The House of Yves

This is the house of Yves Tanguy

Where you enter by night only

 

With the storm lantern

 

Outside the land that’s so transparent

A seer in his element

 

With the storm lantern

With the sawmill so industrious you can’t see it

 

And toile de Jouy in the sky as well

—You, hunt the supernatural

 

With the storm lantern

With the sawmill so industrious you can’t see it

With all the stars of sacrebleu

 

It’s made of jambs, it’s made of lassos

In the hue of swimming crawfish

 

With the storm lantern

With the sawmill so industrious you can’t see it

With all the stars of sacrebleu

With the trolleys going every which way reduced to

just their masts

 

Space bound, time miniaturized

Ariadne in her chamber-case

 

With the storm lantern

With the sawmill so industrious you can’t see it

With all the stars of sacrebleu

With the trolleys going every which way reduced to

just their masts

With the ceaseless mane of the Argonaut

 

By female sphinxes the service is given

Who cover up their eyes with linen

 

With the storm lantern

With the sawmill so industrious you can’t see it

With all the stars of sacrebleu

With the trolleys going every which way reduced to

just their masts

With the ceaseless mane of the Argonaut

With the fulgurating appointments of the desert

 

There you bruise there you get better

There you complot with no shelter

 

With the storm lantern

With the sawmill so industrious you can’t see it

With all the stars of sacrebleu

With the trolleys going every which way reduced to

just their masts

With the ceaseless mane of the Argonaut

With the fulgurating appointments of the desert

With the signs exchanged by distant lovers

 

It’s the house of Yves Tanguy

 

André Breton