INTRODUCTION

I have always had an ambiguous relationship with poetry. I detest most poems and most poets. But poetry as a way of living and encountering the world attracts me. The poets for whom I have a high regard (William Blake, Arthur Rimbaud, Renzo Novatore, Benjamin Peret - a few others) have all, in different ways, been rebels against the values of the society they lived in and therefore also adventurers.

I agree with the surrealist idea that poetry is to be an expression of the marvelous. Sadly, in this era in which even the deeper realms of the mind have been colonized by commodity fetishism and the images of television, movies and advertisements, even psychic automatism can often produce results as banal as the conscious verses, the hard turds shat out by the constipated wordsmiths this society calls poets, that fill the poetry shelves of most bookstores and libraries.

Only those who reject the values of this society, those who consciously choose adventure and life outside the mainstream, can actually write poetry. That is to say, in order to write poetically one must live poetically. Only willful rebellion allows one's unconscious to remain free of the banality of commodity fetishism and media domination. This spirit of rebellion alone can express the marvelous, and from this source it is expressed equally in psychic automatism and in willful consciousness. Now more than ever, poetic expression can only be the free play of the proud and willful vagabonds and rebels, outlaws and anarchists - those who reject this society in its totality.

-Wolft Landstreicher

INSURGENT PASSION,

FLAMING REASON

Dreams of revolution set our hearts on fire

And fill our nights with the most dangerous caresses.

This world's icy and dreamless logic will never touch our

minds,

Because our reasons are the reasons o f flame.

WE WERE BORN INTO A WORLD

WHERE:

Dreams and desires have been locked within the

cages of psychotherapeutic interpretations;

Revolt has been bound with the fetters of moribund

leftist ideologies;

Creativity has been enslaved to the sadistic masters, art and literature;

The marvelous has been handcuffed to the cops of

mysticism and mythology;

Reality has lost the ability to laugh at itself and its

foibles and so suppresses a truly playful spirit;

Thought has become a rigidly armored fortress

protecting its ideological foundations from every criticism;

Revolution has had its passion organized out of existence leaving only structural rigor mortis where once insurgence breathed and danced.

This world has ceased to bring forth amazing monsters;

It is no longer a conduit for the marvelous;

It has lost touch with the convulsive beauty of love and lust;

It can no longer give birth to babies with wings;

It has ceased growing and begun to rot;

It has suppressed surreality wherever this marvelous

flower has bloomed.

Therefore, from now on, surreality will manifest in:

Dreams and desires freed from all interpretation and

sublimation, being the living energies of free

spirited individuals;

Total revolt against every aspect of social reality including the ideologies that strive to squeeze this revolt into the limited mold of leftist activism;

The free-spirited creation of our lives for ourselves, lived to the limits against ever role and rule;

The discovery of the marvelous in each unique being,

free from any mystical or religious guidelines;

The humor and playfulness of free-spirited individuals

who realize their strength and creativity in their

own joyful foolishness;

Open, expansive, generous thinking which grows from the inner strength of free-spirited rebels;

An insurgent dance, a feral insurrection that refuses all limitations, exists beyond all structures and is the realm of indomitable free spirits.

Today, social reality is a lifeless, passionless corpse. Let's bury it. Now the amazing monsters of surreality must come forth in the world playful and terrifying in their wild energy, freed of the cages and chains that have bound them; our dreams, our desires, our humor, our revolt can populate the world with the most marvelous creatures.

Social reality is dead; long live surreality!

