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.
Shark fin soup
The fish that Most everyone hates Its name, The Shark The dislike has Been around, near forever But only with “Jaws” Did it turn from dislike to hate At first we killed For sport or out of fear Now we kill for The sharks fins Dorsal, pectoral, pelvic, anal and caudal (tail) The shark is caught sometimes on (long) line, sometimes in nets It is brought on board Out of the life giving sea Into the suffocating air The shark is held in place Sometimes killed, sometimes not The fins are cut off One at a time First the largest Then down in size Until the Smallest in size is cut off The shark without fins Is just a shape Called a fusiform And similar to a cone and a tube That once was whole But now is not It is skin, organs, muscle, skeleton Mouth and brain It is no longer alive and well Its fins are gone The shark is thrown over the ships side This shark is dying The death will come from Weeks of agonizing starvation Hours of breathless suffocation Or the shark which was once predator Will become prey for the first and last time Eaten by what it once ate The scavengers will put it out of its dying misery In minutes of painfully getting eaten alive This was all started With one knife One line or net One person Just for a single Bowl of soup Said to give prestige and status A single hundred dollar Bowl of soup That is not often called Shark fin But Fish wing or Prestige Fish No one knows Nobody cares That to make that bowl of soup
By Huzaifa Malik5 years ago in Poets
Red Car
Careening down the middle the road the car looked like it was drunk I've never seen a drunk car but there I was face to face with one the car churned up little windmills of grit and dirt as it sped on it's merry way back and forth and over the lines it made me quite dizzy to look reminding me of a mad Bea I reached for my iPhone to record it I shall call it voyage of a bumble bee it cut into the cluster of lilies on the side of the road it spit out chunks of grass foolish enough to get in it's way a pretty color of red it was quite a sporty looking car it did not seem to be the kind of fellow to let the booze get to him so intensely but intensely it was got no sense of seemliness or order here a crack of thunder and a bolt of lightning and all was in order and the car went merrily on it's way
By Huzaifa Malik5 years ago in Poets
