Erotic Revolution – a manifesto

When the erotic revolution breaks through the soil like a bullet shot across love’s wild shores, the albatross of the church will be cut from the sky and the fathers will flail at their own hearts with the vengeful bones of witches. The curlew cry of the lonely will hang like a memory from the abattoir in the galleries among old and crumbling citadels.

When the erotic revolution dismantles the machine, the one built with a bull’s head and the genitalia of a carpenter’s awl, the cataclysm clenched between the machine’s tight jaws will break loose and suffocate in the patina of freedom.

When the erotic revolution bursts as an orgasm through the mind’s golden section, all the crimes of the passionless will be released and will be transmuted within the sorcerer’s shattered alembic. It will be a tree cast against the dawn and a terrible stone in the throat of the powerful.

When the erotic revolution comes in the broken and the forgotten souls, the shadows will open like flowers. Kisses will no longer be razors in a cold forbidden night. The limbs of women will bear a sweet fruit each autumn. Sorrow’s porous nature will be revealed.

When the erotic revolution sheds conception’s veil and casts deception onto the stark mountainside, there will be a brass bell ringing beneath the wave. The tides will run with an ancient longing into the songs of madmen and crash like a dense echo into the streets.

When the erotic revolution is a wild weed cracking the skulls of monks, spilling over as a cowled alphabet; painting fierce graffiti on defeated houses in the noon storms; furrowing turntables in empty corridors; then there will be gleaming jewels set into the foreheads of courtesans.

When the erotic revolution seeps into the red wine of forgetting, curling around sleep as a thin arm weaves a painful dream’s mysteries, the whole shiver of vision will ripple through a lover’s skin while she lies asleep.

When the erotic revolution surges through the high wires, the polish will fade from serried spearpoints, guitars will turn into lightning, the waitress will come to your table to offer you the pretzel between her lips. There will be a chorus of sung bottles, and the ink from your pen will fountain, an architectural marvel in the gardens among avenues where the ferns swing their broad heads in fever.

When the erotic revolution remembers your name, there will be a spring in the forest that you must drink from, a cup that you must fill, a life that you must give back to its owner. You will find that the music is no longer music unless it matches your own desire, your hunger will grow fangs and talons, you will strip naked and hurl yourself beneath the wheels of the universe in search of liberation.

Philip Kane


~ by londonsurrealistgroup on October 6, 2011.

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