Salvador Dalí, Untitled (Soft Monster in Angelic Landscape), 1977

& the day came when we 
were forced to feast on the 
entrails of a static balloon, the
sky was any color we liked &
the moon was fitted 
	(with maniacal precision)
by the sap of an 
	unfiltered lemon dream

(nothing beats the sweetness 
	of a self-appointed 

the last word dropped like the 
	7th consecutive sun, or so
said the man who’d taught us how 
	not to smile 
the chorus was impotence & his 
right leg dangled like the hairs 
of a devil over a pond of 
	frenzied tungsten crocodiles
& angels in a glitter box

(every fantasy implies the 
	miraculous possibility of

but our feet had been 
	hijacked by the race & 
		were captive 
		only in hind-
weighted by the breath 
	of a dozen floating 
paper flowers

(the present has no reverence for mystery)

& a woman was the silhouette 
of a garden & the echoes of an  
albatross lit up the sky like a 
	negative mind eye
as the moon danced with the same kind of 
	octagonal asymmetry 
as a pearl in a floating mirror

i believe that what i see is me

…was the nectar of that 
	fluorine fantasy
that dripped from all the 
heavenly tongues, the stain 
of a cool flaccid rain like an 
acid-scratch or a
	vacant knife 
that trimmed the
ghosts from our eyelids
& shattered the 8 glass balloons
	that carried the miracles 
of sleep like the soft jowls 
	of a tiger’s womb

(each level of consciousness 
has a fault line like a broken brain wave
but no one is afraid of 9wave ghosts)

4 thoughts on “9Wave

    1. …a monster soft and melted
      like the cogs of a pounded machine
      whose entrails turn to dust
      as the floating paper echoes
      of our sights rise to the 9th
      frequency of flight


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