The Horse Dies the Birds Fly Away

Now I heard time neighing I mean it parrotishly spread its wings

with my lover black diamonds bricked into her face and trailing 3 children in desperation

we sat under factory chimneys

we knew tomorrow the winding lines

ho zhooop ho zhoop

and she said my Kashi I know you’re going off and for me it’s shrivelling on the dais and modelling for mister nadler’s cacocanvases

what else

the lord god lets pretty women slip out of his mind

already the demichrist the woodcarver is here

young reeking with truth not to be put down

tomorrow we’ll be over the hungarian border

well yess h’m yes

what else what else

the city flew past

squirmed to and fro and then reared up

I saw my father’s crumpled straw hat floating over the chemist’s frosted glass to the holy trinity statue and back

ah well the old man dreamed I’d be a chaplain at 21 in the parish of érsek-újvár

but just ten years earlier I fed on smoke in the workshop of mister sporni the locksmith

and now the old man very seldom came home to us

and soon my well-planned future was soaked in and pissed out with his beer

he fell in love with and old cleaner

his hair dropped out he had no friends but Gypsies

25 April 1909

I was ready to walk to Paris with the woodcarver

the hick town squatted in its puddle and squeezed its accordeon

oh saint Christopher I must take my wings off you you will never be your father’s son

a drunk sobbed crocodile teras as I propped up the wall of the Golden Lion inn

I felt everything was at an end

a red railway-track ran through me and bells rang in the towers

pigeons tumbled above the roofs

no they galloped with the suncart

the new franciscan bell just about sang

he who prepared for sleep should brighten up the lead bars

the hours are spectres white sheepdogs

I felt everything was at an end

vintners and haberdashers shut up shop

good friend go back to your children go back now

the wheels have stopped turning back

man casts his milk-teeth and stares into the emptiness where life devours its own tail

into the emptiness

oh jiramari

oh lebli

oh Boom Boom

but the ship bobbed us along like a pregnant woman and behind us there was at least someone manoeuvring the scenes into place

this was the first slashed-across day in my life

torches and bottomless pits flickered inside me

papagallum

oh fumigo

papagallum

coppery birds crowed in bands of twenty on the bank

the hanged were swaying from the trees and crowing too

now and again we got glances from the brooding corpses in the river-bed

but we were 21

the woodcarver’s chin sprouted an ugly frizz of pink bristles

otherwise we lived all right

but for the diagonal of our bellies

it was useless though we tightened the screws the oxen made off again and again into the stubble-fields

and it was all we could do to scrape our eyes off girls’ ankles

at times like these I always gave vent to cries like cymbals

Vienna saw us sleeping rough 3 days

then finally we wrenched ourselves out of ourselves

what is civilization after all

you smear yourself with a glaze of enamel and start shuddering at the lice

well what are family ties

you eke out your umbilical cord with silk ribbon

well what’s the worship god

you take on fear to get shot of fear

we nailed the highways to our soles and the sun was with us in space on his golden seven-league-feet

believe me the elephant is not bigger than the flea

red is not redder than white

and if we really went, we went

ahead only on kameralogos if we set up scales when we ever better off

and then our eyes were opened

and soon we were deep like the black wells in mining country and

so we continued

3 angels walked ahead us

on foot too

and sang for us about our youth

we were already well-tried tramps with tame fleas in our armpits

we enjoyed fruit from the roadside ditch

sour milk

and jewish community funds

and we had brothers round us oh from everywhere

wonderful skins like brick a world’s languages on their lips

each had his special smell

and some had been planed to the bone by kilometers and others came with milky mouths from their mother’s breast

the roads lay under us in white quilts

the telegraph-wires jerked tight and wrote mantras on the sky

at night we glimpsed flowers blooming between women’s legs

but we were vegetarians and misogynists

and dragged ourselves through Passau

Aachen

Antwerp

the woodcarver grew splinter-thin and his beard pure ginger

poems and hajura forests began to spring up in my head and

swam twice across the light-rivers in front of us the rats

on their big rafts festooned with birds’ eggs and trouser-buttons

letters from my lovers were waiting for me in the post-boxes

but I knew nights were worst for lice

so I got to work on my poems then and they streamed from my head like some golden-fleeced flock of sheep

