After Salvador Dali
The Great Masturbator, her face to the tiles,
seeks the floral majesty beneath the floating man-boy loins
pressing soft cloth containment,
the air redolent with the blood of scissor-cut chicken,
sweeter than honey.
We watched the rocky shoals of Cadaques from our little window—
the ocean mists our entreaties.
I loved myself one day and felt so bad
I knocked out one of my own teeth.
We'll hang the tooth from a string in our next villa,
and watch, around it, the crystallization of our hunger.
Our hearts are drawers,
our heads stems,
our brains petals,
our bodies beached,
our unions, masses evolving.
Dali and Gala, as Photographed by Cecil Beaton in 1938
Come to me, my head-dressed, Chanel-sheathed,
shining-busted vixen.
Slide your sandal-suited pieds by the klieg lights.
I've doffed my mask and laid sword's tip to parquayed floor.
My wrists crossed in submission,
one leg tucked beneath me on the stool,
I'm casual, like a Barrymore—
tweedy elegance before the couple in the clouds,
but ready, too, to spring at you,
lest you lose control and
take the role of fight-mistress.
Come to me, my head-dressed, Chanel-sheathed,
shining-busted vixen.
Slide your sandal-suited pieds by the klieg lights.
I've doffed my mask and laid sword's tip to parquayed floor.
My wrists crossed in submission,
one leg tucked beneath me on the stool,
I'm casual, like a Barrymore—
tweedy elegance before the couple in the clouds,
but ready, too, to spring at you,
lest you lose control and
take the role of fight-mistress.
Two Damp White Loads
(in memory of Marcel Duchamp, whom I don't remember)
We still have two damp white
loads down there.
The damn dryer's
stuck the quarters
won't go in the little
slot machine not
slot machine you
know what I mean.
Were we glacial and feature
less, un-clothed, polished to a high sheen,
this sort of situation wouldn't arise.
Were we
efficient as
your blessed
soda fountains
far less
friction we'd endure.
We've
come not
far.
Put varnish atop
the dust—mundane
cemented.
Nothing's
invented.
For
word
march.
Flush
left
flush.
Right.
- Alexander C. Kafka
