11. Bombay-Express

The life I’ve 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

I’ve never liked Mascagni

Nor art nor Artistes

Nor barriers nor bridges

Nor trombones nor trumpets
I don’t know a thing anymore
I don’t understand anymore…

That caress

The geographical map trembles from

This year or next
Art criticism is as imbecilic as Esperanto

Brindisi
Farewell Farewell

I was born in this town

My son likewise

His brow resembles his mother’s vagina

Some thoughts startle buses

I don’t 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.