11. Bombay-Express


The life Iíve led
Stops me from doing myself in
Things are jumping

Women positively roll under the wheels
With great cries
The fantail boneshakers are at the station gates

I have music under my fingernails

Iíve never liked Mascagni

Nor art nor Artistes

Nor barriers nor bridges

Nor trombones nor trumpets
I donít know a thing anymore
I donít understand anymoreÖ

That caress

The geographical map trembles from

This year or next
Art criticism is as imbecilic as Esperanto

Farewell Farewell


I was born in this town

My son likewise

His brow resembles his motherís vagina

Some thoughts startle buses

I donít read books anymore that are only in libraries

Great ABC of the world


Bon voyage!


Would you were with me

You who laugh at vermilion



April 1914.