By Benjamin Péret
Translated by Keith Hollaman
Parakeets fly through my head when I see you in profile
and the greasy sky streaks with blue flashes
tracing your name in all directions
Rosa coiffed with a black tribe standing in rows on the stairs
where women's piercing breasts point out through men's eyes
Today I look out through your hair
Rosa of morning opal
and I wake through your site
Rosa of armour
I think through your exploding breasts
Rosa of a pool the frogs turn green
and I sleep in your navel of Caspian sea
Rosa of honeysuckle in the general strike
and I'm lost in your milky way shoulders impregnated by comets
Rosa of jasmine in the night of washing
Rosa of haunted house
Rosa of black forest filled with blue and green postage stamps
Rosa of kite over a vacant lot where children are fighting
Rosa of cigar smoke
Rosa of seafoam turned into crystal
Rosa
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Missed the State of the Union Skyping with Daniel about things like taxes and travel, missed the rebuttal catching up on Madam Secretary which we figured would have politics closer to our own, so I will keep this short. It was a quiet day anyway, apart from going with Adam to see Joy, which is one of the most joyless movies I've ever seen and makes The Martian seem appropriate in the Golden Globes comedy category along with Joy. Lawrence gives a fine performance but I think she smiles more in The Hunger Games.
Last weekend, when we saw Marvelous Objects, the surrealist sculpture exhibit at the Hirshhorn Museum, we were disappointed that some of the Modernist creations intended by their designers to be interactive -- like the one with the shot glasses attached to a suit coat -- were now fetishized behind glass or DO NOT TOUCH signs, but we found a side exhibit inviting museum guests to create surrealist sculptures out of various objects, which could then be projected onto a big screen nearby. Here is mine, entitled Factory Farm:
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