windows of my poesy are wide open on the boulevards
and in their panes
Gemstones of light
violins of limousines and the xylophones of linotypes
The dauber cleans himself with the hand towel of the sky
All is spots of color
hats of women passersby are comets in the conflagration
no more unity
All the clocks say 24 hours now after having been set back ten
There’s no more time.
no more money.
In the Chamber
They waste the marvelous elements of raw material
workers in blue shirts drink red wine
Saturday chicken in the pot
From time to time a crook passes by in a car
Or a child plays with the Arch of Triumph…
I advise Mr. Pig to lodge his protégés in the Eiffel Tower.
The Holy Spirit is for sale in the tiniest shops
with ravishment the bands of calico
There are none but the pumice stones of the Sorbonne that have
The sign of the Samaritan plows per contra the Seine
And over at Saint-Séverin
The tramcars’ relentless ringing
It rains electric light bulbs
Montrouge Gare de l’Est Métro Nord-Sud
All is halo
Rue de Buci they hawk L’Intransigeant
The airport of the sky is now, ablaze, a picture by Cimabue
Whenas to the fore
And smoke, factory stacks.