A translation by Stuart Cooke
'Yankeeland' by Pablo de Rokha
(the practical life)
The customary, the concrete, the brilliant vulgarity the methodical and mechanical reason, the reason, all the reason, the marvellous patience, Edison.
And the honest donkeys of wisdom, the human sciences.
Categorical, calm, admirable, infallible machine, Edison, Edison is “the reflective intellect” of the learned; and OK, and OK, and OK, what’s the use, what’s the use of thought, when it’s used? …
Gesticulating over the oceanic sounds of his fabulous, fabulous, gloomy, democratic I, laughing at the blue paradox of success, dazed by facile and unanimous oratory, unanimous and facile from marvellous, epic, personified companies, and the imminent, financial megaphone of advertising, colossally crowned with his mathematic, philharmonic, topographic, economic, NORTH AMERICAN sorrows, listening, listening, as if at the edge of a river, to the oblique theme, sweetly oblique, babbling mutely, mutely, mutely, mutely, the assistant secretary to his enormous soul Mister Dollar, Yankeeland, Yankeeland, contradictory and innumerable uncle SAM, innumerable, innumerable, uncle SAM, uncle SAM sighs towards the Atlantic with the monumental panting of his large, cosmographic lungs and his dynamic attitude, dynamic and unmeasurable!..
And deleterious, funerary, deleterious, findesiecular, clinical, pathological symptoms, the dark great-great-grandsons of the Mayflowerian philosophers — geometrical, frugal, priestly, metaphysical, systematic protestants — procreate and assimilate, assimilate and procreate, eat, drink, walk, think, speak, live, live mechanically, live at seventy thousand leagues a minute the novel brew of making, sense and end, reality of LIFE.
Births by telephone, deaths by telephone, weddings by telephone, the whole epic, everything by telephone, falling in love radio-telegraphically, live and die in aeroplane, one hundred, two hundred kms above the level of the old human values, the old human values, exist in machine, meet in machine, remember in machine, see in machine, in machine, the spectacular grey of angles, rectangular triangles or polygons, horizons that sum up the cosmic psychology according to Yankee students of mathematics, measuring the emotional, intellectual, sensational phenomena, adopting the decimal system as an initial unit, as an initial unit and the dollar as an end, getting married for sport, killing for sport, promoting girls’ divine bosoms and widows’ wombs, filming daily sadness converted to I, the man, I, the man, I, the man converted to wandering, ephemeral panoramas, ephemeral panoramas and blue themes … (Country of DIVORCES!..!..).
Bilious like an animal and big, big, bigger than man, the sum of beast and God in just one, just one cataclysm, the times, the peoples, the tombs; complete extension of material, he has one hundred volcanoes in his finite mouth and he talks, he talks like the earth would talk, if it were to speak: to earthquakes; he is the earth, the entire earth clotted with gloomy meat; moral philosophy comes to lick his tremendous hands when he tells it to: tsk!.. tsk!.. tsk!.. such that he’s the owner of honest and sincere dogs, sincere and honest … and Roosevelt’s global boot honours his bones — today, the maggots eat his tongue — .
Situated in the stupendous, stupendous mercantile rostrum of Washington, prevailing over the vague hills of the Right of yesterday and its intercontinental platforms, looking towards no, no, no where, Woodrow Wilson reads the Bible to the moderns.
And his sad lies sound like the anachronistic music of the suburbs, rustic, autumnal, dominical, and the rainy voice of the dead in the tragic tragedies of the era.
Murmurs of crowds and laurels, laurels and crowds he overwhelms the fluttering happiness of the cordial, nuptial white doves; and the international nightingale keeps getting quieter, getting quieter, getting quieter little by little until it falls, falls definitively before the guffaw of the dark, red men who come from ancient graves, or the ha!.. ha!.. ha!.. of the tubby, sceptical, phlegmatic, idiotic bourgeoisie, or the ha!.. ha!.. ha!,, of the tubby, sceptical, phlegmatic, idiotic bourgeoisie.
