Good morning without cigaret tzan-tzantza ganga bouzbouc zdouc scars laziness of sparkling lights . . . his belly is a, big box for there are zigzags on his soul and a lot of rrrrrrrrr. . . .
That's the way Radio Paris started its midnight program. The long-haired doubletalk—Dada love poetry and surrealist verse by Tristan Tzara, André Breton, Paul Eluard, Salvador Dali and Louis Aragon—went on for 15 minutes.
Drop everything, drop Dada, drop your wife, your mistress. Drop your hopes and your fears. Sow your children in a corner of the woods. Drop your prey for the shadow. . . .
Alternating between jungle staccato and mellifluous French, three men and two women described a Dali dream:
A vast and desolate landscape. The convulsive and catastrophic shapes of the rocks will give a frozen notion of geological delirium. A silver spoon ten meters long will sprout directly from a rock of iron. Inside the spoon . . . two fried eggs . . . fire red. . . . Twilight shadow and the white of the eggs and the silver spoon will reflect the light of the sky . . . very precisely aquamarine.
All five actors pitched their voices to simulate the sound of a crowd, jabbering violently.
Detach my blue brain. Give me drinking water. Look out for the 'mountains. Think of arsenic. Change the yellow ink. Remember last year. Remember the heat. We spit in the air and the nightingales spit on us.
Mad, uncontrolled laughter ended in a hysterical shriek.
The ash is the cigar's sickness ... a gas inspector is like an insect on a salad. . . . Your wife "will have hair as white as sugar and her ears will be unpaid bills — unpaid because you are dead!
Toward the end of the program, hot jazz records and a tom-tom battery of sound effects gave way to a note of love.
It is always the same vow, same youth, same pure eyes, same caress, same revelation. But . . . never the same woman. The cards said I will meet her, but without recognizing her. Loving love ... 150 castles where we were going to love were not enough for me. I will have 100,000 more built tomorrow. (Woman's voice. gradually fading : Mon amour, mon amour, mon amour, mon amour.)
Last week Jean Langlois, who wrote the show, said there had been no listener reaction, as yet.