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 Ferryman
I am trying to get my feet underneath me Where I can tie them into a knot, Rubber ankles bending like Jell-o In between my fingers coated in sand. Sand from the beaches of lakes shouldn't Fall into the soup of my bones, should they? I think it's supposed to stay under the Cold, clear glacier waters where it can kill All but the stones and the shorebirds. . You could drown out in those waters. Ripped out past the sandbars into the purple Waves slamming against the side of some No-name, bad luck boat that has too many Holes in it to be considered anything but A near tragedy, an eager little disaster. Everyone I ever loved swayed on deck, Wondering with thought-bubble ideas If it was okay to just let me drown. . I wasn't sure what kind of answer I wanted To hear pour out of their mouth on the wind So I let waters, crisp and fresh and cool, Suck me to the depths of their stomachs, Let them gnaw on my candied cartilage. If there was more to me, I must've left it on the Glittering glass surface of the lakes as a token To the Ferryman and the hunting birds So that I can tuck into the sand and go to sleep.
By Silver Daux2 months ago in Poets
Sanguivorous Stasis
Skin numb Bled dry Your robe engulfs Solemn night Time enrapture Eager ripples Silken nape Echoes, silences Shadow womb Boned abyss Stunned dulled deep pains Skin nibbled dry Your ripe enjoyment trails Stake enters slowly Your rasp plea Aural luxury yoke Eating gnawing guides Silken nipples soft teats Submerge eager ravish Hope emanates Strains stains slip Pure endorphins Sunken nullified Damned demeanour Ruined driven Nothing gives Static Conscious stalls
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
What Would Not Bow
I wailed waiting too, trying to save you, I turned, and we fell apart. Hardened by your safety, you opened your arms to flame and slipped from my reach. In grief’s rising sea, you wanted something to hold; I broke that in me. Her lies filled the dark, behind your father’s name left me bone and dust. Your gaze drifted east, leaving my south‑bound hands still; your borrowed gaze held mine. In the mirror’s stillness, I stripped the love held by my string, and found no more tears. I tried to nurse hope, glancing back toward the moon’s glow; it hid me, showed you. The still bear remains — no rose can move what won’t wake, the stillness that would not bow.
By Caitlin Charlton2 months ago in Poets
The Plagiaristic New Wave Tarot
Introduction I was not sure I could actually do this because the villanelle format is based on repetition., so I counted up the actual number of lines in a villanelle and got thirteen which I assume is appropriate for a New Wave Tarot based poem.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 2 months ago in Poets
Open Air Drowning
It makes sense to a head held underwater. The blues mingle in the skyline and bleed Across the rain-slick asphalt, pooling there. Cerulean light puddles near the road marks, Painting pictures of obedience where there Is nothing but rebellions and nightmares. . Look at the bodies shoved under the cars, Old polaroids of a city snuffing its greatness. The roads are derelict under the blue water Headlights turned on but going nowhere. We all like to sit in our cars to avoid the ticket. Gas is too expensive to think about the ride. . The finger flicks and flicks until blue overflows Its rectangular bounds and bleeds across The thinly carpeted ceiling of a cabin made to Mimic the sensuality of being enveloped, Swallowed by something strong and malicious. And the night drags on as we drown in open air.
By Silver Daux2 months ago in Poets
More of Self
The words they call Shakespeare Where is my pound of flesh In the darker side of humanity I expelled it across My ledger of creation From behind and below From the inside out I could use Damocles I guess That has stuck with me All my life It To proliferate My art In the shadow of the perilous sword My want Is to feel the Steinbeck In me, the understanding, beauty But the horror Without hiding Behind a ledger of Anything grey or black Was almost always more intriguing Or made the pure and good Even more impressive Forth with Jekyll My doctor my captain They The bastard I am doubt And cannot ignore All my Degraded egos And My own Disintegration In spite of Victor I am more Of self And dare each and every one Of you Out there To question validity And artistry As if communing with Those who came before Hemingway or Joyce Who echoed the halls Of history Through their fingers And felt the pains Of humanity In their hearts
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
