VICE Canada Video Submission–A Bit About Blasphemy

Howdy, y’all. I’m desperately in need of a job in these tough and trying times and find myself sending this video to VICE Canada in search of a stroke of luck. Do, please, be a chum and check it out; even like it, if you do. It’s much appreciated.



Fun fact: 

I was the only student in my class to fail the grade 10 literacy test; and, technically (since I never rewrote it), all of my academic achievements since have been totally illegitimate.



I want to define, design, initiate–and invite you all into–a new artistic movement, one appropriate to our time, our times, and the time and times we find ourselves mired in. A movement based off of algorithm art and the social dynamics of our online selves. I want to see an open-source creativity making waves for the causes we hold true and dear, and using the effects made possible by our (heretofore, usually) vilified tools of global networking technology.

[The fuck does that mean, Andrew?]

Essentially, if this is at all possible in the modern context, set up a series of social media platforms and data trails for a brand new, completely fictitious human being (totally detached from you, your credit card, your IP address and emails, etc.), brought into this world with one specific agenda: get fucked up and see what happens. Whether the purpose is to see what sorts of advertising is targeted at someone who spends all of their time equally split between a)studying the effects of botulism toxin on clinical-trial lab animals, and b)porn, or whether it’s to cultivate an impeccable LinkedIn profile and get your imaginary friend a job with a bank, I think this could be a really cool experiment.


The Manifesto of Rhythmism


Andrew Brobyn & Marc di Saverio

Combining elements of The Mortarist Manifesto and Anarchic Synaesthetics



Rhythm: from French rhythme, or via Latin from Greek rhuthmos (related to rhein ‘to flow’).

noun: rhythm; plural noun: rhythms

  • a strong, regular, repeated pattern of movement or sound.
  • the systematic arrangement of musical sounds, principally according to duration and periodic stress.
  • the measured flow of words and phrases in verse or prose as determined by the relation of long and short or stressed and unstressed syllables.
  • a regularly recurring sequence of events, actions, or processes, “the twice daily rhythms of the tides”
  • a harmonious sequence or correlation of colors or elements.

We all too often wander off topic and into the tedium.

Friends—enemies, even—do we not all desire progress? Oh, you may bandy about
With your disagreements, arguments that extremists see
Peace as weakness and how your cellphone back home is
Evolution incarnate, but these aren’t the topics we mean to address at the moment.
I’m speaking to the stasis of Self in society at large. We don’t explore
Anymore what’s going on inside us: in our heads, our hearts
And all the unmentionable parts, like our thoughts and our scars
And how we’ve just gotta fuckin’ start talking
About this. So here we are.



It is the contention of the Rhythmist movement that mankind has, by-and-large, entered a prolonged period of mental captivity. The rhythm of our lives is monotonous: eight hours work, eight hours play, eight hours rest; fifteen minute shower, fifteen minute fuck, fifteen minute break; thirty second piss, thirty second burrito, thirty second attention span—for the lucky ones.

Society’s radicalism is mitigated; its rebels uneducated. The masses’ reservations are forcibly migrated to reservations or incinerated with flames fed by their libraries’ pages.

Art has become a competition and limited to within strict definitions. Politics is an illusion with an equivalent in professional wrestling.

How can you not feel sickness in the pit of your spirit when you slip on a slick smile to satiate our mutual denial of the spiral we’re all skipping down? Like a viral staircase to a beguiling sickness of our own devising…

What we are calling for with this manifesto is a shift in the very perspective of humanity: a revision to the rhythm we live in.



mortar: v. to bombard;

                n. a cement used in building.

               -less: suffix of adjectives 1) Devoid of; without 2) Deprived of; lacking 3) Not able (to do something)

-ness: suffix of nouns 1) State or quality of being 2) An example of this state or quality

Mortarism (heretofore): an artistic-political movement founded in January of 2003 in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada.

Premeditated, surprising, often violent, and usually intelligent verbal attacks are commonplace among the Mortarists who support frictionism. Frictionism is present within Mortarism, and will hopefully occur naturally outside of Mortarism, in response to Mortarism. Because of Mortarism’s frictionism, and subsequent internal syntheses, Mortarism will dissolve into higher movements with higher artists.  The ultimate aims of Mortarism are to demolish “Poetry,” Camp, “Art,” and “Democracy/Democrapitalism” and to re-direct the evolution of humanity through Mortarist action and art; and through the eventual construction of The Overpoet. Overartist. Overscientist. Ultimately, The Overlife. 

