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.
Vanity Card #12
It's that time of my life when my friends are my family. I keep typing a sentence and then immediately pressing the backspace button. This is free form prose. The purpose of a vanity card is to speak freely and passionately. I am not short of words or ideas. I hop on the word document to make sense of my life. Perhaps picking things apart will provide clarity on the things that make me feel but don't make logical sense. Suddenly my problems don't seem so dramatic or poetic. And then what ends up on this drafting page appears more disorganized than the mess in my head. It's troubling as a writer. The threads are supposed to weave harmoniously once the words reach the white space. Today I left work early because I felt I was reliving a traumatic experience. I walked through the parking lot and the sun wrapped me in motherly warmth, except my face was soaked and I could barely see. What beautiful weather for such a shitty day. I opened my journal once I got home and realized I hadn't written in days. It's no wonder I feel wound up and sensitive. Isn't it funny how we chose what is wrong with is? What's wrong could be something we'd never consider, an unexplored symptom? The tears have dried and left a thin film on my skin. The first line of this vanity card is essentially the log line for the TV show Friends. Nothing can stop the thoughts, rational or not, to enter and leave my mind. However, I could look back on this day, on this vanity card, and find that my real problem sits in the subtext of it all. Maybe then will I forgive myself for writing like a child looking for a lost toy.
By Alejandra Carrasco5 years ago in Poets
Star crossed?
You work out. The muscles bulging out of your back are getting me wet. I’m sitting behind you, and I can’t stop staring at you. If you looked behind you, you would know I want you. You would know I want to take you in the one-stall bathroom of Barriques and have you tear off all my clothes and let you fuck me. I imagine it now. I am sucking on you on your ridiculously fit body.
By Crystal Keesy5 years ago in Poets
MORE HEAVEN
Sweeping down a long stretched road, the two friends knew the time, that most of the passers-by were distracted, distracted by their wills of woe. Trees on either side, now not a passer-by insight, a quiet lane, a destination, baiting them, unexpectedly came their way. Stopping slowly, they looked at each other, adventure in their eyes, hands meeting fingers with applause and excitement. Looking out into the dim-lit road, they left the safety of their transport and investigated on foot. Before them, wings, hundreds, thousands of them, glittering wings, the likes never seen by the friends, and most likely by anyone before them. The friends decided to move closer, clapping hands in merriment, the wings, moved further away. The friends began moving faster, fingers tapping fingers in piano key determination; the glittering wings moved closer. Rapturous fingers typing fingers, croaking howls from the friends, wings glittering all around them, swarming the friends, the frog croaking wails commanding more, more, for heaven's sake more!
By James Green5 years ago in Poets
ONLY KIDS
Outside in the warm air John's sister, being the more courageous of the two, handed John a small box of matches, which she kept on her person in case such an event arose for their using. “It’s time justice was served.” She said to John. John's hands trembling in anxious anticipation; a warming hand on his shoulder, a flick of his fingers. Hand in hand, all they could see, a flaming sea of justice, filling John with courageous glee. “It may not be much.” She said to he. “But we’re only kids, what do they expect from ones as young as we.”
By James Green5 years ago in Poets
CHIRPED VOICES
”Why cry when you can laugh?” she said to herself, as she stood there waiting for the next customer to arrive. The week had been a long week for her; many a vacant stare, many a tonal wave of half-hearted musings. Finally, Friday had arrived, indulgent titillation was headed her way, and what titillation it was going to be. As she left her weekly position, she headed to the place she knew and loved, full of laughter and cheer it was difficult to choose a better place, another place, like the other. Step by step she made her way, then to her dismay, a call from a window: ”Hey, there. Yes, you there.” “Me?” She quivered. “Yes, you. We’re having a party up here, and you’re welcome to join, all are welcome here. Come on up. Here, use this ladder.” With a nervous giggle and an excited palpitation, up the ladder, step by step, made of rope and wood, not a single misstep. As she made her way through the window, with the help of an outstretched hand, four people she did see; four people, staring into four corners, not a whisper, not a sound. “Strange.” She thought. “You said you were having a party? But there’s no music. And why are those people staring into the wall like that?” The host, listening, but unengaged, walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. The four turned around, like toy ballerinas they turned. The window guillotined down! “What’s happening!? What do you want!?” She shouted, with clenched fists to her chest. The window rose up, the four-span round to their corners. Flapping her arms in haste, she flew to the window, flew down the still dangling ladder. “Fly, birdie, fly!” Chirped voices from the top raised window.
By James Green5 years ago in Poets
