like opinions …
and opinions are like assholes;
everyone has got one.
If you don’t like the message,
exercise your right to tune out.
Continue reading
“My Modicum Of Free Sentiment”
Where is America, you white devil?
Down in old glory, in a helluva
blinding blitzkrieg of bling.
And you, my flaming sullen Greece,
not so far behind,
with nothing to the table
did you bring?
Ah yes, democracy,
in which all votes go to the usual swine,
and to their constituents
trickle down the usual piss, vinegar and aftershave-cum-wine.
Full stop.
Beyond what you feel
you can sense,
but you refuse to see.
Pause.
Too much thoughtlessness,
– the usual behavior
concerning progress.
Freeze.
Continue reading
Canned love;
open at your own risk.
Contains vacuum packed soul;
all air has been removed to ensure freshness.
Nutritional benefits may vary according to serving size.
Warning! Love is a perishable item.
To retain the composure of your composition,
conserve your passion and keep your heart refrigerated.
“Dada Free Beach”
Wind crab – breaking waves.
Sun dried tomatoes lay …
Where do we go from here?
– To the ship of fools, my dear!
To the buffet of souls, I fear!
And you with the flippers, a beach belly flop!
– Breakfast is served at 10 to never o’clock.
See the reclusive infant reclining in the lounge chair;
less than hyper is he,
for he’s got plenty to play with in his diaper, you see.
Such was the day, panting in the yellow tide,
with two menstrual mermaids, a Buddha and I.
All down the drain we fell,
with a parade of spandex wearing hippos,
paddling like hell.
Now the moral of this beach tale you know must be foul:
always remember to throw in your beach towel!
#Dadaism #Dada #Collage #DigitalArt #Summer #Resistance #BeachParty #Trump #CollageArt #Art #BeachLife #Absurd
#SpilledInk #WordPorn #AmWriting #Poetry #Prose
At long last and under extreme financial duress, I have decided to sell my soul and air my dirty “dada” laundry. My book, titled: Loitering Words: The lyrical poetry & wooly musings of Jay Leonard Schwartz, a self-confessed dadaist at large, is available online Amazon internationally in both paperback and electronic formats.
As with most of my writings here on my blog, the book is highly introspective and was written with the aim of liberating the creative spirit via self-actualization ideology and in part through the “Dada” idiom. Read all about my own inner-chaos and the dysfunction I’ve faced dealing with the “establishment” in two countries … as I desperately try to remain true to myself and my spirit through creative expression, poetic license and music/lyrics.
Got existential angst? Find solace, comfort and commiseration. Please consider buying my book, at the very least, just to touch and heal the suffering soul of a writer and fellow human, in a completely legal & voyeuristic fashion.
On Amazon US: Loitering Words: The lyrical poetry & wooly musings of Jay Leonard Schwartz, a self-confessed dadaist at large.
On Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1980911312
PS: A big thank you to all those who have already purchased a copy. Your discerning taste (or lack thereof) is a testament to your being fully human.
This old snake has shed many skins.
He can not take them back.
In fact, he has no desire to.
Was the old snake comfortable in his old skins?
Yes, sometimes for a while,
but in time they grew old,
lost their vitality and betrayed him.
And so, he slithered away from them naked.
Old acquaintances still ask,
“Where have you gone?” and
“What is this new look of yours?”
They spit “We hardly recognize you anymore!”
They grew so comfortable with this or that old skin of his
that they took it for granted.
But this old snake understands all too well;
it is just his old skin they want, not him.
And so he answers “That was just an old skin.
It is gone and I am born anew, again.”
Some say the snake is just a trickster and a fake!
The snake says “No. You mistook me for my skin.
But it was just my skin not my nature.
I have always been just a snake.”
The lesson:
Never chew over dead skin; you will get skinned.
For skin, like clothes, makes neither the man, nor the snake.
In fact, this old snake isn’t even a snake!
He is, after all, just a cool cat and a Dadaist-cum-Sartrist!
Light up the world …
into my brain,
into my fantasies.
Unleash it …
onto my train of thought.
From across the ocean,
you make a commotion
to preach your principles
and then deliver … deliver …
delivery is free from 9 to 11.
All you can eat.
Shop ’til you drop.
Deliver unto us our pizza,
not our daily bread,
not our fair-weather friends,
not our symptomatic-autonamic overdrive.
It’s the cheese in us!
We demand from them to please us!
Only that will appease us,
so they release us.
Deliver unto us our daily pizza!
Deliver unto us our daily pizza!
Shop ’til you drop!
All major credit cards are accepted.
Release us from this impression
of our daily oppression
of our self-repression
of our fantastic suppression
of our governmental pollination
of our unfathomable fascination with simplification.
Deliver unto us our daily pizza!
Deliver unto us our daily pizza.
Deliver unto us our daily pizza …
Shop ’til you drop!
Shop ’til you drop!
Shop ’til you drop!
All major credit cards are accepted!
POS! POS! POS!
Shop ’til you pop.
This post is very personal because life is ultimately about the collection of personal moments we hold so dear. These treasured memorable instances of self-connection and self-awareness are all we have, and all we will ever to take the grave. If we were Christmas trees, such memories would be our twinkling lights that give us color and character.
Step into my background for context. I’m an American; I live in Greece. I’m originally from Miami (Florida), or more specifically Westchester and some temporally conglomerated junction of Bird Road (near the old trains tracks), Coral Way, Galloway Road, South Dixie Highway, Dadeland, Coral Gables and all the old haunts I still visit in my mind from time to time. If you don’t know Miami, these places have nothing to do with Miami Vice, South Beach, Art-Deco or Calle Ocho. I’m from a period time when neon signs flashed brilliantly in the looming darkness along a two-lane corridor of rushing four-wheeled headlights causing horizontal blurring streaks across falling dusky skies of electric blues and burnt oranges.