AMAZING MONSTERS:

RANTS AND MANIFESTOES
I

Darkness - I don't fear it - or at least I'm not terrorized by it. For darkness has its magic. It opens gates of the imagination that otherwise would remain closed. Streetlights, neon signs, floodlights - these are rapists of the darkness, tearing through it glaringly with their messages of fear or gaudy commercialism. So unlike the moon or stars whose gentle lights caress the eyes. At times, I feel that the deadening of imagination in modern society is due in part to the violent destruction of the night by artificial lights. For in the dark, the stark definition of all things breaks down, the rigid lines, the stiff separations disappear - anarchy breaks forth, the opening of all possibilities - the marvelous appears in the world as we create amazing monsters without imaginations. Those who wish to kill the darkness - to eradicate it completely - are enemies of the imagination. They have lost their own imaginations by using them to imagine only their worst fears - and now they are slaves to those fears. So they rape the darkness, wage war on the marvelous, seek to drive away the wondrous monsters of our imagination. I f it's war they want, it is war they shall have. Against their technology and impoverished imaginations, we shall come with stones and wrist rockets and al the strange and untamed creatures of our imaginations.

WAR ON THE STREETLIGHTS AND THE
NEONS!
WAR ON THE TECHNOLOGICAL HELL!
WAR ON THE COPS AND OTHER LEGAL
TERRORISTS!

WAR ON ALL WHO FIGHT AGAINST THE
MOON, THE STARS, THE NIGHT!

The forces of darkness gather, untamed chaos erupting forth, a volcano of passion. We are strong and heroic, for our own desires are our energy. The lust for life lived to the full, for burning passion and wild adventure fuels us. We will NOT be stopped! For where we are put down, always we rise again, the wild ones who will have nothing less than a world of wonder.

II

A world of wonder - one in which we bring forth the

amazing monsters of our imaginations - will be a world in

which terror exists... But not terror as we know it in the

world of order.

Terrorism is an activity of the forces of order, or those

who have or desire to have power. It has no interest in

ecstatic terror, only in the subliminal terror of every day

life - a terror which as it frightens us also bores us,

because it is the substance of daily life in commodity

hell. But in the realms of the "mind" that have become

unconscious, our repressed passions and desires live – and these are amazing monsters. At times, these monsters, when brought to light, will fill us with terror but they are not terrorists - they do not want to try to compel us to obey. The terror they evoke is ecstatic terror that

breaks us out of the normal flow and opens us to the

marvelous. This terror is brought on by the opening up of

all possibilities, the breaking forth of the total of the

total abandon of free play, the birth of anarchy. If we

flee from this terror, we return to our cages and the

boring, rational terror of authority. Instead, we need to

abandon our selves to the ecstatic terror, the convulsive

beauty of delirious anarchy, to immerse ourselves in it, to bring ourselves through it and make it OURS. Then the amazing monsters we've so long repressed' will freely dance within us. We will be the most energetic, ecstatic and lusty outlaws. The authorities may call us mad - lunatic terrorists - but the terror we unleash will be a terror that sets free - our insane monsters daring to break all cages - and too bad if the creatures inside cringe back in fear! - That will not stop our wild and joyful rampage - our ecstatic war against all the forces of order. The chaos of our desires - the passion to open all possibilities and live life to the full will break forth in the light of day – a brilliant shadow eclipsing all the forces of order.

III

Society would lock me in its cages, chained and kept down, but 1 will not belittle my self to fit its molds. I explode forth, a fiery meteor, into infinity. I MAKE LOVE TO CHAOS! Within the hidden realms, beyond the knowledge of order - there we meet - the wild ones, the free spirits. We dance, we sing, we feast, we make love freely. We break down the walls of civilization so that free life can spread. Where we live cannot be named, for all names are ties. It has no boundaries - it exists wherever we are. Authority has no control within our realm for we are beyond all rule. We are chaotic outlaws, creating free life in the cracks of society through the untamed play of pleasure.

Do Not Tolerate Me!

I

I WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!

I demand the burning fires of passion, the untamed

conflagration of desire without constraint, of lust

without limits. Love me with an energy that cannot be

denied - or hate me with a fury so intense your glance

could wither me were not my passions equal to your own

- but DO NOT TOLERATE ME!

