Ultra Surrealistic Prose by: Ben Dunk. 1977.




We two went and came into the house where he lay.

Departing after lovely sayings into the flight under the stars.

Who remained to see each other, and, caress two breasts felt like

the ‘nubulness’ of your self. Only they were not to be

uncovered as the taut windblown newspaper from a tree trunk is.


Then, the other she came, and, it was her voice that was beautiful.

It compelled me to look away from the sensual beauty. My gaze

was riveted to her larynx for longer than it needed to dwell.

Marveling at the oration flowing on her pulsating breath; pouring

forth in milky cascades. Oh! How good to know the revelation of

vocal chord possession


Re-angling my eyes, I perceived again the marital odour; sensitizing

my hands on the golden oscillating boots. Then, the night fell open,

and, the music became apparent; the cymbals clashed, and, the wind

blew the curtains apart: then, it crept through, running around the walls;

disturbing fabrics and picture frames, and, drafted the candle

flame into flickering and tossing.


I glimpsed another she go out and beyond, past the door.

Her biscuit coloured bare skin shimmered back through the translucent

glass and the white bathtub, flowing full to the brim, engulfed

her sinking un-clothed figure.


Whilst we remained paired and almost lived together in the twilight;

murmuring, nudging and caressing until the fantasy faded. She

cried: “no, no, no, no !”. I wept inside, tearless, for her.


Encased in a dim passage, together we went forth, then,

I walked along a night-time-lamp-lit long-wet-spattered street.

I looked back and there saw nothing where was something.

Realizing memories are so dissatisfying for the present.

Now, the tears splash secretly on this paper.