Your practical, economical and vile face, Yankeeland, is, is, is today’s black commercial poetry, today’s black commercial poetry and the horrible, hyperborean beauty of business for business’ sake; a great, spiritual zephyr crowns your skyscrapers, hazy stars sing in the nude above their meteorological surfaces, they sing in the nude winking those blue eyes, blue, blue, blue and the moon, the moon comes with the golden slipper of twilight, revealing its leg to the sun, revealing its leg to the sun, revealing its leg to the sun or the epigram, the pornographic-melancholic anecdote of the florid leagues of men on the couch of the eternal towers, eternal like the dreams of the tombs; Yankeeland, your great ways of being, Yankeeland, Yankeeland, they constitute, they constitute and they are an aesthetic interpretation of the world, for having come in projections, in volitions, in sensations beyond the immediate, the appearance of things and the human voice …
Melodiously unfurling its tentacular antennae, Yankeeland smiles and hisses like a snake at the simple Americans of the South, its enormous, antediluvian eye hypnotises birds and animals, citizens and trees, nests, women, children, flowers and fruits and, like a gigantic reflector that catches all of the sun, all of the sun, it drowns in light, drowns in light, drowns in light, it sets fire to, it burns, the formless music of the rural landscape, so eminent, the dark flower of the city, situated between two great premises: 1 000 000 000 000 000 dollars and a canyon of 100 inches … however the little workers of Chile sharpening their scythes modestly grumble, “C’MON SIR” …
It thunders and sings, sings and thunders down the paths of its well-rounded youth, like the shock of the ages through the colossal drum of the earth; there it’s all tremendous, there it’s all monumental, there it’s all transcendental, everything’s paradoxical, everything’s paradoxical there, everything’s hyperborean, absurd, disconcerting, macabre, bilious, outlandish; and above all, above all that, it fluctuates, the contaminated fog over the swamps, over the swamps, the mercantile romanticism of the sonorous Yankees, sonorous like empty tombs, sonorous like brilliant men, sonorous like the sun, like the spirit, the eternal, instantaneous voice of the bulging crowds, of the silent multitudes, automatic, oceanic, tragic …
And those rough blonde men play golf, baseball, golf, tennis, or they smile, they smile dancing foxtrot, onestep, shimmy, twostep with their women of wood, of wood, of wood, beautiful, stupid, artificial, made up to the nines, flippant about society, mechanical señoritas, mechanical señoritas, electric, numeric, synthetic!.. and just like a woman who clumsily reveals her breasts in public, they play sport, they play sport in underpants above the dignity of the world, they play sport in underpants above the dignity of the world, and they box with the infinite.
The grand country of the North declaims: action, emphatic, Dionysian, sullen action, and justifies itself by itself; work, work, work in vain, casually, casually, for sociology, opinions, ideas, opinions, man, God, history, science, philosophy, and doing for doing’s sake like it were the world’s purpose!..
The stupid, monotonous, rheumatic fumes, the horizontal, industrial fumes, the horizontal fumes that come from the factories, that walk over the rooves attaching themselves to malign beasts of the dusk, the chimneys, the unanimous chimneys smoke their enormous cigars interminably and Chicago thunders, thunders, thunders like one hundred trains left to tumble from the heights, from the heights of the mountains down into the modest, common valleys, down into the world, into human things; public plazas and women, idealistic trees, palaces, markets, asylums and inmates, sanatoriums and laws, blonde, blonde schoolgirls, businesses, the sun, the moon, the earth, the abstract heavens smell of swine, smell of swine, smell of swine, and Chicago, Chicago, the grand, painful, plutocratic, ironic, industrial city, grumbles the same thing as the plebeian swine: … , oink!.. oink!.. oink!..
