You suffered from Stendhal Syndrome, they say

Dali’s raw hand made you delirious

You saw lion heads in the clouds

leaping like performers in a circus

through loops of fire

A child born from the cosmic egg

But it was the sun and cheap wine

that affected you the most

And so you mope about the house all day

in your father’s old suede loafers

he left you when he died

You spend all your time staring

at pictures strung up on the wall

Spectral images that walk on stilts

and vanish in the blink of an eye

Your father looks at you through glossy film

His gaze pounds your brain

like the lion heads leaping,

like dying and being born

over and over again