Namaya - Writings, Podcast, Art & Musings.

Salvador Dali and I in conversation


Dali appeared inside the reflection of the silver spoon

I stepped out of the clock that was melting like cheese and

then in my harlequin costume of lies and mirrors

I confronted the jester with twirling moustache, who

dropped his red cape, bent on one knee, and the bullish Picasso did a pas de deux.

Impossible angles mirrored in the introspections.

Van Gogh stuffed his pipe with a pinch of tobacco and a dram

of opium from the west of Mandalay.

In the cacophony of dream, church bells peeled, revelation sought from the

whisper of a scarlet throated hummingbird who pierced my innocence

with impossible melodies,  spun like a spire of smoke, and then

the yellow fog rubbed its nuzzle against the window pane.

Old Tom in rolled trousers walked on the edge of the sea and

heard the mermaids frolicking near the board walks of Brighton.

“If memory were time and time was lusty as desire, we would

count the seconds as they dissolved like tears in an hour.”

“Pish Tosh!” said Mary with umbrella flying in the wind.

“Step lively!  March to the May mad march of June, tumbling

backwards in the arch of reverie, a near impossible arc of time,

that even Dr. Hoffman was peddling his bicycle

of icicles through the streets of Basel, Lennon

on the street corner Sgt Pepper band in

the Gazebo by the roundabout,was playing carnival.

The burlesque dancer was juggling fire.

“Who cares if Paul is buried or that George is the grave digger?”

It’s all about the money!

Cling! Cling! Caching!

Or is it the Benjamins, ain’t it? smiled the Arabesque goddess.

Moon walking pedophiles, priests in drag as clerics, high wire suspended

over the River Lethe, and innocents absolved in sin.

Imagine if the beloved Profit was a woman with a lusty appetited for young sailors.

“Raise your flag high, my young mates!”

How did the indelicato coupling of Cain and Able sire a nation?

“Ishkabibble!”  chanted the blind Rabbi as he walked in the ruins of Tel Aviv and danced a merry jig in the brothel of the Profit Greed.
“No higher god!” As he tapped with the white cane through the rubble of the Holy Land..




Vincent sipping abysinth, emerald green dreams swirling

in the cut crystal thimble, and found himself secure and loved

in the house beneath the starry dreams.

“Eat fire!” said the Mad march Queen. “If love is redemption,

then laughter will dance like the violet fuscia incantation.”

Georgia O’ Keefe from the Ranch of Ghosts appeared with

a voluptuous flower irridescent in desire. Cunning linguist that

I am, I devoured each pearl of memory, and allowed that seed

to melt lusciously on my tongue.

But will the mermaids sing to me?

And if we had world and time enough to love, would your coyness

merely be the memory of laughter,

or the




                toe sucking


                                                lemon drops

Dali dialed back the clock

                to One.

Poured violet from the crucible

and created a perfect circle

Alpha to One.

In the silvery introspection of time,

 the spoon





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