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Last Night I Dreamt of Dali

 

Dali shaves off his taches

and hands me a paint brush,

let’s commence.

 

I stare at the white wall.  A new city

to conquer. I dip a brush into gold

and paint rings. 

 

You’re going around in loops,

go discover your surroundings

and look close at the ordinary.

 

I stab a pencil into the confident clock,

watch it melt like a wheel of ice cream.

I pick out the arms of greedy time,

 

stick them on the cat. Watch her fly

across the sky. I gaze over to

the whispering sea, seagulls dive

 

onto a child eating chips. I pick up

the coral paint, pour it over

the cauliflower, kick it along

 

the floor and down the stairs. 

Dali lookalikes turn to look, sip gin

and twirl their taches.

 

I take a knife, split open a pomegranate,

it bleeds over the canvas.

That’s art, Dali laughs, messy, bloody,

 

full of revenge, each seed wants to

swallow you whole and demands more.

He drops a crimson seed into his mouth.

 

Sucks it and spits it out. If you don’t follow

your heart it’ll suck the breath out

of your everyday.

Ansuya grew up in India and now lives in London. Her work has appeared in anthologies and in print and online publications such as Black in White, Drawn to the Light Press, Gypsophila, Last Stanza, Half Way Down The Stairs, and has work forthcoming in Rattle.

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