Ode To Dali [fiction]

Frozen morning creaking and screeches spoke from a thousand dull trembles. Heaped breaths billowed from seekers seeking suet and seed. Rabbits and mice ate carrots and cornmeal at Sarah’s feet.

Thunderous trembles agonized across her front lawn when John Dey’s sky blue Chrysler dragged ass past her and sent bone-saw grunts to scamper her guests from the open sea of snow. After several backfires, she knew there was a lord mightier than the devilish owl rustling and hooting at the fiendish wind slapping and bleating most tragic.

Icy trembles sent Sarah indoors to find warmth in her day room filled with art—strange art, Dali’s art. His surrealism was large in the breath of a kiss against a hand flying from the highest limb of war—its rose-colored design set exclusively for the cosmic ballet’s athletes. His Mother Nature in a still life moved fast, searching for the fourth dimension in desert gardens filled with masturbating fruit dyed by ribbons of a Mediterranean color.

Decipher his art, if you can decipher his mind, and you will experience the vertigo of the human absolute of consumption—Eat … eat cosmic orality … eat everything! Gourmandism … cosmic cannibalism … Gala’s table is set with so much grace … Eat, eat, eat young girls, he said all those years ago … they have exquisite insides (they blush when you try to make them edible). He said, Eat, eat, eat young girlsthey tremble when you tell them they are beautiful!


Sarah trembled cosmic fourth-dimension screeches beneath a desert sun of his art. She was his for the taking. He came to her and plucked her like beautiful ripened fruit blushing on the vine.

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