I awake, to sleep in voices
pouring wine, into plates
on a string,
hanging from between, her eyes,
they wave me onto thier face,
to drink a cracker,
of tears as cheese, dripps from her tongue, inside it,
she is trapped, in a bubble between the two men,
with one giant dropp, of milk peaking from Picasso's chest,
I roll over, into her hand.
Dali seizes the moment, to raise his brush,
words drip from the tip, so..so..heavnly..yes..
he waves it like a sword, much to heavy in both hands,
demanding, it's absolutely for
the return of my mustache that was between her sighs,
Picasso, sold to pay for words of shy paint,
made in flesh tone tubes, that bubble
from raw steak,
she looks at me,
i see only a face, with my finger, going through her left
necessary and out her right eye, in
sleep washed, paint.
Is It Poetry
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dreams-of-picasso-and-dali/
