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.