There Are Strange Flowers Of

O Months Of Blossoming, Months Of Transfigurations, May Without Cloud And June Stabbed To The Heart, I Shall Not Ever Forget The Lilacs Or The Roses Nor Those The Spring Has Kept Folded Away Apart.

No More Painters, No More Scribblers, No More Musicians, No More Sculptors, No More Religions, No More Royalists, No More Radicals, No More Imperialists, No More Anarchists, No More Socialists, No More Communists, No More Proletariat, No More Democrats, No More Republicans, No More Bourgeois, No More Aristocrats, No More Arms, No More Police, No More Nations, An End At Last To All This Stupidity, Nothing Left, Nothing At All, Nothing, Nothing.

What On Earth Is Modern Exegesis Up To? Oh, Little Lazy One! Some Red Wine And Up! Off You Go, Brandishing Your Fork, Stripped Of Ophelia's Useless Ornaments, Fire In Your Large Nostrils, Out To Rake The Muck Of Metaphors.

The Vice Named Surrealism Is The Immoderate And Impassioned Use Of The Stupefacient Image Or Rather Of The Uncontrolled Provocation Of The Image For Its Own Sake And For The Element Of Unpredictable Perturbation And Of Metamorphosis Which It Introduces Into The Domain Of Representation; For Each Image On Each Occasion Forces You To Revise The Entire Universe.

For Each Man There Awaits... A Particular Image Capable Of Annihilating The Entire Universe.