I love surrealism.

 I love the bends and gasps it makes in my brain, melting this and stretching that. That flower is a beautiful face, and those spiders will shelter us from the desert rays.

I love the painters of surreal paintings: Miro’s playful lines that lead the eyes to newness, Magritte placing objects in my face, Kandinsky lacing my sky with metal dancing, Frida that saint of color and detail refined by her bed and thoughts corrugated by a fight to stand.

I love the brave weirdo DuChamp who defaced Mona Lisa and waltzed a toilet into our textbooks.

I love them, and see myself so straight and obedient that I must burn my world so that I might see how I can fly.

Painting by Dali, ofc, but I forget which one….

smthg to do with Adonis, I think.