VELVET TANGERINE

i was drinking tea with Dali

in an underworld cafe,

arguing down his table

on General Franco's hand-

when The Persistence Of Memory

that melts my pocket watch

made time less rigid-

so i fell with names and numbers

into old obsidian dreams-

where your long legs pointed

from six to twelve,

then nine to three

when you bent them-

for me to play and pleasure

each exotic segment

of your velvet tangerine.

Dali left the table

to meet Picasso in Paris,

while my benzedrine mind replaced-

the soft and spent infinity of your face.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones INSIDE OUT 2009.