these are certainly the most timorous put-upon creatures

but let someone stick the slate behind his ear

the startled shutters roll down

this is our life

at all the stations customs-officers stamp our hearts

and we only swim further away to where dawn is

in fact it would be more sensible if everybody dealt in sweet tree-roots or glucose

ration the world you live in

no trouble for us to leave it behind 50 kilometers a day

in tunnels on hill-crests and in soundless german forests

we notice the fresh dung smell of the fields

the mountains swivel round at times and the trees shiver in the wind like cithers

the trees what are they but pregnant girls

but look closely at the boundary-stones and they are pregnant girls too

in a low voice they confess to each other:

if he leaves me I’ll kill myeslf

yesterday I was hemming nappies with gold thread all day

little angel she’ll be christened I’ll hang cherries of diamond in her ears

or perhaps all they say is:

every man’s but a lame dog

the mountains are arched right over us now

and still the giant snake gulps down the sun with a smack

I’ll come to be a poet someday

well then let’s swing the rattles anyhow what’s the cause of the fuss but miss anna’s tantrums

yesterday I sent home a couple of poems to independent hungary

and again we dropped back to Stuttgart

we sat at the beggars’ table ate jam tarts

and a styrian peasant’s heart gleamed down from the rafters

mass was celebrated by the SALVATION ARMY in the courtyard next door

flutes and clarinets were shrill under the stars

we saw the young mothers bowed over by the yellow glass owls

oh lamb of god who takest away the sins of the world

the demichrist began to get going again in the woodcarver and he was determined to speak at all costs

shut your great trap the the styrian peasant shouted

as he shoved his heart under our very noses

look at it 7 rusty daggers went through it

7 lies my lovers told me my dear brothers

see this green border here on the right

it’s the last mark of my master’s teeth my dear brothers

I am 26 and my life has been as pure as the morning dew

in winter I was all day sweeping the yard in summer I brought in the happy crop

hey ai-yy man’s fate is like the

all eyes were opened and behind the walls we saw the world change its cloak

budapest-paris-berlin-kamchatka-st.petersburg

the woodcarver was drunk by this time and sadness seeped from his eyes like something from gutters

the cries kept making for the corners to snuff their flames

swear you’ll put faith in nothing now except the magic power of neat long-john elastic

I demanded out of the blue

and I saw my voice approaching from the neighbouring courtyard

I am a poet

after all I know

the lanterns burnwell because twice turatamo

and full of paraffin

what biting misery was in me I wanted to give something to these wretched people

but the stars had already left guard-duty

the 13 angels are probably snoring now with their mouth open on the attic stairs

my lord god

the bugs are marching down from the walls in red battalions

we should all rub salt on our nose

see how brief life is

but after all we’ll be tomcats yet on the fire-walls of paris

hushaby baby hushaby so

the man falls asleep

so the verticals become horizontals

and vice versa

and ink-children skip down from the sky

some with me come through the garden

over there on the river-bank Mary rocks her son to sleep

we must all snap the bolts over our minds

my memories go phosphorescent on the floor in puddles of yellow

in the corners the rucksacks opened up and started barking at me like crazy things

