Best Dali Poems
Caustic memories dissolve on my tongue
Lingering tastes of battery acid and nicotine
Cause me to choke on putrid saliva.
Staring at melting walls, clocks tick in unison.
Distorted birdsong hums outside of jagged windows
Under the warped sun, an unrepentant landscape blurs.
Freshly budding peonies liquefy;
Veils thin, evaporating the delusion of reality.
Why must I mould to the edges at your bidding,
Contort to the point of my own dysfunction?
For such fleeting worship, this devastation lingers -
Devours and disconnects my inner workings.
I lie highlighted in shadow, a beacon of quiet distress;
A dislodged scapula desperate to be labelled angelic.
Grounded, wingless, and forever out of time -
Wearing the last face you cared for as a comforter.
Neon venom warming twisted arteries,
Sinister patches stitched upon a breaking back.
A narcissist's crown digging into my head
Like rusted nails plunged into worm-infested wood—
Permanent disconnection, frayed cerebral cortex.
Blurred vision obscures insidious figures hiding in hushed corners,
Whispering in Babylonian tongue. Hallucinatory illusions haunt
What was a once-pristine sanctuary,
Now morphing into a surrealistic asylum.
Revelation exists above shadow in temporal machination,
I'm consciousness not yet swept up with sand;
Closed eyes cleanse my corneas - I rest in a balm of clarity.
Your power superficial, a cankerous cataract peeled clean off.
It is you who is bereft, washed up with the shell you created.
All the walls of your empty room fallen flat,
As I unfurl in the mirror beyond the shoreline,
I realise - it was never me you couldn't stomach.
The sky is a Luciferian estuary
rolling and roaring in crimson flames,
a twisted design of detonated debris,
like splitting sighs
from internal implosions,
raining fragments of the past:
matchbox memories
piercing through suffocating silence
as time tortures the mind
with flashbacks of floating fragility…
O invisible moonlight,
pour me a purple potion
to erase the pain behind
perplexed pupils.
I no longer desire to be
cast in the clamorous clusters,
convicted as the captive ~
a ghost of games
playing on the bones of brokenness,
this cave of shame,
this cell of hellfire,
this emotional shrapnel,
reflecting self-loathing nightmares.
Perhaps I crowned myself
the commander,
leading the devil’s disciples
into a war assembled from fear…
And this heart ~ a metallic maelstrom
mourning in the turmoil of melancholy ~
breaks from the inability
to step beyond wrathful walls
to a landscape of holiness,
to seek the footsteps of pilgrimage.
For I am caught in
the whirling whispers of
spectral regrets,
replicating rectangular ruins,
electrifying the empyrean
with greyed grief
and yellowed yearning.
Pondering ~ am I the blasphemer
in the cross-eyed faces of monsters?
Am I the breath
that trembled ~ disrupting the peace?
Am I the empty spaces
filling the crystalline cracks
between haunting hours,
while darkness devours
treacherous tales
climbing from the
archives of devious agony…
But can love gift this skeletal sorrow
a twilight-kissed cloak of hope?
Will heaven be a witness
to these bleeding carvings
within the tall pillars
of my splintered spirit,
while the dying lamp of life
slowly fades and waves farewell
in faint colors ~ depicting misery
like demons decaying,
shaping a sadistic sanctuary
of malignant madness~
a familiar insanity inked
as a heinous home…
emptying of the mind into the ether
contained reverberations
sent suddenly skywards
firmly rejected by gravity
bounce back for the haunting
we live on with the fallout
truth ruins the illusion of necessity
spittle ruins the illusion of beauty
you can't rewrite ripples caused by history
only bury the dead on loop
then repeat the mantra of moving on
there is beauty still
in the bright light before nothing
that lingers on the retina
becoming layers
light that needs slivers of insanity
to fill the gaps
but gaps to separate the insanity
nothing is new
as evidenced by what is etched in stone
coffee cup stains
create self made crowns
in those faraway hideouts
the uncut planners
never lose a drop
or burn their tongue
their hum murmurs on
in the perfect world they build
everyone else gives their all
to fulfil whatever dream
they need to be sold
in the inner workings of every dome
rest the chorus of lives that built it
silently watching on
mouths agape
bridges shatter between downcast eyes
everything wriggles
finds its way
once again to a finish line
for a fresh wave
as inevitable as the first
in this thirst for glory
in every direction lay the fallen
leaving spaces
for the glorious mourners
to preach their refrains
eventually no fight or song will be left
only moistened air descending
kissing your cheek
light and sound fade
atop mountains
thoughts of mortality are shushed
legacy leaving its mark
to echo into a final slowed motion silence
I speak to the skylights
of your tender soul
in formless forms
in eccentric accents
aching in aloneness...
when tragedies of footprints
remain a sculptured secret ~
like an untitled nightfall
dressed in denied definitions
avoiding the touch
of perception
for mindfulness mirrors
memories I hoard
within titanium trays
of masked melancholy…
but I long for you to wear
chronicles carved within
my cold conscience ~
a universe layered
with moulded memoirs
tell me how it feels
to be a beautiful burden
to the jinxed jewels
feasting upon
scrutinized skin of silence
skeletons of psyche ~
too complex
for concave light...
let me stay ~ stretched
in the still solitary sketch
of surrealism ...