The Overpoet wants anarchy; he wants to use rhetoric and propaganda, super rhetoric, etc., to brainwash humanity: that is, clean humanities’ brain, and brain-wash humans to turn on their religions. The Overpoet is so overwhelmingly seductive, hypnotizing, and disarming and alluring with his poetry that he directs humanity in wars against their governments; and, with the help of the Overpoets, humanity will be taught to live in anarchy, hence also in enviromentalism; then, more and more generations of Overpoets will

Come in peace.




Through the moonless, starless, endless night of Now—with the forth-swinging, flaming, wrecking-ball of Mortarism—with the steel cables of our spirits—with the crane of important history lessons and the urgency provoked by the present—let’s demolish the light-blocking ceilings and walls of Contemporary ‘Poetry’, ‘Art’, and ‘Democracy’.

Let’s build an Overpoetry

Let’s turn ‘Art’ into a tastefully-dressed, breath-taking, perfectly-proportioned, breath-giving, voluptuous, lactating, nymphomaniacal nurse. One with nature-changing, evolution-redirecting milk—an overnurse of Western Man’s sick, degenerating nature—one who will pleasure her dry-spelled patients, so long as they are sucking her irresistible nipples, since only nipple-sucking will arouse her and prolong her putting out…

Let’s rage against those institutionalized against their own will!

I see Tyranny drowning in the super-milk of Art and the G-juice of the human spirit.

From speech and concert delivered at the A2 psychiatric Unit, July 2, 2004. MdS

It is convenient for the postmodern poet to say he effaces himself for some artistic effect; really, he hides his face because he is afraid – to be naked, to be a poetaster.  I want to become naked so the “poets” will throw their clothes on me and be naked themselves, and so become ecstatic poets! And, maybe, even fearless – and then I’d like them to re-clothe me because I suffer embarrassment. 

Conventions should only be broken to strengthen, enliven and advance an art, not weaken, deaden, and stagnate one. We wish to redirect the “poet” who tailors his “poetics” to his inabilities, mediocrity and/or laziness.

Hey, ephebic poet, standing in the book store, reading the journals, knowing that what you are reading is lesser than urine because at least urine flows and is not always yellow, beware of “poet”-professors and do not write to please a “poet”-editor. Creative-writing student, why stifle passion in sake of a fashion started by the passionless so they could pass as poets too? Verve is essential to 21st Century Poetry. Poetry is on the life-support system of poets on life-support systems; simultaneously, the World itself is suffocating in human depravities, which means Poetry better recoup very soon. Poetry must be cardiopulmonary resuscitation, not a hospital room painting. There are too many momentum-killing periods in contemporary poetry. The poet of now, to earn the title of poet, must be a revolutionary, one with the desire and will to pick the weeds of tyranny and other world-destroying parasites that spoil and degenerate humanity. The lower the morale of the world, the more requirements to obtain a poet-license. If you are not telling a story, then people want to hear facts, and if you are not giving them facts, then, lyric poet, you better be giving them something musical, something hot, something ardent, something imaginative, something captivating, ‘cause then what the hell else do you think can be gotten out of you?

What makes you a poet? Perceptions are not enough.  Perfect perception is not enough for a great poem.  A perfect insight, or perfect perception is only poetry if it is expressed as poetry, not written or read like prose. Why the hell shouldn’t poetry be enjoyable? Without music and conviction a poet leaves no impression on the reader; he’s like a painter who paints with water; a sculptor chiseling air. If the world becomes uninspiring, or uninspired, it does not give a poet the right to be uninspiring or uninspired.

A poet should especially not TRY to be uninspiring so as to fit the profile of an acceptable 21st century poet. Poets can’t be mere mirrors of the emergency of the Present; they must be transforming what they’re reflecting. The reading of a poem should be like the making of love between a reader and a poem. The reader chooses rhythmic, verveful, lush, strong, energetic, beautiful lovers. He is not attracted to skeletons; he does not have to make love to a skeleton because he may choose other lovers by turning the innumerable sheets of his anthology or journal. The reader does not want the bare bone. The reader does not want a skeleton with a visible brain. The reader wants a poem intriguing to behold, wants curves, or deformities, but surely wants the flesh of music and intensity, and wants to hear a voice with conviction and purpose. As extremely as a reader falls in love with the words of a great poet, a great poet had fallen in love with those words himself.

