My Cardboard Balcony

Oil On Atlas by Belinda Roddie The surrealist tastes like cherries twisted into pretzel knots woven into a boat that delivers the princess to her melting betrothed. He is draped over a single cushion. He is the same color as that single cushion. He is hungry all the time, and when his beloved disembarks from the chariot, he screams for avocados. He will only eat avocados. He dreams in mobile avocados. They are hungry for him, too. You take the surrealist's claws. They are as soft as clouds on violet days. They are as soft as clouds on rainbow suicide days. You kiss her, and she becomes salt on your lips. You kiss her, and she turns to gold-painted titanium. You kiss her, and the princess runs into a field that grows hair from its nostrils, feeds on black bread crumb gravel and chewed off fingernails, feeds on second thoughts and double the chances, all blended together in a smoothie and swallowed like fire in one go.

Five little monkeys jumping on the bed. First of all, why are they jumping? And second of all, why are they on the bed? Who let them into the house? Aren't they supposed to be in a zoo? And why only five of them? They shouldn't all be little, either; they should be with their mother. She's probably worried sick, chewing on a banana in a canopy somewhere.