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.
End Jam Back
Right, time to write Did you just rhyme... Nevermind No, go on, say it Well it's that rhyme Asshole No you're thinking Of assonance But we're still friends Remember not to mention I know not to mention dictatorial leader's testicles And penises Don't worry this is a classy piece About existential misery And Aunty Disestab Lissh' Mentarianism By proxy What? Why by proxy? Good point Why buy proxy when I can shop direct Am I erect or correct. Wait What? Did you just erasure the fuck out of this poem? I made a call today for direct existential poetry and now you're trying to - - You did it again What? You know - you did You're doing it aga- That doesn't even make sense Of course it does It's poetry Oh yeah? Explain I've written it in verse and committed it to screen and paper scroll and parchment Therefore it is now art If cutting a cow and showing formaldehyde up its bum is art Then I call this art You said bum I also said shove Testicles Do you want me to black out you And then no one will What? No one will - - - talking - But theres not even rhymes Why are there no rhymes? Do you hate rhymes? Are you rhyme phobic? No but I knew her sister She chewed with her - closed If you can believe it So proper e-nun seancation And endjamback Wait do you meanenjambmentwhen controlling The pacing and flowno End jam back End.. jam it in. Back on the grind. Or something Whose a fancy fucker today? Who's. I asked you. No... I was. Fuck, nerve mind Fuck a nerve mind Group talk hive mind everybody do the dinosaur Walk like a malfunction in a three piece suite This is why the e is a powerful tool in the wrong hands its deadly. Who killed lee? Am I dead lee? Three piece sweet suite suit or soot How can you hate trees. Who sits there and says "fuck the trees" When I said "fuck the trees" I... Are you blushing? No. Yes. What tree got you weak AF at the knee? Elm? No. Fucking Elm I just hate but maybe later I prefer oak. Well... Does he like you back? You mean bark Woof Just silly. Said you, oak tree end jam back grinding fucker thing you. So important poetry Over on yonder hill I saw a cotton candy mill And I did trot over to it with a sense of truety If you can imagine such a wonderous concept And I did marry a maid of milk and macro nutrients Maid or made? I didn't force her hand That's what she said? That's not how jokes work. I know I know They sell bingo cards to prostituea and winnebago owners On route not 66 the one with the meringues Oh look I had this sitting around waiting for a time like this The wind wis gently blowin' the curtains. Rhythmically shimmying them as it drifted through the branches o' the ferns tae the south o' oor hame. It whistled its aria o' wistful uncertainty. Rich an' groundin' the scent carried through mah opened windae. Fresh grass cuttings an' the earthy richness o' soil vibrant wae life. Today wis a normal day. Ye ken the kin o' day where there's peace an' quiet until a loud thud breaks the spell cast by the siren's song. "Andy! Andy lad are ye in there? Din,nae ignore me ya bastid. Ah've got summit important tae tell ye. Let me in!" "Hawd yer horses ya Maddie, Am domin' tae the door noo." As Ah unlocked it, the brass hawndle jittered an' the lightweight door swung back pullin' me wae it." Now I feel complete. Wanna fuck an oak with me?
By Paul Stewart4 months ago in Poets
A Poem to A City
If this city and I are lovers, I've caressed every curve, learned her secrets in the night, in the light. I've seen every shade. I prefer her in the moonlight. It's only in that pale light she reveals her true nature, without any masks. And I, her lover, sit in silent awe, half man, half machine, riding upon a throne of steel. I quietly listen to her story, night after night. - A Cab Driver
By Alejandro Arango4 months ago in Poets
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 Stewart4 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 Daux4 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 Slayer4 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 4 months ago in Poets
