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.
Something New... Something Old
Twisting and turning. Never stopping just moving on...a leaf caught on the wind.... blown against a tree and shellacked to a windshield...A seed blown across two states just ahead of spring rain...whipped into the crack of a fourth story kitchen window.... These things are wind-driven and I make no fucking sense when I write anymore... So many fucking thoughts and so many fucking words and so many damned pieces of mental duct-tape flying out of nowhere to stick the bitches together and make a crazy kaleidoscope no one understands... increasingly I see the world thru strange eyes...the angles skewed and warped... faces stretched and blurred and voices blending together into a cacophonous WAAWAAWAA's...I have no idea where the fucking wind is blowing me. I struggle for words, sentences and structure to put voice to my insane ramblings. Attention- span daydreams weave sinuously through my verbal brain-vomit like mature maggots through the eye sockets of a road-kill cat. Moments of clarity spear the intellectual chaos between my ears like morning sunlight through a bullet hole in the ceiling of a smokey blacked out bar. Every morning a rattly little red capsule that works less and less to quell the chair-breaking barroom-brawl taking place in my psyche...
By Josh and Misty5 years ago in Poets
Innate Senescence
Flow through me sands of time. Connect these weary joints of mine like constellations in the open heavens. Flow in me and fill me with strength. Flow through me and strip me of memory, of love, of pain. Weave my cycle of life in every direction like endless rows of grain that grow, wither, and sprout again to ripen in their season on a back country road. Who knows where we’ll go? Like a doe in the dark you are silent but wary. Like a lost fawn in your fields, I’m alone. Hold me, dear time. Though your chalice of age may be bitter, I drink. Your love tastes warm like the sunlight that wrinkles my skin. Begin now, or before, or never, it’s fine. With you I am safe. Like the inside of this stick I keep breathing, I tell myself that my needing for you is within my control. But even I don’t believe me. Don’t leave me. Let your roots and my own intertwine like the grandest of oaks in the mightiest woods. Your harmony, balance, and nature complete me. Draw me in. Allow me to see your true nature. I’m willing to wager all that I have that the candor beneath your reality actually affably approaches the distinct duality of eternity itself. A divine dichotomy, hinging on the improbably true fact that all things that exist do so due to your presence. Make me one with you. Give thought to my conscience with adept incessance. Allow me to feel of your essence. Make me infinite. Innate senescence.
By Youri Joseph5 years ago in Poets
