Tristan Tzara

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Thought is the egg of
human imbecility . . .
The head is useless

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Tenderness is an
armadillo that can hiss
like a glockenspiel

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Butterflies are made
in the mouth of God as an
insult to the air

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Journalism is an
arthritic virgin riding
a tottering ear

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Spontaneity
can be invented only
by an art turbine

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The spiral river
of incoherence is straight
as a revolver

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I do not wish to
fathom the normal or the
work of professors

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Be attuned to the
gleam of constellations and
the arc of hiccups

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For myself, I have
an unquestionable faith
in quack egoism

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Literature is
a microbe that will destroy
all seriousness

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Enthusiasm for
algebraic formulas
is a tragic state

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Morals were betrothed
in hell to the law . . . Explode,
don’t conciliate

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