Toleration is a sickness of bourgeois society that

smothers us in boredom - a cop inside our heads that

keeps us passive in the name of social harmony. SHIT ON

SOCIAL HARMONY! Let the hot, ecstatic energy of

IMPASSIONED VIOLENCE burn through us! LET ALL THE

GRAND, VOLCANIC ENERGY OF OUR REPRESSED PASSIONS

ERUPT, A VIOLENT , EXPLOSION OF HATRED AND LOVE,

FURY AND ECSTASY, DESTROYING MEDIOCRITY -

destroying all that bores us - BEFORE WE'RE BORED TO

DEATH!!!

Those who choose to tolerate - to merely exist - will be

BURIED I N THE FECAL MEDIOCRITY THAT TOLERATION

CREATES - Let them drown in the boring shit they have

chosen... But none of that for us who truly choose to live.

Coursing through our veins are dreams and visions,

passions and desires, the chaos that can birth a dancing

star - don't dam this wild and fiery flood with that

disgusting cancer - toleration. Demand of every

encounter amazement, wonder, ecstatic passion. AMAZE

AND BE AMAZED!

I WILL NOT LET M Y LIFE SLIP FROM M Y GRASP IN

PASSIVE BOREDOM! 1 WILL BURN - A CONFLAGRATION

OF UNTAMED DESIRE! A SOARING PHOENIX IN FLAMES

WHICH CANNOT BE IGNORED!!! I will live my life in a

burning heat of untamed lust and passion! With a violent

ecstasy, 1 will demand (of myself) - 1 will CREATE a world of wonder and amazement.

No more will free spirits put up with being bored and passive.

ENOUGH! IN FACT, TOO MUCH!!!
WE WILL BURN and in our burning, burn society to the

ground.

TAKE THE TORCH TO TOLERATION!
TAKE THE TORCH TO BOREDOM!
TAKE THE TORCH TO SOCIETY!
BURN IT ALL IN THE UNQUENCHABLE FIRE OF OUR
DESIRES UNBOUND!

II

We will not be appeased - All the rowdy, crazed,

laughing, dancing, raging, free spirited rebels WILL NOT

BE APPEASED, for we will have nothing less than our LIVES

TO THE FULL, each moment burning with our uncouth

passions! We will not tolerate what does not make us

DANCE WITH JOY, ROAR WITH RAGE, WEEP WITH

SORROW, HOWL IN ECSTASY OR QUAKE IN TERROR!!!

'And we wilt not wait around for our lives to begin. WE

ARE CREATORS!!! We will make the world the way we

want without waiting for the old world to fall! On the

edge of society, joyfully outcast, we dance. We are

hidden from the powerful, yet they know we exist - AND

THEY TREMBLE!

For from our hidden realms, we flash forth like

LIGHTNING, leaving our mark, our crazed message that a

life of INTENSE PLEASURE and WILD ADVENTURE is

possible EVEN NOW for those who dare to create it!

We are OUTLAWS and RENEGADES - and this is our

strength! Already, we are freeing ourselves of the chains

with which society shackled us. Already, we are learning

to live our lives FOR OURSELVES!!! We need no

ideologies or dogmas, no masks or disguises. We face

society with ourselves - BOLDLY - as its enemies. Our

passions, our desires are the energy with which we live our lives - HOW CAN WE LOSE!?! For, indeed, it is our lightning-bolts of SPONTANEOUS, CHAOTIC, EROTIC ENERGY, these flashes of FREE LIFE, that could spark a fire of REBELLIOUS PASSION that will raze society to the ground!!!

III

Free spirited rebels cannot tolerate economy. Wherever it exists, constraint exists. Its demands that we pay, that we sacrifice, that we work, that we accept less than the fullness of life which we desire nauseate us! But we will not let ourselves be passively sickened by this vampire, sucked dry of real life. NO! For while we live within its midst, we will be ROBIN HOODS - stealing what we can for our own pleasure and to share as we desire, breaking down property and exchange in festive games of theft and free sharing. We will NOT tolerate the half life which economy offers nor allow ourselves to be. made into pawns in its game.

