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Anthony Pierre Dec 2019
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
Graffiti: Writing on My Wall
Jeff Lewis Sep 2019
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.
after:  "The Broken Bridge and The Dream", Salvador Dali
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
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.
Ode to Dali. 2015.
Henry Koskoff Oct 2017
you looked down at your feet
the veins there
pulsated and scurried
to another place; away

you looked up and saw a face belonging to a girl named maude
you could tell by the mouth

you looked back down
this time at your hand
where you found
one (or two or three)
blunt(s) object(s)
and you threw it/them at the mirror
so you no longer had to see maude

you walked out, into the foyer
and you were throwing a party

you walked out, into the boiler room
and you were throwing a party

you walked out, into the bathroom
and you were throwing a party

everywhere there were parties
and everyone's mouths were opening and closing
and you were trying to hear what they were saying
but only distorted and muffled noise was being produced

the heron croaked three times
you didn't know what time it was

the heron croaked thrice
and what time was it

the heron croaked three
then you had to answer one question:

what time is it?
Abbie Argo Sep 2017
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
Lia Sep 2017
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
Maya Deren Salvador Dali Steampunk Coexist Environmentalism
Rambo Dec 2016
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.
*Moke is a British/Australian slang term for donkey or *******; a fool, representing the folly of man.
KathleenAMaloney Mar 2016
Leftovers...
Sometimes they eat just like a gourmet rocket ship
landed on the moon
And other times
Well, other times...
They could be the last stop just before the garbage can
The real Last Super.. After..
Realization.
.....for crimes that had never been comitted

If The Word says.. "I love you.. "
Which one woild it be?
Garbage returned?
Or
Garbage dumped out?

Pure Essence of Life..
pouring thru the space between fingers...
Now forgotten hand's Divine Givingness

Judas Price
Gold for Some
And bloods watery emptiness  for others
****** for Greed

Death of Christ

Tears are the realness of a Mothers Touch taken away
Witnessed, by God's Own Law,  Compassion.
Are their any who passed?
The Good Pussy Jul 2015
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                                      S
                       ­       u    u r      u
                           r        r e          r
                          r          al             r
                         e         i      s          e
                         a        m     s          a
                          l         u     r          l
                           i         r   e          i
                              s        al         s
                                 m    •     m
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