I happen to be tired of being a man... Like Tarzan when he jumps down off a tree and shakes the world...

I happen to enter tailor- shops and movie- houses
withered, impenetrable, like a felt swan
navigated in a water of sources and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me wail.
I want only a respite of stones or wool,
I want only not to see establishments or gardens,
or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.

I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
I happen to be tired of being a man.

Nevertheless it would be delightful
to startle a notary with a cut lily
or slay a nun with a blow to the ear.
It would be lovely to go through the
streets with a sexy knife and shouting 
froze to death. 

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
I do not want for myself so many misfortunes.
I do like to be on a party...
I do not like the day after...