I am not a vision
of gold and glitter
that wicked weavers
can materialize
but an unnamed sight ~
a breathing mystery
the eyes of unfelt dusk
fail to stroll through…
intoxicated on pain
~ an ecstasy etched through angst ~
to never be tamed
to never be told
transparency is mirrored
you may stare
right through
my chest
only catching
your reflection
in the subterfuge
of rest
the self it splits & triplicates
stays bound by feet alone
an ecstasy of horrors
spliced & given space to roam
I'm undone yet placed on parchment
to bleed & bloom
in equal quarts
a reaching hand
that never grasps
with light & dark
ascending thoughts
all I need is printed
in signs & patterns
I can't read
as I float through all eternity
half-aware of warnings
I didn't fully heed
from the conch
whispers come
dissect
distract
blow upon
scintilla branch to intrinsic thought
weighed down
consumed
overwrought
mattering - so magnified
that I can't turn away my eyes
reach for able hand to soothe
what dread could deed undo, disprove
kisses stolen
by long lost words
explored lactic fallacies
become absurd
til endings are not the body expired
but exposure of every cell and every wire
cathartic grip held in awe
control depletes as hem and haw
til sadly swings
and bridges to shame
call time
I must
on the lugubrious game
"Curls...
Of spring passion?
Lacerations of decadence?
coiled in ringlets at the nape of her neck-
light wrapped in strands iridescent and bent
toward her silhouette's kiss.
Shadows on a match box painting
absorbing the skin and silk shed cloth."
Frozen air movement shakes me awake
as another museum goer
brushes by my sleeve in an attempt to read
the description... (I am nose close...)
Tremendously, I pull myself away
to the Hallucinations of a Toreador
pulling the scope out on my looking glass,
for one is finely tuned, painted with the single hair of a wishing bow...
and one is the size of my heart, unraveled and sky scraped,
and yet remarkably blurred to initial understanding.
I toss aside propriety and sit down on the ground,
Indian style, in front of grandeur-
a mist of streaming people dissipating my vision
of the surreptitious melting clocks, oozing time
all over the floor, soaking my favorite shoes...
And so I pass the afternoon alive,
briefly breathing in the dusty air and DNA of genius.
Below within the dwelling deep,
while tumbling in fitful sleep;
the rumble-hum of furnace keep;
the mouse and Cat Lord Bo-peep.
Fluttering lids and labored breath
below within the dwelling deep,
furious dreams do waken sleep
attributes of childhood’s bequeath.
Horrors rise on temporal tides
a stew of insanity bides.
Below within the dwelling deep,
the cat fiddle-screeches life’s weep.
Dali cobbles retinal creeps
the mind dittles and cows moo oon,
The nightmares ending none too soon
below within the dwelling deep.
Big white clock is bored
With the uniformity of time
Flowing unnoticeably every day
Always the same tedious way
The clock has been sitting there
From the dawn of the time
Meticulously marking steps of
Hours minutes, and seconds
Till it could no longer bear
The meaningless existence
Of being a humdrum machine
One day the clock decided to try
Something a little bit different
A tiny experiment of stretching
Its' frame to right which resulted
In arrow of seconds slowing down
Then bending sharp to the left
The arrow of minutes jumped up
Clock excitedly slid down fast
Speeding up hourly flow of time
Then lazily went back to primal
Initial smooth fixed steady pace
Bringing time flow back to
Normal rhythm of the day
But now the clock felt inspired
So it tried to wrinkle the frame
Excitedly flipping upside down
Which resulted in unexpected flow
Of time acquiring velocity of its own
Detaching itself from the constant
Existence of space and swiftly
Rolling down the edge of a cliff
Clock fell into the dark precipice
Opening the heavy infinity doors
Where the clock hasn’t been before
In the pitch darkness it felt lost
Trying to catch the evading time
With the arrows arms like spread
Flapping through empty space
But time was evading the clock
Excited and free it mischievously
Played spellbound hide and seek
With the desperate clumsy clock
Which felt confused and scared
The world felt hopelessly lost
For the lonely terrified clock
The clock could no longer grasp
The wholesome consistency of time
Which was racing in its own speed
In infinite universe so the clock
Had to find out the way to catch
The time and make it uniform again
Feeling guilty of such a foolish attempt
To test things that should not have
Been controlled and questioned
Deeply repenting crooked clock
Tried to get back to its original form
Restoring smooth round shape
Straightening three bent black arrows
Tuning seconds minutes and hours
Recovering the consistency of time
That always flies by in the same
Monotonous predictable way
The clock swore never to
Experiment ever again
Being just a humble guardian
Of time instead of
Trying to manipulate it
Dali makes a promise
He won't kiss Giraffe's brace
clock melts bopper
A grasshopper
He chills makes volte-face
I regarded us on Tuesday, after finding Monet in the closet, and thought our lives
resembled institutions, I thought I'd tack that painting right above the fireplace, I
imagined we'd laugh...