But this post isn’t about Miami; it’s about Christmas, self-actualization, self-awareness, self-worth and all those personal selfies we hold so dear. It’s not just about the blues and oranges, but also the punctuated reds and greens that grew out of early images of black and white. Continue reading
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.
Continue reading
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!
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: 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.
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”
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”
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?
Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to reject hate and bigotry in our lives.
Each day …
Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to reject those who spread, tolerate, condone and refuse to deny hate and bigotry.
Each day …
Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to justify the idea that we are ‘human’, not animals and certainly not sheep, chicken or parrots.
Each day …
Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to be thankful for our humanity.
Each day …
Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to prove who we really are.
Each day …
Each day … we have the choice.
Each day … we have the choice to fail as humans.
Many do … Don’t be one of them.
Each day … the choice is yours.
You crazy white girl for Africa!
You screaming banshee from Attica!
Soothing words of Seneca?
Check your mind in abstentia!
We’ve got the makings of utopia!
We’d rather build fucking dystopia!
We will not tolerate differentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We want a cultural Siberia!
We want to worship Wikipedia!
We want to burn encyclopedias!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We want to cultivate fantasia!
We want historical dementia!
We want to liberate our labia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We want to castrate nymphomania!
We want to censor genitalia!
We celebrate schizophrenia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
(And the sheep say …)
Vote For Trump!
Vote For Trump!
(And the sheep say …)
Baa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h!
(And the sheep say …)
Baa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h!
Note: And remember kiddies, #Imwithher and #Donaldtrumpisabellend!
WATCH THE VIDEO!
‘Trump Abstentia’
Music & Lyrics by Jay Leonard Schwartz (ASCAP)
Published ELTzone Records (ASCAP)
Performed live by ‘The Transmystic Blues Sniffers’
Video produced & created by: Jay Schwartz (Dada Bloq Productions)
The bridge is still out.
The gap remains.
The water rages below, like my blood.
I graciously wait, impatiently.
Maybe, I think, I ought to save my burning gas …
but my engine won’t quit.
I wonder if I should jump this bridge to reach the other side.
Can I make it or will I fail, falling into the liquid abyss?
Did I see you wave from the other side?
So close it seems to touch you …
but so far is the uncertain distance, I worry.
My heart has a tortured mind of its own.
It tries to scratch and claw its way out of my chest.
It propels itself into my throat and I have to swallow it down to breath again.
The engine finally sputters and chokes.
Chicken shit.
I return home alone.
The bridge is still out.
The gap remains.
There’s an awkward space in time … when all words have been spoken.
This dead space should be filled with kisses … instead of misses.
Think quickly for something to say … or if the silence is appropriate.
The heart will go on beating … the conversation will resume.
Sigh.
The mouth breathes.
The breath quickens.
Quickly dart the eyes.
The eyes have it.
Twitch.
Nearness freezes time.
Closeness stymies thought.
The tongue trips; it would prefer to be doing other things.
The heart skips; it yearns for syncopation.
Gulp.
And you my dear …
And you my dear …
And you my dear …
Sigh.
I grow tired of looking out the window and seeing the still leaves.
A bead of sweat trickles down my chest, joining the stain on my t-shirt.
The warm humid airs labors to enter my mouth, getting stuck in my throat.
The head is burning.
I hate the summer.
And so, again, through the finger glass I will fly.
An aperitif of lunar-sobriety imbibe.
Sigh.
I hate the summer.
Let the eyes speak volumes, when the mouth bites the tongue.
Let passion be channeled, but never put on hold.
Let go, when the mind says wait.
Let the future be now and the past be the past.
Let fear fuel the frenzy … not a pregnant pause.
Let’s stop pretending.
Let … is just a word; let it be just that.
The rest is up to you.
Let’s begin.
No more words.
Yet Another Declaration of Dada Independence:
Time is a fungus; it has no soul.
Existence is but a mathematical equation; I’m poor at math.
Experience is soon forgotten.
Practice makes mistakes.
Dadaists embraces perfunctory perfection. Continue reading
You have reached the ‘Call Center for Existential Obscenities’.
Please hold.
When only the obscene can be seen, taboo fears require puritan counter-measures.
Indifference fuels the irrational and the self-absorbed.
The helpless mutates into a victim of necrotic tendencies and can no longer transmute.
– If you would like to ‘call for help’, please stay on the line. Continue reading
‘Aubade for Forced Poverty’
Force me into ‘the red’ …
Force me to beg ….
Force me to work ‘black’…
Force me into the roofless darkness …
Force me to agree to the financially irrational …
Force me to ‘human slavery’ …
Force me to turn ‘enemy of the state’ …
Force me to foster hate …
Force me to ‘cancer of the mind’ …
Force me to leave all behind …
Force me to starve …
Force me to roll over and play dead …
Force me to the ‘no loitering’ corner …
Force me to a vicious circle of forced poverty …
Force me to ‘no way out’ …
Force me to leave my home …
Force me to eat my bones …
Force me to pay false debt …
Force from me my bread …
Force me to lose sight …
Force me to ‘plight’ …
Force me to see you turn your eyes away …
Force me to lose faith …
Force me to sing a self-composed requiem with no ending …
Force me to hear no voice from heaven …
AND THEN the bank says to the client …
“We are ONLY responsible to the tax office, not you” …
Force me to leave dehumanized and empty-handed …
Greek Government
Clique Government
Reek Government
Loitering Words 