#dali
Outside my window,
planted is a fiery red-
branched tree,
I watch on, it stands bold
and oh so elegantly.
I try to imagine if it were a woman
What would her appearance be —
Would she be in one of Dali’s paintings
‘Woman Aflame’?
Would she be ‘Demelza’ in Poldark’s series?
Or would she be a spirit woman
ablaze for all the world to see,
Your creation and Your infinite beauty?
Aug 16, 2025
Aug 16, 2025 at 2:10 AM UTC
Bone-silted river bleeds backward,
tide-swallowed and unspooled,
coffin-seamed decades slouch against a cindered skyline—
time, a lichen-laced beast, starved-thin and echo-lost,
chewing the wax-dripped minutes that slip like marrow through dusk.
Iron-tasting hours blister against frost-scabbed bones,
flesh-stitched days unravel, splinter-throated and root-bound,
where clock-hands wilt, tendon-thin and grave-damp,
melting into brine-brittle pools beneath sun-scoured echoes.
Fog-clot visions smear across the moth-blurred dawn,
where hours, once ember-warmed, now lurch husk-heavy,
drift-staggered through hollow-gnawed winter’s crooked teeth,
grinding time into dust, whispering hearth-ruined lullabies.
Mildewed seconds slouch in the tomb-hushed lull,
glass-limbed and unspooled, a slow-rotting memory,
half-woken, slipping between the cracks of lichen-laced skin—
and here I remain,
splintering beneath time’s indifferent weight.
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 7:54 PM UTC
“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.
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 1:27 PM UTC
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
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 6:48 PM UTC
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
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC
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.
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC
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.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
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
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
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
shag 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
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
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.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
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?
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
.
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
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
Clock drips
twists time
faceless man
reflects sky
nothing
measured
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
perpetual expeditions amidst this hazy twilight,
periwinkled vistas ensnaring me in
buzzzzzzzzzzzz
the sound penetrates my ear drum
black and yellow rabble-rouser
this rambunctious little menace
a pomegranate
eternally ripe, giving me life
gilled, scaled, underwater creature
emerging from the deep, boundless rift
two tantalizing tigers
troublesome, treacherous
and she laid there—
undisturbed, unaware
jabbed in her side by a M1903 Springfield
soothed state rattled, shattered
wincing from the poke of the blunt end of the gun
the sleeping lady slept no more
poor fellows,
how were they supposed to hold on to it without opposable thumbs?
the distressed damsel appeared grotesque,
flailing and fidgeting at the sight of her surroundings
surface rocking beneath my feat,
my trusty elephant’s weak ankles shattering my already shattered stability
i had no more time for such nonsenses
buzzing sounds burned deep into my psyche
the soft-spoken horizon called out to me
calling for me to continue on into the enigmatic expanse
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
It is here
that broken memories find their home.
Divorced from the nests
they have made in our chests,
sinking talons into hearts
and clogging our veins
like the junk from a million Wal-Marts.
The air hangs like flypaper,
catching every breath
like a moment in time.
Every foot falls on crust and grime
and used needles.
The colors are faint
but still bursting with life,
pastel shades of peeled paint.
There's a girl with antelope antlers
and a man with a lobster head,
A lobster made completely
of whole-wheat sliced bread.
There's freaks of every size and shape
abominations of every description
but for a surrealist,
these thoughts are our prescription.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
“Art washes away,
from the soul the dust of everyday life.”
No more pain, stress or strife.
“Have no fear of perfection,
you'll never reach it.”
So don't ever throw a fit.
“I saw the angel in the marble,
and carved until I set him free."
Amazed by what beauty could come from me.
"Art is not a thing;
it is a way."
So carpe diem... seize the day.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
clockparts.com
i fell in love with dali’s ghost
on the day i kissed the 34-mile horizon
i watched his clocks melt away
so i made him a new one and painted it purple sky and yellow sun and lavender clouds and ochre rays
and he filled it with the ace of spades
this isn’t well-crafted surrealism
it’s your story spent
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
Salvador Dali
Rode a Harley-Davidson
All the way from Bali
To Abu Dhabi
With Charley the Cat
Riding pillion.
Said Charley to Dali
All weathered and gnarly
I get quite incensed
By children's lack of road sense.
When I get back to Britain
I think I'll start
A Road Safety Campaign.
Good idea
Said Dali
To Charley
Who replied
Thanks a million.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC