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.
Rotted See Ya's
Where does it end, I wonder Inside of you or inside of me? Caged or broken or lying on The wilted linoleum floor? Did you empty your dreams Down the drain like your little Picture books instructed? I wonder if you cried when The night sky hid behind a veil, Tucked its face away from Your inquisitive eyes. You thrashed in your sleep And screamed until the renters Finally made a fuss. There are flies buzzing about In the dead expanse of your eyes. Doesn't it remind you Of our little goodbyes? Rotten in the mouth already And buzzing with insects, The goodbye was too old. Be sure then to eat it quickly Before the rot has a chance To sink into the flesh Of whatever fruit this is.
By Silver Daux2 months ago in Poets
Becalmed
Introduction I'm in another of those periods where I am unable to write. It is slightly weird because there are lots of things going through my head but I just don't know how to put the things together. I was thinking of maybe doing a piece on words, or a story with the theme of being becalmed, and the Brian Eno piece came on the player so that may have influenced me, then there are the two current Vocal challenges "Smooth" and "Identity".
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 2 months ago in Poets
End Jam Back
Right, time to write Did you just rhyme...           Nevermind No, go on, say it Well it's that rhyme Asshole       No you're thinking       Of assonance But we're still friends Remember not to mention I know not to mention dictatorial leader's testicles           And penises Don't worry this is a classy piece About existential misery And Aunty Disestab Lissh'           Mentarianism By proxy What? Why by proxy? Good point Why buy proxy when I can shop direct Am I erect or correct. Wait What? Did you just erasure the fuck out of this poem? I made a call today for direct existential poetry and now you're trying to - -         You did it again What? You know - you did You're doing it aga- That doesn't even make sense Of course it does It's poetry Oh yeah? Explain I've written it in verse and committed it to screen and paper scroll and parchment Therefore it is now art If cutting a cow and showing formaldehyde up its bum is art Then I call this art You said bum I also said shove           Testicles Do you want me to black out you And then no one will What? No one will - - - talking - But theres not even rhymes Why are there no rhymes? Do you hate rhymes? Are you rhyme phobic? No but I knew her sister She chewed with her - closed If you can believe it So proper e-nun seancation And endjamback Wait do you meanenjambmentwhen controlling The pacing and flowno         End jam back End.. jam it in. Back on the grind. Or something Whose a fancy fucker today? Who's. I asked you. No... I was. Fuck, nerve mind Fuck a nerve mind Group talk hive mind everybody do the dinosaur Walk like a malfunction in a three piece suite This is why the e is a powerful tool in the wrong hands its deadly. Who killed lee? Am I dead lee? Three piece sweet suite suit or soot How can you hate trees. Who sits there and says "fuck the trees" When I said "fuck the trees" I... Are you blushing? No. Yes. What tree got you weak AF at the knee? Elm? No. Fucking Elm I just hate but maybe later I prefer oak. Well... Does he like you back? You mean bark Woof Just silly. Said you, oak tree end jam back grinding fucker thing you. So important poetry Over on yonder hill I saw a cotton candy mill And I did trot over to it with a sense of truety If you can imagine such a wonderous concept And I did marry a maid of milk and macro nutrients Maid or made? I didn't force her hand That's what she said? That's not how jokes work. I know I know They sell bingo cards to prostituea and winnebago owners On route not 66 the one with the meringues Oh look I had this sitting around waiting for a time like this The wind wis gently blowin' the curtains. Rhythmically shimmying them as it drifted through the branches o' the ferns tae the south o' oor hame. It whistled its aria o' wistful uncertainty. Rich an' groundin' the scent carried through mah opened windae. Fresh grass cuttings an' the earthy richness o' soil vibrant wae life. Today wis a normal day. Ye ken the kin o' day where there's peace an' quiet until a loud thud breaks the spell cast by the siren's song. "Andy! Andy lad are ye in there? Din,nae ignore me ya bastid. Ah've got summit important tae tell ye. Let me in!" "Hawd yer horses ya Maddie, Am domin' tae the door noo." As Ah unlocked it, the brass hawndle jittered an' the lightweight door swung back pullin' me wae it." Now I feel complete. Wanna fuck an oak with me?
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
A Poem to A City
If this city and I are lovers, I've caressed every curve, learned her secrets in the night, in the light. I've seen every shade. I prefer her in the moonlight. It's only in that pale light she reveals her true nature, without any masks. And I, her lover, sit in silent awe, half man, half machine, riding upon a throne of steel. I quietly listen to her story, night after night. - A Cab Driver
By Alejandro Arango2 months ago in Poets
