whoever said surrealist poetry is dumb might be right

Garibaldi and his wild oats,

all rolled up into an ermine coat.

He comes to gloat

about the towering masts

on his luxury boat.

That’s all that he wrote

before the crayon broke,

and proved that his yacht

could not, in fact,

Float.

The rot smells

of an occidental clot,

and now the doctor

pulls out his saw.

Old Garibaldi knew

of no precedent, no law

that allowed for his nerves

to be rubbed so raw.

The Alpine snow

kept old Gari’s temperature nice and low,

but not low enough

to slow his descent

into the next, strange stage

of unconsciousness.