For economy sucks the wonder out of life and steals its beauty. All that would be vibrant, dancing, burning with WILD PASSION, it has strangled with a price tag. Where there could be a world of wondrous lovers, mad adventurers and amazing monsters who NEVER COUNT THE COST, instead we find commodities for sale. But we will not offer ourselves to the sacrificial altar of the market. Nor will we passively watch as the world is transformed into a market place. With all the FIERY PASSION of those who dare to CREATE THEIR OWN LIVES, we will BURN all that has made WILD AND AMAZING MONSTERS into mere commodities for sale TO THE GROUND! And we will FREELY SHARE and FREELY GIVE and FREELY TAKE as we are moved by our UNBOUND DESIRES!!!

Ned Ludd Was Right!

The machine IS the enemy.

Smash it without mercy!

Don't tell me technology is neutral. Every day I wander this city, and every day machines flash tights trying to tell me what to do. Huge tarmac pathways cross my way, upon which gigantic, speeding metal machines move, machines capable of killing me if I cross their path and already slowly suffocating me with their toxic fumes which fill the air.

WHY SHOULD I TOLERATE THIS INSANITY?

NED LUDD WAS RIGHT!

The machine is the enemy.

SMASH IT WITHOUT MERCY!

Around me stand tall buildings, -- ugly monstrosities of steel and glass and concrete, overpowering in their hugeness and sterility. I dream of them as ruins being eaten by a forest. But for now, these structures-the products of machines-house other machines. Machines on which the lies by which society defines my life-and the lives of everyone-are recorded, and which, with electronic blips and flashes, can transmute the lies and so control our lives.

I WANT TO SMASH THE LIES!
NED LUDD WAS RIGHT!
The machine is the enemy.
SMASH IT WITHOUT MERCY! !
And all of this did not appear from nowhere. The roads,
the cars, the traffic lights, the skyscrapers, the
computers could not exist if, every day, the lives of
millions were not eaten by the factories. Machines
control their daily activity, determining their movements,
eating up their time, to produce more machines. Their
only respite comes when the machines which control
them break down-or when they break them down. Then
for a moment, they are not machines. Don't tell me

technology is neutral-I'm not blind enough to buy that

one!

NED LUDD WAS RIGHT!

The machine is the enemy.

SMASH IT WITHOUT MERCY! !

Can't you see? Each little machine-each car, each

computer, each factory, each worker-is not a separate

entity, a mere individual tool. NO! They are alt cogs in

one vast machine, the machine of social reproduction

and if we let them be, we too are cogs, the gears that

manufacture society. Will you be a mere cog, a gear, a

toot of social order?

TO HELL WITH THE SOCIAL ORDER AND ITS PHYSICAL

BODY: TECHNOLOGY!

NED LUDD WAS RIGHT!

THE MACHINE IS THE ENEMY!

SMASH IT TO POWDER WITHOUT A GRAIN OF MERCY!!!!!

THE JUNKYARDS OF HISTORY

A grey utilitarian dust smothers the landscape; it
squeezes the life drop by drop fro those who have not

yet had the time to live it, in order to lubricate the

machinery of economic necessity.

They slither from the boxes they call homes, trash bin

cubicles cluttered with pastiches of pop culture with

which these dispirited cogs invent identity, an
individuality as unique as the grey malaise their passive

existence builds.

Yet from the midst of this dusty fog, this discolored,

passionless horror, suddenly strange laughter springs

forth to haunt the sleep of utilitys reason; for in the
cracks and crevasses, there are vagabond jesters, fools

who serve no courts, no kings, no gods, not even

conscience,

Wanderers at the fringes - meandering through the

nights in mad adventures.

Though often we may choke upon the grey, our laughing colors smothered in the dinginess, drawn down into the maw of passionless despair,

Yet through us whirls a mad cacophony refusing to be
channeled or suppressed..
And so a rowdy, dancing, howling band - strangely
invisible except as colors flowing through grey dreams -
flies through the night on razors edge, sifting through
the detritus utility has left behind to find the weapons
and the toys which will invent the sounds and colors o f
desire without constraint.
This greyness is the stench of social rot, of civilized
decay.
Utility has filled the world with useless junk to feed
our crazed cacophony, a resource for the ruins in which
we dream our crazy colors.
For from the junkyards of history, we shall create ruins
from which bricolage symphonies o f chaos will burst
forth.

