Читать книгу The Self-Dismembered Man - Guillaume Apollinaire - Страница 13

All the yellow dies from red to green

Where parakeets sing in the first woods

Pihi giblets

There is a poem to write about a bird with just one wing

We’ll telephone it in

Gigantic trauma

Brings tears to my eyes

Behold a pretty young girl amid the youth of Turin

The poor boy sneezed into his white cravat

I’ll raise the curtain

And voilà the opening window

Spiders where my hands wove the light

Beauty pallor fathomless flowers

We’ll flunk at shuteye

We’ll start over at midnight

If you’ve got the time you’ve got the freedom

Winkles codfish polysuns and sundown urchins

A pair of old yellow boots in front of the window

Towers

Towers are the streets

Wells

Wells are plazas

Wells