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.
He called her Carolina
I want to build a shack on a shore that looks like a shipwreck on sand with a lighthouse on top. She would stand in a slanting titanic position and go by the name outfits. Cafe Carolina… And inside there would be bars, cafes, restaurants with big ass balconies And cute waitresses in pirate And while sad men would gather around the poker table And while some always won for some lost Some happier than some not Breezy still knew all his bluffs from far away sharpening his cue near the snooker table post. And yes, She would flick her knife at him from under the hat And yes, he would kiss an older woman who would beat all the younger ones by miles at that.. And while strangers would find their world strange The penthouse would floor itself in Penrose tiles.. The cartoonist around the blue horizon would still be sketching the comic strip of post modern lives.. The Jazz would still be conspiring without any given lies. Carolina took in all.. the old, the bald, the tall the ones judgemental, the ones not at all.. Against the bright orange sunset Against the all powerful judgemental god That day Carolina stood tall.
By Huzaifa Malik5 years ago in Poets
Amah's sewing kit
She is a collector—of words, Memories, dreams, secrets and stories. She Dusts them off for that one day in the dark, Inspects from this angle and that. She collects them all like the random buttons In her Amah’s sewing kit. Never bought—They that once Were lost, now saved. Not unlike souls for Jesus Christ. Saved—For a day of reckoning. In its past life, it was a biscuit tin. Now, slightly Rusted, dented, it holds a world of colors and shapes— Redbluegreenyellowpinkblackwhitebrownfadedandbrightboth; Rounds, squares, triangles with rounded corners; Two, three, Four holes; What you need she has them all. She collects slights and insults, shares her bed With them, let them stab her again and again. She weeps. She curls up and waits. By morning, All will be bright, the light would have shifted. She has trained herself not to want Things. If she needs little, asks for nothing, Keeps still until she disappears; Maybe then— Instead she collects demons and ghosts. Locks them up, with the key she keeps warm By holding close to her chest. And she dares not Breathe a little too deep.
By Huzaifa Malik5 years ago in Poets
