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

 

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