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.