The statue of Lautreamont The statue of Lautr??amont Its plinth of quinine tabloids In the open country Its plinth of quinine tabloids The author of the Poetical Works lies flat on his face In the open country And near at hand the hiloderm a shady customer keeps vigil l His left ear is glued to the ground it is a glass case it contains A prong of lightning the artist has not failed to figure aloft The author of the Poetical Works lies flat on his face In the form of a Turk's head the blue balloon And near at hand the hiloderm a shady customer keeps vigil The Swan of Montevideo with wings unfurled ready to flap at a moment's notice His left ear is glued to the ground it is a glass case it contains Should the problem of luring the other swans from the horizon arise A prong of lightning the artist had not failed to figure aloft Opens upon the false universe two eyes of different hues In the form of a Turk's head the blue balloon The one of sulphate of iron on vines of the lashes the other of sparkling mire He beholds the vast funnelled hexagon where now in no time the machines By man in dressings rabidly swaddled The swan of Montevideo with wings unfurled ready to flap at a moment's notice Shall lie a-writhing With his radium bougie he quickens the dregs of the human crucible With his sex of feathers and his brain of bull-paper Should the problem of luring the other swans from the horizon arise He presides at the twice nocturnal ceremonies whose object due allowance for fire having been made is the interversion of the hearts of the bird and the man Convulsionary in ordinary I have access to his side Opens upon the false universe two eyes of different hues The ravishing women who introduce me into the rose-padded compartment Where a hammock that they have been at pains to contrive with their tresses for Me is reserved for The one of sulphate of iron on vines of the lashes the other of sparkling mire Me for all eternity Exhort me before taking their departure not to catch a chill in the perusal of the daily It transpires that the statue in whose latitude the squitch of my nerve terminals He beholds the vast funneled hexagon where now in no time the machines Weighs anchor is tuned each night like a piano By man in dressings rabidly swaddled Shall lie a-writhing With his radium bougie he quickends the dregs of the human crucible With his sex of feathers and his brain of bull-paper He presides at the twice nocturnal ceremonies whose object due allowance for fire having been made is the intervention of the hearts of the bird and the man Convulsionary in ordinary I have access to his side The ravishing women who introduce me into the rose-padded compartment Where a hammock that they have been at pains to contrive with their tresses for Me is reserved for Me for all eternity Exhort me before taking their departure not to catch a chill in the perusal of the daily It transpires that the statue in whose latitude the squitch of my nerve terminals Weighs anchor is tuned each night like a piano | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SUBALTERNS by THOMAS HARDY IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SONNET: 94 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE CENTENNIAL HYMN by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE LOVER AND THE BIRDS by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 2. DIET by JOHN ARMSTRONG SHRODON FEAR: THE REST O'T by WILLIAM BARNES |