"A man passes by with a bread on his shoulder ..."

translation by Roberto Paoli

A man goes by with a bread on his shoulder.

Can I write on my lookalike later?

Another sits down, scratches himself, takes a louse from his armpit, kills it.

How dare we talk about psychoanalysis?

Another entered my chest with a pole in his hand.

Then talk about Socrates with the doctor?

A lame person passes by giving his arm to a child.

Can I read André Breton later?

Another is cold, coughs, spits blood.

Is a reference to the profound self still permissible?

Another looks for skins and stones in the mud.

How then to write about infinity?

A bricklayer falls off a roof, dies and no longer dines.

Then innovate the trope, the metaphor?

A trader steals a gram of weight from a customer.

Then speak of the fourth dimension?

A banker falsifies the balance sheet.

With what face then cry in the theater?

A pariah sleeps with his foot on his back.

Then talk to someone about Picasso?

There are those who are sobbing inside a funeral.

How to access the Academy afterwards?

There are those in the kitchen dusting a gun.

How daring to speak of the afterlife?

Those who pass do the accounts on their fingers.

Will I speak without a cry of the not-me?