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.

perfecto recipe (1)
Damien wiped his hands on his apron and stared at the bubbling pot on the stove. The rich aroma of tomatoes, garlic, and basil filled the kitchen, but something felt… flat. He dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted the sauce. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t right either.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
the echoes of the guitar (5)
The guitar had been both his refuge and his tormentor.Later that night, Jake returned to the attic. He ran his fingers over the worn wood and whispered, “Thank you.” Then he closed the case and left it there, feeling a mix of relief and sadness.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
the echoes of the guitar (2)
He strummed it once, and the sound resonated more richly than he expected. The moment the chord echoed through the attic, the room shifted. Suddenly, Jake was no longer surrounded by boxes but standing in the middle of a smoky jazz bar.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
the echoes of the guitar (1)
The attic was suffused with the smell of dust and time. Sunlight filtered through the cracks of the old wooden shutters, illuminating boxes of forgotten memories. Jake had never been to this part of his grandfather’s house before.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
the echoes of the guitar (3)
This time, he found himself on a dirt road at sunset. His grandfather stood by a cherry-red pickup, a bouquet of wildflowers in hand, gazing at a woman with radiant auburn hair. It was Jake’s grandmother, decades younger, laughing as Henry twirled her around.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
the echoes of the guitar (4)
As the hours passed, the guitar grew heavier in his hands, the memories sharper. Jake saw moments of triumph and pain, but one memory stopped him cold.A young Henry sat in a dimly lit room, tears streaming down his face, cradling the guitar.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
A Viewfinder into The Past
The ice crevasse splits into a million pieces, as snow gently falls into the deep abyss, melting away, the effects slowly fade,
By Sun Bee2 years ago in Poets
perfect recipe (5)
“And I’m telling you what we’re cooking needs,” she said, not bothering to hide her grin. Damien grumbled under his breath but headed to the backyard, where the garden was indeed overgrown. The late-season weeds clung stubbornly to the soil, and Damien could feel his hands cramping after the first ten minutes.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
perfect recipe (10)
It was perfect. The tang of the tomatoes, the warmth of the garlic, the subtle sweetness from the pinch of nutmeg—it all came together in a way that was both familiar and extraordinary. “This is it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “This is exactly how I remember it.”
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
perfect recipe (7)
Damien leaned back in his chair, letting her words sink in. Was that what he’d been chasing? The taste of the sauce, or the comfort of those long-ago Sunday dinners? “But,” Lucille said, breaking his thoughts, “I suppose we should still try to make the sauce. After all, it’s no good without love and effort.”
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
perfect recipe (9)
They simmered together with sautéed garlic and onion, filling the room with an aroma so rich it made Damien’s mouth water. “There’s one more thing,” Lucille said, reaching for a small jar in the spice cabinet. “What’s that?” Damien asked, peering over her shoulder. “Nutmeg,” she said with a sly smile.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets
perfect recipe (4)
Damien blinked. “Uh, okay. What do you need?” She handed him a handwritten list: a loaf of crusty bread, a bottle of olive oil (“the good kind”), a wedge of Parmesan, and fresh basil. “You don’t already have basil?” Damien asked, raising an eyebrow.
By bart santos2 years ago in Poets