Author: Nada Gordon

skirt artist entertainer ESL teacher poet

"…your name is ‘Flarf’?…" asked the genie.

Nada Gordon4 Comments

want me to tell you a funny story or a joke?
Once upon a time, there was a dog named…
Flarf.
Flarf was a poodle.
Sometimes other dogs would tease him and call him Barf, and that always made him sad.
One day, Flarf was walking down the street and he found a magic lamp!
he was so excited that he let out a happy yelp!
when he sniffed it, a genie popped out!
“Hey!” said the genie, “You’re a dog! I don’t grant wishes to dogs…”
“Hi! My name is Flarf,” said Flarf.
“…your name is ‘Flarf’?…” asked the genie.
“Yup.”

Please Perplex Me

Nada Gordon2 Comments

My sweet destruction, whenever tears become the indulgence of horseplay,
I shall laugh within four billion and forty years,
Just when the dawn expects me nothing but montage,
Through the shine of an extremely complicated montaged sun,
I shall rejoice within zealous breeze,
My spotted dog, You are collapsed to me,
Let me creep along the horizon of the damp. grey, meshes,
Let me steal the old masters as far as the fictional sun,
Please come back to me, my editor,
I will listen to a black harmony of conglomerates,
Crucified underneath the rebellion of your sound effects,
And among the self-referential bruise seekers, I am not 76 minutes of unvarying solid blue light.

You Are Labyrinthine, My Friend

Nada Gordon5 Comments

This evening I am dwarfing, whether I choose or not, an ontology is not a thing that we must rely on, but you, you are labyrinthine, my friend!!

Clop, clop, narcotic, narcotic,
From the ovary until the bright stars, its shantung still remains in my satyr’s hips
I was chosen by the cynical lilt
To the ravine of antic math – we both seek for it –
You are lateral, my friend,
Strangle my weirdness, as if the love is under the basically humorous watertowers.
It is because one good drunk wants to pass as a male or be transformed into one
Through unguent, farm machinery hands.
My friend, don’t leak appetite in your persistent hipness:
Hold it, and it will be anguished and biologically yearny
Just as the whimper of morning, like a traditional indication of gender, sucks.

A Thin Line Which is Flat

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On this rancor, I am stunning to see a beautiful irruption,
Surrounded by murk which is glows in this hulk.
Fascinated by flaws of drooping wimples,
A loser writes the feelings into a thin line which is flat.
Lives of bread make harmony in morons.
Throughout the blood veil, it gives love.
I wish I can hear the locust flowers sing,
And they will not stop me to drip on everything.

absolute freedom

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The simultaneity of the prophetic and the satiric distinguishes the greatest of Romantic art, and the failure of the classically oriented taste and criticism of our times has been not to credit the Romantics with a sense of humor and to ridicule their achievements with the same ridicule they practiced on themselves. The crucial difference, of course, is that Romantic satire measures the limitations of its heroes in their quest for absolute freedom while classical taste calls even the limited movement toward those ends grotesque.

(P. Adama Sitney, writing in Visionary Film on Kenneth Anger)