SLAM!

Dali, Darling


I am stamping my
square gala heels
on catalan cement

in a hot noon
Barcelona. My hair
hisses like snakes;

it's siesta hour,
Salvador. Say
you are twenty

years younger;
let's lie as the coins
rain down

from your fountain,
and laugh at the downpour,
at the uproar.

My tender finger
turns your moustache
as wax as a candle at Mass.


The difference between you
and a madman, you said,
is that you are not mad.

You're a moon, in phase
between mad genius
and old master.

Dali, my darling, I've laid
my wreath of wire
at your floppy dial;

I'm calling you
on the lobster phone,
burning with love like giraffes.

I'll take your landscapes,
licked china slickness,
and the smear of shit

that besmirches the corners
of dreams without scissors.

Look, I am Gala.
My image stays sharp,
and it does not cut.

STATIC

A Poem for Dali  (18+) let me twirl your moustache #995427 by Cappucine

** Image ID #841142 Unavailable **