From The Swallow's Testicle

even though the moon is hung up opposite me like a mirror the angel in my eye hurts me
on the tables the seeds swell up and if you strike the plants their blossoms jump
the lions succumb before their sentry boxes with watering cans full of diamonds in their claws
the guides wear wooden aprons
the birds wear wooden ankle-boots
the birds are full of echoes
their eggs roll endlessly from their little hearts
their stripes support the mast of the sky
their soles on the walking flames
if the chain of snow breaks they invoke god
if the wheel of the sky comes down their horseshoes walk on black seeds

the jig saws of the injured birds buzz in the forests of saws
the animals with vermilion trumpets slip into one another like chinese boxes
the jumping-jack stars the jumping-jack flowers and the jumping-jack men cut their strings
the cartesian divers whistle their way across the brine-pits that are lovelier than the gardens of Louis XIV in the 
   morocco-leather coaches
slowly i climb the milepole
i put my eggs in the treeholes of the milestones
from all the corners of the world the dadaists are now arising but basically they are merely masked meissoniers they 
   imitate the clicking of the tongue and the convulsion of language in the cloud pump
a terrible mene tekel zeppelin will be made ready for them and the private orchestra of the dadaists will whisper 
   something to them
they'll be thrown to the caterpillars as food
they'll have beards planted in the wrong places
they will seesaw on the lassos of the stars

THE ONLY TRUE DADAISTS ARE THE DADAISTS OF SPIEGELGASSE

beware of imitations
ask your bookdealers only for the dadaists of spiegelgasse or at least for the works that were soaked in aquadadatinta 
   by the dadaist rasputin and spiritus rector tzar tristan

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