Clytemnestra, the diplomats wife, was looking out the window. The cellists go by in a carriage of Chinese tea, biting the air and open-hearted caresses. You are beautiful, Clytemnestra, the crystal of your skin awakens our sexual curiosity. You are as tender and as calm as two yards of white silk. Clytemnestra, my teeth chatter. I’m cold, I’m afraid. I’m green I’m flower I’m gasometer I’m afraid. You are married. My teeth chatter. When will you have the pleasure of looking at the lower jaw of the revolver closing in my chalk lung. Hopeless, and without any family.

The Gas Heart - Tristan Tzara