“Remember me when you are at the beach, and above all when you paint crackling things and little ashes. Oh, my little ashes! Put my name in the picture so that my name will serve for something in the world.” ~ Federico García Lorca

                                    *

It is ironic, Salvador, because
I am afraid of many things in the world and
When I am with you,
I feel safe,
Yet your company is the one thing
I fear most.
I know that I love and need you
More than you will ever love and
Need me, that
One day you will be free
With another woman and I will be
Left paying for my sins against God. And
My rights against the state.

I thought that our love would have
No limits; you
Said that I am a Christian storm but
I know that you can brave this tempest and
Save me from myself.

I am a poet, Salvador, but
Whenever I sit down to write a poem about you,
Or even just how I feel about you,
I am unable to because
I am lost for words.
I speak only of what you and
Your paintings tell me;
I can no longer express myself.  

I remember the beach.
We would lie there for hours-
On its sand we would kiss not just with our lips but
With our eyes. The
Water will miss our visits;
Its body seldom taken by another,
As opposed to being engulfed by
Two artistic lovers.
Having received my seaside medicine
(Via touch of tongue
And word of hand)
I have come to the realisation that
You have, in fact,
Poisoned me.
I shall never be cured now.

The smoke from silent guns has risen,
I hold one in my hand.
Yet I am severed from the call
In a fight against myself.
A conflict to choose between
God and you.
I hear you say you are one and the same.
That, I cannot stand.

My focus is distorted.
Distracted. Abstracted.
We are too many miles apart;
You have replaced my words with your art,
You have broken
My heart.

Where is your warmth now, Salvador?
I am alone by the sea trembling with the cold
That you swore I would never feel again.
Winter will devour me as a
Result of your failing to
Relight the fire that is supposed to
Ignite me.
You promised me life with a portrait machine
But in all honesty
What I want to be
Promised with,
Oh, Salvador Dalí,
Is your faith, in me.

Is this heaven?
High above, above High
Bizarre, @ poppy sky height
leaping clouds on cloud 9
eyes, hypnogogic eyes
roams recalcitrant red
Idle! Martian! Deserts!
live streams can't pry
**** dried, silica tears
dam: # freedom cry
Free as a sand storm spins
Head: "I'm lost in the winds"
Headhunter's Hunger
Insatiable Appetite bites
Gnawing butterflies
crawling by poppy sky flowers
High above, above High
Heavenly Heights

Its eighteen months since her delivery
Now she is penning odes ostensibly
Crayons in both hands: she is standing tall
What Dada says? "No writing on the wall."

With great care baby writes her graffiti
Not much untouched by her audacity
He tries to compromise with a new book
but baby says, "Daa Daa"; with a stern look

He has to admit the walls are hers now
Filled with scribbles and a chromatic cow
Its her version of Van Gogh's Starry Night
without the stars; a novice oversight

She's more surreal than Salvador Dali
The writing's on my wall: Pure Graffiti

In my dream, there is a broken bridge.
That bridge impossible to cross.
Yet, all is possible
                     in the land of dreams.
So,
why fret?
Except, this:
                     In my dream, there exist this broken bridge.

You watch the plastic frame meld into itself,
The second hand turning inward
Smoothly running down the walls like fingertips trying to find their hands,
Tapping the pencil against the desk,
Tapping soles onto tiled floors,
Toes rhyming in spite of themselves, waiting.

consider the bee, warbling its bass tune of honey and flora and the pursuit of happiness about the sweet ****** sphere
i do not know how long it (i) has been (will be) here
i wish you would shake me to my core, my past tense boy, pomegranate juice dripping down your chin
i wipe it away with my thumb, sticky with longing
suddenly you are so tall, so far out of reach, so very yesterday and not at all tomorrow
dali was pulled from his dream or perhaps nightmare or perhaps a purgatory of the two
the hair on his arms rose like a spectre from its grave
she who shook him to his core haunted his sleeping moments, threatened to be swallowed whole by the fish
she saw a gun under the bed when she was six and never really felt safe since
danger hides under beds and in closets and in acrylic paint
“how surreal” i’m sure he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes
i bet it made him laugh, too

at some queer second
         not quite between twelve and twelve
                    blue planet dust particles dream
                                suspend midair
                                 while sunbeams dance
                        across minute hands
                   in your eyes

            **** carpet melts into lush
       dark grass
      and azure electric runs across petals
         of daisies dipped in glass

                 air swims carelessly about in a tropical heat
                          and shimmers curiously like
                                  glitter in rain or
                                        paint splattered koi
                                                beneath oil spills

                                                   you stand at the
                                                      precipice to purple
                                                   infinity
                                       and curiously ask the darkness
                            "what time it might be"

                   soft words of loved ones
echo faintly in distance

       overhead
                    copper willows generously sprout
                         industrial light-bulbs

Never he was an honest man
Who prides himself
On wanton expeditions

In a field of truth
He lies, entangled in conceit
To win that which he desires –
It is only but a game.

Mind not his mental means, nor manner –
Be he sane or psychopath –
But the strategy by which he plays:
Cheat, deceive, manipulate,
Overcome, and conquer your carnal estate.

Twisted tales, spun with golden thread
Crafted by careful practice and confidence
The master of charisma in his own head
Is no Eros, in any sense – Erosive, yes –
He is only what you want but for a brief moment
Be suspicious and expect this ever-real Narcissus.

A lecher he is
A Greek God in wish –
Nay, he only lives in the fantastic,
Though he roams about us
In a surreal bubble,
Where love comes to pass,
He is ever-so subtle

He markets himself as a Rembrandt,
Although more a moke* than baroque,
Something which he could never see
Staring into his reflection so blindly.
At a cost, worth more than his fee,
This cheap knockoff of Sal Dali,
Would sell you his love
For a buck forty-three.

Beware the lecher.