Page 51 from Max Ernst’s Une Semaine de Bonté
Reclining on a pincushion, your needle eyes tethered to their fine threads of dream, how extravagant were you, my siren! A movable feast of wreckage brought the best jetsam, ship bellies opening on the reef, releasing their cargo into the current. Yet we fish in your waters still, drawn by the roar and hiss of surf, applicants for permanent residence in the flow state. Our ships carry factories; our nets are vast and drag weights that brutalize the unseen depths. Our earplugs are made of old age and apostasy. I sing sometimes in the shower, under my breath.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- A Week of Kindness
- Herbaceous
- Crushed
- Breast Man
- Manic Pixie Dream Consultant
- Lord of Misrule
- Lilium martagon
- Cat Person
- Escape Artist
- Provincial
- Black site
- Love Machine
- Lionheart
- The Song of the Womb
- Fallen Woman
- Postmortem
- Floating World (Ukiyo)
- Insomniac’s Revenge
- Travel Anxiety
- What Does the Shadow Know?
- Exile
- Desecration
- Bubbly
- The Comeback Kid
- Outside-in
- Sequestered
- White Lady
- Invested
- Mater
- Blow
- Submission
- Biofeedback
- Public Servant
- Executive
- Specialist
- Officialdom
- Prayer Warriors
- Bitter End
- Riparian
- Cabaret
- Accommodation
- Treedom
- Livid
- Flood Watch
- Iemanja
- Imprisoned
- Downward Mobility
- Sirenity
- Somniloquy
- Master Debaters
- Helene