Poetry by Marcus Slease

Art: Salvador Dalí


After Salvador Dalí’s painting Burning Giraffe, 1937

Flowers devour a man. It floats and sinks. Floats and sinks. A river of red runs through it. Close your eyes. Are you only dreaming. Houseflies and horseflies hang on joints of meat teaching their young to fly. The windows sweat and sweat. Hard rain on the outside. Warm air on the inside. When you ain’t got no flowers, you got the blues. When you ain’t got no flowers, you got the blues. When you ain’t got no flowers, you got the blues. When you ain’t got no flowers, you got the blues. A burning giraffe in the distance. Sprinkle it with dew and a miracle or two. Wrap it in a sigh. Soak it in the sun. It sinks and floats. Sinks and floats. It is eternal flame and sunshine thru the rain.



Night comes and they re-enter the land of mustard. There is a mustard wheel. You can ride the mustard wheel in a glass cage to get a bird’s eye view of the financial capital. There is fancy mustard straight from the heavens. There is ancient mustard straight from the earth. There is artificially enhanced mustard. Skeleton trees and smog holes. Smudged hoof prints in the sand.

Marcus Slease is a (mostly) surrealist and fabulist writer from Portadown, N. Ireland and Utah. His writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, featured in the Best British Poetry series, translated into Polish and Danish, and has appeared, or will appear, in Tin House, Empty Mirror, Poetry, and Fence. His latest book is Play Yr Kardz Right. He lives in Madrid, Spain. You can find him on Instagram @jjmars24 and also on his website

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