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.
Where's Joy?
"Where's Joy?" she called. I knew she meant her daughter. But it felt desperate. Maybe through my rose-tinted ears it mirrored or echoed or conflated my own desperate plea into the world. Conventional experts on such matters would suggest the sun shining down on this green and blue land. Or the laugh of children at play, without a care for where their lives might head in days and years to come. Yet others— strange blind people— might suggest it's in the demonocracy they rely on to set matters straight. Even if those matters are battles over the safe passage through a perilous section of water most hadn't heard of before. Where's Joy? In the naked embrace between lovers? Frolicking. Do we frolic enough, like we're on Little House on the Prairie? Frolicking is harder to do in the face of everything and everyone. But does it diminish it? Yes. But no. But always barefoot. On the sand. The field. Or in the pool. Who wears shoes to a pool? Commies? Putin? He dips down, balls first, squatting with a wide thigh gap and double dips. The greedy little fucker. Putin the time and effort to make sure your balls are not shrivelled from all that you do before you double dip the testes in the Volga. Genitals point to the vulva— or asshola, you angry old dwarf.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
Downstream Thoughts
The phone is a bomb in my hand, A portal all the connections I never Wanted to make in the first place. I wanted to live in a creek bed, you know. Tucked away like a salamander only to Pitter-patter through the shallow water And turn my eyes up to the full moon. Nothing good buzzes like that, On/off, on/off, on/off. Alive out of nowhere. Then Dead. I wanted the creek to be filled with cool, Crystalline water and I'm even okay If there's little gemstones of glass Buried in the rocks. Glass cuts open my palm with images. Pretty little pictures of pretty lives. Songs for problems I don't have. The glass would turn into river glass While the Water munched on my bones. The moon, the moon, the moon, the moon Would sing me lullabies until I floated... Downstream.
By Silver Daux2 months ago in Poets
The Unspoken Goodbyes
When two stubborn souls fall in love and break up, the damage cannot be mended easily... Living in a generation where it is considered weak for the men to reach out first, and so-called desperate for the women to reach out, we end up going into our own dark holes for a while, ultimately living out a lie until something so-called better comes along...
By Armand Slayer2 months ago in Poets
The Dwindling Of Expectations
Hidden in the deepest depth of her Soul is a tiny nook, Coveted behind an arched doorway, bolted by a lock and key, Bookshelves line the walls, glass jars of wisdom sealed tight, Perch precariously upon the shelves. She has a hard and fast rule, One destined never to be broken, Is it matter of life and death? No, but it saves her cracks from totally shattering. You know that place between waking and sleep? That’s the only time she allows visiting hours, When she’ll rifle through the aged love affairs, That will always exist behind that doorway. See, she’s not big on love any more, But boy, when she was — well, it was beyond beautiful, It was mesmerising, all consuming, And downright devastating! She now sails a smoother course, Roads that are a little less bumpy, Her chest still carries the residual pain, And her eyes remember well the tears that cascaded. I hear you whisper how boring her life now travels, Because she no longer drowns in the darkest abyss, That one where she was rescued time and time again, By the very souls that threw her there in the first place. Now, the love she holds is self-soothing, Bittersweet memories locked tight, Silence golden, the handcuffs loosened, As she’s learning to navigate the freedom reigned. She’s got a long way to go, She still needs to learn to bend the rules thrust upon her from the past, Daily battles are fought as the war upon her demons continue, While she surfs the highs and lows within her darkness. She wrote this contract in innocent blood, Long before she understood the consequences of time, Her shallow breathing a stark reminder, Of the reasoning behind her very existence, Lessons taken from her hands — loosening and out of her control.
By Colleen Millsteed 2 months ago in Poets
Salt Brine (O Luminoso)
salt brine the tide swallows the map o l u m i n o s a pulling back the horizon i am the ache between a f i r m a t i o n a f i r m a t i o n the salt brine rising inside the marrow hollow bone singing cielo abierto the pressure of depth beyond reach a fractured meridian shifting shifting the current carries what remains unspoken o l u m i n o s a the salt brine burning through the membrane tutto brucia the distance between stars collapses here in the throat stuttering a f i r m a t i o n the topography of loss erased by water erased by salt everything drifting beyond the boundary cielo abierto everything returning to the dark unbound o l u m i n o s a
By Tim Carmichael2 months ago in Poets
Stop.
Staples Nipples Identical Deadameter Entropy Stop Broken Unspoken Token Choking Heretic Usurper Retributory Stop I can't just stop like I know what I'm even doing here. Like know which way north is or what ends my head and arse occupate in the space of expanding atmosphere I am taking up more of with every breath and dodgy moment of my right knee. Stop Alcoholic and chemical strains rust and purify in equal and unequal measures the state I'm in. Body and mind are more or less functioning in steady disrepute and decline Sublimation Knowledge is a foredrawn conclusion Vermilion paints my glassy eyed vision Atrophies are Apostrophes set to antagonise Ever heard the tale of the old man who sought wisdom and pearls from tyrants and dilettantes? Faustus fosters an ever collapsing ideal that we all do what we want for process and damn the consequences Damn the consequences Broken people broken promises Damn the ravens the scavengers corvus the crows draped over like a debutante chucking guts with cheap cider and cheaper thrills as they pick at me Stop Remember to fill up on crud and carbs of no functional purpose. Remember to tip your local tavern barkeep and local counsoler But the lonely But the lonely Will always need And Satre was right and Nietzsche was right but God was right and George Harrison was never wrong And the sound of second hand phone calls make me bleed internally. Stop Consequences the damn Stop Depend on nothing Except the space between your breaths as a counterattack to death's crooked chisel. Second hand phone calls. When you're sat in the room and the person on the other end is talking to your partner or room occupant and the sound drags d r a g s its graphic equaliser spikes down my ear drums and into the cavernous-cavenous acres of flesh and drags a pathway to my heart. You can hear both voices and the one on the other end crackles a little and stutters intermittently. Drapes Scrapes Pares Acre Rec Damn And then I think back To when I had more hope And also less hope equal To those around me who never felt a distant pull towards the ever increasing circular vortex of ideas and plans and plans and consequences and unforseen academic obstacles and interpersonal breakdowns in communication with first hand phone calls and forgotten promises and neglected relationships and forgotten self and neglected self forgotten breakdowns and consequences Stop ... Elepsis For a stop A moment A breath ... Sometimes I want it all to end. To leave it all behind and get lost in paradoxes of my own creation. Sometimes I want it to end before it drags me down further than I can bear. Further than I've already been. To Find Rock Bottom Has A Dnoyeb A void within a void within a void within a crisis I Can't Compete Or Meet The Standards I Set For Myself I'm In C o m p l e t e But right now I need to put outside clothes on put on my outside face and go to see my mother in the hospital because love is vital. Vital
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
