Bofa Manifesto
Bofa is a new tendency in art. One can tell this from the fact that until now nobody knew anything about it, and tomorrow everyone on twitter will be talking about it. Bofa comes from the urban dictionary. It is terribly simple. In English it means “both of”. In German it means “Apairades”, “Get off my back”, “Got ‘em”. In Romanian: “Yes, indeed, you are right, that’s it. But of course, yes, definitely, right”. And so forth.
An International word. Just a word, and the word a movement. Very easy to understand. Quite terribly simple. To make of it an artistic tendency must mean that one is anticipating complications. Bofa psychology, Bofa America cum indigestion and fog paroxysm, Bofa literature, Bofa bourgeoisie, and yourselves, honoured accounts, who are always writing with words but never writing the word itself, who are always writing around the actual point. Bofa world war without end, Bofa revolution without beginning, Bofa, you friends and back-up accounts, esteemed sirs, manufacturers, and evangelists. Bofa Copypasta, Bofa Dr Phil, Bofa m’Bofa, Bofa m’Bofa Bofa mhm, Bofa dera Bofa, Bofa Hue, Bofa Tza.
How does one achieve eternal bliss? By saying Bofa. How does one become famous? By saying Bofa. With a noble gesture and delicate propriety. Till one goes crazy. Till one loses consciousness. How can one get rid of everything that smacks of journalism, worms, everything nice and right, blinkered, moralistic, europeanised, enervated? By saying Bofa. Bofa is the world soul, Bofa is the pawnshop. Bofa is the world’s best lily-milk soap. Bofa Mr Rubiner, Bofa Mr Korrodi. Bofa Mr Anastasius Lilienstein. In plain language: the hospitality of the Swiss is something to be profoundly appreciated. And in questions of aesthetics the key is quality.
I shall be reading tweets that are meant to dispense with conventional language, no less, and to have done with it. Bofa Youtube Comments. Bofa Cher Tweets. Bofa Joel Osteen, Buddha, Bible, and Nietzsche. Bofa m’Bofa. Bofa mhm Bofa da. It’s a question of connections, and of loosening them up a bit to start with. I don’t want words that other people have invented. All the words are other people’s inventions. I want my own stuff, my own rhythm, and vowels and consonants too, matching the rhythm and all my own. If this pulsation is seven yards long, I want words for it that are seven yards long. Jerry Schultz’s words are only two and a half centimetres long.
It will serve to show how articulated language comes into being. I let the vowels fool around. I let the vowels quite simply occur, as a cat meows … Words emerge, shoulders of words, legs, arms, hands of words. Au, oi, uh. One shouldn’t let too many words out. A thread of tweets is a chance to get rid of all the filth that clings to this accursed language, as if put there by cryptotraders’ hands, hands worn smooth by circlejerking. I want the word where it ends and begins. Bofa is the heart of words.
Each thing has its word, but the word has become a thing by itself. Why shouldn’t I find it? Why can’t a tree be called Pluplusch, and Pluplubasch when it has been raining? The word, the word, the word outside your domain, your stuffiness, this laughable impotence, your stupendous smugness, outside all the parrotry of your self-evident limitedness. The word, gentlemen, is a public concern of the first importance.