Thermometer, chronometer, barometer of the twentieth century, Yankeeland sums up the psychology, the trajectory, the form, the diagnosis of the actual instant of the epoch, TODAY’S sickness; and like this, like this, it sings on its skyscrapers, on its global airlines, on its ocean liners, in its palaces, in its underground, aerial, underground railways, on its travelling zeppelins, travelling, travelling like travelling swallows, on its trucks, on its tractors, in its cars, on its mountain statues, on its mountain statues the nocturnal, emphatic hymns, the square, practical, human feats, the TREMENDOUS moan in which each voice is an ocean, each voice, the epic about bells, bells and tombs, agonies getting darker, agonies about our DELUSIONS OF GRADEUR; and like this it cries with laughter on its financial, bankable lovers, in its blues, contradictory and useless bunches of gloomy voices, in its cubic, mercantile romanticisms, our yellow, sickly ideology of Autumn; and like this, like this, like this it howls, it howls in its complete, total illusion, black like a dead body, white like a boy, grey like memories, and colourless, colourless like the human character, our red apostrophes on materials, our red apostrophes on materials and the oblique cries of modern MAN …
Adding up the world, the whole world, Yankeeland, Yankeeland opens its IMMENSE mouth immensely full with dead birds!..
Like a god who builds poems into mental slaps, Walt Whitman is seated, is seated in Yankeeland over the majesty of life with an understanding of the heart, the right leg in Beijing and the left in Berlin, the whole body over ALL of the world, playing poker with the dead over the blue carpet of the infinite, chatting with the stars and hearing, hearing, hearing the concave and transcendental noises of the era, the perpendicular YANKEE, the sad tones, sad like the new lawns of Manhattan, tender like little children, tender like little birds, tender like little animals, harmonising with dusk, dawn, dusk and the voice of rustic farms …
Cosmic gestures converge on him like the soul of sounds toward a radio station or like maggots toward graves, full of music, everything full of music he smiles and the earth flourishes, he cries and it enters winter, he sings, he sings and so it’s as if birds, things and men, mountains, tombs, countrysides, cities, red cities, skies, oceans, wives, girlfriends and mothers, children, whores, criminals, statesmen, merchants, the good and the bad, orphanages, asylums or honest homes were singing the first song of the ages; he sings, Walt sings the good, he sings and obscure people tell themselves, THE WORLD is singing, the world; he sings and skeletons ask themselves, who? … and open the eternal door with their enormous fingers, full of the yellow of graves, full of the yellow of graves.
The ants say to him, Cheers, Walt Whitman!.. the large, honest elephants, How are you, brother? … and the tortoises, the toads, the King of Spain, the beggars, the politicians, the cows, the President, the horses, the bishops, the bus drivers, the moon, the turds tell him, they tell him while slapping him on the back, Brother Walt Whitman, Walt Whitman, Walt Whitman you’re OUR brother, OUR brother Walt Whitman.
He wasn’t ever born; Walt Whitman was never born; one hundred million epochs add up to the age of the giant and uncreated, uncreated globe, created by us Walt Whitman of Manhattan, Walt Whitman, Walt Whitman of Manhattan; and his grand figure dissolves, unpicks itself, loses itself in THE FIGURE of the earth enlarging the earth of the earth.
Blood Jehovahs, pallid emperors, two ROTTEN tyrants rule Yankeeland: money and movies … is it possible? … yes, it’s possible, it’s possible … ha! ha! ha!.. ha! ha! ha!
All Yankee philosophy is yawning naked is yawning in the idiotic theatres of the cinema; Yankeeland is an enormous cinema spectacular: all Yankee sociology is yawning naked is yawning between debit and credit, credit and debit, debit and credit from subterranean banks; Yankeeland, Yankeeland could be a huge box of wealth in which bark the blacks, the blondes and Protestantism … — … all Yankee philosophy is yawning naked is yawning in the idiotic theatres of the cinema!.. —
— Yankeeland: you’re imbecilic, you’re conceptual, vulgar, and being, being stingy, being fat, being priestly, you’re, oh!, you’re the divine flower of genius, you, superfluous and bureaucratic dough today you’re, today you’re the earth’s exemplary blue!.. is it possible?.. is it possible?
