Poems and Sound Poems



“Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, We will fall!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”
― Guillaume Apollinaire


Breakfast (Déjeuner du matin) by Jacques Prevert

He put the coffee
In the cup
He put the milk
In the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
In the café au lait
With the coffee spoon
He stirred
And drank the café au lait
And he put down the cup
Without speaking to me
He lit
A cigarette
He blew rings
Of smoke
He put the ash
In the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He stood up
He put his
Hat on his head
He put his
Raincoat on
Since it was raining
And he left
In the rain
Without a word
Without looking at me
And I, I put my head
In my hands
And wept.


Jean-Pierre Brisset

Les dents, la bouche.                    
Les dents la bouchent.
L’aidant la bouche.
Lait dans la bouche.
L’aide en la bouche.
Laides en la bouche.
L’est dam le à bouche.
Les dents la bouche.

                                                                       
My Business by Henri Michaux


     I can hardly ever see anyone without fighting him.  Others prefer interior monologue.  Not me.  I'd rather fight.
      There are some guys who sit down facing me in the restaurant and they don't say anything, they stay around a while, because they've decided to eat.
      Here's one.
      I grab him, bang.
      I regrab him, bang.
      I hang him up on the coat hook.
      I unhook him.
      I hang him up again.
      I re-unhook him.
      I lay him out on the table, I mash him and choke him.
      I smear him, I inundate him.
      He comes to.
      I rinse him off, I stretch him out (I'm starting to get on my own nerves, this has got to stop), I squash him, I put the screws to him, I condense him and insert him into my glass, and ostentatiously pitch the contents onto the ground, and say to the waiter, "Get me a clean glass."
       But I feel ill, I pay the check promptly and I get out.





Sliding Trombone by Georges Ribemont Dassaignes

I have a little windmill on my head
Which draws up water to my mouth and eyes
When I am hungry or moved to tears
I have a little horn full of the odour of absinth in my ears
And on my nose a green parakeet that flaps its wings
And cries 'Aux Armes'
When from the sky fall the seeds of the sun
The absence from the heart of steel
At the bottom of the boneless and stagnant realities
Is partial to crazy sea-fish
I am the captain and the alsatian at the cinema
I have in my belly a little agricultural machine
That reaps and binds electric flex
The cocoanuts thrown by the melancholy monkey
Fall like spittle into the water
Where they blossom again as petunias
I have in my stomach an ocarina and I have virginal faith
I feed my poet on the feet of a pianist
Whose teeth are even and uneven
And sad Sunday evenings
I throw my morganatic dreams
To the loving turtle-doves who laugh like hell.




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