Surfing with Salvador Dali on the Anthropomorphic Beach:
an experiment in automatic writing
Sunbathing on the anthropomorphic
beach, the severed finger of God is
a lifeboat for drowning sailors
shipwrecked on a Dali seascape,
capsized by morphological echoes
that agitate the waves, creating
white caps out of desert psalms.
Vendors at Tiki bars sell nothing
but bogus cocktails like espresso
martinis with a double shot of my
baby’s love. After the lifeguards
have left, beach combers arrive
with their extension ladders, Geiger
counters, and metal detector devices.
What they find may not be fungible
on the open market but could
become the stuff of Art.
Surrealistic Silver Surfers
The beach chairs are electrified making
shark week watches more difficult
when your pants are on fire though
the drones are sending up-to-date accurate
information of where the great whites are
in relation to the sleeping bodies on rubber
rafts and monster truck tires floating on
late summer tidal flows, the rip currents
that propel Olympic swimmers elsewhere
for cheap thrills. At night, the hot wired
life guard stands are a beacon for deep sea
fishers, ancient mariners, more viable than
lighthouse lenses illuminating the deep blue sea.
Film studies
Muybridge in motion, sideral as
sunsets, planets in alignment.
Holst compositions, not as transcendental
as Mahler, but not aethereal either.
Solar winds are devastating, knocking
out power stations: damn the torpedoes
full speed ahead! The space probe
leaving the galaxy, a time capsule of
what it was like before the technocrats
took over. Comforting to know: somewhere
in space Glenn Gould is playing Bach.
Film strip club
Like Warhol’s Factory covered in
aluminum foil. Everyone exposed,
onstage and off, shot as subjects,
features a young woman who cries
from one eye, tears rolling the way
pins do down tin pan alleys, the way
Lou Reed holds Coke in a bottle,
suggestive as all hell. David Bowie,
Guy Pearce, Crispin Glover, all
the actors who played him know what
he hides inside. Every instance is
Memento: no one remembers anything
especially the super stars, all of them
dead now that Mary Woronov is gone
to a wake for the angels.
Film set
Dark as the grave whereon my friend
is lain where the creature from the black
lagoon hangs his rubber suit when there
are no foreign bodies to terrorize.
Lunar caustic pools of dry ice fog makes
the back stage set almost credible, homey
for a hound like Baskervilles’. Conan Doyle
believed that Juliet of the Spirits was
a biographical statement, life study for
a Capulet after the Montagues. Once upon
a time in Hollywood, anything seemed
possible like a christ in concrete or
handprints of the stars.
Inner movies
The kind that only show in morning
rooms on locked-in wards where all
the inmates are prisoners of another
life. Style is important when the institute
is out of orange jump suits but Hazmat
ones are here. Clear the visor before
viewing the blue screen of death.
The images inside are the real ones,
everything else is imagined., fake as
charlatan who has the keys that locks
everyone in.