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.
Electric TVs. Winner in Static Challenge.
You're too stupid to be AI And at one point that would've Made me hate you, but now, It fills me with this buzzing, Feral sound of desire . . . Something lodged between The hemispheres of my brain, Riding the jagged lines of E L E C T R I C I T Y Like it's got somewhere to go.
By Silver Dauxabout a month ago in Poets
¡⨊↯R҉r∀TίC҉allγ⊁⌁▻ ҉Ⓜ️e⁈ ҉↯
I'm.... ⌁ .҉....҉ ⌁ S ophisticated~ E ⚡⚡ S lobbish steadfast ‖ ↯ ⌁ ⨊ stubborn? sunny R ⌁ ⋮ ⌁ Ŗ ¿sad? ಥ_ಥ ⋮ ⇈ T ranquil {?¿?} R ⚡ ⌁ ʀ T houghtless trustworthy ‖ C ⬇️ treacherous timely? ‖ I ⬇️ tumultuous ↡↓↧ ↑ ⇊⇈ A tatatatatata ⌁ A ⌁ T ⌁ Α ⌁ t A tatatatatA ↡↓↧ ↑ ⇊⇈ T ruth ‿ ҉ ︵‿︵ ҉ testz zz ҉ ︵‿ -҉ zz Taco T A ⬇️ T uesday⁈ tits!tits!tits‼! ‖ T ⌁ͳ tits!tits!tits‼ ↑ ↓ I ndominable? i ⁞ ⌁i I ncomplete incredible ⌁ ⌁ ↑ ⌁ ⌁ invisible ⩶ _- I dent ity ⌁ I nterference 〰⌁ ↯ ↓ ↑ C onfidence?? ‖ S ⬇️ C ontempt ?comely??¿ C ⬆️ ↓ ¿confusion⁈ chaos⋰ crisis ⌁ ↯ ⌁ Ⅽ ⋱razzzzʎʐγ҉ ৻︵҉⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰ ︵‿ ¸,ø¤º° °º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º҉° _C҉ R҉A҉ CKLE ⋱⋰⋮ ⚡ ⚡ ⚡ ⩼⩻ somethingsomethingsomething ⩼⩻ …‥⁘৳҉৲⁜҉⇙⎣₩ʫ ⬭ʫ ₣ μ λ ⭗∑ ^_^‥⁘৳~₹✧⋱⋰⋮⇡⇩↷↓ŦʈÞŢ( ❁ ◡❁)⚬⚬↔҉⋱⋰⋮⋙,¸¸,ø¤º°⋱⁂҉৻‿҉ ︵‿︵‿ 〰҉ ⌁
By Lightning Bolt ⚡about a month ago in Poets
Neural Storm. Winner in Static Challenge.
…it's like a network of fuzzy energy stationed around my head— an invisible halo of caged angst that was never invited to be here. yet, it remains. i can't see it. no one can. but i feel it… …it's like a low frequency ballad of vibrating magnetism, thoughts gridlocking before a maelstrom of excited atoms recycles itself again— never leaving, only strengthening in intervals. …it’s like my brain has turned into a plasma ball where wandering electrodes cloud the sense of being. busy arms of branching filaments, reach just beyond the edges of my headspace, creating a faint haze that follows me wherever I go. …It’s like the synapses confuse and misfire, disallowing a steady rhythm of coherent syllables; the tongue would rather sit idle than conversate with fragmented speech.
By Lamar Wigginsabout a month ago in Poets
what reading Murakami feels like
the story begins (stop me if you’ve heard this one) with a run-of-the-mill man with a run-of-the-mill job in a run-of-the-mill apartment in japan. living an orderly if lonely existence, pasta and endless beer, a book, classical records. interspersed with occasional encounters with women with curiously placed moles on their bodies, always petite and slender and inwardly intense, a little plain on the outside. everything is plain on the outside. his life is like a snapshot, a hole punctured in the great anatomy of time, around it hissing static. the man gradually becomes aware of the static, can feel its buzz creeping into dreams like inside-out nightmares. he cannot make sense of it. he cannot make sense of anything, just lets himself be pulled along like a person stunned by the smell of the earth after rain, shocked at waking into the absurdity of existence. he quits his job, or no longer comes in, and they fire him. he does not seem to care (I cannot stress enough how he does not seem to care. I cannot ever tell if this is depression or the deepest sense of peace, but my mind always settles on both somehow, and that seems right and relatable in a way that makes my soul thrum.) despite being unemployed now, the man is somehow surviving. whatever boring thing he did gives him an enviable cushion of savings, or he has a mostly-absent partner who works or money is meaningless and he's slipped into the void, the feel of it delicious like the skin coming off a wounded limb all in one piece. he has almost no needs and certainly no wants but to find that sourceless hissing at the corners of his mind like a radio set between stations, the blurring at the corners of the world and his eyes, like every time he looks to the side, someone has just moved out of frame. a past lover. a deceased friend. god, or his benevolent absence. things happen to him, and he lets them, riding the wave of some mysterious frequency. days are spent alone, wandering. he follows a cat into a neighbor's overgrown yard, or a set of stairs to a series of empty offices with strange signs on the doors. days lose their names. the static has moved inside. they are not so separate now, where it ends and he begins. occasionally, he meets a talking animal or a fold in time, and steps over it like a wrinkle in a carpet. or- his foot catches and he falls out into that great hissing buzz, the static really just a vast blackness, scattershot with rippling stars.
By Raistlin Allenabout a month ago in Poets
