A photo of a curtain trying to escape on the sand

When The Dad closed the car door,

The Toy opened up,

mechanically beating the drum –

with monkey hands.

 

The stomach stirs with the doughnut-doorbell’s melody –

When The Hat arrived and entered the room,

He was shot with an arrow,

ran disguised as a closed door,

and lay quietly

on the floor like a Persian cat,

impervious to the chanted signs

of greedy secrets.

Will he go out?

 

He saw a hand pointing upward – a breathless voice said, “ Look at that! What is she doing there now !?”

Like the hands of a mad clock, The Woman twisted, her legs danced on the rug – she wore no stockings, her legs were thin wires of weary hope – sliding, sliding, sliding. A bundle of dry twigs swayed and twitched to the beat of a toy monkey’s drum – clap, clap, clap.

There was popcorn in the bowl on the low table in front of them –

a big, dirty, straw yellow embroidered hand bag – filled with regrets and stinging rebuttals spilled out torn snapshots and movie magazine pages –

The shape of the face and neck

is not enough for the neck –

No one found a way

because of the song

he composed.

He sent a song of justice

sliding across the floor,

a Silly-Putty ball,

with stretched

comic-strip faces.

 

A recent moment of his romance, sits like a cigarette ember on a foil-ball ~ his general vision feels fictive, hugged by the edges of a faded snapshot, a monochrome moment of the mundane wistfully becoming a blurred shadow – He opens that venting heart to the door, has a kiss compromised by the chafing light etching loss on his dry paper lips.

 

 

Before going to bed,

7 Hidden Swans,

like a man’s backpack,

carry the weary burden

upward.

 

 

I have a picture of my father

Blown off the wire I made –

ice is tied to a rope

that rises in the smoke.

 

That day is cool for me –

The Photo is broken now,

keeps the smoke swirling

in front of the curtain.

 

It is said that the skin is exposed –

I(t) cried and brought the birdhouses

I(t) had collected to my room.

 

Lying next to the landline,

Eye was surrounded by light –

tracks appears

in a vibrating scene.

 

 

It smells at night –

Weaving threads

And the trees’ limbs

rooted in the empty sky.

 

 

Not because eyes are red

after kissing her –

her neck finally felt the light –

the headlights in her ears, sticking like a thumb to the sugared doughnut, on which her portrait/his painting was standing.

 

 

While working in Paisley, I paint both the floor and the water, under a watch full of eyes. I have hands, but it’s oil-paint, like melted butter turning into rue. Oil for me and my favouritism car can be turned on at any time –

I Keep it in Good Condition – like a song that keeps repeating at the mention of a name in a photograph.

 

Maybe it’s that person, but not me,

a singer who doesn’t like singing –

A photo of a curtain trying to escape on the sand –

A bird that smokes like a kiss,

She closes her eyes and hugs me,

as I stand in the Camera Obscura that is her heart.

 

I’m a liar, probably;

stork stands in low waters

twists head catches frog –

eyes catch headlights’ gaze,

I can no longer trust a woman to stare at me

and sing an unfamiliar song.

 

 

This collage poem is my response (derived/inspired by) to sweet burn of fire.

This Dadaist mix combined other pieces of text from various sources, including a random word generator, Project Gutenberg , some of my other compositions, as well as other online archival text. It went through multiple translations & reassembling before coming back to English for final rearrangement and word-phrasing modification. The final form became a surreal stream of consciousness hardboiled narrative.