CHICKEN

I am for a chicken that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.

I am for a chicken that grows up not knowing it is chicken at all, an chicken given the chance of having a starting point of zero.

I am for a chicken that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top.

I am for a chicken that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.

I am for a chicken that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.

I am for a chicken who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.

I am for chicken that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.

I am for chicken that spills out of an old man’s purse when he is bounced off a passing fender.

I am for the chicken out of a doggy’s mouth, falling five stories from the roof. I am for the chicken that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper. I am for an chicken that joggles like everyones knees, when the bus traverses an excavation.

I am for chicken that is smoked, like a cigarette, smells, like a pair of shoes. I am for chicken that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses, like a handkerchief. I am for chicken that is put on and taken off, like pants, which develops holes, like socks,

which is eaten, like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt, like a piece of shit.

I am for chicken covered with bandages, I am for chicken that limps and rolls and runs and jumps. I am for chicken that comes in a can or washes up on the shore.

I am for chicken that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for chicken that sheds hair.

I am for chicken you can sit on. I am for chicken you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on.

I am for chicken from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist.

I am for chicken under the skirts, and the chicken of pinching cockroaches.

I am for the chicken of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind mans metal stick.

I am for the chicken that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. I am for chicken that is flipped on and off with a switch.

I am for chicken that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetys arm, or kiss, like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks, like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on, like an old tablecloth.

I am for an chicken that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with. I am for a chicken that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is. I am for a chicken that helps old ladies across the street. I am for the chicken of the washing machine. I am for the chicken of a government check.

I am for the chicken of last wars raincoat. I am for the chicken that comes up in fogs from sewer-holes in winter. I am for the chicken that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the worms chicken inside the apple. I am for the chicken of sweat that develops between crossed legs.

I am for the chicken of neck-hair and caked tea-cups, for the chicken between the tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater.

I am for the chicken of sailing on Sunday, and the chicken of red and white gasoline pumps.

I am for the chicken of bright blue factory columns and blinking hiscuit signs.

I am for the chicken of cheap plaster and enamel. I am for the chicken of worn marble and smashed slate. I am for the chicken of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand. I am for the chicken of slag and black coal. I am for the chicken of dead birds.

I am for the chicken of scratchings in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I am for the chicken of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.

I am for the chicken of punchingand skinned knees and sat-on banas. I am for the a n of kids’ smells. I am for the chicken of mama-babble.

I am for the chicken of bar-babble, tooth-picking, heerdrinking, egg-salting, in-sulting. I am for the chicken of falling off a barstool.

I am for the chicken of underwear and the chicken of taxicabs. I am for the chicken of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. I am for the majestic chicken of dog-turds, rising like cathedrals. I am for the blinking chicken, lighting up the night. I am for chicken falling, splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off.

I am for the chicken of fat truck-tires and black eyes. I am for Kool-chicken, 7-UP chicken, Pepsi-chicken, Sunshine chicken, 39 cents chicken, 15 cents chicken.

Vatronol chicken, Dro-bomb chicken, Vam chicken, Menthol chicken, L & M chicken, Ex-lax chicken, Venida chicken, Heaven Hill chicken, Pamryl chicken. San-o-med chicken, Rx chicken, 9.99 chicken, Now chicken, New chicken, How chicken, Fire sale chicken, Last Chance chicken, Only chicken, Diamond chicken, Tomorrow chicken, Franks chicken, Ducks chicken, Meat-o-rama chicken.

I am for the chicken of bread wet by rain. I am for the rat’s dance between floors.

I am for the chicken of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. I am for the chicken of s o g p onions and firm green shoots. I am for the chicken of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. I am for the brown sad chicken of rotting apples.

I am for the chicken of meowls and clatter of cats and for the chicken of their dumb electric eves.

I am for the white chicken of refrigerators and their muscular openings and closings.

I am for the chicken of rust and mold. I am for the chicken of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the chicken of worn meathooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue and yellow meat.

I am for the chicken of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. I am for the chicken of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares. I am for the chicken of crayons and weak grey pencil-lead, and grainv \.ash and sticky oil paint, and the chicken of windshield wipers and the chicken of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.

I am for the chicken of teddy-bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, exploded umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones and boxes with men sleeping in them.

I am for the chicken of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums & tambourines, and plastic phonographs.

I am for the chicken of abandoned boxes, tied like pharaohs. I am for a chicken of watertanks and speedin’ clouds and flapping shades.

I am for U.S. Government Inspected Chicken, Grade A chicken, Regular Price chicken, Yellow Ripe chicken, Extra Fancy chicken,

Ready-to-eat chicken, Best-for-less chicken, Ready-to-cook chicken,

Fully cleaned chicken, Spend Less chicken, Eat Rencr chicken, Ham chicken, pork chicken, chicken chicken, tomato chicken, banana chicken, apple chicken, turkey chicken, cake chicken, cookie chicken.

add:

I am for a chicken that is combed down, that is hung from each ear, that is laid on the lips and under the eyes, that is shaved from the legs, that is brushed on the teeth, that is fixed on the thighs, that is slipped on the foot.

square which becomes blobby

Fist 1.5 (-64) Chicken is een lezing van Bloth die geënt is op een statement van Claes Oldenburg uit 1961.

Oldenburg geboren in 1929 en Bloth geboren in 1931 zijn generatiegenoten. Toen Bloth met de tekst van Oldenburg in aanraking kwam was hij er absoluut door gecharmeerd en voelde affiniteit met de inhoud ervan. Halverwege de jaren zestig echter begint Bloth nattigheid te voelen en maakt zijn eerste aantekeningen van Chicken. Hij vindt dat Oldenburg zich in een richting ontwikkelt die de inhoudelijke geloofwaardigheid van zijn toenmalige statement aantast. Hij verwijt Oldenburg dat hij verweekt en corrumpeert. In 1978 noteert hij de volledige tekst van Oldenburg en vervangt daarbij het woord ART door het woord CHICKEN.

In die tijd is Bloth gefasineert door het Afrikaanse continent. Zoals meerderen hem voorgingen zag hij het continent als een plek van mystiek, directheid, bruutheid en zuiverheid. Tegelijkertijd koestert hij een welhaast dramatische affiniteit met het continent vanwege de vernederingen; < PRATCH > zoals hij dat noemt, in het koloniale verleden. Hij is zeer geëngageerd met de onderliggende partij zegt hij in een interview. Hijzelf vergeet niet daarbij te zeggen dat het hem niet enkel om ‘die zielige negers’ gaat maar evengoed daarbij letterlijk om de frele herenkont die naar hem lonkt. Typisch Bloth, want last but not least kon hij naar eigen zeggen in dat grote donkere Afrika zijn homoseksuele lusten en zijn fascinatie voor allerhande attributen en mogelijkheden om het rectum te plezieren volledig bevredigd zien. Hij noemde het in die tijd dan ook studieriezen in de breedste zin van het woord. Op 1 van zijn reizen besluit hij om redenen van zuiverheid zijn CHICKEN (dus de door hem aangepaste statement van Oldenburg), voor zover mogelijk, te laten vertalen in het Swahili. Vervolgens laat hij 1 van zijn vrienden deze vertaalde versie van CHICKEN uitspreken en hij maakt daarvan ter plekke bandopnamen. Terug in Frankfurt laat hij via contacten enkele platen daarvan maken, waarvan hier een exemplaar deels ten gehore wordt gebracht.