Recipe for Soup:
Mexico City is absolutely.
With a claridad that would’ve seemed
Glossy as bone except for the fecality
Of its plutonian fruit. Especially
Leonora Carrington-the secret hardness
Of colonial baroque-its refusal to be
Reasonable-its crown of wisdom
Chocolate is Mexico’s great
Contribution to Surrealism.
With unbroken incantations in the
voice of a lion prepare (on wild rocks)
a soup made of half a pink onion, a bit of
perfumed wood, some grains of myrrh, a
large branch of green mint,3 belladonna pills
covered with white swiss chocolate, a
huge compass rose (plunge in soup for one minute)
Just before serving add Chines “cloud” mushroom
Which has snail-like antennae & grows on owl dung
As modern Hermeticist she ranks with Fulcanelli
A Madame Paracelsa who tells your
Fortune in the sense of buried treasure.
It seems you yourself have psychic gifts
Which are only exacerbated by her soups.
Molé as Dali realized surrealizes all
Dishes via its resemblance to excrement
e.g. over-boiled lobsters (serve with pink champagne) .
Shit you can sculpt.
Like gunpowder which was invented solely
To exorcize demons-a secret passed
Along the Silk Road to Roger Bacon
Who unfortunately leaked the recipe
to the uninitiated-Carrington
embodies both the siesta &
the anti-siesta. A madam Adam
with a handcranked gramophone with a horn
lacqured black with gold pinstriping that
plays only beeswax cylinders or Erik Satie
or Gesualdo. Here alone exile
attains an elegance & impassibility known
only to stoned Rosicrucians.
To live absolutely. A tricky trajectory between
Clinical dementia & the sloppy lace
Curtain Irish kitchen gemütlichkeit that
Usually passes (present company excepted
of course) for life outside literature &
even for true love. Or else it’s
the altitude-mushroom & chocolate-under the
asphalt the bloodsoaked landfill-
cactus cowskulls and drunken façades of flowers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.