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.
The Shape of Red
Distinct possibilities endeavoring to bury self-taught manipulations carried away by the wings of eagles, torn in two by vultures filled to bursting with rust and steel, sustaining dead eyes, maneuvering starlight skies into coal, correcting thee angle, fixing the edge, establishing the door of entry, who can stand at it without opening, the allure is beyond measure. No parameters may be found, astounded by the cosmic architecture, shapes bleed into colors, then to sound, the vibrations morph into matter then fall back to shapes, the cycle ensues, red glorifies herself above all and melts into sound everlasting, her own distinct echo, vibrating faster erupting at the time the others returned to colors, she paints them with her glow, now all colors are red and her song as she evolves from color to sound is a new song, a song that will last but a fraction of time, to now burst into the form of red, beautiful and comely, then within a wink she has dissipated into color once more, never to be caught or seen within these transformations, for who is patient enough to wait, to watch, to be still and quiet, to see without sight, if you do these you will witness this fantastic design, some would believe it torture, some believe it to be love, in symphony, however, it is as the eb and flow of particles of whos behaviour we know nothing, unless we dare look into depths we seek not naturally, it is here we watch the magical orchestra of transformation and growth. Close your eyes, it always starts with a shape and a color.
By Johnny Gerbrandt5 years ago in Poets
Malachite
Colour is not a safe catchment. In a breath we take in all the hues. We lose our boundaries, and become non-specific. If we hold closed the door, we are only to be found died in the wool. My partner and I take excursions into the supposed other gender. We wear the wrong colour, on painted nails, talking like the others taken mistaken pronouns. Sitting in the seam between two giant cushions we lift ourselves up to take a ride out. Opening the bike shed to reveal an unexpected unofficial anniversary offering of a malachite mountain bike. Handsprayed with love and deviance. Pushing out the Pashley for myself, we dipped out to take in bountiful surrounds, sounds of trees creeking themselves on either side of the cycle way, down through the arches of the canal aquaduct where dripping long stalactites narrowly miss a rhyme, and we stop.
By Joseph Gardiner5 years ago in Poets
