The Dead Air

by Andrew Arnett about a year ago in surreal poetry


The Dead Air

The dead air


like the shoe of

the world waiting

to fall.

the building creeks

and bends

and a baby squeals

in some distant corner.

a phone conversation has


above my head.

and then starts up again.

it is a mumbling,


like the talking of

flat-footed souls.

I know what you're wondering

and you know what I'm thinking.

her love is like an


without her the world is too


the world is a stark

mountain range

and I am a goat climbing

up its spine.

or a snake, crawling to

sleep in its base.

surreal poetry
Read next: I'm Tired...
Andrew Arnett

Freelance writer living in Brooklyn, NY.

See all posts by Andrew Arnett