Dream Like Dali

Picture source: Salvador Dali 1904 – 1989

Majestically, she came striding to the edge of sun baked
sand like an hourglass held up by time,
until she was still; her long legs equidistant

he lay heel to toe with the savage sun
like a mummy bandaged in alabaster;
humanity encrusted with the parched earth –
it had partially eaten him –

a dried out dove clung on to his chest
since his ribs were a near perch
for the wasted observer;
tired of flying,
tired of singing,
lost in his search for peace,
its feathers had become carved with
fine dried clay – its fissure
like veins devoid of faith – baked
but incomplete,
badly in need of rest

her elongated shadow buried
them both
before she knelt on the earth
for water to pour from dainty,
silver rivulets
that ran her body,
though she was smooth
and flowing sand

he watched her rise,
striking the sky
with her cool, black silhouette
but on the floor it lay
outstretched – as an amber pool
of honey;
he placed in it his hand
to taste her

he was quenched, fed. Arid skin
of dust and clay fell away as did the dove,
which had replaced his heart –
its wings shattered
into a thousand pieces until baby soft powder
dusted the gritty, sparkling floor

a billowing white cloud produced a magnificent
topaz bird; its plumage was a thousand lights
of peaceful nights held in its tail eyes
of beautiful iridescence –
tail eyes that had once glimpsed peace
in a thousand colours: turquoise, ocean green
and gold …

quill feathers wafted the zircon grains
of the sand, writing new rules,
posturing and reshaping –

beautiful but cruel foundations of peacock ore
too brittle to walk on, created swank waves
of peacock blues,

and it strutted till a thousand feathers
fell on the sand
to rise again as blood red ceramic poppies
that poured in an avalanche from the gaping
mouths of soldiers still inside tin helmets –
grown men like babes still fighting
inside their dreams

he tried to pick the wild flowers for her
but barbed, razor wire snagged
his crumbling fingers,
and hidden behind those were children’s faces
pressed against wire mesh
on the shores of green, unpleasant oceans
that gulped and gagged; force fed a rigorous diet
of helplessness and hope
each time sand was flipped inside the hourglass

he gripped her waist
but as his reflection caught on her glass bosom
it shattered her frame

a thousand more grains of sand
flowed like the salt
of his tears – sprinkled gently
from a watering can’s wise rose
trying to feed the presumption of green
leaves between his toes

his flaking sinews were drawn
to his chest; he wore a small hole
where the dove had nestled –
dust stung his eyes
before his tattered hand rose to form a bridge
that the sun rode across
to join him at his journey’s end

red jewel fish swam ahead of her
in shoals of beating hearts –
riders corralled the sand storm’s cloth
approaching like a whirling dervish;
her titian hair draped those black, almond desert eyes,

and their glinting sunlit flecks
consumed time in their frenzy –
she placed the convergence; a plump,
red heart
within his rib cage,

she was a belly dancer for a while
on the sand’s hypnotic gyrations
prompting creatures with a spin of time
to play music
inside of their shells

her lips were kissed by
one thousand butterflies, and her open palms
let loose a chorus of small white doves;
all of the notes to harmonise man’s discord –
all willing one more time to fly away
in a relentless search for peace and to sing
for another one thousand years –

time enough, she thought, before they’d need
a place to rest.

Colour my World

82c3e20d39b7c7262104711f8f25057a

Draw the Junoesque shapes of me,
colour my world fantastically,
shade with depth and imagination,
sketch my past
into oblivion –
paint me with your words.

Blush my cheeks, awash with hope,
use knife edge, brutal and excited strokes,
draw me in with a mad, brush crush,
red ochre
flamed onto canvas –
don’t paint me with your smoke.

Titian

Van-Gogh-Starry-Night-over-Rhone

He brushed her curves –
she was soft at the edges,
and he tousled
voluminous, titian hair
with master strokes,
yet a thirst slurped the water jar
and her face would vanish.
He could hardly bear to paint her,
but he did, despite lapsed
time dotted like small flecks of acrylic
on a palette stained with red wine;
interludes of rage and darkness
and heartache’s brittle impasto
would smear the bleak canvas
where her porcelain face should radiate.
A sigh fell over the blue wash of the Rhone
while he watched memories escape
with the wine – he loved her
to the edge, and he would paint it.