Like a large blonde cow, like a large blonde cow, Yankeeland’s fixated on chewing over, chewing over, chewing over the future of beasts and defecating paradoxes; the cowboys bellow their green sonnets to force, cornered like buffaloes, like buffaloes with prehistoric speech, they bellow, bellow like carriages drawn by rhinoceroses, the poems of the freest man, the freest, freest, tree brother, water brother, fire brother, fire brother; ocean liners, trains, trams, tired dreadnoughts, sailors, Orients, hydroplanes, monoplanes, biplanes, aeroplanes, blurry, macabre zeppelins, factories, tentacular power plants, red jails, mutes, woods, arsenals, asylums, the asylums!, clinics, warehouses, hospitals, courts, hotels, churches, restaurants, brothels, banks, shops, stock exchanges, clubs, bars, cameras, taverns, dens, public offices, racetracks, cemeteries, the cemeteries, THE CEMETERIES, the cinematographers they howl, the giant, melancholy, black cranes howls, and the common, cosmopolitan, metropolitan traffic howls, rotary and sad, sad and rotary, they howl, they howl the heavens howl, Yankee land and sea, completely Yankee, completely Yankee, Yankee, the heavens howl in English, earth and sea howl in English, the heavens, the earth and the sea howl in English; the prostitutes cry and the modern actress sings, the midwives cry, the minions cry, the schoolgirls cry and the multimillionaire thief sings, the newspaper vendors, the workers, the carpenters, the shoemakers, the bakers cry, the blue, infinitesimal bricklayer early in the morning cries, and the aristocratic pimp sings in his underpants above series of intimate things, the poor husbands and wives cry, the maids, the poor decent folk! and the banker, the politician, the playboy, the loan shark, the promoter, the filmmaker SINGS, SINGS, the beggars cry, the poets, the deformed cry, cry like germs or like the deceased who illuminate the past with the nocturnal light of memories, and the joyous, sonorous bourgeoisie sing, sing, sing, sonorous and joyous like an animal, luxury chirps, misery cries, the child plays, the elderly meditate, the sick and the wise meditate, charlatans and journalists denounce, the merchants and opportunists give speeches, the mechanical singer of the future insults the graves, the mechanical singer! the children laugh, the girlfriends laugh and the flower smiles, and a song of stables and farms, of sowing, of fields, of crops, a song, a song of vegetables and wheat fields, of toils and westerlies, a song smelling of flowering vineyards, of ripe fruits arrives daily, from the agrarian estates and the sanctity of wheat and bread, and the dignity of wine and salt, honest water and milk, and the black MAJESTY of coal, souvenir of the countryside and skeleton of the world, skeleton of the world and sadness …
Yankeeland drops the ash, the ash, the honourable ash of its capitalist cigarette on LIFE’S wrinkled face, and smiling, smiling at the sun it says to it, Lord, show me the path!.. show me the path!.. and the SUN, the SUN, the SUN agrees …
Land of blue, tragic, mechanic, geometric men, poets of the positive, the practical, the practical, Yankeeland keeps improvising, improvising, improvising and inventing, creating THE WORLD in each moment, creating THE WORLD, and writing the grey SONG of the silences with ingenuous type, dizzying, dizzying and with ONE HUNDRED copies SIMULTANEOUSLY; there all’s possible: improvise millions and poems, improvise cities and people, improvise adored presidents, improvise complete democracies, improvise new sensations from nothing and outlandish truths that sum up today’s lies colossally, improvise heroes, wise and saintly heroes, warriors, artists, thieves, governments, merchants, boxers, sad songs or millionaires, improvise musical, resonant, admirable palaces of one, two hundred and three hundred floors, study the sun and the stars or cosmic gravitation, with fruits, fruits, roots, roots, roots, flowers and leaves like songs or better, mountains, with vegetation, with vegetation, with vegetation from noble, agrarian estates, improvise squadrons that stain the oceans with oil, gin, discipline and English tobacco, dollars and pipes and dollars, improvise anonymous societies capable of making, capable of making a belt of gold around the moon and silver slippers for each star, each star from whichever ocean, improvise eternal things, light, the past, the present, the future God and the tombs … land of blue men, land of blue men, land of telephonic men, land of telegraphic men, land of telemetric men, land of gramophonic men, land of taximetric men, land of CINEMATOGRAPHIC men, land of CINEMATOGRAPHIC men, land of automobile men, land of men becoming electricity and spirits becoming gasoline, sexes becoming coal, wombs becoming coal, tongues becoming coal, brains becoming coal and funereal souls BECOMING gas, land of blue men, land of blue men, land of blue men with the chemical, cynical blue of the laboratories, Yankeeland!.. Yankeeland!
