Gala by Salvador Dali
Mr. Bones is holding the razor blade
milliseconds above Gala’s eyeball,
the padres are dragging
dead donkeys down the mainstreet
from Papalote to Pooterville,
ants following along for tidbits, dusty streets.
Don’t like Indians, don’t like
those stupid Spaniards, don’t like
those ugly Americans,
Henry cries over spilled jackasses.
Henry’s moneyed nightmare is
being blown to pieces, Reeses,
Henry’s joy is women’s assets,
Henry’s own is white as hell, shaped
like a bell, razor blade splits hair into hairs.
Henry’s hippies play in the mud
and Jimi Hendrix rips the appendix
from a Stratocaster the murdered Lorca lost Nueva York.
Gala’s fine behind in Dali paintings
caressable these decades later, the crack in back,
Henry’s bedsheet turned poetry, Cubist, Donkey Kong.