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.
What Slips in Through the Lines
Entering the darkened cavern of my reverie ([dropping all pretense of covering or paint] {stripping years} and presumption away). Snow starts falling* and drops the temperature* even during the day. Trudging in and out… waiting for breaks in the precipitation… to drag the logs back… or the warmth might die away. Even though I refill the fuel — the thermometer keeps dropping day after day — I start to fade away until finally — the sticks stop crackling. My pointless drudgery has inched to an end. Quietly coming to a state of solidity. My fingers fall on an open pad with pencil & paper /kindling\ to restore hardened hide to softened life. Steam slowly hissing off of pale speckled flesh. In the dancing sparks; as they fly off of me: One could almost swear they see fairies “dart and weave” touching every tiny hair and freckle > leaping in through the birthmark on my leg. Filling me with warmth and energy. Enough to stand and make it through! The words start pouring out of me~ in a shuddering uncertain pump action: : like a sputtering bloody cough. Force building to a blow, revealing the source:::: like a cancer that had been growing unknowingly in the pit of my lungs % waiting to burst and be released. With every word I expel<* more wickedness stored inside me gets torched away by the ignited fae “*” burning with passion fluttering inside me =clearing the way= until they escape in a cloud of burning hot air. Taking with them the last of the condensation clinging to my interior. I am left with words _-=stenciled all over the walls of this cave=-_ in blackened soot. There is a poisonous bile”,, dripping from the holes in reality,, created by the shadows”,, of the 2D”,, letters,, when the sun goes down”,, each night, that can be co’’llected, bu”t don’t let’’ it touch your skin, you wil”l be permanently driven m’’,,ad…”,,
By K.B. Silver about a year ago in Poets
Is Hope?
I see fog on the horizon. The sun's rays have yet to break across the curve of the earth and scatter the low-lying clouds. A misty vapor shrouds any passers by; the field has yet to be crossed. A fog so thick, one would be soon lost. The haze beckons to the few who seek peace from the swirling clouds of their minds. The air is so thick here, you can taste the bitter, acrid burn. Soft gray wisps draw me in, dark, deep hues call me out - as if a moth to the flame. Mesmerized, I shuffle forward; my eyes locked on something... My feet reach the edge of the pavement, the mist begins to kiss and lap at my sneakers, asking to see my feet. I swiftly kick them to the side, and my toes welcome the soft, wet lips, the stark, cold dew. This thing, this soft beast, this silky, shaky, shifting smog eats away at my soles. The balls of my feet long for the grey in front of me as I step gingerly into the waves. They sigh softly against my shins and pull me in. I wade to my waist and wait. I watch and listen but the sun has long left this steadfast grey gleam. The silvery slivers of moonlight sparkle and beg me to come closer; lean in further, breathe in deeper. I push slowly forward, my toes squidging into soft, mucky, murk. I blink and see grey, I turn to look behind, and I realize I can't see the pavement. I can't see the shore. A soft, small whisper shifts and floats across the expanse and fills my ears like a trumpet forcing practice notes through the too-thin ceiling above me. I collapse and cover my ears, shrinking back, stepping, falling, into a deep, dark emptiness. My body falls down, down, down. My hands search for roots, branches, vines, dirt, anything, anything I might snatch to catch myself. My nails dig into the cold, hard walls, my fingertips begin to bleed into the stones. Dirt jams into my cuticles, my fingertips, my veins, and I land on my shins. The ground is soft and wet. Something dark and dank fills my nostrils. Oh, how I long for the sun! I curl my body into a ball and sit, my back asking for space, a rounded wall obliges, and I wait. I hope and pray the sun's rays will be great enough to find me. I notice a lightening in the everlasting darkness and reach out. The cold seeps into my bones, stiffening my sore muscles. I stretch forward still, pushing myself along, right hand, right knee, left hand, left knee, right hand... until I reach the ever-waning light. My knee scrapes something hard, protruding from the soft, wet earth. A handle, a handle that won't budge. So I dig, sinking my nails further and further until the handle moves in my palms. Some cold, crisp thing appears in my hands, the dirt falling to the side. A half-circle, attached to a hollow metal bowl. A pail! I pull harder still, falling back onto my haunches, my fingers pulling the bucket along with me. Something firm and scratchy drags along the skin of my toes. I work my fingers around this cylinder-like thing, and I feel the braids forming beneath my palms: a rope.
By Melynda Klocabout a year ago in Poets