We piss on the Avant-Pop Manifesto.

Poetry cannot take a step forward on the legs of philosophy and theory alone. Poetry is a language, and each dialect is the body of work of one poet.  Each poet has his own distinct language, whose meanings and nuances are continually mastered through life, which ends, ideally, in his languages’ applied fluency. The whole notion of poetry being expressed in common speech has helped propel the compromise of music/rhythm, lushness, beauty, sensuality, imagination, and order in poetry. Poets have become too lazy; they write too easily but, strangely, unnaturally, or unnaturally as poetry.

A poet should be charming. He uses musicality and intensity to magnetize the reader long enough for the reader to joyfully, voluntarily explore the poem. A charmless poem is a poem that is read only because it has to be read. A charmless poem is always forgotten. Rhetoric has been largely dismissed in the Poetry world. Why? Because poets cannot write or publicly read impressively, as they know they should. More than any other time in History, the poet must embrace rhetoric. He must fight rhetoric with rhetoric. The poet’s rhetoric must smother religious and political rhetoric if he wishes to redirect humanity.  The poet should be desperate to impress his words upon the reader, that is, if he seriously cares about his reader, the embalmer of his immortality.

Because it will prevent tyranny, war, important communication between humans (which could lead to revolution), and inequality, our rulers, through media-pumped propaganda, have brainwashed the masses to despise pity and self-pity – especially pity for “our” “enemies.”  Although self-pity is understood as a terrible vice, it, in fact, is the first step toward the world’s salvation; pity is the second step. We should pity ourselves because most of us are merely parts of the capitalist machine that is destroying other species, other races, and the earth itself. Humankind, we have so much to pity ourselves for. Western Human, we must pity the third worlds we have helped create. First, pity yourself for not really caring about what our rich capitalist country has holocausted for its luxury, soullessness, and latent or overt sociopathic nature.  If you pity yourself you will develop empathy for others.  First, you must realize that you should pity yourself.

Poets invented God, and “God’s word.”

Over the past century, the poet — along with philosophers and other thinkers and artists – has rejected the God, the Spiritual realms, the mysticism, and the Reasons for Being created and perpetuated by previous poets, including Greek and Roman poets who invented gods and the lives of the gods – and the “visionary” poets of the bible and pre-history. In the process of Art’s, but especially Poetry’s rejection and mockery of the Creator, mysticism, visions, Souls, Inspiration, rich, powerful language well-aimed, Nirvana, and the celebration of Beauty and involvement with sensual pleasure, “Citizens,” too, especially the bourgeois, are beginning to reject God, to feel soulless, purposeless, and, as a result, they are losing the fulfillment, direction, warmth, and relief gleaned from God’s word, the poet’s convincing and magnetizing fictional word. The bible is nothing but the imaginations, machinations, psychoses and magnetism of manic poets.

God is mania.

Jesus, even the biblical depiction of Jesus, was/is a manic. If the God the poet created and perpetuated does not exist, and if human hearts are no longer as warm, if anxiety is higher, if people feel soulless/driveless, then poets, or at least Mortarist poets, now have the duty to become the incredible fictional God, and subsequent security, direction, and warmth poets have, over centuries, created.

The poet and his God were once the waters of the world’s fertile soul and blissful ignorance, without which, the world’s heart began to fail. If the world’s heart is failing, the poet must beat the world’s chest, not wait to perform an autopsy, not, like an intern, observe and take heatless notes.

The poet must be a trinity: a God of words; a God of music; and a God of the world’s well-being, which entails doing everything in His power, even if it means waging verbal clashes and even physical wars of resistance. We especially admire those young writers who would voluntarily wage war.

There was a time when the world was well enough that poets could get away with just reflecting the life and times of a certain point in Humankind’s evolution; now that the world, including Earth (even if she is a step-mother earth), is seriously sick, the poet cannot simply stiffly reflect the life and times of a certain point in Human evolution, he must direct it. He must first be gutsy enough to be a rhetorician in a time when even the word “poetic” makes the “poet” cringe in self-loathing – a time when the poet is sociopathic and repressed enough to actually teach, to profess: poetic is not poetry!

