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.
Addiction's Whisper. Runner-Up in Static Challenge. Top Story - August 2026.
It whispers... The constant tension, bound in crackling, gradient whiteness the fast fragmenting sound of barely camouflaged crisis the colorless hymn of stasis singing in each last ear the rhythmless hum, a basis for every background fear. And I listen. It whispers... Like coiling spring or serpent, it's a long-impeded flow all made of breath, unspent, with nowhere good to go; a hungering voice without vent - charged, and waiting to blow. And I listen. It whispers... Torn 'twixt fight and flight, this body opts for freeze, quaking, cracking, cast alight upon the venomous breeze; clinging to numb marcescence while captured is all of time by this atrophying presence: drone chorus without a rhyme. And I listen. It whispers: who, and where, and why you are never shall they change your light is lost, a stillborn star in resting place most strange - a flickering screen, a dim-lit bar - anywhere in this addiction's range. And I listen. It whispers... and I think to myself it is about time that I said something back. before lost am I forever in whispering fields of white, and gray, and black.
By Gabriel Huizenga2 months ago in Poets
Solipse of the Heart
Crashing down The rabbit hole Roots tear at Strawberry hair Splash down in the bluefin sky I backstroke Past a troupe of fried Lobsters spitting butter in My pastel eye As I dance the jive Dodo’s smudge lines In the rainbow sand So I race the tide even as Fear for my sanity takes root All grow restless as the Music suddenly mutes Shimmying down Twisting purple vines I watched the crowd pass Going nowhere fast Jogging in place At my own glacial pace None had family or A discernible past We all wonder aimlessly Searching our hearts For freshly baked mushroom tarts Dreaming up new havens To escape the buzzing Ts We roll around fretfully Like hedgehogs seizing On a crimson-painted lawn
By K.B. Silver 2 months ago in Poets
Little Red Bird
Two black foxes Courting May. One lost morning. One lost day. One loved smoke, One loved stone. Neither ever learned To walk alone. Count to thirteen. Count once more. Lock the window. Bar the door. I left both Before the snow. Seeds remember Where not to grow. Little red bird, Little white thorn, Some hearts die Before they're born. Count to thirteen. Count again. Never marry Hollow men. Milk turns bitter. Bread turns blue. Ravens know What sparrows knew. Crows eat daylight. Moths eat lace. Every season Knows its place. Count to thirteen. Walk away. Night belongs To yesterday.
By Shannon Hilson2 months ago in Poets
The Leech Song
Little black leech, little red thread, Count all the girls they swore were dead. One came home and one stayed late, One slipped smiling through the gate. White lace apron, iron key, Someone else's pulse in me. Wash the floor and bless the stain. Tomorrow we'll begin again.
By Shannon Hilson2 months ago in Poets
