and with laurel, restlessly roll
those precious balls, your eyes.
Spotted with brown lees, your cheeks are hollow.
Your fangs gleam. Your breast is like a lyre,
tinklings circulate through your pale arms.
Your heart beats in that belly where sleeps the double sex.
Walk through the night, gently moving that thigh,
that second thigh, and that left leg.
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The poor omnibus driver under the tin canopy,
follows his heavy omnibus along the left bank,and from his inflated groin thrusts away the moneybag.And while [in the] soft shadowwhere there are policemen,the respectable interior of the bus looks at the moonin the deep sky rockingamong its green cotton wool,in spite of the Edictand the still delicate hour,and the fact that the bus isreturning…
We have found it again.
‘Tis the ocean goneFor a walk with the sun.Soul, you sentinel,Murmur and confess,Day is fiery hell,Night is nothingness.From the common urges,From the human highestFar thy path diverges:Following thou fliest…No expectancy,No orietur,Science patiently;Punishment is sure.From your blaze alone,Satin flames of force,Duty’s breath is blown;No one says : of course.We have found it again.What? Time without end.‘Tis…
The cascade resounds behind operetta huts.
and avenues near the Meander,–the greens and reds of the setting sun.Horace nymphs with First Empire headdresses,–Siberian rounds and Boucher’s Chinese ladies.
Chariots of copper and of silver–
Thresh upon the foam,–Upheavals the stumps and brambles.The currents of the heath,And the enormous ruts of the ebb,Flow circularly toward the east,Toward the pillars of the forest,–Toward the boles of the jetty,Against whose edge whirlwinds of light collide.
And so the Mother, shutting up the duty book,
In the blue eyes, or how with secret loathing wild,Beneath the prominent brow, a soul raged in her child.All the day long he sweated with obedient zeal;a clever boy; and yet appearing to reveal,By various dark kinks, a sour hypocrisy.In corridors bedecked with musty tapestryHe wouls stick out his tongue, clenching hid two fists tightAgainst…
Black in the snow and fog,
on their knees, five little ones – what anguish! –watch the baker making the heavy white bread.They see the strong white arm that shapesthe grey dough and sets it to bake in a bright hole.They listen to the good bread cooking.The Baker with his fat smile hums an old tune.They are huddled together, not one…