Blaise Cendrars Cut Up (four)

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

Blaise Cendrars Cut Up (three)

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

Cendrars cut-up, original text

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

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

Blaise Cendrars Cut Up (one)

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