Frida gave birth to the sky. It was stained with the memories of Diego and
Trotsky and Communist ideals. The sky reverberated with chants of “Viva
La Revolucion” and dripped the blood of dead peasants.



Diego painted a mural onto Frida’s forehead. In it the sky swirled with
images of Rockefeller, Detroit car factories, and Aztec symbology.



Frida swallowed the mural and gave birth to herself. She grew into a sky
that dripped images of symbolic communists onto cars made of peasants.



At Frida’s funeral, Trostky made love to Rockefeller, and Diego swooned
into the Aztec sky.

© Alison Ross

Clockwise Cat publisher and editor Alison Ross dabbles delicately in
verse. She also spews incessant invective. You may peruse her precious
poesie and rowdy rants online. Alison's personal utopia would be to
dwell inside a painting executed by Joan Miro, wherein Frida Kahlo, Arthur
Rimbaud, Jorge Luis Borges, Dr. Seuss, David Lynch and The Cure all converge
in felicitous, surrealistic bliss.