I dreamed of being a surrealist

like my Dada, until I rejected him.

Now there is just existence

and the terror of what is.

Dog the civiliser is gone.

Now the dreadful freedom brings

the nausea of existence,

nausea at the absurdity

of the arbitrary.

The lugubrious paranoiac,

le viol, avida Gala,

devoured by dollars.

Sexual instinct, savouring

the sentiment of death,

Deception exists solely

in the subjective, personal certainty

of the believer.

Mine is the cult of esoteric mysteries.

Having no need of lies, fables and romances,

I believe that which is absurd.

Celstial teapot, my redeemer.

Gala pie, my sustenance.

Anguish of space time conquered.

Inherently more important than others,

I am happy dog is dead,

the distress of others doesn't matter.

the dog it was that died.

Allusions to Nietsche. Kirkegaard, Sartre,Dali, Russell, Magritte, Goldsmith and possibly others.