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.
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By Lightning Bolt ⚡3 months ago in Poets
Neural Storm. Winner in Static Challenge.
…it's like a network of fuzzy energy stationed around my head— an invisible halo of caged angst that was never invited to be here. yet, it remains. i can't see it. no one can. but i feel it… …it's like a low frequency ballad of vibrating magnetism, thoughts gridlocking before a maelstrom of excited atoms recycles itself again— never leaving, only strengthening in intervals. …it’s like my brain has turned into a plasma ball where wandering electrodes cloud the sense of being. busy arms of branching filaments, reach just beyond the edges of my headspace, creating a faint haze that follows me wherever I go. …It’s like the synapses confuse and misfire, disallowing a steady rhythm of coherent syllables; the tongue would rather sit idle than conversate with fragmented speech.
By Lamar Wiggins3 months ago in Poets
what reading Murakami feels like
the story begins (stop me if you’ve heard this one) with a run-of-the-mill man with a run-of-the-mill job in a run-of-the-mill apartment in japan. living an orderly if lonely existence, pasta and endless beer, a book, classical records. interspersed with occasional encounters with women with curiously placed moles on their bodies, always petite and slender and inwardly intense, a little plain on the outside. everything is plain on the outside. his life is like a snapshot, a hole punctured in the great anatomy of time, around it hissing static. the man gradually becomes aware of the static, can feel its buzz creeping into dreams like inside-out nightmares. he cannot make sense of it. he cannot make sense of anything, just lets himself be pulled along like a person stunned by the smell of the earth after rain, shocked at waking into the absurdity of existence. he quits his job, or no longer comes in, and they fire him. he does not seem to care (I cannot stress enough how he does not seem to care. I cannot ever tell if this is depression or the deepest sense of peace, but my mind always settles on both somehow, and that seems right and relatable in a way that makes my soul thrum.) despite being unemployed now, the man is somehow surviving. whatever boring thing he did gives him an enviable cushion of savings, or he has a mostly-absent partner who works or money is meaningless and he's slipped into the void, the feel of it delicious like the skin coming off a wounded limb all in one piece. he has almost no needs and certainly no wants but to find that sourceless hissing at the corners of his mind like a radio set between stations, the blurring at the corners of the world and his eyes, like every time he looks to the side, someone has just moved out of frame. a past lover. a deceased friend. god, or his benevolent absence. things happen to him, and he lets them, riding the wave of some mysterious frequency. days are spent alone, wandering. he follows a cat into a neighbor's overgrown yard, or a set of stairs to a series of empty offices with strange signs on the doors. days lose their names. the static has moved inside. they are not so separate now, where it ends and he begins. occasionally, he meets a talking animal or a fold in time, and steps over it like a wrinkle in a carpet. or- his foot catches and he falls out into that great hissing buzz, the static really just a vast blackness, scattershot with rippling stars.
By Raistlin Allen3 months ago in Poets
Perdendosi
The house lights come up No curtain call each Maestro and Maestra Lets their baton fall The halls lay empty The balconies stilled “The clarinet is useless!” “It won’t pay the bills!” Horde by horde The choruses chant No rhythm, no rhyme An ignorant lament They sing their verses In boardrooms and bailiwicks Aeolian scales Corrupted, sycophantic One by one The students depart Until the second chair’s Bereft a beating heart The house lights come up The curtain falls But no soul attends This evenings ball Concert halls closed The microphone falls Leaving naught but static’s Lonely echoed call
By Matthew J. Fromm3 months ago in Poets
Suffered In Love (part 2)
I turned reality on and one thing ringed true there is no better for heartbreak when it’s cracked in two. As I started to move peace tried to pass by. But my headache stuck to me like glue. As I fell to the floor my simulation stopped then I came back to the place I knew. I got up and the sweat dispersed I was a total pool. But my love life remained like sand on a beach dry and unsteady as she walked over my feelings stating depart from me I never knew you. While enjoying the day and throwing my thoughts. I thought she would hold them well but she rather focus on the jewelry she brought which was the two pieces of my heart she pulled apart. Then she begin to entertain another man her moves brought the waves he could barely stand. So I decide to carry myself back home more training had to commence.
By Arlo Wysee3 months ago in Poets
The Telltale Signs . Runner-Up in Static Challenge.
I've been thinking a lot about how static builds a charge within us when we caress or rub certain fabrics and materials, how it builds and builds silently, subtly, without warning unless you see those telltale signs: the flicks of hairs standing on end, dancing dust particles.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
