Blaise Cendrars Cut Up (two)

An old monk was

Novgorod.

And I, the bad poet who Still, I was a very bad poe

everywhere I couldn’t go to the end.

And also merchants still I was hungry

To go make their fortune And all the days and all

And all the shopwindows glasses

And all the houses and all I should have liked

And all the wheels of cabs and all the streets

pavements those lives

I should have liked to plus turning like whirlwinds over broken

nge them into a furnace of swords

the square

And my hands took fligh The great almonds of the

wings And the honeyed gold of

And those were the last An old monk was reading

Of the very last voyage I was thirsty

And of the sea. And I was deciphering

When, all at once, the pig

I was in Moscow, where too,

with the rustling of albatross flames

And I was not satisfied of the last day

that my eyes turned

Their train left every many dead out there

It was rumored there we rates

One took along a hundred accounts I the bank.

clocks from Blac Malmö filled with tin cans and cans

Another, hatboxes,

Revolution… omen

And the sun was a fierce hire which could also be useful

That burned like live

It was in the time of my And I should have liked

I was scarcely sixteen And tear out all the

And dissolve all those

garments that enrage

I could sense the coming

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Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrar