Manifesto of the Attack Surrealist Semenary - Part 5

The Last Dancer-No Encore

Diatribe V.

Attack Surrealists have the Power to retrieve the value of Existence!

We must reject their opening night PUPUs and the pissy wine of our

own

Betrayal!

A Pox to those who exploit our need to a Decent Life!

An STD to those who rob us with our own Lust for Recognition!

How did they come to take Our World?

Those who Produce Nothing!

As Artists, it is our Duty to determine the value of Our own

existence!

Only We can determine the toll Our folly takes

On the innocent and guilty alike!

Only We can separate the equality of Life and Death

From that which reeks of Pathos for Mankind!

To that end, let there be:

A VICTIM IN EVERY PAINTING!

AN ENEMY IN EVERY PAINTING!

A SOLUTION IN EVERY PAINTING!

As Attack Surrealists,

We have the Power to Confront, Confuse, and Abuse our enemies!

We have the Right to a Meaningful Existence of our own choosing!

We have a Right to be part of the Real World with some measure of

Dignity!

And, within that notion of Dignity, lies the Fundamental Difference

between

US:

Artists of the Beggar’s Corpse,

And You:

The Self-Anointed Nutbags of

The Culture-Vulture’s Roost

Or

In Plain English:

A Burnt Lunch feeding on the Platter of Perpetual Illusions!

With the scraps divided between Dilatants and Stooges.

“Children of the Future” Santa Cruz County Jail 1975

Manifesto of the Attack Surrealist Semenary -Part 4

Diatribe IV.

  Attack Surrealists of the non-future will not be silent!

  We will give you a final peek at your Dead Seas, your Black Air, your

  Mutant Still-Borns

  Long before the 6 o’clock news!

  Cough up your coward’s venue, Surrender the despot walls

  Expunge the bankrupt fodder of your Chosen Ones!

  The future will hang like a host of still-warm dead rats

  Sliced for maximum texture!

  The warm red supper of the Bunker Elite!

  The sticky red fur goes to the “Movers & Shakers,”

  Hungry for the pastry-like overdoes!

  Let them reel in delight to the Coked-out notion

  That the Enigma of Casserole led by aromas

  Sometimes leads to wet dreams

  And that’s better than Rat Fur

  Recently run-over!

Manifesto of the Attack Surrealist Semenary -- Part 3

The Easter Painting: The Last Temptation of the Wieny Christ

Diatribe III. 

  Now! Is the time to Attack!!!

  Just when the self-appointed keepers of the Crotchless Wonders

  Think it’s safe to wash their soiled Acrylans

  And reinstate the Fundamentals of Acquiescence and Powerlessness!

  All “artists-in-tow” must arise to confront the Cruel Merchants of our

  “Favored Ones!”

  We reject the Dirty Band-Aids of your Bogus Generosity!

  We reject the “Casting Couch” mentality and outright Asskissing

  You so psychopathically require!

  What if we made art that insulted your Personal Values?

  What if we made art that defaced your Property?

  What if we made art that sodomized (ouch!) your Pet Dog?

  What if we made art that broke your mirrors and you could no longer admire

  your Wretched Cleverness?

  What if we made art by wiping our asses with the Rag of Turin;

  Took a crap in the Koran, or jerked off on the Torah?

  Could we actually get a show with a contract without having to chew on

  Your Smelly Pantyhose or pull down your Boxers?

  I think not. 

Manifesto of the Attack Surrealist Semenary - Part 2

Diatribe II.

The Millennium is upon us to shred the carcasses of the

Unwashed and Forgotten

To neutralize the Working Class

To eradicate the Left Wing of Every Thing, once and for all!

Where to “Question Authority”

Invokes laughter and There-you-go-again’s!

Throw your chicken grenades, Eggs of Changes, HA!

Half the word starves every day and you throw food at Despots and

Kings!

The only thing more pathetic is our Studios,

And the empty pantries within them!

Art signifies Nothing . . . As long as the Dead stay Dead!

Day of the Dead, Week of the Dead, Month of the Dead, Year of the

DEAD!

CENTURY OF THE DEAD!

We Surrealists know how this sorry chapter on Mankind will end!

We react with Nausea of Sartre to the vile tumors of the State

And its Date Rape Mentality!

Yes!

A Holy War of Small Men;

Jihad of the Junkies!

Legends within their own minds!

Swimming in the piss of their own self-fulfilling prophecies!

The irony being they learned it from US!

The armed struggle wet-dream left the 70s high and dry,

The 80s became a wasteland of pious slogans,

Empty cadres and Lost causes,

The 90s fed on itself

Chewed up its young and spit them out.

Art is Nothing

In the face of such Wrath,

And the Revolution? What in the Hell was that?

The premature ejaculators, more early than late

Got the last laugh, at the Millennium’s Gate.

Manifesto of the Attack Surrealist Semenary-Part 1

Manifesto of the Attack Surrealist Semenary

A.S.S

  by  R.C. Webb

Perilously, it is affirmed!

  That a State of War is declared to exist between the A.S.S.

  And the Post-Modern shit merchants of Pimp/Pop Culture!

  ART WHORES UNITE!

  REFUSE TO AMUSE!

TAKE NO PART . . . SHOW NO ART!

Diatribe I.

  Though cruelly rejected by the Marxist/Leninist Avant-Garde of yesteryear

  as unfit for Intellectual Servitude and

  Ridiculed by comrades and branded; we Surrealists marched on

  Demanding our exalted non-place in the History of the World,

  Still Reaming

  Still Dreaming!

  Still Screaming for the Truth!

  “In Service to the Revolting,”; replaced “Higher Calling”

  Our studios fizzled as the Art Narcs danced among us!

  Drinking our wine, eating our food, feigning Criticism/Self-Criticism!

  Our self-anointed enemies wallowed with delight in our Social Rejection!

  Their flags of gangrene waved like sheets of dead skin!

  On their knees, praying for our total demise,

  It’s said they drilled holes in PEEP HOUSE walls,

  To eavesdrop on Surrealist incantations,

  To spy on the works of the

  REICHIAN REAMERS

  Vomiting to the Mandates of the Father!

  While the true Light of Uncola slithered under the door

  Illuminating our hands, old and fruitless

  As we caressed the memories of our Revolution

  Stroking

  The Palette of Bullets

  As if to say:

  “There are no Gods, at least none that matter”

  Nor Shrines or Memorials for this malaise

  Nor coffins for the rigormortised Body Politic;

  Only the “Sky” burial remains, like in old Tibet . . .

  The Pulverization of the devout Corporeal

  So high above our Puny Existence;

  Where vultures, so stuffed, they cannot even fly . . .

  Squawk for more!

  While the non-believers far below

  STARVE

  Just to “get by”