o grind up all the bones cathedrals all in white
the bells
all bodies, naked and strange under me the legend of Nizhni Novgorod
me…
of the great red Christ of the Russian letters
eons of the Holy Ghost flew up from
wound adolescence
I had already forgotten my birth
it was war
Love carted away millions of corpses
the last trains leaving
because they weren’t selling any ging to me the legend of Nizhni
going away would have liked to
didn’t want to go anywhere, could go
had enough money
corkscrews
Still another, coffins from I was trying to nourish myself with
of sardines in oil
Then there were many with the bell towers and the stations
Women with crotches for stars
Coffins
They were all patented day morning.
It was rumored there were many dead.
They traveled at reduced boxes of alarm clocks and cuckoo
And they had savings Forest
and an assortment of Sheffield
the women in the cafes and all In Siberia cannon
Hunger cold plague
them and break them And the muddy waters
In all the stations I saw
Nobody could
more tickets
And the soldiers who
stay. . .
______________________________
Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrar
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