ART does not exist-So it is useless to talk about it-but! people go on being artists-because it's like that and no way else-Well-so what?

So we don't like ART and we don't like artists (down with Apollinaire) AND TOGRATH IS RIGHT TO MURDER THE POET! Anyway since we have to disgorge a drop of acid or old lyricism, let's do it quick and fast-for the railway engines run quickly.

Modernity therefore constant and killed every night-We ignore Mallarmé, but kindly -but he is dead-But we no longer know Apollinaire, or Cocteau-For-We' suspect them of producing art too knowingly, of patching up romanticism with telephone wire and of not knowing the dynamos. THE stars unconnected again!-it's tiresome-and then sometimes don't they talk seriously! A man who believes is peculiar.

BUT SINCE SOME ARE BORN HAMS....

Well- I can see two ways of letting this go on-Build a personal sensation with a fantastic collision of rare words-not often, though else draw angles, clean squares of feeling-when needed, of course-We shall leave logic Honesty contradictions if necessary-like everyone else.