Quiet trembles speak frozen morning creakings. Heaped breaths billow from seekers seeking suet and seed. Rabbits and mice eat carrots and cornmeal at my feet.
Thunderous trembles agonize across my front lawn when John Dey’s sky blue Chrysler drags ass past us and sends bone saw grunts to scamper my guests from the open sea of snow. After several backfires I know there is a lord mightier than the devilish owl rustling and whispering at the devil wind slapping and bleating most tragic.
Icy trembles send me indoors to find warmth inside my room filled with art—strange art, his art. His is the breath of a kiss against a hand flying from the highest limb of war—its rose-colored design exclusively for the set of the ballet’s cosmic athletes. His is Mother Nature in a still life moving 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 … I cherish this ode to Dali.
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 girls … they tremble when you tell them they are beautiful!
BEAUTY, he says, SHOULD BE EDIBLE OR NOT AT ALL.
He approaches me and I tremble cosmic trembles of fourth dimension frozen morning creakings beneath a desert sun. I am his for the taking. He plucks me like beautiful ripened fruit that blushes on the vine.