Max Ernst

It’s a repetition of the recurrence
Don’t believe the hype
This ain’t no singularity
Nowt new beneath
The gaudy painted disk
That meanders monotonously
Against the banal backdrop
The Ingenue is always searching
In other people’s bathroom cabinets
And the Melancholy Lieutenant
Is eternally on the verge
Of nodding off, drifting away
To a place that only exists
Within the confines of his skull
While the Rebel is forever swerving
Just a fraction too late
On the rain slick Parisian street
The serpent eats it tails
So that whatever happens
Happens again just so
Everything returns
Exactly as it was
And there is no end in sight
Because there was never
A starting point to begin with
It’s the recurrence of a repetition



33 thoughts on “Recurrence

    1. Thank you… this was a late night special…the bathroom cabinet just came to me… the Ingenue and the Melancholy Lieutenant are characters, they haunt me. I have only recently discovered Ernst marvellous late period, simple but stunning art.


  1. Mr. Cake, the Ernst is stunning, as is your poem. Perpetual repeat, that’s what it is, there’s no getting out, ever! Nice to see the Ingenue and the Melancholy Lieutenant again, yet I suspect they are always close at hand, as is the Rebel. Truly, a captivating poem, crossing over the threshold into a realm of an otherworldly dimension, the stuff dreams are made of. ~ Miss Cranes

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is a wonderful way to say something so simple yet with so many implications. I think I’m like the lieutenant. At least I’m always drifting inside my head…

    Liked by 1 person

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