personnages devant la lune

eyes are nested tendrils of stars and they stroll along the promenade each eye bearing a lamp and birds come down to lay their eggs in the nests and each egg is bigger than the world and the worlds are strung on a thread of horsehair and each world is a metronome and the metronomes swell and burst to the the rhythm of a heart and the heart is poised over the horizon and the horizon runs and pools like a flood of paint and the elderly gentlemen who sit by the promenade open their sou’westers and drink copious draughts of ink because Tuesday is so many nails below the garden where lizards are born

it’s as if it were raining sardines

a sun rose and then another sun and the first wore a wig and the second a paperclip and the cushion was rainy and sad

the woman with the hands of porcelain and wire adjusted her cape as the first stallion of evening laid its wings on the ground before her feet for the love of women draws earthworms out of the soil and spreads nutella on the faces of those who weep

elephants can be made of wicker or glass but those that are made of wicker strangle boys while those that are made of glass eat liquorice and the eternal dripping of the slow pomade wears holes in the hardest of brains

this is my message this is what I want to say to you the three yellow hairs that sprout from my chin the garden astrolabe the wheelbarrow and the ubiquitous threshing machine stand at the gateway to my dreams and in my dreams the carpets that were hung on the walls of Compiègne seem no larger than a pin

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