Oh she is more beautiful than my rent money, than a baby’s hand, than air

yes, yes, it was yesterday, and the sun was wiping it’s sword on the veranda …

y
e
s
t
e
r
d
a
y

yes,

early

evening,

if we still cling too much to the idea of yesterday, and as if early evening would ever go away,
and not far from the woods of the Green Man, which are now are they not, we removing a mirror from the wall and, of course, there is Alice. I hope the picture down below (..down below!) is showing her nipples and her girlish flat breasts, and her night-dress — plain and loose and youthful, like Lewis Carroll’s own drawings of Alice, not ostentatious. So inside the crown we are, and we have a wooden chair which is right now and only for the molecules, the shaped molecules of Alice.

*

from
our
not
un-exquisite
corpse…

Yet Again,
The Most Important Avenue of Chance.

Darting
back and forth
through the daffodils of light
that perch diametrically upon the clouds
as tremulous as schoolgirls measuring the girth of trees
Alice opening the drawer, and spilling out covered in semen and turquoise bracelets.
She is indifferent to the turning of the page

Alice shouting:
All the soldiers have GONE! and left me their shiny silver plumage, their blood-red grapes
their highways of specialised excitement
their coffin’d mothers shouting “More!”
their suicide pacts with the blue albatross

Alice soft mutterings of songbirds crawling churlish along the sea front of hours

Alice with oak trees blossoming from her ears

Blue albatross yelping like a puppy as it soars towards the sun, calling helplessly and diligently to the crowd down below

Alice hoping someone, somewhere would take notice of the dizzying and slipping ruby-jeweled crown that a dog was gently pissing on

Alice touching her

hair softly and

saying,

how?

why?

when?

*

*

*

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~ by londonsurrealistgroup on November 15, 2011.

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