Salvador Dali. Oil Pastels and Indian Ink on paper.
A late “birthday present”.
Happy birthday, Salvador Dali. I love you so much it hurts.
Slithered out of the depth of my rhythmic pulses.
Leaving the paint stained blood with rigorous stanzas to breed.
Five days have rolled by the sun.
Empty hands are now wandering the shorelines.
Three golden locks have wept my victory away,
And brought back your thoughts,
And black steel streets to walk on through.
You are the witted absorbance of sparks and light.
In your absence, these tumbled stones are losing control of their frights.
This is not my flaw.
L’esprit de l’escalier.
I am still lost in the wavelength of your world.
I sit quietly like the moon, and the melted fingers before me are the reason why I am infected by fregoli. Tu me manques. Illuminate me.
You’ve wrapped me in presque vu. Unexplainable shadow to hold on to.
Good night is a shaded veil of homicide.
Unbeknownst to them,
We are internally