A) Write a manifesto and want nothing, say certain things, but in principle be against manifestos.
B) Write a manifesto to show that people can perform contrary actions, together, while taking one fresh gulp of liberty.
C) Be against action, for continuous contradiction, for affirmation too, be neither for nor against, and do not explain because you hate common sense.
D) To impose your ABC is a natural thing, hence deplorable.
E) It will be a readymade fished out of the canals of history.
F) The magic of a phrase that has brought people to the gates is of no importance.
G) We banged the drum but you did not dance, we sang a dirge but you did not weep, we created a living, breathing babe, and you tried to strangle the infant while in the cradle.
H) They will ask about intellectual property, to which question you will politely intone, we invented the internet.
I) You must prove that novelty resembles life, just as the latest appearance of some painted whore proves the essence of God.
J) His existence was previously proved by the accordion’s wheeze, the landscape painting, the wheedling word.
K) Everybody does it in the form of a monetary system, pharmaceutical product, or a bare leg advertising the ardent sterile spring.
L) Being governed by corporate sponsored morals and gatekeeper logic has made it impossible for you to be anything other than impassive towards your jailers, towards the multifid causes of your slavery, the putrid rats with whom the people are fed up to the teeth, and who have infected the only corridors of clear and clean glass that remained open to artists.
M) Capitalism is an injection of chocolate into the veins of all men and women; this task is not ordered by a supernatural force, but by the international trust of idea-monarchs and grasping-politicians.
N) Everything is in order, make love, and bash your brains in.
O) A black box has six sides while a white box has one.
P) Every bourgeois is a little playwright, every spectator is a plotter, and if he tries to explain a word from his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated.
Q) All flowers aren’t saints, luckily, and what is divine in you is the awakening of anti-human action, to be plain, the amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.
R) Goodness is lucid, clear and decided, pitiless toward compromise and politics.
S) All criticism is useless, it exists only subjectively, for each man separately without the slightest character of universality.
T) How can one expect to put order into the chaos that constitutes that infinite and shapeless variation that is man?
U) Speak only of yourself since you do not wish to convince anyone, you have no right to drag others into your river, oblige no one to follow you and everybody will practice his art in his own way if he knows the joy that rises like arrows to the astral layers, or that other joy that goes down into the mines of corpse-flowers and fertile spasms.
V) Stalactites: seek them everywhere, in bosses who are magnified by pain, eyes white as the hares of the devil.
W) Is the aim of art to make money and cajole the nice-nice bourgeois?
X) Rhymes ring with the assonance of currency and inflexion slips along the line of the belly in profile.
Y) All groups of artists who have arrived at this trust company rode their steeds on various comets.
Z) Here you really know what you are talking about, because you have experienced the trembling and the awakening: Boom! Boom! Boom!
1) Drunk with energy, we are revenants thrusting tridents into heedless flesh.
2) We are streams of curses in the tropical abundance of vertiginous vegetation, resin and rain is our sweat, we bleed and burn with thirst, our blood is strength.
3) The new artist protests, he no longer paints but creates directly on earth, air, water, and fire, locomotive organisms capable of being turned in all directions by the limpid wind of momentary sensation.
4) Every page should explode, either because of its profound gravity, or its vortex, vertigo, newness, eternity, or because of its staggering absurdity, the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography.
5) We are like a raging wind that rips up the clothes of clouds and prayers; we are preparing the great spectacle of disaster, conflagration, and decomposition.
6) We destroy the drawers of the brain, and those of social organization: to sow protest everywhere, and throw heaven’s hand into hell, hell’s eyes into heaven, to reinstate the fertile wheel of a universal circus in the powers of reality, and the rebellious fantasy of every individual.
7) The authority of the mystic wand, formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra, made up of silent fiddle bows greased with filters made of chicken manure.
8) With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a dime’s worth of unanimous gratitude.
9) If all of them are right, and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right.
10) We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist.
11) Measured by the scale of eternity, all activity is vain.
12) What we need is works that are strong, straight, precise, and forever beyond understanding.
13) To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one’s own littleness, to fill the vessel with one’s individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies.
14) What we call the I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude of life is when everyone minds his own business, at the same time as he knows how to respect other individualities, and even how to stand up for himself, the two-step becoming a national anthem, a junk shop, the wireless telephone transmitting Bach fugues, illuminated advertisements for placards for brothels, the organ broadcasting carnations for God, all this at the same time, and in real terms, replacing photography and unilateral catechism.
15) Consumerism has determined charity and pity, two balls of fat that have grown like elephants, like planets, and are called good.
16) We have thrown out the cry-baby in us and any infiltration of this kind is candied diarrhea.
17) But supposing life to be a poor farce, without aim or initial parturition, and because we think it our duty to extricate ourselves as fresh and clean as washed chrysanthemums, art is the sole basis for agreement.
18) Art afflicts no one and those who manage to take an interest in it will harvest caresses and a fine opportunity to populate the country with their conversation.
19) The artist, the poet, rejoice at the venom of the masses condensed into a lead section of this industry, he is happy to be insulted because it is a proof of his immutability.
20) When a writer or artist is praised by the newspapers, it is a proof of the intelligibility of his work: wretched lining of a coat for public use; tatters covering brutality, piss contributing to the warmth of an animal, brooding vile instincts; flabby, insipid flesh, reproducing with the help of typographical microbes.
21) Married to logic, art would live in incest, swallowing, engulfing its own tail, still part of its own body, fornicating within itself, and passion would become a nightmare tarred with protestantism, a monument, a heap of ponderous grey entrails.
22) All flowers are not sacred, fortunately, and the divine thing in us is to call to anti-human action.
23) Speaking of paper flowers for the buttonholes of gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, white cousins lithe or fat, trafficking with whatever atrocity they have selected.
24) At the sight of a group of men quarrelling and bored, they invented the calendar and the medicament wisdom, a foul attempt by carrion corpses to compromise the sun.
25) We proclaim the opposition of all cosmic faculties to this gonorrhoea of a putrid sun, issued from the factories of materialist thought, we proclaim bitter struggle with all the weapons of the arts.
26) Let each man proclaim: there is a great negative work of destruction to be accomplished, we must sweep and clean and affirm the cleanliness of the individual after the state of madness, aggressive complete madness of a world abandoned to the hands of bandits, who rend one another and destroy the centuries. Everyone dances to his own personal Boom! Boom! Boom!