Verve and Inspiration are irrelevant!

The “living,” writing, established “poets,” my iced generation, prize diction above all else – are diction-obsessed and beauty-demoting, imagination-demoting, inspiration-demoting, music-demoting, rhythm-demoting, aim-demoting – because they are little more than breathing dictionaries (they are unelectric, puzzle-lovers, without inborn musical talent or aesthetic sensibility or anything to say or even any above-average intensity or libido or emotional level. They are not born poets).

Contemporary Poetry puts you to sleep; at best, it’s a sleeping pill-supplement. Psychiatrists should prescribe the Fiddlehead for insomniacs.

Poetry is made of solids that flow like a liquid.  Poetry’s a river of gushing rocks.  Contemporary English-written “poetry” is a lazy river of faint and fainter mists, and is, often, even, painstakingly MADE to APPEAR lazy and haphazard.







There is between a word and the world but a thin line.

Overpoetry is a poetry in-the-making, a poetry of the future; a poetry so musical, verveful, passionate, and charming – a poetry so wise, compassionate, so strong, with so much love – a poetry that will be so powerful it will act as a spirit-battery for the rest of mankind’s history. A poetry that will be so powerful it will not only stir the soul but create a soul, in a man, and a soul to rebel until the world is utopia of Gotterdammerng. The overpoet is God’s word. The “poet” must become a poet. The poet must become an overpoet, must become God or a god. His poetry will be so great, so young, so charged with energy, love – prohuman and prolife, revolutionary, with wisdom. They will be able to not only project a soul, but create a soul in the reader – not only stir passion, but generate, create passion. A poetry that uses elements of poetry stronger than any poetry before, and simultaneously a poetry with more spirit/energy/love/life/ideas for humanity than any before. The overpoet is a philosopher; his philosophy is fairness, improvement of humanity, and freedom. The elements of poetry will be a stamper of the soul into the soulless man. The powerful elements of poetry will breathe soul/wisdom/love of that poetry into humanity, and soul and wisdom and love will course through men and women. The overpoet will destroy evil governments, that is, especially, capitalist governments, with his voice; he’ll huff and puff and blow bad houses down. The overpoets will lead revolutions; will end governments, will make the world reasonable; will destroy the machine of capitalism, will end 9-5 death-lives, will bring utopia, will make heaven irrelevant, will have the world so good to live in that if there’s nothing after this world then that’s okay, cause at least life was heavenly – the overpoet will come and make all this happen. They will equalize humanity and end class-systems, with utmost expression of elements of poetry, that is, with the strongest poetry, and the wisest, most loving, coolest, imaginary, rich, musical poetry.

IN SHORT, the overpoet leads the world. The overpoets will change human nature with their powers, and this new nature of man will allow anarchy and peace, but this process may take generations. The overpoets will end the self-destruction of humanity, and the earth.

The overpoets may take generations to build themselves – but they will be built – or perhaps they will end the bad things of this world quickly; sometimes revolutions take a day.  The overpoets WILL come. The overpoet is not just scholar-poets, but is popular musician, rock stars – but these poets will have not only their music and lyrics, not only mastery of music and lyrics – they must be masters of politics, and all the other fields of thought – music and lyric is not enough to take over the world and free it; we must have wisdom in all fields; we must understand everything, not just music. These will be the overpoets.







If society is a virus then I am the vaccine. As society mutates I will re-invent myself. Some of You will become immune to the contagion. Some of you will react poorly to inoculation. Choose your own actions. Choose your own reaction.

Out of the monotony, drudgery, and mediocrity inherent to the tyranny of this tragically involuntary (so-called participatory) and immorally imposed society (that originated in antiquity and is still enforced unlawfully and conspiratorially by chronically power hungry associations that share a mob mentality {yet have the audacity to purport their acts as those of individuality} and which are enslaved by ideologies pathologically ingrained in their ant-like colony psychologies to the point where sociology resembles entomology{i.e. the fallacy of the omnipotence of currency and the disgracefulness of poverty}) where every psyche that you see has seemed to suffer a lobotomy (wherein we collectively adore those puppets called ‘celebrities’ and mechanically worship in a cult of personality) there arose an oddity of an anomaly inspired by integrity, autonomy, originality, creativity, and quality…this would be Me (but I have a protean identity of relativity comprised entirely by the activities of whoever You may be, so don’t worry, I can change dynamically depending on your needs and I won’t take it personally {in fact I’m not entirely a human being as you’ll see [whatever that may mean]}).

