-For Max Ernst-

 

Forests of riddles coalesce 

into castles of wax, temples of flesh.

Earthquake footfalls announce 

his marching form, mashing mushrooms

crushing corn, a stride of miles

defies his trials, born for a brush and a vial.

 

Captured in France, a surrealist guest

a questionable bird in a factory’s nest

at the venomous Vichy police’s behest.

An artistic stance in duress may suggest

the metaphysical dance of chess.

 

Embracing arms of empty arabesques

release their hollow suitors.

Nightingales in bridal veils, the feathered Rubenesque

sequestered courtesans, dutifully doting

tugging at their molting décolletage

ordered by collapse of his grattage.

 

Colors marry form to divine the unknown

but Max’s light shines 

through our cathedral of minds 

collapsing our dreams

freeing clocks from our rooms.

 

Nightmare landscapes, blinding moons.

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From The Opulence Of Invention. Copyright © 2018 E. P. Mattson, All Rights Reserved.