poetry, piano, theatre, film scripts, surrealismSalvador Dali is still my best friends, that prickly genious.I was shot to death in an olive grove outside of Granada.
Like a snake, my heart has shed its skin. I hold it there in my hand, full of honey and wounds.The thoughts that nested in your folds, where are they now? Where the roses that perfumed both Jesus Christ and Satan?Poor wrapped that damped my fantastical star, parchment grey and mournful of what I loved once but love no more!I see fetal sciences on you, mummified poems and bones of my romantic secrets and old innocence.Shall I hang you on the wall of my emotional museum, beside my dark, chill, sleeping irises of my evil?Or shall I spread you over the pines - sufferring book of my love - so you can learn about the song the nightingale offers the dawn?