Frank Sinatra goes flat (1953)


If asked, Frank and Suzie wouldn’t singe, or aim. It didn’t matter by the sky, Frank and Suzie took the dog by the trampoline, fund panties, a green skirt. They wave the flashlight at the howl, show hay. Once today Frank researched a vast Nexus iii, the reflection of microscope landscapes gleams watermelon juice under black graph paper curls – sage leaf dries patent plastic- the desert slides a digital cactus with a tray of salt and wax to Suzie. Auto correct the tobacco smoke if needed. A matrix of sputters, lime machine advances, floating astronauts to a new bird house, to forever.


To a diagram of avenues, hunched across naked alcoholic desert machines, Suzie is operating the ketchup bottle with flimsy, waves of digits and cold hair strung into an ice line. Above her head Frank sees big, NEON lights read: Caterpillar lounge.

The sky is full of bird nests drooping along the fishnets and light bulbs, taped together from match sticks. Her eyes keep landing in the gutters, as the house sized cats CLAWS drape hair densely through the blush tree line.



Bicycle rabbit research, static klesmer drops from the cats CLAWS. Writes nylon birds. A tennis player produces a pair of Armani and tosses it over a NEON tapestry above the nests. The table dipped quart yard, now the fork reflects some of the flashlight, portable luminaire. Suzie sees the barber shop, listed cigarettes for haircuts, shows it to Frank. He takes it and trades her Russian candy for it, and they follow grown over concrete, gather Finch color slow motion.



Zachary Scott Hamilton is the editor for Mannequin Haus. His work appears in The modern anthology of surrealism (Salo press 2016)

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