He took ten minutes to figure it out, he took fifteen to tell me, he took three minutes
more to kiss my lips and I told him he was seven minutes late, so he glanced to the clock
that raced tomorrow above my head and told me that late was better than never as he
grabbed tomorrow right out of my hair...
This tangled me, you see, and I gasped for air as my thighs fell apart, it seemed to be
distinctly him as he swirled into me, and I lost the definition of myself shortly after
Wednesday rose, and we smeared Van Gogh all over the walls as my screams became edible and
he licked his lips as I sighed his name, he removed the fabric that kept me warm, he wrote
forever with his tongue and I thought, better forever than gone, right before I dissolved
into nowhere....
I think my hand prints were distorted and I searched his chest for some resemblance of
sanity, but I only found myself in the swirls of moonlight that ventured in through the
window we tried to block...
he had told me of blankets years ago and I wished they would cover me when December came,
but I haven't seen December yet though I've watched snow fall and settle on his eyelashes,
I've studied the melting of time when he blinks...
“You have the most beautiful eyes in the world,” I informed him, minutes after the night
solidified herself and I realized we were tired.
“No, I don't,” he replied, in a tone that sunk beneath Tuesday, and offered me the calm of
Monet...
“You do,” he whispered, and I could hear that smile and the echoes of his eyes closing, I
could hear myself enter his dreams as I watched my hair flow abstractly through the weeks
he remembered, and sometime before I fell asleep, thinking about St. Petersburg when the
visions that dance underneath my eyelids resemble the imagination of Salvador Dali, he
told me he loved me...
right on time.
"How clear can art be?" Salvador asked,
"when surrealism is the order-of-the-day,
the order of my dreams, and for sale
at the gallery down one block and over two."
"Persistence - persistence always forays
to visions we never knew were in us,
out of us, about us; That's believable."
"Gala says I use her for muse and of
course she is right, she is all ways right."
"There are elephants and chessboards
and fluid watch-hands with eggs to fly in
every direction. Ask me what they mean
and I'll throw it back at you. How do I
know what my dreams mean let alone yours,
but you may procure them for a pittance."
"Clearly, inscrutable is a word I like to
twirl in my mustache, for I only buy the
finest mustache wax, and THAT is inscrutable."
"Glass is to be seen through, a monocled eye
to the deeper dreams just under the surface.
Let us pay homage to form, then defenestrate it."
© Goode Guy 2014-01-04
ekphrastic for 2014-01-12 at
the Charles Taylor Art Museum of
slump glass of "After Dali" by Nate Avery
A little dog was sleeping
At the bottom of the sea
In the painting of Dali
He was there all the time
But we didn’t see it
Till a touch of divination
Wakens up imagination
And a hand of inspiration
Brushes paint on the surface
Of the canvas and we see
Gentle hand of a little girl
Lifting the edge of the veil
Of the deep dreamy ocean
Slowly revealing the motion
Of cozy sandy landscape
Of the bottom of the sea
And in awe suddenly we see
A spotted dog cozy resting
In the canvas of Dali
He was there all the time
But we saw only plain
Reflection of the sky
On the surface of the water
And the ripples swinging by
We did not see below the screen
Of the mass of bluish green
Body of the ocean
An exquisite drawing in pen and ink,
Though I’m not a fan of the likes of Dali
Allow me the luxury of having to think.
Some I look at and exclaim, “Golly!”
If I am not a fan, I respect their ability,
Though I’m not a fan of the likes of Dali.
Pen and inks require lots of dexterity,
I enjoy paintings if they’re authentic
If I am not a fan, I respect their ability.
I like technique that causes me to think
Expressing the artist’s inner passion,
I enjoy paintings if they’re authentic.
Recognizing the painter’s usual fashion
Helps me to understand his/her work
Expressing the artist’s inner passion.
Some painters I most enjoy have a quirk
An exquisite drawing in pen and ink
Helps me to understand his/her work
Allow me the luxury of having to think.
Written December 8, 2022
How does it feel,to be in a crowd that's
so grey?
Know one to understand ,like cows
grazing in a field of baby blue
grass.
know one having one single answer
that will make hope last.
Until the next time we wine in need of
milk.
Like rolling stones going down a hill
made of silk.
Beautiful colours every where ,but
beening mean we hope it rips.
Black and blue cowboys with guns
on hips.
Though the false love that I have
and the real desire from not having
put in red.
How does it feel to not know anything
any more?
Soul is at the core.
Opening vault, signs of the times,
hidden in Purple skies, why?
can i dream of a Bull killing the
Matador?
I rather love,who wants me to kill
what for?
I quit!
Let me think,while the Sun starts to
sink in pink.
Bob asked" How does it feel to be like
a rolling stone?
I only keep moving, because I want life
to leave me alone.