The physical world is still there. It is the parapet of me that looks and which has been a fish red ocher, a fish dry air fact, a clotting water flowing back. But something happened at once.
born an arborescence crisp, with hints of fronts , spent, and something like a perfect navel, but vague and had watery blood color and ahead was a grenade that spilled blood also mixed with water , spilling blood whose lines hung; and in these lines, circles drawn breast in the blood of the brain.
But the air was like a vacuum suction in which the bust of a woman was on the general earthquake in the world shake vitreous, which turned into splinters of fronts, and shook his vegetation columns, their clutches of eggs, their knots in spirals, mental mountains, gables stunned. And, in the pediments of the columns had been shut soles random, suns sustained by air jets like eggs, and my front separating these columns, and air flaked and mirrors
soles and the coils springs, to the beautiful line of the breast, and the hollow of the navel, and belly was missing.
But all the columns lost their eggs, and the broken line of the columns are born eggs in ovaries, eggs sexes reversed.
The mountain is dead, the air is eternally dead. In this decisive break a world, all noises are imprisoned in ice, and the effort of my face is frozen.
But under the ice pierced by a deafening noise of fire buds silence surrounding the bare belly and private ice,
and soles amount turned and look, moons black, land fires, whirlwinds of milk.
The cold stirring columns my soul divided in two, and I play my own sex, the sex of the bottom of my soul, which comes as a triangle in flames.
Published in "La Révolution Surréaliste", No. 2 (1925)
version Aldo Pellegrini
- Antonin Artaud-
born an arborescence crisp, with hints of fronts , spent, and something like a perfect navel, but vague and had watery blood color and ahead was a grenade that spilled blood also mixed with water , spilling blood whose lines hung; and in these lines, circles drawn breast in the blood of the brain.
But the air was like a vacuum suction in which the bust of a woman was on the general earthquake in the world shake vitreous, which turned into splinters of fronts, and shook his vegetation columns, their clutches of eggs, their knots in spirals, mental mountains, gables stunned. And, in the pediments of the columns had been shut soles random, suns sustained by air jets like eggs, and my front separating these columns, and air flaked and mirrors
soles and the coils springs, to the beautiful line of the breast, and the hollow of the navel, and belly was missing.
But all the columns lost their eggs, and the broken line of the columns are born eggs in ovaries, eggs sexes reversed.
The mountain is dead, the air is eternally dead. In this decisive break a world, all noises are imprisoned in ice, and the effort of my face is frozen.
But under the ice pierced by a deafening noise of fire buds silence surrounding the bare belly and private ice,
and soles amount turned and look, moons black, land fires, whirlwinds of milk.
The cold stirring columns my soul divided in two, and I play my own sex, the sex of the bottom of my soul, which comes as a triangle in flames.
Published in "La Révolution Surréaliste", No. 2 (1925)
version Aldo Pellegrini
- Antonin Artaud-
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