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.
Storm Views
The words are lodged in my teeth, Stuck between " I was never there" And " Only in my dreams". They're stuck in the skyscrapers Of old desires, the kind that used to Sustain me through the dreary falls. The blue in my veins shifts to grey, The world around me... Covered in a slate haze. Normalcy used to live here, Used to say hello to the doorman With an armful of groceries. He is not as dead as he is gone. Lost now to the river's current Sloshing against the stones. I can almost taste how it was. The sugar-sweet decadence of blood Coating the back of some bitter candy. There was flavor to your sorrow That lingered like fog And wrapped around my teeth. Everything is sticky, On my hands and in my teeth. Sticky, stuck, sticking, trapped. With thoughts that aren't mine, Inside bones that won't cooperate. Locked in old buildings with broken glass. Have I ever been trapped here? Or was it some passing fancy that Rooted me into the ground? Was I just lost in my own thoughts Stuck in a reflection that was Untrue at its very best? What exactly happened to the soul I'd kept pinched between my teeth When rain poured out of the sky? I lost track of it between strikes Of that neon purple lightning Splitting the sky open. Should I have grabbed it and Ridden the jagged waves? Or stood arms open instead? This is another point of failure, Another piece of the puzzle Turning to sand in my fingers. So leave me alone in the fog Rushing between the skyscrapers. Let me wither under my own devices. Let me remember the taste Of a future that has wilted too, If only to pretend it'll be alright.
By Silver Daux3 months ago in Poets
Addendum Obscura
I'm overshadowed by it all The comings and consecrations of a tainted heart once pure The goings and contractions We are all another's rock bottom puddle to avoid... Ah f Orgive me I feel like s Hakes and shivers become me Don't be c Ontemptous Regrets shame accumulate addendum obscura Pain receptors, don't need them The taste of guilt on my tongue Pain receptors, don't need them The scent of petrichor in my lungs Pain receptors, don't need them The scent of verdure— help me? endure? Forget me forget me forget it Salacious sanctum devastation Latrine to cleanup Cleanup in aisle c'est la vie All customers are reminded That that that ... Reproach is given freely in the lobby Lobotomy is given at cost for those I know... Blood— we are all blood, offal, flesh, ligaments and sinew with bones to form us into some making of a puzzle. When alighting from la vie Be careful to tip generously Karma or something No karma I've heard Accuracy In this land of engregious demonautoautootrocracy A penny for a piss A penny for your thoughts Moneypenny for your tauts Welcome one and all for one and all to the garden of delicious delights Be careful of course because the nymphs they bite and cover you in sh Ackles of excess Then the shame rises inside you like balsamic? acid From the addendum of your gut Full of despair and despised by all but not least of all— You. When you can't make hide nor tail of a donkey And the garden— is it full of earthly delights or that one stage of hell most seem to have? Problems arise when problems are given names Just as war is given life from the warning and promise of war Even when peace is met with the sofa of disdain You sit on it. Sink in it. I want to I want to be my own emotional master with a fire that fuels me but I struggle to understand myself Almost always and I have doubts about my heart Almost always Pain receptors, don't need them anymore Don't want to feel them anymore But I need the bite the b— I'll see myself out or should I stay? Say c'est la vie Until I sink to the bottom beneath the cushions of the sofa of disdain and disrepair I can breathe out the toxins and feed on the deliciou SAcathing satisfaction of criticism Soak up the detritus dine on the dead umbilical Ubiquitous the shame Knowledge is the pain A dagger that cuts like the meat grinder of Of ...
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
