Sunday, March 4, 2012

The Death of Surrealism.(Poem)

 Will he who collides with things be the same as he who harmonizes them? This is probably it, which saddens me. --Hugo Ball  

I.

 Outside it's still, no tank from Shell in the frequency of my eavesdropping no atom breaks off falls into the canal, no depressed organ rehearses betrayal and the lily before me in the dreaming glass--  this flora of my longing also sneezes its fragrance only semiotically without a noise into the terrifying night! Outside it's still, the empty parking lot thrust-reversal of happiness and a tiny academy far away Asia threatens a horn of Poseidon, with freight trains ... So now comes the world over winter! The onions lie on the table … 

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