Automatons Breton and Soupault, 1930 André writes, he does not stop, words bubble from the depths, his pen erupts with images he can’t contain: awake two days, two nights, the clock no longer signifies a thing its tic tic rhythm - crazy jazz - synchronises a second hand with his. Philippe’s eyes wide, his synapse sing of chess pieces De Sade has bound, surprising beasts and magnetic waves, whose shapes appear and go to ground. The pen nib screeches on the page, thoughts run before its baying hounds: words drop exhausted where they may. Derek Adams   If you would like to comment on this poem, Derek Adams would be pleased to hear from you.