by ArtEficial
1st May 2001

1. We want to sing the love of life, the desire of Lilith, and the coming dawn of our very own virtual trolley-tram interactive broadcast networks.

2. The essential terminology of our poetry will be the decopyrighted imagery of other sites and sounds, the typos of our own preening and unchecked ineptitude, and the logical revolt of our senses by lilly's elite green tram body guards.

3. It is with the willing if freely given labours of this vast green tram army that we will build in its entirety the Nuisance Noise Machine. The textual provactions of the bulletin and message boards of the world wide web having up to now magnified thoughtful immobility, ecstasy, and the bleatings of other sheep, drunkerthensch wants to exalt the aggressive gesture, the feverish insomnia, the athletic step, the perilous leap, the box on the ear, and the fisticuff. Others join him in discordiant unity. A new Babel is already audible if as yet unfiled and unfulfilled.

The Nuisance Noise machine takes shape!

4. We declare that the world's wonder has been enriched by a fresh beauty: the beauty of the cacophanous glimpse of Lilith.

5. We want to sing the woman who holds the camera, whose ideal stem pierces the Earth, itself launched on the circuit of its orbit. A deconstructed car with its trunk adorned by turf and flowers like snakes with an explosive breath ... or its inside and outside reconstructed so as to make it more fit for public transformation, is more beautiful than the first Ford automobile and all the art that it has spawned.

6. The true trolley tram broadcast poet must expend herself with warmth, refulgence, and prodigality, to increase the enthusiastic fervor of his primordial elements.

7. There is no more beauty except in the carnival of our struggle. No masterpiece without an aggressive character. Poetry must be a violent invocation against the all too known forces, the summoning of man and his inventions by Lilith to lie down before her.

8. We have for a century and more stood on the far promontory of centuries!... What is the use of looking always ahead, since our task is to smash the mysterious portals of the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday but are today reborn in our very own virtual here and now. We have lived already too long under the all seeing glare of the flat absoluteness of facism, but for today we have already conquered in our creation the hitherto eternal and omnipresent insides of the Leviathan.

9. We want to glorify our new mix -- the only hygienic imagery of the world -- tram militarism, trolley pacifism, the anarchist's destructive gesture, the fine Ideas that breathe life, and the scorn of the woman called Lilith.

10. We want to raise anew the living museum, the babel library. This is our fight against false moralism, fractured feminism, and all other opportunistic and utilitarian cowardices.

11. We shall sing into new realms of being the great crowds tossed about by work, by pleasure, or revolt; the many-colored and polyphonic surf of revolutions in modern capitals; the nocturnal vibration of the arsenals and the yards under their violent electrical moons; the gluttonous railway stations swallowing smoky serpents; the factories hung from the clouds by the ribbons of their smoke; the bridges leaping like athletes hurled over the diabolical cutlery of sunny rivers; the adventurous steamers that sniff the horizon; the broad-chested locomotives, prancing on the rails like great steel horses curbed by long pipes, and the gliding flight of flying trolley trams whose propellers snap like a flag in the wind, like the applause of an enthusiastic crowd.

It is in the shadow of global warming and the consequential immanenence of the world wide Ventian punt trip that we launch this manifesto of tumbling and incendiary violence, this manifesto through which today Lilith has called forth Neo-Classical Post-Soviet Constructionism, because we want Lilith herself to deliver the world wide web of its gangrene of professors, of archaeological sex industry entrepeneurs, of spam tourist guides, and of hitherto undreamt of antiquities.

For Venice itself has been too long a great immanent museum the historicity of which conjures out of the blue mire the true tram broadcast cast cats ...

We want to replace the innumerable cemeteries which cover the spaces of our lives with moving museums that sift from the stream of noise the chinks and chicks of illumination.

Museums, cemeteries!... Truly identical in the sinister jostling of bodies that do not know each other. Great public dormitories where one sleeps forever side by side with beings hated or unknown. Reciprocal ferocity of painters and of sculptors killing each other with line and color in the same gallery.

What can one find in an these old paintings on our message boards beside the embarrassing contortions of the artist trying to break the barriers that are impassable to his desire to wholly express his dream?

The tram broadcast is not only moving but interactive in its content and in deed its imaginary forms. The tram broadcast arises not from a single still voice crying in the wilderness, but from the cacophany and confusion arising from the intermingling of the songs of the many.
The still voiceless broadcasts like the stilborn cam. Art free frame, can be visited once a year as the dead are visited once a year.... We can accept that much! We can even conceive that flowers may once a year be left for la Gioconda! . . . But we cannot admit that our sorrows, our fragile courage, our anxiety may be taken through there every day!... Do you want to be poisoned? Do you want to rot?

To admire such as these old paintings is to pour our sensitiveness into a funeral urn, instead of throwing it forward by violent casts of creation and action. Do you mean thus to waste the best of you in a useless admiration of the past that must necessarily leave you exhausted, lessened, trampled?
As a matter of fact the daily frequentation of museums, of libraries and of academies (those cemeteries of wasted efforts, those calvaries of crucified dreams, those catalogues of broken impulses!...) is for the artist what the prolonged tutelage of parents is for intelligent young women, drunk with their talent and their ambitious will.

For the dying, the invalid, the prisoner, it will do. Since the past is forbidden them, there may be a salve for their wounds in the wonderful dreams of an incoherent future.... But we want nothing of it -- we the young, the legendary, the living lost Futurists!

Let the good incendiaries come with their carbonized fingers!... Here they are! Here they are!... Set the library stacks on fire! Turn the canals in their course to flood the museum vaults!... There go the glorious canvases, floating adrift! Take up the picks and the hammers! Undermine the foundations of the venerable cities!

The oldest among our live stream audience are not yet thirty; this means that you have at least ten years to carry out our task. When we are forty, let those younger and more valiant than we kindly throw us into the waste basket like useless manuscripts!... They will come after us from afar, from everywhere, prancing on the light rhythm of their first moving poems, clawing the air with their crooked fingers, sniffing at academy gates the good scent of our rotting intellects already intended for the catacombs of libraries.

But we shall not be there. They will find us at last, on some winter night, out in the country, under a sad hangar on which the monotonous rain strums, crouching by our trembling planes, warming our hands over the miserable fire of our books of today gaily blazing under the scintillating flight of their images.

They will gather in a mob around us, panting with anguish and spite, and all exasperated by our untiring courage will bound forward to kill us with the more hatred for the love and admiration in their hearts. And Hunger, strong and wholesome, will glitter radiantly in their eyes. For in this new day and age art can be nothing but a perfumed feeding of the five thousand at the stations of the Crass.

The oldest amongst you are not yet thirty and yet you have alread squandered great treasures, treasures of energy, of love, of courage and eager will, hastily, deliriously, countlessly, breathlessly, with both hands.

Look at us! We are not out of breath.... Our heart is not in the least tired! For it feeds on fire, on hatred, on speed!... You find it surprising? That is because you do not even remember having lived! -- Up on the crest of the world, once more we hurl our challenge to the stars!

Your objections? Enough! Enough! I know them! Fair enough! We know well enough what our fine, false intelligence asserts. -- We are only, it says, the summary and the extension of our audience. --
Perhaps! Let it be so!... What does it matter?... But we don't want to listen! Beware of repeating these infamous words! Rather, look up!

Up on the crest of the world, once more we hurl our challenge to the stars!

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