Birds of Paradox

look at the finale like something the raven staged, the cyclic folding of the birds and the second season of our forgetting, successions of warm reptilian summers and exposed machine metal grooves hey, listen to that hi-wire astral applause rotations of a head blade of sound five points of life, tetrahedron of light the sun [...]

9Wave

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 [...]

Sandman Express VII

all that’s left at the end of this story’s a struggle, a penniless offering from the scantest corners of a forest, the scent of a long-forgotten tear like melted yellow perfume and a snap of the fingers that sent up a parachute like a tornado of fried tumble weeds, a pocketful of gleaming teeth strung [...]

Death of the Pendulum

Joan Miró, Painting (The bottle of wine), 1924 it was a lizard that exhaled the fumes, i was certain of it, and shrunk the eye of the morning like a melted rainbow —but someone had propped up the mouth—with the arms of a stilted bird or an inverted river made of frowns that poured out [...]

Flight of the Paper Birds

someone has carved out layers beneath the bone and erected a building without interruption the steady seed of a self-made fantasy concrete acid maze cool junk cartography of a consciousness never born to rise like rows of sitting mirrors that shattered themselves with noise [awareness is a bird of truth catapulted by the reflection of [...]

Sandman Express VI

Read more of the Sandman Express poems. except when he left it mattered that someone had stolen the barrel and plucked out the wood like a house of broken marionettes it was a scene that played out like a two-cent fiddle, a rhyme that never rounded the bend, an unholy landslide that broke through a [...]

Elegance in Circles

Salvador Dalí, Portrait of Picasso, 1947 tell me the entire face is mine, even the subtle interior, like a self-tied knot or the crutch of a malformed pearl that rests a weakened fleece on its forehead and tell me the riddle at the end of the nose is also mine sunny cranial jukebox sly rhythm [...]