Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Blaise Cendrars | Trans-Siberian Prose and Little Jeanne from France


“Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?”

No but…get the hell out…leave me alone
You have angular hips
Your stomach is sour and you have the clap
That's all that Paris has put in your bosom
There's also a bit of soul… because you are unhappy
Feel my pity feel my pity come towards me unto my heart
The wheels are windmills from the land of Cocagne
The windmills are crutches twirled by a beggar
We are the cripples of emptiness
We roll on our four sores
Our wings have been clipped
The wings of our seven sins
And all the trains are paddleballs of the devil
The modern world
Speed can't do much here but
The modern world
The faraway places are just too far
And at the end of the journey it's terrible to be a man with a woman…

“Blaise, tell me, are we very far from Montmartre?”

Feel my pity feel my pity come towards me I will tell you a story
Come to bed
Come unto my heart
I'm going to tell you a story…

Oh come! come!

In Figi spring reigns eternal
Love swoons couples in the tall grass and hot syphilis lurks under banana trees
Come to the lost isles of the Pacific!
They are called Phoenix the Marquesas
Borneo and Java
And Sulaweisi in the form of a cat.


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