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