The Love Song of S. Alvador Dali
Let us go then, I and me,
When the moon is persistent as memory
Like a clock etherized upon a branch;
Let us go, through certain half-desserts and treats,
The muttering defeats
Of dressless lions and one-leg swarming ants
And spindle-kneed parades of elephants:
that follow like a tedious placement
Of insipid symbology
To lead you to an underwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, “What did you say?”
I wouldn’t tell you anyway.
In the room the critics come and meet
Talking of Rene Magritte…
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I care?” and, “Do I care?”
Time to bug my eyes out when I stare,
Painting bald spots in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing skin!”]
My moustache curling, like tiny elephant trunks on my cheeks,
My voice is loud and pompous, and asserted when anyone speaks—
Do I dare
Observe the universe?
In a canvas there is space
For Quixotes and Pianos which sopranos will erase.
For I have known everything already, known it all:
Have known the crutches, elbows, elephants
I have measured out my coffee spoon’s irrelevance…
I should have been a pair of distended breasts
Sagging across the crease of crooked crutches.
I have seen the moment of my greatness inflate,
And I have seen the man eternal coat my foot with snickers,
And in short, it all felt great.
I grow surreal. . .I grow surreal,
I shall paint Shirley Temple on a glockenspiel.
Shall I sign my students’ work?
Painting ceilings, like Chagall?
I shall mass-produce my paintings to be sold in every mall.
I have heard the fratboys hang me
on the wall.
For more of Jason Henninger’s gumblings, see the I Speak Fluent Giraffe page.
