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BOMBAY EXPRESS
red clearing with old courtyard
I can remember They kidnap the young prisoner
land and Christianity. I get into a carriage which
myself in the past. But They leave at top speed
; and even the langue While the guards empty their
I cannot see myself
Some of the guards jump on horses
convicts
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Cut-up of Arthur Rimbaud and Blaise Cendrars
Gibet et de la Roue
Paris, 1913.
Avec les gestes piteux et le the oaths of the cardplayers in the
sous la pluie
Bella, Agnès, Catherine et la ne
Et celle, la mère de mon amoucles who paced nervously up and
looked at me as he passed
Il y a des cris de sirène qui me heart tears rise
Là-bas en Mandchourie un mistress…
dans un accouchement and,
Je voudrain depths of a bordello
Je voudrain n’avoir jamais fait
Motley
Like my life
And my life doesn’t keep me a full speed
Shawl
And the whole of Europe see
gold wheels whirling madly along in
universe
Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrars
The wings of our seven sins
And all the trains are the devil’s cup and ball
The poultry yard
The modern world
Speed is useless
In the modern world
Distances are too great
And at the end of the trip it's terrible to be a man with a
woman…
We can’t go to Japan
Come to Mexico!
On the escarpments the
Riotous vines
They seem a painter’s
Colors booming like
Rousseau was there
His life was dazzled
At Chita we had a few day’s piano and I had a raging
Five days stopover because of b
We spent it with Monsieur Iae that calm interior the father’s
me his only daughter in daughter who would come each
Then the train took off again.
And amputated limbs dance tulip trees are in bloom
raucous air tresses
Fire was on all the faces in alette and brushes
Idiot fingers rapped on all the ngs
And in the press of fear glance
In all the stations where all the
And I saw
Sleep
I would so have liked to sleep camels
I can identify all the countri more than 500 kilometers
closed it’s all I saw
And I can identify all the train
Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrars
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
Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrar
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. . .
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Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrar
