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.
Ritual
The ritual has begun. The baptism has commenced. The outside went up in flames while we were reborn. To purify, to rectify. We christened ourselves in the blood of our lord. We purged our sins. We aborted our flaws. We are the second coming. Remade in the eyes of our savior. To sanctify our revival. We owe you everything. Our inspiration, our possession. You were the sacrifice we always wanted. A perfect specimen. Our demons feasted on your purity. Our devil was a gracious host. We devoured your disembowelment. Dreadful screams, tasty blood. We carved our symbols into your willing flesh. You healed us all. We honor your courage. You gave us asylum, you gave us sanctuary. Sanctum, refuge. We are a new haven until the next necessary victim. The next casualty, the next fatality. We need to be reborn again and again. To be redeemed. To be reawakened once more.
By Anna Torres5 years ago in Poets
Off with your head
I didn’t come here for your promises. I came for your head. I haven’t taken your life yet. I took out your gunman. I didn’t come here for a tank war. I came to watch the light dim from your eyes. I haven’t taken out your infantry. I took out all your arrows.
By Anna Torres5 years ago in Poets
I am the fire
I’ve burned my bridges. I’ve set alight the tunnels. The match is burning. The gasoline is alive. The bomb is one explosion away from an inferno. Some people don’t like the fire. But I am the fire. The flames reach higher than the sky. No fear because I’ve been set ablaze. Gunpowder has gone away. This atrocity is ferocious. This diesel is breathtaking. Jet fuel is another alternative. My torch won’t run out. The smoke ignites. The pit goes up in a flash. The melting flickers. The cremation remains. The ashes are broiled and incinerated. I am the arsonist. I am the fire. I am indestructible.
By Anna Torres5 years ago in Poets
Siren’s song
The song is a lullaby. An epic tune meant to lure me into a trap. The sirens are brainwashers. They are the cause of my yearning. Dark matter is light. They are cunning. They play their screwed up games. I am tethered and out of control. A mermaid on land, a goddess that drowns. They seduce me with lies. They rape me with deception. It’s an infection. My dilemma is my death. A diety with her sights on me. My muse, my inspiration, my undoing. Their voices are fatal. Creators of human destruction. The pagans had no better plan. I can’t seem to run away. A prophetic prostitute. A virgin deflowered. Immoral conquests. I can’t undo the past. I can’t look away. An ancient basilisk. A forgotten fable. They call to passing travelers and they call to me. Enchantress, why do you torment me? Why do you charm the life out of me? Witch, why do you bewitch me? Am I prey to be ensnared? To be spellbound by an infatuation? Why do you mesmerize me? Make me forget about all I know? How do I repel you? Why do you enslave me? Magnetic, enamored. I go to the water to be submerged, to hallucinate. To inhale the flood, to soak in the swamp. The marsh invites me. I go to be devoured. I yield. I go to be free.
By Anna Torres5 years ago in Poets
waLL
It’s sad, isn’t it? How he just stares at the wall, time washing over him like a waterfall. Are there faces in the stone? Does the flatness sooth his itchy brain? Or is it because it is simply there? Solid. Constant. Asking for nothing but giving him everything, it seems. Perhaps its off-white, eggshell façade is the perfect resting place for weary eyes that would rather stare than cry? Who knows what it is he sees? Maybe you? Maybe me? Maybe nothing at all; and sometimes nothing can be everything.
By Gavin J Innes5 years ago in Poets
