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 [...]
Tag: writing
Jam Sessions
This post is formatted to reflect an original journal entry. 7/4/19 Inspired to experiment with a new style of poetry. Influenced entirely by music this time. The idea is to create a series of jam sessions. I thought of it during my commute to work yesterday morning as I listened to a live performance of [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
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 [...]
