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