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The Hiss Quarterly Vol. 5 ~ Issue 3 Ekphrasmagoria |
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 Max Ernst |
Nobody Likes Black Paws after Max Ernst's "Sign for a School of Monsters" SOURCE So this is what the kids learn in art classes. Those brats who had so much time they led me astray across a burning terrain. Eyeless and headless, I did not stand a chance. They lured me with a blue wedge of the moon until the lava soup solidified and trapped me in. Half of my face melted while trying to escape. Yes, and my surrogate mother used to call me a wimp. Then I spat out a yellow glob to poison them, but the surface of the canvas hardened the spit, rendered it harmless. It was not always nighttime where I came from. But this, this is my world now-- all acrylic and sadly one-dimensional like the missing armchair leg, the one which is infinitely long it has broached space. And the kids call themselves artists at the end of the day. |
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Smut after Jean-Marie Poumeyrol's "Le Maitre De Manege" SOURCE From the half-opened bathroom door, she watches you chain-smoke. Her brassiere and shoes lay near your feet. Posed. Like missives written on mud. You must not have noticed that she is just you in drag, just ardor twisted by too much hope. Inside your bathroom, she appreciates how the pipe and the light bulb surprisingly do not look out of place. They are phallic, both trophies from Freud. On the tattered wallpaper of the bathroom walls are your candid snapshots of horses about to copulate, of Odalisque standing-- her ass still the center of interest. Then there's the roll of toilet paper. Mute and white. Waiting to wipe something away. |
 Jean-Marie Poumeyrol |
