Poem inspired by Surreal House show at the Barbican

MagritteThis is the floor of my mind. The floor.

You can curl your limbs and your mind as if in yoga. Fold up your thoughts, one by one, then undo the positions.

The stove is hot. Don’t touch it. Don’t touch.

And don’t surf. Or I’ll stab your hands with pencils. I mean it.

Girl with a bag of potatoes hunted down by a cat in the night. The potatoes are evil. The potatoes like the dark world.

Andre Breton is everywhere. His boastful face.

Take out a pair of scissors and try anything – that’s surreal. Cut up your clothes, your eyelashes, heating bills, your thesis, it doesn’t matter what.

It’s weird the way the world is. Everyone sits down in Starbucks, takes out a mac, makes love with it for an hour or two. That’s work.

And a piano on the ceiling? Why not. Someone will play the music up there.

Melon and cucumber on the mattress. Do they replace them after closing the gallery to visitors?

Don’t study surreal art for too long. It’s bad for health.

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