Its heart cries sad, awful mists, sad awful mists, and in the public squares of its worldly gestures the multimillionaires keep smoking, keep smoking, keep smoking anachronistically fat pipes fat and romantic; they shout and proclaim, proclaim and shout and shout grotesque warnings …
MOUNTAINS, MOUNTAINS, MOUNTAINS of fifty, sixty, seventy floors above the height of old architectures, that is, houses, Yankee houses in Yankeeland, ocean liners — coffins, coffins for errant worlds, mathematical or red, black or melancholy; fortunes whose simple units, whose simple units keep multiplying, multiplying, multiplying into absurdity like drops of water in winter, like drops of water in winter, the romantic deciduous Autumn leaves, the juicy Pacific fruits in summer, the guffaws of spring, the eternal rain of human pain, the eternal rain of human pain, the eternal rain of human pain, the eternal rain of human pain, the BLACK sands BLACK from the grave, or the square root of the planet, or the square root of the planet; tractors, cars, trucks, tractors, cars, trucks full of landscapes, multitudes, throngs, conversations or events; aeroplanes that have laid only one egg, only one egg — the sun — in the sky’s nest, the sun, the sun in the sky’s nest; trains, trains, trains in which it is as if the houses, the city and the country were walking; factories that have telephones to infinity and whose managers speak one thousand, ten thousand languages; periodic periodicals that seem like republics; universities, libraries with BUS, tram and car services crossing, crossing the marvellous church; cities like continents, villages like territories and rural farms, farms the same as establishments for agricultural education in Plato’s Republic; clinics like enormous cradles, enormous blue cradles and hospitals full of gardens; beauty parlours where streams gurgle, gurgle with delight, rivers, rivers, rivers of flourishing intimacy, and where, where the girls ARE dolls: the small, small, small feet, the small, rosy breasts, the medal of sex like a flower, open; hotels and grocery stores, grocery stores and hotels that give the ambiguous sensation, the ambiguous sensation of sailing, sailing, always sailing; film-makers with capacity for 100 000 tonnes of stupidity and 300 000 of mothers in law; morgues, morgues, slaughterhouses, houses of slaughter, in which they carve up herds and herds of exemplary humans each day, etc., etc. — vile pharmacopoeia — … divorced and black, black, black and divorced; gastronomic, saucy, philharmonic, photographic, philatelic, athletic, sporty, cinematographic, literary, linguistic, psychological, philosophical, pathological, commercial, social, legal, emotional CHAMPIONS, champions of love, agronomics, theosophy, alcoholism, criminology, etc., gubernatorial, funereal, automobile champions, etc., etc., etc., … cemetery of champions, nursery of champions, it’s all there in Yankeeland.
( … once there was an ass, once there was an ass that spoke and smiled, smiled and spoke just like man; watching it, the elderly, sanctimonious ladies would say, Ass plus ass!.. and walk on.
