Substance

A niche sallies

And tickles the winded nose of evening

The usefulest lantern

Scolds the cages’ sick gleams

A small ape in full flight

The figure in an apron

Seeks its well-mannered mistress

With the glinting saucepan brimful of disputes

How amusing it is to rapidly go

Flit against the seagulls

Moist mizzle of hordes crickets

The birds begin this crepuscule

That knits its stocking

Beneath shadows of snails

In a garden acidic

Fortifying the North wind

And bears the trembling bell away in a perched bowl.

Outworn pleasure for hiding my naked bronchi.

Francis Picabia