surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Streams
It felt so sudden, the way the eyes went back like a saint, and black like an Addams. I feel lucky to be alive at such times, all of the maneuvers you learned to make with your car, all of the times you cry to sick cunts. I get it that this is not what I thought I’d have by now, but it’s what I have. Little you, stringy earphones — green — and new sheets — green — . When you came to compensate for the missing alcohol with diamonds, I could only accept. I’m made of little dust, me. Little creepy thing roaming around rooms made for kings and mistresses. You are my king. Bald, larger than life, swaying and swearing against that bloody mosquito that dared to bother you. Lonely nightly saint, I’m the Myrwatch Martyr. I am the power and the energy. Alchemist of my own death, and so be it! Cry! Cry when you see me transmute into another, cry when I’m water, finally shapeless, finally hairless, finally concave and convex, sneaking in, slippery and slitherin’. Fuck, I’d enter through every keyhole, every palace. I’ll burst out of fountains and hope darkly for your open, thirsty lips.
By Squeeze D' Avocado9 months ago in Poets
Armistice
Impeachment is coming. There will be no ceasefire nor surrender. The cessation of warfare comes at a cost. The peace treaty you wouldn't sign will still be there to haunt you at the end. I allowed negotiations to continue but hostilities were allowed to ruin me. You undermined me at every pause. What once sparked between us is now dead and throbbing. I wonder if it was ever really there. I had to soothe it with alcohol for it to rot. I had to numb it with Novocain for it to fester. Little by little, you kept extracting my soul. It's these corruptible lies that continue to permeate me. It's the truth that always meddled because it refuses to settle. The conspiracy theories were real. You were never the love I wanted to feel. It's the pieces of my heart that were out of reach. You took my body instead. I dug the grave that is prepared for you. I built the tomb to trap your remains. The mausoleum is there as your eternal resting place. There is only static to replace your repetitive lies. I wish for the day where you go silent, forever keeping me at peace. I waited for the end of the world, in anticipation. I rehearsed for the brutal end but this tragedy was the better outcome. I rationed my joy in hopes it would last me. I repurposed myself and pledged my devotion to a worthless cause. The plan was to remain unhappy for the rest of my days. That is what little I thought of myself. I never thought there would be a life without you, a life that existed beyond you. I became comfortably mediocre all thanks to you. All else eventually became trivial when pursuing my own means of happiness. I've got places to be before the sun sets. I've survived the sickness that is you. You wanted me gone and yet, I refuse. I've knocked you off your pedestal. You appear so tiny and insignificant to me now. There is no altar for you to project your supremacy anymore. There will be no armistice. Of this I am certain. You will not be spared. Time will not go easy on you. I will not let you off this easily. This intolerance speaks for me now. You convinced me once I couldn't have it all. Your removal from my life became your free fall. You're nothing but fragile and small. I am here to forever claim it all.
By Anna Torres9 months ago in Poets
