Salvador Dalí, The Hallucinogenic Toreador, 1968-70 Venus flies at nightrugged-faced androgynous as a whistlea cactus breeds listens with two heads at the same time(a bit like walking without sunshine)perhaps a better woman would have squeezed the worldno. a better woman would have told you happiness is singing with your hair downin spite of all the [...]
Tag: surrealist poetry
Surf Lite
Joan Miró, The Gold of the Azure, 1967 —experience of big & small is an eclipse of the fingers & the shadow wasn’t made to stop it milking a thin line between fiction & proportion {our visions are tempered by a suspicion of restless endings} & their distal blue fragrance fills the night like ash [...]
Artificial Paradise
even the desert had forgotten the rose and the skinny glass house in which she’d kept it {that which shakes us from the grip of our totalitarian nightmares and rescues us from the sinking sands of a thousand deserts and the hundred or so oddities that parade across our eyelids while we’re fast sleep} a [...]
Cut to Black
the film switches to men on their backs, they’re our real heroes, surfing on the chemical pink underbelly of a fertile sky they’re our whiskey dreamers the soft dancers, the coronet of half-naked bodies blown down by a puff of incense and a hit of stale tobacco it is a scene that begs for rearranging [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
Specific Gravity
with a knife like that you’re often guaranteed success dangling from a mirror with a foot of broken glass whose was the voice that begged us to undress with the whole world watching that in a sweating handful of candy-apple hips and toothpick arms and melancholy breasts like hardened pitchers of clay, thumbed our eyes [...]
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 [...]
Revenge of the First
Salvador Dalí, "Geopoliticus" Child Watching the Birth of the New Man, 1943 there’s nothing left to undress but the nose a trinket the size of a dime, really, an anthill of cosmic reconstruction a single-celled dinosaur and the fracture in a memory that’s sent tumbling from its axis like the ribs off a sleeping bull [...]
Ring of Thieves
Joan Miró, Woman and birds in the night, 1974 the voice at the fountain is not helpless but hopelessly uncomplicated like a toy silver bell and its ring is not unfamiliar, but a vision that sings like a daffodil, or better yet, a kiss that evaporates from the dark corner of an eyelid like a [...]
