This
automatic text was translated by Hiroaki Sato and printed in Arsenal:
Surrealist Subversion, #4, Black Swan Press, Chicago, 1989.
The mirror of
the cherry ash has footprints of cherry. Long ago, the bird with pebble
ears fell in the mirror in the woods; owl of the eternal future solitude,
thy nude body is easily mistaken for golden glass; a great fire breaks
out in Berlin, owl, listen. All my sympathy was poetry. Children of
the owl, what's the light bulb that's above the ninth infant girl's
eyebrows and shines most? Listen to these pebbles laugh. Do you see
the innumerable snowflakes of love fall in tomorrow's winter? The wheat's
fantasy changes year by year and grows year by year more elegant like
a beautiful girl's costume. By the machine that smells the goldfish,
I knew it was snowing in the waterway as precise as the heart. In the
mirror where the wheat dries, the whale skeleton moves like the morning
sun. Moves like the beautiful girl's magnet. The wheat is disturbed.
The wheat's stone breasts are the mackerel actress's mirror. The luxurious
sparrow that drew waves there and left was asleep in my palm. The most
beautiful purple bird that flew off from my fingers returns to its nest.
The fish that brocade the threadbare coast with golden threads drink
the hot spring water among the clouds. The peacock of zero will sip
water from the yellow mirror, and the millionaire's cataract will wrap
the white clipper on the owl's head. That is the rebirth of the infinitely
white pelican of the infinite time, strangely breasts, this is the milk
of the great forest that brought up copper and the owl. Milk of the
milk star of the black cloud.
The dove lady who bore my seven mirrors sucks my milk before noon. The
pasturage of my mirrors has now grown taller than the dove's chest and
wears at its top the butterfly's brain, the hearts of the doves in the
dark between its two legs are mutual. The flowers of kisses bloom on
the plum blossoms. It's the time for the nude body of the dove lady,
the time when icebergs talk, the time when starfish laugh. Listen to
the blue butterfly's beautiful voice surrounded by rock cliffs on four
sides, children of the owl in my pupils. Decorations on the calendar
of your skin. Heaven's love pours into the chandelier at the marsh bottom
and into the carp's lovely gloves. The gold of the gold treasure is
a painting a heavenly body a sigh of the polar bear OUI.
Seven perfect natures on the lake, the infinite sun's voluptuous chests
mounting the animals of the ribs of ripples sport flowers according
to their custom. The Muse of the secret heart of thunderclaps wrapped
by clouds is related by marriage to the cactus flower. The waves of
the river of my joined hands, my hen's voice that is the knee, which
is 1) ruby, and 2) granite, a bloom of ships on the lake I see from
the window, the boy who is a natural stone kowtows to an infant of the
carp under the waves under the clouds like underground water. I am a
field of gems, being in an express train. This is the mid sky of the
rape-blossoms. Cloud cookies of the ritual, descend from heaven, bonbonbon
hanging from the breeze's cheeks…the sculpture of the bird on
the round lake of the cheeks is eternal. The ship of heaven's lake water
that reflects in the water on the land, I, disguised as a rose in one
of its toilets, am a sailor infinitely tall. The white abrupt wave destroys
the statue of hydrangea - the latest love. The angel's eggshaped bedroom
where snow dream's civilization emerges on his elf's ring flourishes
blue on the horizon. Elf, love thy elf.
