Harvey Molloy

The last surrealist

In a Second Life temple of lens
the last surrealist dresses in meadowsweet
goldenrod, milkweed; a disco ball bra

topped with an imperial telephone hat
dictates the autobiography of a tattoo:
Confess to yourself that you

would die if you were forbidden to write.
The last surrealist adds a joke, a gag
a black liver bag; adds a gag, a joke

a Hitler-youth Pope hand-printed
on a wealth victim’s sequined hospital
smock, a veil of lace surgical gauze

draped across a novocaine cheek
above a neck adorned by heart-shaped
candies on edible string.

The last surrealist in a blown
condom bubble dress with matching
Grand Piano issues directives

to her little monsters: Forget Grey Lynn.
Forget New Jersey. Unlock the gates
to the adventure playground.

On a black chaise-longue a teacher and
a merchant banker sit, ear buds in, sound
down, a single bare bulb illuminates

their hand-held HD camcorders fixed on stock
figures scrolling across the Blackberry
in the palm of the last surrealist.

Author’s Note


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