Six Surreal Poems
B.C. Leale, 15 April 1982
There is a little Indian blood in the veins of the coffee. Yesterday I visited the date on the calendar in a flat in a white house saccharised with religious education. I am, at the moment, seated in front of a South American jungle (the home of psychoanalysis) in a black, prickly, Victorian chair. Mrs Paige arouses the anacondas. Dr Vits paints her out with a brush...