The Boy With the Salvador Dali Moustache
could you duck down just a bit?
I don’t want to seem cavalier
but I think that I spy
the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache in my rear view mirror
the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache
the baby born butt first the morning after Mahatma Gandhi was shot
he burst upon the scene with a botched appendectomy
holding his hemorrhaging heart in his half opened hand
lashing out with the other -lashing out at the others
all the while wax dripping,empathy waning
snot nosed kid with an axe to grind
with himself & anyone else
that got in the way of him
sabotaging his own attempts at twisting & waxing
& twisting & waxing
his conspicuous unique derangement
that became his coveted toy
after he had taught himself to twist & wax it upward
toward the stars,toward the heavens
all the others thought that he had obtained it so easily,
they didn’t know all the laborious effort that it took
just to maintain & sustain his ornate obfuscation
but he could do it with style & panache
because he was the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache
there had once been a time when he thought
that everyone had one underneath their snout
but alas theirs was grime & groan,not a growth
just a shadow beneath the nose
but him with the kerosene pulsating through his veins
& him with the intensity that he could not express
always leery that he would wander into a trap
he squandered all the most valued treasures that fell into his lap
& so the kingdom of childhood melted away
like a lemon dreamsickle on the most torrid Independence Day
later,the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache celebrating
& truly reveling in chaos while waxing eloquently about
the Golden Dawn
always twisting & shaping the myth even more to fit his personal egalitarian ethos
always with one clear eye on the awful beast descending the spiral staircase
never knowing with any deep certainty
if he was dreaming,inventing or remembering all these visions
him sitting with all the other kids in their wheelchairs in the shimmering Blakean sunroom
him contained in all his childhood physicality in a two inch by three inch comic book panel,claustrophobic without even a speech balloon to scream into
him making eye contact with a porcelain baby doll still smiling
a gentle yet horrific smile,even though her head is cracked open,
him witnessing the Sisters of Mercy frolicking with monstrous latex serpents
while a tsunami of vinegar & bile slaps them silly
all those visions that the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache can conjure,
murmurs of mystery & deceit that flood his ears
nocturnal noises & whispers just below the level of consciousness
& the epiphanies always so well timed
the epiphanies so cleverly peopled with just the perfect
combination & blend of charlatans,jerks & wisemen
from central casting
that the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache cannot tell one from the other
& so with some characteristic (for him anyway) blend of fatalism & homegrown hubris
the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache recalls the sweet delicious flavor of the sacrificial lamb that he shared not that long ago with his Bodhisattva buddy
& so he turns & he looks the dedicated & the devoted cook straight in the eye
waxing Charles Dickens/Oliver Twist like & entreats that cook,arms outstretched
“ PLEASE SIR, I WANT SOME MORE”
