A Little Surrealism

EvilToasterElfEvilToasterElf Posts: 1,119
edited April 2004 in Poetry, Prose, Music & Art
Exiled

They woke up so deep into the valley that filet mignon fishing lines were dangled above them from the hills.
But there are a few mistakes even the fallen won’t repeat.
Before that tumble down the piercing crab grass their spines were tattood with sunlight.
Their shadows
pranced like playmates but now amble through the poison ivy.
They don’t dance
but fill the air with the impossible geometry of their stretching.
In between the verdant breasts of those twin peaks, they sharpen their teeth on boulders and cut the juicy steaks.
They grilled that meat with steam from their triumphant breath until
the mornings roared like salmon fire over the tree line
but the afternoons could only
lick fading tans.
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