THE WALLS STILL STAND

Sometimes it seemed we could not be stopped; we

were crazy feral children, our eyes ablaze with

polymorphous lust.

Our intensity demanded eternity, an unending flow.

There was no turning back.
Reeling, dizzy with joy on the edge of a cliff, our lives
so full of now, there was no tomorrow.
We flew burning through the night finding toys with
which to create the wonders of our lives.

Bricolage symphonies, cacophonies, insanities.
Our madness was intentional, a godless rite to break
down the walls and dams.
The moments of our lives seemed like forevers so full
of this life they had become.
We lost ourselves inflows of desire, in wandering
currents of sensation stronger than the channels that
would keep them in constraints.

Our hearts pounded, we were wild-eyed with our

energy, flaming tornadoes dancing zig-zag through
heaving landscapes...
Smashing the walls...
Smashing the walls...

Smashing... smashing... smashing the walls...

But the walls still stand and I am tired...
Set me aflame once more.

A FERAL CHALLENGE

I want to throw my words around like howls of dancing

wolves

or mad songs of gypsies who have eaten the full moon.

I want to send them prancing through the tops of

jungle trees

like monkeys after coconuts or mangoes,

to turn them into lightning bolts

storming towards the stars,

tempestuous winds stirring the night sky

into a froth of jumbled passions.

Too often, so it seems, the words drop from my mouth,

leaden with the poison of banality,

not f it even for the ears of pigs or kings.

But as the moon rounds out the night

and dreary grey faces close up in sleep,

I want to run screaming through the streets, the

fields, the forests,

pouring out words of crazy passion,

like strong wine into bacchanalian mouths.

Such are the crazy gypsy songs

I throw into the night:

a feral challenge.

THE MOST DELIGHTFUL POISONS

If you wonder why I do not run to your dream like

scathing gates of a new tomorrow,

If you wonder why I prefer the streams that run

backwards uphill like a tiger dripping through

forests at dawn,

My words tumbling out in torrents o f nonsense and

dreamy dissembled cataracts,
It is because I have seen a dawn of assembled laziness

Actively building a playground of monkeys and dreams, A vertical nightmare toppled among the lush fragrance

of flowers dripping with the most delightful poisons To sip of the petals fills the mouth with an almost fatal

sweetness,

Intoxicating honeys of insurrection,

In one hand the molotov cocktail, in the other the

elixir of dreams.

"Do not wait, " I was told, "do not wait for the day,

For your own dance which blows away cops brings the

dawn. "

And your dreams are too mild and pale for me,

smothered in the fear o f the blood that may

spill when we make the world our own.

FOREVER VAGABOND

One smolders waiting for a lively wind to raise the

flames, to birth the crazy dance that licks and flickers,

roars and rages, bringing marvels to a night that

otherwise might languish. Within one's sack a thousand

dreams, the wealth of vagabonds and madmen, strange

visions of vast insurgent games and wild leaping dances,

of castles in the air and hidden among the trees. With

such ragged wealth one simpleton went wandering among

the realms of nightmare and the lands rumored to be

madcap paradise, arcadian delight for the wildest of

dreamers.

He came to a small forest, his heart, his mind, just

smoldering ashes, hoping that the fuel to raise the flame

might be here among these other tramps and dreamers,

wanderers and fools... Surely there is someone here with

whom to meld a dream, a scheme... to project marvelous

creations.

For a while, castles in the air, schemes for strange

music ands and rumors of mad dances fanned the. sparks,

but not enough to waken a flame... Once, it's true, or

twice, the passion flared, but there was no fuel to feed

the flame... The spark was growing dull. Time to leave

before it died away.

Some people's dreams cannot sit still or they will

wither. Maybe when this foolish tramp finds himself

more crazed and blazing like a storm he'll fall upon this

land again to dance his crazy dances with those he madly

loves, to flash his lightning laughter through the air - and

then to disappear as suddenly as he appeared - forever

vagabond.

