my son
my son
let us always shuffle through the colour of the world
which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy
we are too thin
we have no mouth
our legs are stiff and knock together
our faces are formeless like the stars
crystal points without strength burned basilica
mad : the zigzags crack
telephone
bite the rigging liquefy
the arc
climb
astral
memory
towards the north through its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood
astral
memory
towards the north through its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood
- tristan tzara
1 comment:
tristan tzara, andre breton,.. two surrealist poets that are equally good writers! go read nadja and surrelist manifesto by andre.
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