Faust Arp

wakey wakey rise and shine
it’s off again on again
off again on again
watch me fall like dominoes
in pretty patterns
fingers in the blackbird pie
I’m tingling tingling tingling
wt’s what you feel not what you ought to
what you ought to what you ought to
reasonable and sensible
dead from the neck up
I guess I’m stuffed
stuffed
stuffed
we thought you had it in you
but not
not
not
for no real reason

squeeze the tubes and empty bottles
I take a bow take a bow take a bow
it’s what you feel not what you ought to
what you ought to what you ought to
the elephant that’s in the room
is tumbling tumbling tumbling
plastic bags with nothing in them
nothing in them
duplicate and triplicate
dead from the neck up
I guess I’m stuffed
stuffed
stuffed
we thought you had it in you
but not
not
not
exactly where do you get off?
is enough
is enough
I love you but enough is enough
enough of that stuff
there's no real reason
you've got a head full of feathers
you're gonna melt into butter

A reference to this song was found by 'patches' who posts in the Hodiau Direkton message board, who found in the book The Art of Jean Arp the following poem:

"Et frappe, et frappe, et frappe"

et frappe encore et encore une fois
et ainsi de suite
et une fois deux fois trois fois jusqu'à mille
et recommence de plus belle
et frappe la grande table de multiplication et la petite table de multiplication
et frappe et frappe et frappe
page 222 page 223 page 224 et ainsi de suite jusqu'à la page 299
passe la page 300 et continue par la page 301 jusqu'à la page 400
et frappe ceci une fois en avant deux fois en arrière trois fois en haut et quatre fois en bas
et frappe les douze mois
et les quatre saisons
et les sept jours de la semaine
et les sept tons de la gamme
et les six pieds des iambes
et les nombres pairs des maisons
et frappe
et frappe le tout ensemble
et le compte y est
et fait un.

Translation:

And strikes again and once again
and then once more
and once twice thrice times up to a thousand
and then begins again most beautifully
and strikes again the big multiplication table and the small multiplication table
and strikes and strikes and strikes and strikes
page 222 page 223 page 224 and on and on to page 299
passes page 300 and continues with page 301 on to page 400
and strikes this once in front twice behind three times above and four times below
and strikes the twelve months
and the four seasons
and the seven days of the week
and the seven notes of the scale
and the six feet of legs
and the even numbers of houses
and strikes
and strikes it all together
and then adds up
and makes one.

And another reference in the same book:

"Place Blanche

This morning I find nothing but memorials of death in my path.
They are trivial objects,
faded photographs,
empty bottles,
shells thrown up by the sea,
a looking-glass that reflects the serenity, the purity, the calm gaiety, the brightness that the inescapable shadow has engulfed.
I am spellbound by these objects that belong to people long dead.
Above these objects movements
as of wispy clouds
or plumes of breath.
They cross vaguely in front of me.
Clocks strike years each minute.
Each minute emits such a profusion of memories
that it assumes the importance of a year.
These minutes look like dark baskets overflowing with black fruit.
Years pass with a fan of ants on their heads.
Whilst keeping its form it writhes within itself and at the same time strives desperately
to divulge a sterile life, a grey desert.
A horny substance, reddish pullulates among these ghostly visions, down these years
and gives me the sensation of human beings swarming on the earth.
Years pass with their vegetal mouths and ingenious fins.
Years that are green lairs.
They give shelter to the fairies in their moulting season.
Years in which I wrote my first poems,
and my ingenious fins displayed themselves without any consideration for their surroundings.
Years pass and chase the little years.
Without pity they slaughter them destroying them in this way their due dissemination.
And one more rigid system is given as a bonus to the world.
Will it show the way towards the ineffable dream?

I am one of the flock of poets and painters,
full of submissions to their shepherd, obeying him.
Like marionettes these poets and painters nod approval,
laugh disdainfully at what was white up to the moment
and is now said to be black.
The shepherd lights up.
The shepherd shines forth more and more.
He loses his human form,
but I hear his voice talking of art.