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Français : Dernière photographie connue de Rob...

Français : Dernière photographie connue de Robert Desnos au camp de Terezin, 1945. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A museum of fortune: a  bleeding lotto ticket printed with numbers that add themselves silly.

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A mediation  between carnival hues, balls of disco light,Image one lone socket.

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An escape of signals The pregnant pauses between TV captions: more than Derrida.  Language as a silence coded in an invisibly written, holy thousand yard stare.

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A language specifically attuned to emergency.  The tongue ordered in stairs of epilepsy.

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A velvet hand gloved by the River Styx of this life

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In the sludge of the academic postmodern age, “the will to otherness” appears tacky, comical, even as wholesale fraud.  This is where institutional corruption violates the Logos upon which Surrealism was built.  The commodification of rebellion as identity by the existing powers.  A grey swamp bubbles away with all that defines us, replacing red blooded veins with a vial of zero, a car, and acrid cynicism.

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An illumination in the dark.  A tinfoil truncheon sprung as a slinky escape chute for the prisoner in solitary.

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The spin between rotary wheels, the color of words half dreamt in fits.  The narcoleptic swan dive into spinning domiciles of shivering errata, the chiaroscuro striped tobacco for the all of a few on a roll, a tapestry hung with zebra stripes.

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Was it really a matter of youth, the tumultuous breaking of the original surrealist group?  Desnos was already on his way out the door around the time Breton was recognizing his genius.  Crevel committed suicide very early on.  Is surrealism really just an 81 year old art movement, as some have told me, despite the somewhat phantasm like existence of a few groups here and there heroically holding the torch?  But when will it be lit again?  And for whom?

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