The Precious Surreal Door Opened

Mark Fleury dances with verse, fights with demons, and projects Dali-esque visions more real than real. At once extremely personal and transcendentally post-modern, this is the voice of an honest visionary: “By heart I mean sex melting the moon/That drips through the ceiling frown/And onto the kitchen table of scrambled eggs/On white china. Those gills, pineal.” Once you enter the door so carefully opened by Mark Fleury, the precious “At-one-ment” of surrealism will intoxicate you.