CRESCENT VISION

Alas, these are times most strange,
for blue fish fly forth from the eyes o f strangers
as lightning passes between the fingers of black-haired
children.
And that is not all,
for the dogs cry, "Earthquake!" though the sky is clear
and the trees are still as peacocks.
I have seen peaches strutting through the parks,
their fuzz turning into polywogs in the sun.
Expect soon an outburst of frogs
whose sweet aromas strum a melody
not unlike a grappling hook
or the teeth of a mole.

PASSIONATE STORM

As this storm that swirls through my mind

casts bolts of lightning

through the vast universe of my passionate flesh,

I gaze across galaxies

into the vortex

around which this storm roars,

that calm silent center that is your eye...

The agony of love rips at my brain with hungry talons

releasing lunatic monsters,

strange population of dimensions of desire

that darken the sky with vast tornadoes

and weave landscapes to crazy for normal feet.

I sprout wings and take to these seething skies

in the hope that I might fly

into the vortex of your eye,

but these howling gales which twist and turn

play with me as with a butterfly.

Still I keep my face toward the source of this madness,

this storm I must devour with its center, my love,

as I must be devoured by you -

the monstrous love of the unique ones...

No small, no mellow dream;

nightmarish in its vast and dark dimensions.

This is the love that I must know:

of flesh, of mind, of universes., a ravisher,

dimensions far beyond the wildest dreams of bourgeois

romantics,

the most profound inducement to crime and

insurrection.

EROTIC INTERLUDES

The nymph o f oak

forever young
kisses the serpent

of the eye.

Beneath the handmade o f serpents
two have become one.

The birds o f Lesbos

play the beautiful horn of the dawn as the sun peaks over the horizon.

Wandering aimlessly
through the garden of desire,

I joyfully pick

the flowers of pleasure.

AND STILL I HEAR THEIR

MONSTROUS ROAR

Liquid like a cannonball
explodes into the membrane

between the trees of time

fighting for rhythms of the saw.

I wandered strangely
past these arbored gardens

full o f seahorses

and trunks of treasured meals

You never saw me,

kissed my toes

for chocolate cream and horror.
The roars were not o f lions,

they drained the atmosphere of dreams

and ate away the melons of desire.

Still I danced away.

My guns were aimed
at all the tops of pyramids,

the schemes of whiskey dealers

without a wit of monkey heart

or green inside their eye.

The daze drifted away in purple fogs

and the nights I rode for miles on mares of steel and blood.

When I opened my hand I found the wine and music

of a distant race of monkeys,

dreamers in the hinterlands

of horror and despair.

These strange flowers screamed

from the passage o f a - cave

o f undulating flesh,

a river filled with snakes

who danced upon a screen

o f nails and ice.

The further trumpets coiled and turned,

a veritable landscape o f discarded hats

and filtered minds.

From this I drank the acrid films

and shot the enemies

of clovered muskrats

and the humidors of love

without relief

It was green inside these mountain skulls

and olived with the Caracas of monkeys.

I downed their screams, -

I danced the night around

in swirling galaxies

of vaginal distension.

This was my highest moment,

my defeat of undesired

obliteration of the dawn.

THE REASONABLE DESTRUCTION

OF THE FAMILY

The bloody reticulated abdomen

of somnambulant zebras

is not to be mistaken for

the way my mother dances

in f lowing shards of pink

volcanic glass

while drinking liquid stars

and laughing at the f lowers

of unknown muskrats.

I have seen days when she f lows

through amber rhythms of sound

and puffs her adder tail

to the melody of bladed

peacock tails which pierce her

to the heart

to find it made of cheesecake

and fine wine.

These were the days

when all the hoary headed ostriches

reached into their bags

to find the fluids of solar wealth

those magic monkey chips

with which the other moons of green

had made their profound philosophies

of statuesque delirium.

Had I not f lowed through those legs

like the ice of contaminated fleabane,

I might have mistaken them<