danse des impuissants de la création.
—Tristan Tzara
The ruby of my body glittered in my body, which didn’t die. The ruby felt a three-second chill. The perfect neck of a youthful Venus comforts me. She has the body’s ruby on her finger. A gray ruby is on my finger.
Night and everything else maintains its equilibrium on a dazzling scale.
I look at Mars. Night wraps around my soul. I look at a hyacinth. Night wraps around the hyacinth. Cruel ennui moves me. The soul of a girl’s naked body is about to be severed like a reed, and it’s trembling. I leave everything behind.
Imagination’s devil possessed her. She behaves like an idiot and shows me her white fingers. Lacking words, my soul begins to swell like a white lily. Why has she transformed? The breasts of the libertine become feminized like the inside of a new shell. My eyes can see that for the first time. The cryptic pose she assumes.
Crowded laughter that doesn’t resemble any flower. The silk-flower hair ornament wants to change endlessly. Oh terrifying similitude!
She sobs from loneliness.
Is wrapped in a kimono like an extremely feminine woman. I become a simple hydrangea. Bringing with her an unfamiliar portrait, she tried to change my art. She presents me with her voluptuous injured arm. Finally, imagination’s devil captured me. I tried to turn her attention to a photograph of a bridge in Brooklyn. Suddenly she becomes a hydrangea.
If the body dies, I will not love her.
The exact same kind of breeze lasts for three days. She is out on the beach and inquisitively fondling her knees, which are almost identical to birds’ eggs. She seems to have lost most of her body. She confessed she would be sad if grapes lasted forever. She eats a meal in front of me, as if she’s a marble statue. The girl is unaware of various words pouring down onto a live white lily. It’s already dawn when innumerable gods become surprised.
