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.
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
Salt Brine (O Luminoso)
salt brine the tide swallows the map o l u m i n o s a pulling back the horizon i am the ache between a f i r m a t i o n a f i r m a t i o n the salt brine rising inside the marrow hollow bone singing cielo abierto the pressure of depth beyond reach a fractured meridian shifting shifting the current carries what remains unspoken o l u m i n o s a the salt brine burning through the membrane tutto brucia the distance between stars collapses here in the throat stuttering a f i r m a t i o n the topography of loss erased by water erased by salt everything drifting beyond the boundary cielo abierto everything returning to the dark unbound o l u m i n o s a
By Tim Carmichael4 months ago in Poets
Stop.
Staples Nipples Identical Deadameter Entropy Stop Broken Unspoken Token Choking Heretic Usurper Retributory Stop I can't just stop like I know what I'm even doing here. Like know which way north is or what ends my head and arse occupate in the space of expanding atmosphere I am taking up more of with every breath and dodgy moment of my right knee. Stop Alcoholic and chemical strains rust and purify in equal and unequal measures the state I'm in. Body and mind are more or less functioning in steady disrepute and decline Sublimation Knowledge is a foredrawn conclusion Vermilion paints my glassy eyed vision Atrophies are Apostrophes set to antagonise Ever heard the tale of the old man who sought wisdom and pearls from tyrants and dilettantes? Faustus fosters an ever collapsing ideal that we all do what we want for process and damn the consequences Damn the consequences Broken people broken promises Damn the ravens the scavengers corvus the crows draped over like a debutante chucking guts with cheap cider and cheaper thrills as they pick at me Stop Remember to fill up on crud and carbs of no functional purpose. Remember to tip your local tavern barkeep and local counsoler But the lonely But the lonely Will always need And Satre was right and Nietzsche was right but God was right and George Harrison was never wrong And the sound of second hand phone calls make me bleed internally. Stop Consequences the damn Stop Depend on nothing Except the space between your breaths as a counterattack to death's crooked chisel. Second hand phone calls. When you're sat in the room and the person on the other end is talking to your partner or room occupant and the sound drags d r a g s its graphic equaliser spikes down my ear drums and into the cavernous-cavenous acres of flesh and drags a pathway to my heart. You can hear both voices and the one on the other end crackles a little and stutters intermittently. Drapes Scrapes Pares Acre Rec Damn And then I think back To when I had more hope And also less hope equal To those around me who never felt a distant pull towards the ever increasing circular vortex of ideas and plans and plans and consequences and unforseen academic obstacles and interpersonal breakdowns in communication with first hand phone calls and forgotten promises and neglected relationships and forgotten self and neglected self forgotten breakdowns and consequences Stop ... Elepsis For a stop A moment A breath ... Sometimes I want it all to end. To leave it all behind and get lost in paradoxes of my own creation. Sometimes I want it to end before it drags me down further than I can bear. Further than I've already been. To Find Rock Bottom Has A Dnoyeb A void within a void within a void within a crisis I Can't Compete Or Meet The Standards I Set For Myself I'm In C o m p l e t e But right now I need to put outside clothes on put on my outside face and go to see my mother in the hospital because love is vital. Vital
By Paul Stewart4 months ago in Poets
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 Daux4 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 Stewart4 months ago in Poets
