Salvador Dalí, Composition for "Labyrinth," 1947 i’m looking for something to trigger it the vision of a scene that was wronged by the seizure of a violin, a stolen touch like a carpenter’s hand discerning the contours of a naked jawbone, and a set of feet that stormed a violent hallway while the neck was [...]
Tag: surrealist poetry
Alt Air
it was a breathtaking oval that sat atop the crown which is probably not what i mean to say, but a shoulder, yes, propping up the eye of the morning like a lucid dragonfly zigzagging on the wings of mercies and men {the eye is a fable and every vision is a fiction, but not [...]
Fall Through Mirrors
i awoke that morning with a fantasy like any other namely, a golden rod poking holes in the clouds and i walking a mile of dropped jaws & hanging clocks & lavender-drenched tides to a castle in a tree that bore no roots and waved an iron flag like a mechanical rib or a stale [...]
Rest in Pieces
Salvador Dalí, Autumnal Cannibalism (1936) it was the last supper at the ledge of the world and every fork was lit with the intentions of a preacher there was a giant hoof where a crater used to be and an orange moon folded like a bird around our ankles in each line is a world, [...]
Lo Lite
Salvador Dalí, Surrealist Composition (c. 1928) between me & the road was a red letter r, an ember of hair or a single faceless masquerade with a line above the brow indicating “no direction” the air was a blue-green funk lo lite rays & the ripples of a halogen fantasy (it is our duty to speak [...]
Lip Sync
have you ever spoken with your mouth directly ever followed it down a rabbit hole while your eyes were half asleep stuck in a forgotten spiral like two tumbling birds to a field that makes your footsteps giant as peacocks, a pair of yellow snakes chomping at the root of a high flying oak tree [...]
Lo Air
And the day was a man With a beard for a bird feeder A caved-in spine and a forest for a mouth And the night was a wave, broken and blue, A somersault between my knees Lo air, lips, and two half-parted fingers A roomful of glass beetles, like three dozen departed souls Winging their [...]