But one fine day it died … so the elderly, sanctimonious ladies came to chew on its excrement because the excrement was of pure gold … ).
P.M. looks like a sinister safe urinating in PUBLIC VIEW; he lost his head, lost his head in the maternal urn and he has four feet, LIKE cows, four feet, four feet and 1 000 000 000 dollars.
Well-bound books are excellent ornaments, excellent ornaments, excellent ornaments and, furthermore, you can read them; reading is good, reading is good, reading is good — not too much — reading is good; I have money, a lot of money, “Will I buy meringues? No, so … etc.” “Will I buy pine nuts? No, so … etc.”, “I’ll buy books, books, books, books; WELL-BOUND are excellent, excellent ornaments!..”
The boys and girls applaud the simple, elemental and macabre attitude, sad and broken, sad and broken of a happy man, happy, happy as a tomb; and Chaplin howls about nothing, beneath the FLOWERING peach of puerile smiles, just like a cadaver, just like a cadaver crowned with carnations; bunches of fruit, crowned with pain, ulcers and maggots, and crying with all THE INTESTINES.
A little bag, a little bag of artificial sweets is Pearl White; or better yet, an enormous, horny rose OPEN in a blue jewellery store …
Pearl White, Pearl White, silly little animal, sweet, fat, A kid of fifteen nude, nude between the sheets while it’s raining, getting dark!..
Philosophical wisdom, judgement, erudition, erudition, equanimity, virility, dignity and a beastly, volcanic heart like an adolescent ideal; here’s William James.
New trees, new birds and another one hundred theological virtues crown the poet of practical psychology, W.J., and it’s as if THE PALE NEW YORKERS remain watching, watching, watching, motionless, watching century to century, the sad, agrarian party, sad about the West, its elemental stars and the moon …
MULTIPLYING HIMSELF in ideas William James smiles at William James.
Animal, animal¸ too much animal, the colossal Jack Dempsey the colossus held up by diplomatic tape, with Yankeeland on his back, dead paradoxes spilling from his physical and cynical attitude, cynical and physical … — … punches, punches of iron, of rock, of bronze, solid, joyous, solid, sonorous, sonorous, punches that seem to collide with the negative charge of the opponent, collide, collide and fall filled with large stains, large stains of molten metal, or like statues, or like dynamos, or like motors, eternal and beautiful, bitter and vast, punches like universes, punches like cemeteries!..
As if they were thrown from the faces of volcanoes, mountains, boulders, all the pain of humanity, the icy muscles thunder over the punches of innumerable rivals; he’d say, All the faded leaves, all the faded leaves from the infinite fall onto the dark, silent mobs …
And the fighting machine smiles, like destiny when it erases a man, like destiny when it erases a man; happy EARTHQUAKE and blue CATACLYSM, Dempsey seems like life itself: he’s like this because he’s like this; and when one hundred million, one hundred million MEN applaud him beneath the stars, above the ways of the world, he smiles and smiles with the simple peace of the ruminant — at robust females, robust from their humble towns, at good vegetables, at wine, at water, at the first fruits, at the worldly tombs, at joyous meats joyous from the modest ox.
Dempsey is, perhaps, the most beastly brute of the century; what would they do, what would they do, oh!, what would they do, the beautiful doves in his strong hands?!.. die, die like the dew on the red petals of the trains; however … Jack Dempsey has the fatal beauty of the world’s rarest freaks, the world’s rarest freaks and madness …
Before the beautiful Carpentier the brute perspires, like two blind buffaloes fighting furiously with the lily of the hills …
(Carpentier!.. Carpentier!.. the DEEP voice howls, the DEEP voice howls, howls: Carpentier!.. Carpentier!.. an old shriek, dead, without head, nor face, nor sex, nor stomach, nor hands, nor legs, only with feet, only with feet, but only with feet!..!..)
