The Quadrangular Pigeons -- 1938

the furrows of the valleys
diaphanous and cadaverous
converge toward our soft bodies
we are fished up by lightning bolts
we are sold by the pound
we are greatly sought after as delicacies
sought after like tulip-liver
and cricket's milk

the deaf with their spyglasses in their ears
smell out appearances better than bloodhounds do
appearances have no name
buy they have ten fingers as men do
they sugar the salt in their eyes
the better to eat one another when the fire's cooked

from beneath the shiny scales of our armor
we reveal a marbled body
while the servants
are gray and gross like rats
wax that wants to wax and wane
in good weather and in bad
we unbutton the psalms
and savor sirens' shoes
'tis better to have than to lave

the arrows of opaque crossbows
pierce a tiny quavering package
the flying canned goods quaver
around the tiny quavering package
in an illegible landscape
the masters the kilomasters the centimasters and the millimasters
drink portable water
the athletic snails fall asleep
on the palettes of mister van dyck

a wave of blood is attached to another wave of blood
by fire
and on the bronze branches
the industrial flowers go tch-tch-tch-tch-tch
like chefs who'd like to take french leave
the transparent stalks croak
the silken gazes fondle the air-bogs
an inadmissible fear of heights tarnishes the diamonds

the globes of water leave the orbits of the carcasses
the peccant humors circulate
the chains break
the shadows capsize
the heads gallop
who goes there
the eight or ten continents
on which the music-kernels
stroll about between the sole and the hat

the trees open their windows
so that their flesh may fly away
between the first tree and the last tree
the masts the sticks the canes and here and there an umbrella
conceive echoes
the roots of the trees look like newborn babies
in each tree a forest grows

the hat is a square navel
the rooster is a plumed clock
my mustache is well trained
well perfumed
and shiny with dew
the sun kneels down before my mustache
the plumed clock sings
the square navel evolves
a small chaste brook follows me
its innumerable little hands
fondle short-order pebbles and genius-fins

a cloud of lead knocks at my door
knock knock knock
my faithful little hammer gives tit for tat
bang bang bang

the clocks spell time nonstop
the crumb-head and the mechanical trousers
are wrapped up in initialed syllables
a valley under a veil
hovers near the skull of the air

bony-rooted owls
mount guard near a clump of artificial light
kisses hang in the honey-lace
the egg has a silk mouth

i move my arms
i move my arms
i rock my arms
stronger and stronger
i turn my arms
like windmill wings
i'm a windmill
i've got two wings that turn
that turn
that turn
the windmill only turns its arms

he puts on his hat of flesh
he puts on his boots of flesh
he takes his cane of bone
mounts his table of straw
and dreams of a woman of cork
who sleeps in a bed of water

drops of cold blood
drip on the hot flesh
the canicular bell laughs like an ant
it weighs one meter without its cherries
its hands are lined with feet
the better to take its course

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