Mary with her son

I cradled the whole garden in my lap like

and further down look

here are the good man-fridays with their 1 1/2 marks

sighs glaze

flowers flower

ah well here you are too

I and you

on you

won’t you lock your knees over me

little woman my

own silver salamander

parrot

frogging of my life

fruit-tree

plucked-out star

ah no ah no

we should all twist the glass stoppers

the hours quit their starcoops

and the elephants swing towards the east with their long corky trunks

the first sound I heard was a gramophone bawling from the suburbs

the woodcarver had to stay in bed this morning

I think I’ve had it he said I think I’ve had it

the beggar-queen stood with an enormous washing-up basin over her head

the bonehead cuckoo emerged from the clock with his humble becks and bows

I think I’ve had it the woodcarver cried I think I’ve had it

and everyone saw death

passing twice through the room

but why must you leave us my brother

why

you have not yet driven the herd home from the meadows

you have not yet lit the lamps in your yellow hair

and in your eyes too the serpents all lie asleep

oh never mind the kitschy coffeepot that bit the housemaid’s navel

and now the two of them lie pregnant

I think I’ve had it the woodcarver shrieked I think I’ve had it

and the houses leaned towards the church in a long slow rhythm

a single creamy foal poked its head through the window

and whinnied

who’ll buy my coat I also said

5 crowns going gone for 5 crowns

and suddenly the mountain roads began to rush down

so to go

once more to go

I have not seen the poor woodcarver since that time

for all that we were the best of friends and his nocturnal beard glowed before me like the burning bush

2 weeks I wandered alone

I was sad as an old donkey and I washed my head in every puddle

I would have washed away my memories which had sunk dreadful claws in my brain

and it’s true they brandished black banners down towards the river-banks

but which bank which bank

I felt I shared banks with a headlong river

rich only in green frogs and stunted palms

because by then I was a poet inoperably

in regular correspondence with my lover

and I knew if I sliced my chest out would pour pure gold from my heart

these belgian peasants what makes them such scruffs

these chauvinist brutes what do they know yet of the ways of the world

I can stand in the midst of them to no end

not one of them can see my forehead star

I was like the 7 orphans

but for all that the winding lines met in me here

here I met szittya who arrived from zurich and was bound for chile as a self-appointed guru

I really did think he would come to something

his ears had gone scabby in the strangest way

we sprawled about the antwerp quays and he harangued the cotton-bales and sprat-barrels

fellow-citizens he sang out fellow-citizens

rabbits are the most prolific fowl and the mills are smuggling rat’s teeth in among the corn

still you know they grind just the same and this is not pointless

what are you afraid of you useless creatures

my words were flaring already in the meadow flowers

an end to those who need a point of rest

in the morning we set off toward the sun for god’s wayside inn

lilies unfolded in my wretched mind

it is true in the morning we set off toward god’s wayside inn

in the thatched barn we shall drink lacrima christi and plum brandy

oh but there’s always one crocodile that slides down into all good folks’ fate

and he who came from zurich hostel and was bound for chile as a self-appointed guru

got dose of clap this night in the seamen’s brothel in the rue de rivoli

and the card-castles collapsed silently

fences rose around us like those you see in the zoo

21 times in succession I called up to the sky

latabagomar

o talatta

latabagomar and finfi

the discs rotated without interruption

craftsmen’s black hands should be sawn off

the cabinetmakers thrust out every knot from its place

the locksmiths cannot fit their bolts

no suprise if our cages disintegrate one day

look how Isabel has lost one of her gloves too

oh well why on eart should anyone worry about us poor miserable three-eyed things

birds flap over the houses and fly off to other countries

szittya forgot the key of the new religion left it in the changing-room

and that first day he cried and cried for it like a child

then he spread vaseline on his ears and we went away towards brussels

like people who had been robbed

we gave up everything in the knowledge that time alone would understand us

oh it will never let us fall from its embrace

in the evening we were already sitting at the long tables of the maison du peuple

and we smoked straight belgian tobacco

saw vandervelde walking across the hall to the socialist secretariat

other well-known leders were dealing new playing-cards in front of the cashier

the place was a gigantic reservoir brimming with a mush of men

blue-eyed russians betrothed to the revolution

oil-rancid dutchmen

prussians

wiry montagnards

magyars with droopy moustaches

pathetic garibaldi-clansmen

everyone but everyone was here who was down and out and whose home had no bread

some shoulders held up the sleepless skyscrapers of New York

some eyes had hatred leaning redly out of them

look how the world’s strongest energies move out from the station

hurricanes are roaring

telephone wires are screeching from the heart of moscow

tovarishch smooth your dress at the piano

we are threaded by waiters with black soups

knots of proletarians are seen outside cinemas

the man in the cooperative hands out his tickets in tens

dogs scurry up the split-toothed walls and sing like old women

somebody said down with the oligarchy

and suddenly:

