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Sunday Morning


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


Beyond the hallowed limits of the dissection rooms the blood and honey flow,
straight to the Tropic of Cancer the abstract colours run, circumferences
of viruses mock the interplay of masks, against the hymns of empty heavens
Neil Young keeps the quantum secrets. Synthesis junkies with almond-
shaped eyes grow prone to outbursts, the little boy elementals, the mathematical

formulas of Neolithic harmonies. The hunters lack sincerity and do not care
if they show it. It's almost Sunday morning as lovers who are really geese
sift leftovers of an afterlife, plastic cowboys nurse Gregorian chants,
David Lynch's doppelganger follows the Pictish trail, religiously shaped pineapples
and cacti litter the ever-winding corridors of Thor. Celestial drifts manipulate

the stratospheric purposes, candyfloss doctors swallow mercury to the echoes
of insatiable schismatists. Crystal fairies stick out their moth-like tongues and bask
in the rays of Arcturus. German uncles and Russian cousins
reminisce about bloodhounds drowning in the octaves of dead opera singers,
laugh at the mythology of Auntie Flo when she gatecrashed Bigfoot's tea party.

Sherlock Holmes mourns the death of Arthur Conan Doyle. Charlotte Bronte sighs,
feels cheated by Rimbaud who waits for her beyond the stations of the cross, he's
wearing a gold lame suit and a purple bow-tie. The organ grinder's monkey
grows attached to the Super Moon. Arabesque experimentalists
riff on Orson Welles. Across the lachrymose valley of the sweet potato

hypnotherapists take hot air balloon rides. The orchids bloom
perpetually as stereo returns to mono, John Coltrane nocturnes
the body temperature of God's personal assistant, Cinderella bathes
in the blood of the bull and listens to The Best of the Ronettes. Partially paralysed
dictats insist that broccoli consists of sanity. The theatres are filled with incest

but that's nothing too unusual. Elvis on a Saturday night in Hades sings
deadlines and parlour tricks. The Shogun masters preach to the bitter tea-leaf readers.
Outside the Saint Motel the martyrs congregate, wait to be betrayed.
B movie monsters are terrified by girls wearing polka dot dresses.
Legendary water sprites resent the cures for insomnulence. Much is made

of autonomous sensory meridian responses, spotless white towels are folded
to a whispered soundtrack of flight attendants delivering
health and safety demonstrations, frogs morph smoothly into non-descript
bedside cabinets. Time-lapse videos of the ageing faces of serial romantics
are displayed on giant screens on the edge of the cold, deserted municipal square.
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