Chatter of children runs in the streets and opens fire in the alleys
There is a blacksmith who makes everything from here from wheat, as well as from nothing.
His wife is the daughter of the village Naanuk;
she has the appearance of a chanaed with pale armsand the stage like a concentration of golden threads.
Outcry while watching the elevator guns rise and fall
Oh how strangely good the ballet is! And what is it called?
Curtin-tat"--our Saint who is our Lentum, the Good Lord, the Prince of grinding
Luciferian Urizen an enormous elbows on his knee
The air makes a gun over his forehead. Then the hand of the doll runs up his nose.
He makes the gun go away. The cuteness of the shit falls on his thigh
He has taken the air away. The doll has lost its game.
His life is le Monde. His smile is a fountain of blood.
