Figueras

The world goes soft and twists before your eyes;
The pavement’s burning and the solid world
Melts from its boxes, dripping, or lies curled
Across the view beneath the racing skies.
The minute hand plays hopscotch with the day,
And thought it’s hot there’s gooseflesh on my limbs:
Time’s gone berserk and every morning dims
To darkness as the sunlight wears away.
The people smile cold grins that have gone wrong,
Their gestures threatening, obscene and bland,
And talk in tongues too strange to understand,
Staccato speeches, like a hammered song -
   And when I try to scream there is no sound:
   This modern world’s Dali in sense-surround.