(For the Chibok)
It was no strange taste, we were warmed
by rapture—the papers had been torn apiece.
Then we saw nature moving: cold breeze whistling
through the hallways, bemoaning the absence of spaces.
Then we saw the faces of our fathers growing beautiful
wrinkles of pride—we were making them proud.
Then the world got brittle and broke into pieces, the
milky way got crowded, stars fell off and darkness
gulped down the dreams meant for daylight.
They filtered in, those in the crafts of Pallas;
they came in, those who said they had come to ensure
our safety, but they were warriors in a hollow horse.
But we were separated by too many years
to know, how could we have known?
Then we had to journey; we had never
planned for a journey, such a strange journey.
Then we began a course in martyrdom, trampled on
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The perfume of the abyss
Reviewed by Clara B. Jones
“[Surrealism is] psychic automatism in its pure state…dictated by thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern.” André Breton
Graduate student: Hi, professor.
Professor: Welcome back! Is anything wrong? You sounded breathless over the phone.
GS: I imagine so—i am excited but, also, concerned. I think I have found a thesis topic but am not sure that you will approve.
P: Ah! You’ve been struggling with this since last semester—what have you come up with?
GS: Well, my partner and I went to Berlin on holiday and stayed in the boutique hotel, Hommage à Magritte…
P: …interesting, sounds like fun!
GS: It was! And, I came across a book in the hotel bookstore that I think might allow me to explore the…
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