rome

paris

tifilis

stockholm

samarkand

and the mines of the ruhr

can you hear the little town-hall bells of munich

in florence the pigeons sleep on the apostles’ shoulders

everybody knew god’s hour must now be near

the skin of fanatics twitches faster than the seismograph

and every one of us is scratching

tovarishch smooth your dress at the piano

oh if I could now latch onto my lover’s diamond eyes

the salamanders have set sail beside the central lamp

szittya was already lying in the red pools asleep

as beautiful now as a young bulldog

even in an hour there are many ways of getting rich

supposing we were sharp like say a camera

but man is always the hermetic one and worlds he never feels wheel past over his skin

at midnight we went to the petit passage and the russian meeting

a blond tovarishch spoke he was just like a child

his lips bloomed with flames and his hands flew like red pigeons

are we not all descendants of dostoevsky’s possessed

we bit off for ourselves the seventh head of sentimentality

and wanted to bring everything down in ruins

oh Russia land under a curse

who could see your helpless pain if your star-branded sons would not

europe spits at the asian in us

but for all that we are the ones to climb the peak

certainly the astrakhan baker girl or the st.petersburg whore

will one day give birth to the new man

russia is pregnant with revolution’s red spring

but the steppes of russia are slow and loath to bloom

but russia is like the land that has never been cultivated

help then

brothers

luckless sons like us of europe

help help!

and we watched his head burst into flames beneath his old cap

we all sat in his palm

three cheers for Russia! long live! zhivio! three cheers!

then a hump fell off from my back

frost-flowers blossomed on windows

and szittya who was to become police spy and agent-provocateur

kissed his russian coat

I’m as pure as a child

he said - if I didn’t have the clap I’d go to tsarskoye selo and kill the tsar

this was one night we kept off the brandy

we washed our feet and put love out of our minds

a hungarian printer who later got 12 years for revolt took cards and told the housemaid’s fortune

and we sang softly sang far-sounding

at last then at last

the time has come and we are mature like grafted trees

and we thought the gold flags of march were deployed above us

the swans perched up on swings and gave a two-tone laugh

on edward square I yearned to offer myself for the table of the poor

but dawn found the belgian police coming after us at very first light

there were no baedeckered strangers gathered at the pissing statue

those squalid streets actually thought themselves in paris

the golden-scrolled town-hall mocked at us

as we took our chained hands in the pouring blue

down the steep stairs

in front of the iron-hooped potato-roasters

through tavern swill

through the morning stench of fishmongers

miserable tramps herded together by the law and about to see god die in them

in the rue mouffetar we met the whores

I was happy

it pleased me greatly that at daybreak they could look so beautiful

their chignons leaned into the leaning whitewashed wind

a diamond veil hid the sun peering at them from the fire-walls

ours was a saintly vigil all through the night

and now their cigarettes made me wet my lips

wish I could scratch my back groaned szittya

who not so long ago was a messiah bound for chile

somebody waved a white sheet from a balcony

the blond russchild came into our minds the one who lived on flames

like marinetti futurist god

and loved russia with more than a son’s love

now they throw him over the belgian frontier and one blue morning he’ll hang in front of the kremlin

help then

brothers

luckless sons like us of europe

help! help!