They scream and shout and thrash about they scream and shout, burning, burning, multitudes of crazed multitudes …
Jack Dempsey, tall and broad, like a bull, tall and broad and INGENUOUS, like roses, innocently powerful, playing with THE BOYS AND GIRLS their children’s games, simple, simple like water and the birds of the sky, comrade of anarchists, aristocrats, the positivist bourgeoisie, dogs, cows, asses and ordinary men, Jack Dempsey, Jack Dempsey is the first light of the universe to know, BEFORE KNOWING, the initial, primordial gesture of life in prehistoric times …
Circus moons and comedic oceans, theatrical suns and solemn lands, heavens and men as a joke men and heavens, absurd reality, human reality, indignant reality, artificial and intellectual reality, humorous reality, Dionysian reality: yellow asses with dead leaves and cypresses with four legs, graves crowned with black eyes and women full of death, yellow asses with dead leaves and cypresses with four legs, skeletons that say dad, mum and make stew, and menstruating roses and girlfriends with heart, boys and girls, boys and girls, boys and girls naked, naked playing macabre love games, the elderly with lollipops, slippers, underpants or rubber bibs with ducklings, with rubber ducklings...
And everything there is happy, not like in the history of life, happy, happy with the blue happiness of the first men!..
… noise, noise and pale men, (… noise!..), homes and homes and homes and homes with 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, etc., etc., apartments, public, public and public, pain, public, public and public, petrol in things, petrol in souls, petrol in beasts, petrol and gold, gold and petrol, petrol in things, petrol in souls, petrol in beasts, petrol; it’s like this, New York, the bad, bureaucratic MACHINE; and a run of the mill, ordinary sky of the fourth, fifth, sixth or seventh order, above the vast, incomplete, dead poem, dead and incomplete and the blue vanity of North American buildings …
New York, New York is like a HUGE advertisement HUGE, PHENOMENAL, UNIVERSAL, TRANSCENDENTAL stuck on the COSMOPOLITAN arse of the earth … New York!..!.. (— if you lit a match, just a match, that great commercial city would burn like a dried leaf, like a dried leaf, like a dried leaf, illuminating, by itself, the four points, the four cardinal points!..)
The Yankee God
Blonde and serious, clean-shaven, he says, Yes, oh yes!, yes to the cynical typists who dig like GRAVES into his TRANSCENDENTAL plans …
He’s seated in his BLUE study, work blue … blue!
– How much does it come to, in DOLLARS, for the sun, moon and stars? … just think, just think of that dark, fabulous, unlimited market of the infinite, just think of the jingling in his pockets, coins pissed out of old, dead stars … (and he smiles!) …
Capital = 1 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 DOLLARS …
— Sir, do you want OCEAN LINERS, MUMMIES, FOETUSES, men, MUMMIES, FOETUSES, men, dynamos, trains, tractors, trucks, motors, whores, maggots, automobiles, iodine, professors, Holstein or Durham cows, knowledge of hypodermic injections, honour, pure art, art bottled by us with Muslim bottles, presidents especially, especially, especially for SOUTH AMERICA, or whatever other machine, animal, product or thing? …
Write to: USA Company, USA, requesting catalogues, REQUESTING CATALOGUES, REQUESTING CATALOGUES.
Yankeeland the cosmic, the cosmic Yankeeland plays golf; it plays golf, plays golf with the finest ball on EARTH …
(… from the West comes the smell of agronomical essences along the roads …)
The country of slanting eyes insinuates THE PALE ROSE of a smile above the twilight of its ATTITUDE of a silly old man wise about the ways of the world; Spain, Italy, England, France, Norway, Australia, Australia, Russia, India and China slap the back of the merry American Adonis whispering to him a joke about OLD AND SKINNY neighbours, Chile gulps an enormous drink to the health of the gringo, Peru sobs while kissing his arse …
… AND THE OLD HOMES of my soul WATCH, weeping loudly, the fall of the sun — over the East! — the fall of the sun, weeping loudly!.. … …