Drunken Stumbling

I was paying minimum attention. The article said: "There has probably never been a poetry at once as massively energetic yet as coolly nonchalant as [Francis] Picabia's in -"

What? How's that?

The article later said:

"But I'm telling disinterested lies / It's almost the same thing / The soul's truth / Is the great cowardice of academic / arrogance / Looking into your eyes / I'm content / In my forgotten solitude."

What? What does this mean?
I was lost; had taken a wrong turn down a road filled with criticism of post-World War I French poetry movements. I read the lines three times but realized they held meaning only in the fantasy of a generation now long forgotten, a telegram from a dead, blasted world.

The article also said: "He is so radically focused on the immediate presence of each line that the connections between them can be left to fend for themselves."

I'm content . . . In my forgotten solitude . . . no connection. It was no use. The words had arrived, yes, but like a letter in the mail written in a language no longer spoken - a letter in Akkadian.

But then the article said something in English. It said, "Drunken Stumbling" and it went like this:

I'm afraid that your memory
will go when you go
your lips
will leave
my lips
your heart
be gone
with the rest

I, too, have stumbled drunk, thinking, "Where did he go?" Down the long corridor of the years he is now farther away - what I remembered.