Archibald Blondinet

Surrealist artist & writer

Swan or pelican

  • Swan or pelican

    Nocturnal fantasies enunciated with a slur, deer shying away from the dark, spawning tales of a close encounter with a passing lorry. Swallowing headlights with fast food, God on speed dial, obligated to return the favour and give birth to the moon. Crossing the Atlas on a silver spoon bathing in gamma rays, while some…

  • Coughing up the funk

    Tricked into nude photographs of the self by a granular sense of escapism for generations, stare too long into the skull’s heart-shaped eyes, and become a short-lived meme. Dye your hair blond halfway down, coughing up the funk with a fist in the air, tired of the same blatant use of sub-par indigenous ballads. Ready…

  • Cuddling oviparous

    Spineless fakirs in the rear-view mirror throw wet kisses to trampolines on duty—we’re missing something gore to chew on, some nuts to scribble on. Welcome the wasteful destiny of slow-moving aspirins and impolite hedgehogs aiming at skittles with too few fragrances. Demand a new partition now, before the mule is blended with a fully grown…

Nocturnal fantasies enunciated with a slur, deer shying away from the dark, spawning tales of a close encounter with a passing lorry. Swallowing headlights with fast food, God on speed dial, obligated to return the favour and give birth to the moon.

Crossing the Atlas on a silver spoon bathing in gamma rays, while some apes in cabarets hurl dung pellets at their favourite glowing teats. Remembering the oddities, the constant need for wanderlust, and the sorrows hung on a pine tree, only to forget them.

Since then, at Christmas, the rivers were always red. Red, like the merry tune stuck in my head—at this stage, I no longer know if I want to, or even if I can, whether I am a swan or a pelican.