Dali thoughts of lingerie

Dry Dali clocks crumbled

Tinkled into ancient sandstone

Dead Sea controls art

It is of no use to look for photographs of legs, perfectly formed, and of most smoothly curved, feminine muscularity, girt in lacy leggings. It is also useless to attempt such an introduction wherein the trite image of Lolita is associated with her possible namesakes which are, on the contrary, purer in spirit and less demanding. Of equally pleasing proportions, the waistlines and hips also beguiled the dweller from the capital, heretofore jaded by anyone less graciously built than his artistically bread wife. My ever-girlish wife and the young wafting perfections sparkled against the backdrop of the Sun-tortured tabletop mountains looming on the western shores of Lake Asphaltitis, which is more commonly known as Dead Sea.

Shedding their crumbly sandstone and halite, they hulked over the fragile glitter of the modernity, of tinted windows, buffet feasts and freshwater pools. Vespasian, or Titus, or King Herod must have dined in the same style, somewhere around here, and, no doubt, they were entirely free to avail themselves of that young fruit, certainly unencumbered by the tightness of jeans, but, nonetheless of the same sweet fluid grace which the monogamous romantic had the privilege to compare to his wife the tango queen.

Instead of fleeting moments which could flit faster than a click of the most modern digital equipment, here are some haiku.

chirps among hot crags

birds drink from spilled water

alien salt planet