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.
Runaway
Leather braced heroes labor up rocky levels trying to recapture a runaway princess, who scrambles over rocks that slip under satin skirts to scrape knees. Sneaking into fissures, breaching my home, a single sapphire slip-on shoe, seeking refuge in too sharp cave walls, to hide behind my body, big enough to close the cave mouth. Sword-scored scales dark as mountain shadowed stone, these plates blend into silk-skinned wings that fling me heavenward. She feels safe tucked between pages and prismatic pyramids and the crackling coal of my over burnt voice. We are mirrored but all switched around me, deep rumbles and accidentally singed words, and her, airy stories and sparking laughter. Nights she curls up against my fire-belly, mornings fishing towns for carrots, potatoes, apples and pears, afternoons learning where she can sit on my serpentine neck, evenings of her adding circular swirling words with small sticks of charcoal to my finished folios. Embers illuminate sunburnt vellum, small tongues fire-lick sticks of charcoal spread smoothly across pages, blank spaces ready to be filled with sapphire, ruby, and emerald painted images. Days laid out before us, images of brown leathered blackguards, her eyes, rolling like a bucking horse. Ruby magma from my gullet, that pushes past pursed lips to lick newly exposed bone. When the smoke settles, she still tucks herself between my forelegs, close to my fire.
By Audrey Larkin6 years ago in Poets
Cassandra Syndrome
Truly, it is you who is skewed in your thinking that this is not all we are capable of. Malicious atrocities of rape and cancer highlight the horizon of human pollution. Turn your nose up and hold your breath to ignore the stench of your mouth. Together we join hands and gayly chant the words that mirror our epic downfall with a riveting tune. Though, please tell me of the many ways my opinion is wrong. My opinion, the one that was granted by my human nature; Not a gift of the government and not negotiable by her reign, either. The conniving angel speaks! His rotten breath does singe my ear; His tongue dances in a way that must be interpreted as a clumsy warning. He coaches us, yes? No, this is free will. Push down his cranium, stand on this man's weakened shoulders, hear the moaning of his bones below your feet, then hang limply from the noose that you slit so many throats to reach. Society is all but an allusion that we are so eagerly ingesting through feeding tubes that nourish our comatose bodies. Raise your palms to the sky with red ribbons winding down the length of your wrists. Scream of the injustice that you dare to leave in the incapable hands of other people. Witness your very fingers brush the quill across the resignation of your freedom. Farewell, sober mind and body, for I have better businesses to attend.
By IttyBittyBatBitch6 years ago in Poets
