
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
reflection)
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
release)
but our feet had been
hijacked by the race &
we
were captive
only in hind-
sight
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)
Wonderful, imagery as swooningly surreal as Dali.
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Thank you! I’m going to have to remember “swooningly surreal.” 🙂
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Blinded by hindsight …
yet still able to transcend
by the touch of lines of fault
The monster soft and an albertros
floating upon meditation waves
below the lemon frozen sunset
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…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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