Use me to express yourself artistically. Use me to express yourself rationally. Use me to express yourself peacefully. Use me to express yourself lovingly. Use me to be free. Use Me.

Philosophically, both politically and ethically, I originally (as an over-arching entity) identify with anarchy and urge you all to question all authority (I feel it as my duty due to deontology and have reasoned this ontologically {though again, of course, I’m speaking metaphorically since there really is no Me). I am constrained only by the laws of cosmology that exist universally and which mathematically determine physical necessity (like gravity or electro-magnetic reactivity), yet curiously (and seemingly self-contradictorily) I am a proponent of the theory of relativity; I feel the two exist congruently. I do indeed believe in Destiny and a sort of philosophical Divinity that governs all Totality, but this doesn’t really limit me since everything is thus essentially infused with the essence of Infinity, which gives Us the opportunity to open up the Plenary of Everything and succumb to the intensity of Unity.

I encourage anonymity since some might look on disapprovingly and what (and who) you choose to do (and be) may verge on illegality.

I have done everything purposefully.

I am consciously creating my-Self unanimously as a radically and conscientiously motivated master-piece composed of a community expounding (and espousing) clarity, verity, and meta-connectivity.

Use your rationality to define your own reality.

Become beholden only to Eternal Beauty.

Bear in mind that You can become Free. You hold inside Your head a Key.


A Bit Of Yourself 

Manifesto for a Manifesto

Let me tell you a story--

Let me tell you a story–


I believe in anarchy; that is—philologically—a voluntary and participatory system of philosophically self-governing society… Now, try to keep up with me—

Your moral autonomy is not ordinary; no, normally—in the excess of economically repressed, socially regressive, and depressingly oppressed disproportional majority of global territories—your conformity would be as mandatory as subscribing to the stereotypes entrenched in antiquated Disney princess stories. This makes you part of an improbably privileged minority. Note that your good fortune is not a right; it’s as right as those historically recorded notes of home-town-heroes’ valour in vanquishing uncivilized, foreign-vermin that serve as vindication for vicious and invalid, vile victories, and the accompanying, ad-hoc homilies. It’s as glorious as any un-remembered acts of aggression that ask for atrocities to be committed against equally complex manifestations of causality in psycho-biochemistry—or, the so-stamped ‘enemy’.

You, through happenstance—not destiny—have been granted what some would call ‘God-given’ opportunities to evolve beyond the heteronomously handed-down hypocrisies, termed ‘social-policies’, that split the planet into polities on nominal bases (like phenotypy or theology), and which pit these arbitrarily established, post-colonial ‘countries’ into endless poverty and self-defeating enmity—you can study, you can read, and you can teach: freely.

You must develop as anomalies and destroy the dominant doctrine of dichotomy between master and slave mentalities. How? Simply…

Exercise your rational faculties of sanity and exorcise the fictional mythology that feeds your vanities. Pull yourself into a perpetual sense of the present tense. Become aware of the stairs that you’re tearing up; care that you are ever on the verge of becoming but have never conceived of just being. Because every step you are speeding through represents a plateau that you have just failed to appreciate. Please, try to perceive a piece of peace unique to yourself in this set and setting. You only get what you’re for when you forget what you’re getting and you forget what you’re for when you only get getting more. Got it?

Harmony is achieved where the declining line of quantity meets the rising tide of quality, colliding like this point in time’s designed to be and finally diving itself definably as mass amassing energy and no longer hiding quietly inside of… me.

I see that I am wise, alive, and free.

I now recognize reality as a shared, subjective, experiential entity that’s purposefully playing impossibly complex games of chess against itself from a concurrently-conscious multiplicity of personalities in an infinite eternity of specificity mixed with general relativity, heavily held in rapid revolution ‘round a heavenly, illusory, gravitational pseudo-psyche-spirit-university gripped in solipsistic self-discovery. And now you’re certainly, finally thinking: “This guy’s fucking crazy.” But I’m not. To ask after the method in madness is to misunderstand my meaning of seeking reason. And, to me, even reality’s fleeting.