Landscape of a Pissing Multitude

    t to themselves:

    ting for tness of t cyclists.

    t to themselves:

    ting th of a boy on a Japanese schooner.

    t to themselves-

    dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,

    t punctures

    a recently flattened toad,

    beneathousand ears

    and tiny mouter

    in t resist

    t attack on the moon.

    ts were breaking

    in anguisness and vigilance of all things,

    and because of tprints,

    obscure names, saliva, and cill crying.

    It doesnt matter if t  pin,

    or if ted in cupped cotton flowers,

    because tual sailors he

    arches and

    freeze you from berees.

    Its useless to look for the bend

    s way

    and to  in ambus has no

    torn clotears,

    because even tiny banquet of a spider

    is enougo upset tire equilibrium of the sky.

    the moaning from a Japanese schooner,

    nor for tumble on the curbs.

    tryside bites its oail in order to gats

    and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in tude.

    the ocean liners!

    Facades of urine, of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.

    Everyttered in t

    t spread its legs on terraces.

    Everytter in tepid faucets

    of a terrible silent fountain.

    Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!

    e s,

    open country whe docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,

    landscapes full of graves t yield t apples,

    so t uncontrollable light will arrive

    to frigheir magnifying glasses-

    t-

    and so t fire ill able to piss around a moan

    or on tals in ood.