what am I but a plain-minded poet there’s an edge in my voice that’s all

what good is it to stick the tumaronian witch with a paper sword

12 days we sat in the vagrants’ detention-barracks which reeked of mice

105 of us in a single hall

day and night

night and day

at night we dreamed of highways and we squashed bugs

in the morning we got warm water at midday cold porridge and all day long we had to pray aloud unintelligible belgian prayers with the bearded guard who was perched up on a high platform like some idol

then we were driven to the french border in dark green wagons

I found 9 sorts of birds’ eggs in the nests

my lord god

here comes paris

of which I have heard resounding wonders

and which is still unknown to me

I know the french coat-of-arms has a red cock in it

I know french soil is blessed with girls and arts

at crack of dawn zola’s peasants were swimming on silver guitars

the seine deposited its blue bodies on the grassy bank

szittya talked about dunajec the hungarian teacher

violin virtuoso now in the chat noir

9 lovers he has alien french girls war-horses from the franco-german war

I glanced through my notes I have now seen 3004 christpictures

I found 9 sorts of birds’ eggs in the nest

I shooed off 2 cows at liége

therefore

I was 300 kilometers from paris

and above our heads parrots went about on crutches

O PARIS!

PARIS!

endre ady saw you naked

and guillaume apollinaire simultaneist poet was born over your bloody rubble

we felt pretty sure we had the smell of pilgrims

and every day we walked 60-70 kilometers

and approached the shadow of the iron tower

buy our blisters we called out to the people

buy our blisters kept in excellent condition

if you pierce it with a fine pin you don’t get the aftertaste of burning

the french all in all are not unlike the belgians

bavaria has the decentest of the dummkopf brigade

it could be good malt beer got them that way

it could be also that in fact christian philosophy set whatever thames they had on fire in them

our necks were forever burdened with the swollen lachrymal sacs we had swinging there

like a brace of heavy salty cowbells

for days we lacked lodgings

oh why did our mothers give birth to us if they were unable to set a house on our back at the start?

a jailer otherwise a shoemaker

pushed us half a day into the straw

out of yellow pipes with lances pliers and russian pikes lice paid us visits

but this was nothing

we slept on our faroff moonswing to flutemusic

somebody sang and sang above us

YOU ARE MY TWO INDEX FINGERS

and we had morning coffee round the skirt of the shoemaker’s wife

who remarked I had very nice hair

and on a closer look I was like a lad called igor

who drowned himself in the seine 20 years ago all for love of her

that black coffee mulled about priestlike in our bellies and I promised

I’d send her a picture postcard from Paris with

two clasped hands and a pigeon billing and cooing on it

PARIS O PARIS city of fine suicides

and who knows why

and I shall never forget her voice

she cried through the whistle of the customs-officers

and laughed through the electric horns of the city

laugh then you fool

can’t you see you’re snug in a gold-nest of life

Paris is dandling us boy said szittya and completely forgot his clap

once I even milked angels’ blood from the stars here

compared to that my mother’s milk was sodawater

pin up your wings

tomorrow we’re going to GRIZETTE

tomorrow we’ll be slipping cysters over on the boulevard italien and we’ll take a look at the electric birds

tomorrow we’ll try the tuileries

and the star-bar

ah yes

yes

sad sad feeling the nails growing on my sick legs

pain oh

pain

I’m reached by miracles bearded and plasterless

2 X 2 = 4

briars spread everywhere

but modern horses have teeth of iron

and he who starts off in the morning can never be sure to get home in the evening

happiest of all is the reversible skin man

for who can look beyond himself

what we set up is set up

what we set up has no meaning

the rivers will splinter in shreds if they have to hurry

gentlemen can hardly walk on two legs like sparrows

we know women leave their husbands

the monkeys examined their backsides in mister goldmann’s mirrors and have absolutely no complaints

say I could play chess

yet I’m really good at nothing

sliced pig-shanks sit on shopwindow merry-go-rounds

I saw paris I saw nothing

my lover waited for me pregnant at angyalföld station

my mother in her poverty was already lemonhead

I could have laughed in front of them but embarrassment took over for I had two pairs of trousers on and no underpants

certainly the poet can either construct something that pleases him

or he’s at liberty to collect cigar-stubs

birds have devoured the voice

yet the trees went on singing

this is already a sign of old age

but it means nothing

I am LAJOS KASSÁK

and our heads twist up for the flight of the nickel samovar.