Surrealist Paintball
A poem (sort of) by Durty Dan

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
As I lay here the trees walk off the field, as if they are caught in the
general malaise that routinely follows the summer solstice.

I call to them in supplication.

They make rude noises.

The referee stands above me and
slowly metamorphs into a golden soup spoon,
the kind that Grandmothers wear at family gatherings.

He buzzes the tune of a long forgotten Sanskrit folk song.

I know the words.

I sing along.  
 
 
 
 
 

My opponents appear as hundreds of coat racks
adorned with a various
assortment of clothing usually reserved for royalty.

I laugh at their pretentiousness.

They continue to climb on each other shoulders
and built recreations of the
Seven Wonders of the World and a duck.  
 
 
 
 
 

Many wonderful colours ripple and slide across my loader.

I am caught in a Technicolor Rapture.

I poke a hole in it easily with my nose and
pink molasses runs out.

I order pancakes.

I find myself craving for walnuts, parsley
and a fire hydrant served on a
bed of wild rice with a nice chilled bottle of chablis.

I eat a twig , to tide me over until supper.

I am the ruler of my own country, now.  
 
 
 
 
 

Wings sprout on my teammates
and their markers fire butterflies.

This frightens me.

Something is wrong.

Their markers are supposed to fire yellow baseball hats.  
 
 
 
 
 

An impolite daisy tells me
that I have been hit and that I am out.

The worms laugh at me.  
 
 
 
 
 

Blackness . . .  
 
 
 
 
 
. . . weird things happen to you after you run head first into a bunker.