Marriage Island soloing blooms swiftly
flowing early night in an image of you
Where the liquorish embroidered stone-city vibes close daily horizon of habits:
drumming binaural heat lures me into the razor-blade run
and I shadow you invisibly behind…..
….Jumping synthesizer beans followed by the careless bass clarinet
echoes stubborn boldness of the euphonium hunter’s game–
you pluck strings chasing horns through the tight forest street maze
escaping sniper tenor sax
passing thirty-three intersections of chord progression
Crossing waterfall Jaz caverns
and you finally freeze coupling me in that sight,
where absent eyes jam all spaces between icing stars….
…. Rosebud thoughts stretch over my piano lines
the distance between shores meets in smaragdos river music
melody flies and turns white;
it tangs as one past, distant, last mint kiss
where all boundary circles collapse in catching crystalline tears of
flugelhorn railroads,
this is the night that finally pins your heart
but the baritone prickly burdock burrs thorn sax
stings my catching breath
and I read clouds of rain drenching into chaos
in turning next day dark
….then drips all day along blood–
…..nothing matches any more…..
….sorrow rides on the flute dissonance…..
…..straight to the ashen dawn Velcro….
…..refraction floating down the River Walk…..
…..brooding presence of an old memory….

“I am dragged along by an ice-pack with teeth of flame
I cut and cleave the wood of this tree that will always be green
A musician is caught up in the strings of his instrument
The skull and crossbones of the time of any childhood story
Goes on board a ship that is as yet its own ghost only
Perhaps there is a hilt to this sword
But already there is a duel in this hilt
During the duel the combatants are unarmed
Death is the least offense
The future never comes” Andre Breton “The Spectral Attitudes”


“Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun;
Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done;
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.” 800, Venus and Adonis, William Shakespeare

The Three Dancers, Pablo Picasso



Currently residing in the Tate Modern of London, Three Dancers is a fantastically vivid work of Picasso’s, calling into analysis a handful of different interpretations from nearly as many different viewers. The painting was completed in Paris and mere weeks after unveiling appeared in André Breton’s manifesto on Surrealism and Painting.







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