Chronic Canvas

chronic cnavas

Picture: Jay Nabonne

charcoal clouds smudged by thumbs
once haughty –
leaned before angled perpendicular
with promises of black line afterlife; mid air

heady, hung like his smokers’ lungs –
fringed, black laced –
grieving for some time
and for something sinister – brooding
but not quite imagined, not quite
realised on life’s stark canvas
where thumbs are shadow puppets
still stuck in contemplation.

how does one recreate visions of the dying,
and paint death’s culprit edges, dimly
lit by shadows inside wheezing
last breaths?

smoke filters fraying cushions
of shape shifting disease –
hidden, toxically poised – exhaled,
life is spent nervous energy and regrets –
all bad scions; not a good wash for pretty
pastels caught in a ridiculous tango
with painter, thumb and a wispy capacity
of mournful oxygen rattling alone on canvas.

 

Dream Like Dali

Picture source: Salvador Dali 1904 – 1989

Majestically striding to the edge of sun baked
sand like an hourglass held up by time,
she became still; her long legs equidistant

man lay heel to toe with a savage sun –
humanity encrusted with parched earth,
it had partially eaten him –

a dried out white dove clung
to an exposed ribcage; a much needed perch
for a wasted observer
tired of flying,
tired of singing,
lost in his search for peace.
Its feathers, etched from
fine, dried clay – were fissure
like veins devoid of faith – baked
outside of death,
badly in need of rest.

Her elongated shadow buried
them both before she knelt on the earth
for water to pour from dainty,
silver rivulets
that ran her body,
which was smooth
and flowing sand

he watched her rise,
striking the sky
with her cool, black silhouette
but on the floor it lay
outstretched – as an amber pool
of honey;
he placed in it his hand
to taste her

immediately, he was quenched, fed.  Arid skin
of dust and clay fell away as did the shell of the dove,
which had replaced his heart –
its wings shattered
into a thousand pieces like baby soft powder
dusting the gritty, sparkling floor

in the breeze, billowing white clouds
conjured a magnificent
topaz bird; its plumage was a thousand lights
of peaceful nights held in its tail eyes
of beautiful iridescence –
tail eyes that had once glimpsed peace
in a thousand colours: turquoise, ocean green
and gold …

quill feathers wafted the zircon grains
of the sand, writing new rules,
posturing and reshaping –

beautiful but cruel foundations of peacock ore
too brittle to walk on, created swank waves
of peacock blues,

and it strutted till a thousand feathers
fell on the sand
to rise again as blood red poppies
that poured in an avalanche from the gaping
mouths of soldiers still inside tin helmets –
grown men like babes still fighting
inside their dreams

he tried to pick the wild flowers for her
but barbed, razor wire snagged
his crumbling fingers,
and hidden behind those were children’s faces
pressed against wire mesh
on the shores of green, unpleasant oceans
that gulped and gagged; force fed a rigorous diet
of helplessness and hope
each time sand was flipped inside the hourglass

he gripped her waist
but as his reflection caught on her glass bosom
it shattered her hourglass frame

she was released

a thousand more grains of sand
flowed like the salt
of his tears – sprinkled gently
from a watering can’s wise rose
trying to feed the presumption of green
leaves between his toes

his flaking sinews were drawn
to his chest; he wore a small hole
where the dove had nestled –
dust stung his eyes
before his tattered hand rose to form a bridge
that the sun rode across
to join him at his journey’s end

red jewel fish swam ahead of her
in shoals of beating hearts –
riders corralled the sand storm’s cloth
approaching like a whirling dervish;
her titian hair draped those black, almond desert eyes,

and their glinting sunlit flecks
consumed time in their frenzy –
she placed the convergence; a plump,
red heart
within his rib cage,

she was a belly dancer for a while
on the sand’s hypnotic gyrations
prompting creatures with a spin of time
to play music
inside of their shells

her lips were kissed by
one thousand butterflies, and her open palms
let loose a chorus of small white doves;
all of the notes to harmonise man’s discord –
all willing one more time to fly away
in a relentless search for peace and to sing
for another one thousand years –

time enough, she thought, before they’d need
a place to rest

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