Dyslexic Dada

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An experimental publication, playing with typography around the general theme of dyslexia.

Text of Dyslexic Dada

  • pokkadots




  • words

    i never knew what words were til i met one

    all bottled up and confused and i coexed itmade it open up to mei remember how at first she was afraid,

    reluctant and acquiasent saying you have got me all wrong

    i am prenounced si-clic-cal not sick-li-cal

    im not linear, i dont make senserole of your tonguei am out of context

    there is nothing essential about me

    i only make meaning in contextit is just about the way that you use me

    situate me, without a user i am usless

    i am just a word sisterdont be fooled

  • write now

    if i can follow (or endure) the random dreaming strands of thinking

    there are points which wasnt where the linear streams were intending to fall

    those delicious tangents filling my gob with spit

    sugary like lemon squash a bitter sickly loss of meaning

    lubricated in succulent disjointed rhythmscomforting and homely

    pure oceanic intense but lackingcertainty which bumps

    jumps jolts on every rock of the roadon a long unrecorded journey

    move me as quick as it becomesa handful of honey, dropping into stops

    so lost stomachs are synchronisedby ruptures invited

    by shared imprecise humourmaking us alone unable to believe

    hunted by motionless repetitions of answersleading us to ideas mapped in consumerable satisfaction like a film that documents us

    as subversive angels of other worlds

  • transgression

    the self-reflex makes luminosity loop in talk shifts to continue among playful competitions

    that adumbrate alterity by the tongue we chose after it decided us

    for speech is a trap and a nooseupon which

    identity acts like tax

    for the symptoms of freedomcollapsed into symbols resisting and provoking compositions like a book

    with new tales on every pageas if a narrative dropped

    leaving lack of order without indication toward ideas imprisoning repetitions reconstructed by a readers rhetoric

    misinterpreting irony swollen simplicityfor desire to communicate in clarity

    like a lung full of lost breathless speech

  • we are so lucky

    to have time that tells us what we should do that we have feelings that guide us

    instincts that help shape us in this culture that moulds us

    into the likeness of the other

    who is strange to me, as i look to them

    or even myself, when i stare in a mirrorthey told me i must become one

    with the grand body of the languageto be in tune with the feelings, the sensations,and where i was confident i became doubtfulwhere there was motivation, i was bored and i slipped through every happy discourse realising now that everything i knew

    doesnt make sense to me, or to you,

    i cant float like a balloon and i will not popbut i must squeeze into the space there is for me

    i am so lucky because i have to create a way to be yet i never know whether i am good or bad

    i dont even know what these words meani cannot become the body of words

    even if i try, i may never even please them,for i am not discourse, i cannot speak, i lack punctuation, focus and postulation

    i am only a body flirting perverted by silence

  • aesthetics

    marked in quotations by a letter left unopened speaking of internal transformations

    that cannot be fixedaltering circles as if they persistfor coreless apple decaying in the soilsare now fertilising the roots of new crops

    peeled by the fingers of peopleabsorbed on their deliberations

    born, inspired and identified in a state of fluxlike a harbour of verses shifting in stops

    deforming clarity before it reaches the climaxfor her ink is drying in the waiting time

    while tones imitate the echoes of pretext- with a chorus of vibrating suds to draw on your imagination as they are singing in a language translated yet unheard

  • drift

    themes are colliding in my mindchanges are closing in finding timelike truths in eyes searching

    without resolve to evolve and capitalise

    on words as they bleed

    and become

    the expression

    that seeps out of mythto encapsulate

    a pastiche of soundamongst



    dialogic Drift

  • this

    so much is certain and so much is there to be described there are so many relations and associations to discern

    only with a can of paint and a fresh wall could i showwhat i would do without the freedom to take apart the rules

    i compete against my silence, challenge my need to talk,

    and precisions mark penetrates into this uneaseas its complications define and break in a wave

    heavy and weighted like the sea crashing into its own mass,unlike feathers, with their details, that fall light and enchanting.

    inelegantly, i long for the absence of myself: to knowhow to not be missed or missing -or miss- for i detest

    the menial straightness that undermines my love of clarity yet obstinately

    i dont want to change, conform or be configured

    as i reject this principle: while i crave and desire cleannesslike a broken lock on a vacated house offers shelter

    for a door which is hinged and swings without a catch, is open - as is choice - without

    singularity of reason

  • leaving ideology

    i rebooked the appointment,but then suddenly

    i had something to do i cant remember what now,

    but i am sure it was important. so i am still unemployed

    going down to the bottoms lines of over drafts looking forward to the glimpses, the opportunities not substantial

    enough to put on a cv which blinks blankness

    recording my non reliable ness as i have never done anything

    that counts for a job no monotony, no stagnation, no routine,

    time keeps goingall juxtaposed and composed

    and released into boxeswith their sticky tapes and paper

    bags and collections in categories,important for being

    slow and having quickness in momentary organisation thats playing futures as it reiterates

    itself into the memories that suddenly incomplete me

  • self

    that there was someone who thought what they said was not often what they felt

    and what they felt was not what they thought they ought to feel,and so it goes on.

    i felt some time that what i do is not what i thought i ought to do

    what i ought to do did not seem right.

    every time i said somethingwhat i felt was

    its not what they wanted to hear.

    and sometimes i feel thatim not true to myself

    yet i always seem to do what i wantand i read somewhere aboutself-improvement

    on how to do every-thing rightbut i though what they said

    was just be yourselfbut i think what that is, is to just carry onnot knowing whom it is i am.and i continue to be not what i ought to be

    redefining all the time what it means to become the other

    to normals

  • viewing

    parked in front of me was somethingi reconsidered, not much before i started

    back at what it was

    that got me there.i paused for breath, calm with the heartbeat

    putting a hold on the gasp on the backof my throat that came, as i looked,

    and as i stared, lost at what it was that

    i was facing, as the background becamesome sort of film flat, as it was sheer.

    music in my headphone projected me onto another place were my breathing was somethingi listened to, and the scenery became weird.

    smiling reassuringly, to myself, at the

    same time it was people looking at me, and i had to try not to be.

    my muscles relaxing and the smiletaking over me and seeing the cars move in the traffic and the dog defecation,

    the sun moving into the cloud, and startingto be real, beat harmony and givethe time that homogenous empty feel.

    so silently, out of the darkness that camethis pain; a haunting that would never

    be believed in isolation; like the same. where we pass through and sum up, in a

    less depleted way, that while poetry cannotcorrect it self; the message will not get through

  • frameworks

    different frameworks interposes how it exists

    in my many me.

    you said before something approaches

    the third dimension that we see,

    ah! but yes, looking back, looking over

    is the third and final three!

    what i read becomes the perspectiveof over all angles.

    connoted correction balancing

    the lines connecting between making up

    all in the being words

    last youve seen.

  • dyslexia

    searching for the story to write you better

    looking for that sentence that in reach becomes

    part of you concluded adding up

    knowledge as full as well that without partdisarray is in bid as in

    shackled made order.towards making the completion within the assertion

    the message procrastinated

    in hope of teachingstanding behind words to say

    they speak me i am the lesson learned

    to give and

    let give

    everything that you handle spokento be beside as you

    look onwards lost of learning in the face of mirror void of voice

    and writing is your lesson.

  • art

    it all started with a little bit of french

    linguistically replaced humour:

    from the outset we never determined the time to insure positive forward progression,

    it was primarily more a moveable, a syllable of choices:

    so dada darling! this world of illusion brought to a head,

    strung up quite literally, seeing her face blank with immoveable expression, all that relishes.

    what a pretentious preposition! it is

    not abou