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.
Perdendosi
The house lights come up No curtain call each Maestro and Maestra Lets their baton fall The halls lay empty The balconies stilled “The clarinet is useless!” “It won’t pay the bills!” Horde by horde The choruses chant No rhythm, no rhyme An ignorant lament They sing their verses In boardrooms and bailiwicks Aeolian scales Corrupted, sycophantic One by one The students depart Until the second chair’s Bereft a beating heart The house lights come up The curtain falls But no soul attends This evenings ball Concert halls closed The microphone falls Leaving naught but static’s Lonely echoed call
By Matthew J. Frommabout a month ago in Poets
Suffered In Love (part 2)
I turned reality on and one thing ringed true there is no better for heartbreak when it’s cracked in two. As I started to move peace tried to pass by. But my headache stuck to me like glue. As I fell to the floor my simulation stopped then I came back to the place I knew. I got up and the sweat dispersed I was a total pool. But my love life remained like sand on a beach dry and unsteady as she walked over my feelings stating depart from me I never knew you. While enjoying the day and throwing my thoughts. I thought she would hold them well but she rather focus on the jewelry she brought which was the two pieces of my heart she pulled apart. Then she begin to entertain another man her moves brought the waves he could barely stand. So I decide to carry myself back home more training had to commence.
By Arlo Wyseeabout a month ago in Poets
The Telltale Signs . Runner-Up in Static Challenge.
I've been thinking a lot about how static builds a charge within us when we caress or rub certain fabrics and materials, how it builds and builds silently, subtly, without warning unless you see those telltale signs: the flicks of hairs standing on end, dancing dust particles.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Poets
Meeting with the New Principal
Her words were catered, as if served on a platter before her subjects; worn and tattered are my ol blue jeans. I hope your next one is more conservative of our culture , she uttered. We ought to conserve what remains of the chosen white . Stark were our eyes, our mouths agape, for she japed those many a man who built the school; sweat clung to their nape. Blood on the leaves fell from the cypress trees. Think about it like this — We have to appeal to an older audience, longing their so-called lost cause. But this insolence is undesirable — no longer recognizable to parents and children, to the settlers and colonizers who washd upon our shore. Cloaked in ivory linen, she muttered, ever so quietly, and let’s keep it PG, okay? lest we upset the marsh wren in its habitat; she squalled her discordant song like a gnat in the muddy estuary.
By Thomas Bryantabout a month ago in Poets
F*CK OFF
We come into this world soiling ourselves and rest under that same shitty soil once the lights go out for good. When you see me, do not ask me, "What do you do for a living?" I exist in my mortal shell for the time being, nothing more, nothing less.
By Armand Slayerabout a month ago in Poets
