Dali paints the sky an eggshell blue, swans reflect an upside-down world

Dali paints the sky an eggshell blue atop a broken ladder, the world
is shaky and the sun is setting in the needle’s eye.
Pink puppy clouds and black swans of indifference drift by in the belly
of the March Hatter who swallowed the pot of gold.

Reality is a thread breaking in an upside-down universe, the whole ball of wax
is a cat’s amusement toy dangling wild from her whiskers.
Sheep are flocking into a starlight rotunda and the wolf pack is grazing
with cows chewing parallel lines in the meadow.
Bellicose bluebells rehearse dawn’s early choir,
you and I have serious plans to court the moonlight hour.

The sky is a broken-blue eggshell, breaks open the yellow-yoked sun.
The whole nine yards steps out like a ballerina, the learning curve is
a pirouette spinning and the joker is mild behind an eight ball of redemption.
We are Johnny-on-the spot reseeding receding rooftops to the New Jersey
pine tree barrens,
red devils smile with the sharp teeth of thievery, by the sea, by the sea.

We are amnesiacs dreamers dreaming we are awakening,
crimson desert sands deem us worthy and the efflorescent white lily steals black holes
punched into the restless night,
you and I are wrestlers one, doing battle with long-legged angels; insects hover on
black-laced damsel wings,
The grand puppeteer (recently bored silly, how long can anyone stand winter white,
the verdant valley green yodeling to the mountain-misted cloud?) snaps,
and the ventriloquist‘s dummy (already asleep in a field of wild roses,
daisies of discovery, petals gone one-by-one), is losing his speech patterns
in good vibrations of a single red robin’s trill.

It must be Spring. 
Dali’s getting frisky,
his moustache is twitching.