[99] written by Squinky & French Cubist-cum-Futurist Poet Guilliame Apollinare &
Metalchic, French Goddess-cum-Squinky's Futurist Wife, Breaking
All Of Mogel's Line Restriction Rules

You are weary at last of this ancient world

Sheperdess O Eiffel tower whose fock of bridges bleats
this morning

You are tired of living in this Greek and Roman Antiquity

Here even automobiles look old
Only religion remains fresh religion
as simple as hangars at the airfield

Alone in Europe you Christianity are not antique
The one modern European is you Pope Pius X
And you whom windows watch what shame keeps you
From enterting a church and confessing your sins this morning
Handbills catalogue advertisements that sing aloud
Furnish your morning's poetry and for prose there are newspapers
Dime detective novels packed with adventure
Biographes of great men a thousand and one titles

This morning I saw a fine stree whose name slips my mind
New and bright the sun's trumpet
Where executives and workers sweet stenographers
Hurry every weekday dawn and night
Three times a morning sirens groan
A choleric bell barks at noon
Lettering on billboards and walls
Doorplates and posters twitter like parakeets
Charm is in this Paris factory street
Between rue Aumont-Thievelle and the avenue des Ternes

Here is a young street and you still a small child
Your mother dresses you only in blue and white
You are very pious and with your oldest friend Rene Dalize
You like nothing so much as the ceremonies of the church
Nine o'clock the gass turns blue you slip out of bed
You pray all night in the school chapel
While an eternal adorable amethyst depth
Christ's flaming halo revolves forever
He is the lovely lily we all worship
He is the red-haired torch no wind may blow out
Pale and scarlet son of the sorrowful mother
Tree hung with prayer
Twofold gallows of honor and eternity
Six-pointed star
A God who dies on Friday and rises on Sunday
Christ who flies higher than the aviators
And holds the world's record for altitude

Christ pupil of the eye
Twentieth pupil of the centuries he knows his business
And changed to a bird this century ascends like Jesus
Devils in hell raise their heads to stare
They say it imitates Simong Magus in Judea
They say if it flies call it a flyer
Angels fly past the graceful trapeze artist
Icarus Enoch Elijah Apollonius of Tyana
Hover near the original airplane
Or give place to those whom the Eucharist elevates
Priests rising continuously as they raise the Host
At last the plane lands with wings outspread
Through heaven come flying a million swallows
At full speed crows owls falcons
Ibises flamingoes storks from Africa
Roc so celebrated in song and story
Clutching Adam's skull the original head
Eagle from the horizon pounces screaming
Hummingbird arrives from America
From China long supple pihis
Who have only one wing and fly in tandem
Here comes the dove immaculate spirit
Escorted by lyrebird and ocellated peacock
That funeral pyre the phoenix engendering himself
Momentarily viels all with his ardent ash
Sirens quit their perilous perches
And arrive each singing beautifully
Everyone eagle phoenix pihis
Fraternizes with the flying machine

Now you stride alone through the Paris crowds
Busses in bellowing herds roll by
Love's anguish tights in your throat
As if you could never be loved again
In the old days you would have entered the monastery
With shame you ctch yourself praying
Or jeer and your laughter crackles like hellfire
It sparks gild the depths of your life
Which like a painting in a somber museum
You approach sometimes to peer at closely

Today you stroll through Paris the women are all covered in blood
It was and I would prefer not to remember it was in beauty's decline

From fervent flames Our Lady gazed down on me in Chartres
Your Sacred Heart's blood drowned me in Montmarte
I am sick of hearing pleasant words
My love is a shameful sickness
You are sleepless anguished but possessed by an image
Which hovers never distant

Now you are by the Mediterranean
Under lemon trees that flower all year long
With your friends you board a ship
One from Nice one from Menton two from La Turbie
We see terrified in the depths giant squid
And fish the Savior's symbols gliding through seaweed

You are in a tavern near Prague
You feel happy instad of writing your stories in prose
You stare at a rose on the table and a
rosebug asleep in the rose's heart

Horrified you trace your likeness in the agates of Saint Vitus
You almost died of grief that day you saw yourself portrayed
as Lazarus blinded by daylight
The hands of the clock in the Jewish quarter run backwards
You also slowly creep backwards through life
Climbing to the Hradchen listening at twilight
To Czech songs from the taverns

You are in Marseilles among piles of watermellons

You are in Coblenz at the Giant's hotel

You are in Rome sitting under a Japanese medlar tree

You in Amsterdam with a girl you find pretty but who is ugly
And engaged to a student from Leyden
One can rent rooms there in Latin Cubuicula locanda
I remember three days there and three at Gouda

You are in Paris arraigned before the judge
Arrested like a criminal

You went on sad and merry journeys
Before growing aware of lies and old age
Love made you unhappy at twenty again at thirty
I have lived like a fool and wasted my youth
You no longer dare examine your hands and at any moment I could
weep
Over you over her whom I love over all that has frightened you

With tears in your eyes you see the poor emigrants
Who have faith in God and pray the mothers nurse their children
Their smell fills the waiting room at the gare St. Lazare
Like the three kings they believe in a star
Hope to strike it rich in ARgentina
And return home wealthy
One family carries a crimson quilt as you carry your heart
Quilt and our dreams are equally unreal
Some of these emigrants stay on and lodge
In slums on the rue des Rosiers or the rue des Ecouffes
I have seen them often walking at dusk
They keep close to home like chessmen
And are mostly Jewish their wives wear wigs
Pallid they sit at the back of little shops

You stand at the counter of a dirty bar
You have a coffee for two sous with the other riffraff

You are in a huge restaurant at night
These women are not evil only wornout
Each has made her lover suffer even the ugliest

Who is the daughter of a policeman on the Isle of Jersey

Her hands which I had not noticed are calloused and cracked

The scars on her belly fill me with immense pity

I humble my mouth by offering it to a poor slut with a horrible laugh

You are alone when morning comes
Milkmen clink bottles on the street

Night leaves like a lovely Metive
Ferdine the false or watchful Lea

You sip a liquor that burns like your life
Your life you drain like an eau-de-vie

You stride home to Auteuil
To sleep among your fetishes from Oceania or Guinea
Other forms of Christ and other faiths
Lesses Christ of lesser aspirations

Adieu Adieu

The sun a severed neck

THE END

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!! (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! #400, WRITTEN BY VARIOUS ARTISTS, 1/4/98 !!