SurVision Magazine
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An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry
in English.
Issue Four
CHARLES KELL
Fantastic Fish Mask
with eyes on each side. One
gazes toward the grim
mountain while the other stares
low at a blood-flecked pearl.
You feel born again, land-
scape scales machine moisture
into the cracks of your skin.
You can still smoke a cigar
& not get sick.
You can pull a sip from this Knob
Creek & whistle a military
ditty. You have windows for pockets.
See the five-dollar bill
gripped with damp blue fuzz.
Spooled cassette tape salted with brine.
You walk along the lake,
open your mouth into a cosmic O.
Yes, that's a tail,
you burly one. You can lick
your own wishes. No, you're not
choking on air. Those are circles of light
brushing your scales, slick fin.
The Green Hat, Day 7
A rat runs in small
circles where the green
hat used to lay. A stranger
with heavy hands must
have snatched it walking by.
My eyelids feel dipped
in sand. The knocking of
the shutter shakes our white
walls. A painting falls. A door
slams. Shelves tilt like a galleon's
hull, spilling knick-knacks
over the wine-stained carpet.
I must sleep. The confession
is half over. Even the judge
is weary. Nails rain down, crack
the window. The green hat floats
somewhere in a diamond sky.
The Mask of Dimitrios
His skin is chain-mail
flecked with saltwater.
Bundle of unmarked bills
bulging in underwear.
Greasy hair haloed in cigarette
smoke. Rope of wind
when he spoke, glance
at the so-called virgin.
Clothes wringed in the fog's
curtain. The interpreter,
notes pressed into a dry,
cracked palm. Glass piano
chords hammered. Rain
pounds the Mediterranean.
See the plaster lips speak. Water
snake his eyes, cheeks.
Tapping a grey gun on the table.
Green bottles on the shelf.
gazes toward the grim
mountain while the other stares
low at a blood-flecked pearl.
You feel born again, land-
scape scales machine moisture
into the cracks of your skin.
You can still smoke a cigar
& not get sick.
You can pull a sip from this Knob
Creek & whistle a military
ditty. You have windows for pockets.
See the five-dollar bill
gripped with damp blue fuzz.
Spooled cassette tape salted with brine.
You walk along the lake,
open your mouth into a cosmic O.
Yes, that's a tail,
you burly one. You can lick
your own wishes. No, you're not
choking on air. Those are circles of light
brushing your scales, slick fin.
The Green Hat, Day 7
A rat runs in small
circles where the green
hat used to lay. A stranger
with heavy hands must
have snatched it walking by.
My eyelids feel dipped
in sand. The knocking of
the shutter shakes our white
walls. A painting falls. A door
slams. Shelves tilt like a galleon's
hull, spilling knick-knacks
over the wine-stained carpet.
I must sleep. The confession
is half over. Even the judge
is weary. Nails rain down, crack
the window. The green hat floats
somewhere in a diamond sky.
The Mask of Dimitrios
His skin is chain-mail
flecked with saltwater.
Bundle of unmarked bills
bulging in underwear.
Greasy hair haloed in cigarette
smoke. Rope of wind
when he spoke, glance
at the so-called virgin.
Clothes wringed in the fog's
curtain. The interpreter,
notes pressed into a dry,
cracked palm. Glass piano
chords hammered. Rain
pounds the Mediterranean.
See the plaster lips speak. Water
snake his eyes, cheeks.
Tapping a grey gun on the table.
Green bottles on the shelf.
Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and associate editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann's Review, Kestrel, The Pinch, etc. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.
