Welcome Home Dionysus!! <./Surrealist Manifesto part deux

I am summoning Surrealists! Calling all squares! Welcoming Republicans! Octopi too! Call to all silly geese. A manifesto of magnanimous proportions is beheld in the following lines. This lunacy honors our most bespeckled and bejeweled and bewonderous and beglorious Dionysus. He has come for a drink and of course he expects a welcome warm as a molten lava chocolate cake.

This poem for him.

Call to Arms and Armaments! Call to Breton, you smithering loon! Don’t be a hermit and keep your voice to the innards of you trombone. Don’t keep her in. Let the beast off her chain and into the rain. Peltoniemi Hintrik’s Funeral is marching and she would most definitely like to snake her way to the front and light a spark.

To Aragon I am calling your arms. Obviously they need to come out of the grave, but you will understand because this call includes your souls and loins. Let it all hang loose, loose as a spaghetti goose dress come undone. Let your teeth bear fruit and let your heart go toot. A poot a toot a poot a pit a pat a pit er pat. On this summer eve I assure you my loyal Dionysus is on his way. He is waltzing and stumbling in my direction as we speak, staff in one hand, grapes and kiwi seeds in the other.

“Oh Dionysus, you are sooo sweet. You want to give me your grapes. Oh no I couldn’t. No. I mean it I couldn’t. Not your kiwi seeds, those are a delicacy for Gods. Oh no. I simply couldn’t. Fine I’ll eat your grapes. They do look crisp. You share real good. You must have passed pre-school. Did they even have preschool on Mount Olympus? Is that where you're from, I can't remember. Plato probably went to pre-school. The old squirrel. He prolly got straight A’s too. But I’ll tell you this Plato if you can hear me, tragedy is of utmost import indeed. Poetry and painting are more beautiful than all of God’s forms of a bed, more beautiful than the carpenter’s bed, more beautiful than my Uncle’s Turquoise’s bed. I assure you this Plato. My poetry of beds is no imitation. It is full of true pistachios made by the highest creator. To you Plato I say this. Your name is weird and your face is weird and your words are full of swine doo.”

Oh Andre Breton, we need to have a toast. It’s not often that you grace us with your presence. Hera knocked over her glass, Athena let out a quiet little fart, and I rose my crystalline goblet, “To Dionysus. You are here, you swillering twindle dog. To our frenzy. To our sauce, to the dervish and our forgetting. To our wonderous dispossession and repossession and to the fool. Most of all to the fool! Don’t let love make a fool of your heart let your heart make eggplant parmagianna and love will be muy jealous. I raise my glass for love, I raise it for air, but most of all for that old Baudelaire. Chink cha dink!”

I feel the presence of Luis Bunuel in my aura and he is whispering sensuous sweet nothings to me, (Dear Reader, Please read aloud in a groaning whisper, if you are at work whisper really low. He really said this so you are invoking his spirit) “See anew, think anew, mock and scandalize your way through the trembling cardboard facades… spring from false, every day “reality” to the super-reality where the impossible opposites—dream and vigil, art and life, politics and morality, good and evil, saint and demon, man and woman—are once more, as in the origins of being, united, one. ” Oh Luis, you silly moose face.

Assume there are 2: “Friend you are misguided”
Assume there is 1: “The Music is Ours!”
Assume there are 2: “Have a heart green with envy”
Assume there is 1: “The dance of the dervish is ours!”
Assume there are 2: “Woke up on the wrong side of the earth,”
Assume there is 1: “The Queen dines with the Jackal and the toad plays the lute.

“Dionysus you show me my madness, my amour fou. I am crazy person, crazy like taco. Crazy like a rhubarb pie or an ornamental yo-yo, crazy like orange lady with one blue tooth, crazy like the Lacrymosa, looney like lumberjack pie. So perhaps all I can really do is revel in this agonizing cauldron of impervious mist and drink myself to oblivion.”

2 years later…

Dionysus, Plato, Andre Breton, Louis Aragon, Luis Bunuel and myself all sit before a pink fire and hold hands sitting in a circle. After a quick game of duck-duck-goose I silence the gaggle and invoke the spirit of nothing and utter these auspicious words, “Before conception and after life, it is silent. The moment before we are brought into the light, the moment after we are cast into darkness. In we go, off we go. A painted weather beaten crone sits in front of the pearly gates and her stare pierces us with the confident recognition of illusion. She sits there as she holds wisdom deep in her eyes. She creates us from the end and the beginning, she creates us in pairs for the ark, she creates us underwater in the deep ocean dark. In her we are silence as her. And we submit to her whims. She whispers “Silencio” and fades into the dark vortex of extended nothingness [with a sound that goes wwhhhhissskkk].

Go there.