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.

Sing to You, I Sing, a Little Lullaby
Sing to you, I sing, a little lullaby. While I cradle your gentle existence in my arms. Sing to you, my baby, a little lullaby.
By Ayesha Javed8 years ago in Poets
Slow Train
Toxic factory spewing chain smoking ashes in your face. throw a wrench into the machine and see what happens. fun times in the field of land mines.
By Andrew Arnett8 years ago in Poets
Heroin
All the people are perfect & your body is filled with lilacs and silk. It’s like he finally stopped hurting you, even though you can tell he didn’t (by the track marks on your arms.)
By Eliza Eastman-Jepson8 years ago in Poets
Tantibus II
I try to make the best of nightmares; they are not inconvenient, really, for they happen in one’s sleep. And the lingering images give me something to write about.
By r. nuñez8 years ago in Poets
Templar Rain
“Why dost thou fret?” inquired the knight Behind his colored shield “Thy face is long, thy eyes as cold As this sword that I wield.”
By Logan Solo8 years ago in Poets
We Knew
Lullaby epitaphs whispered in tones Showing the impact of pilotless drones A phantasm promise of much better days Gave us our distorted error of ways
By Logan Solo8 years ago in Poets
The Star Talers
The boy had been hollow rose Carved out from the hip bones of his mother Beautiful as a choked out sob against silk pillows
By Penny Blake8 years ago in Poets
Thoughts While Eating Greek Yogurt with a Baby Spoon
there will be a day when you will wake up, look in the mirror and have no facial features, not even eyes, and you’ll beg the question, “did i ever need them all this time?”
By Wayne Tate8 years ago in Poets
Some Days
some days i wake up, walk outside, take a drive and it feels like i am seeing the world for the first time some days i have no control
By Wayne Tate8 years ago in Poets
A True Story
there is a flea living in my hairy navel, a queer little bug named Francine from Mexico City’s finest tequila joint, and he told me once
By Wayne Tate8 years ago in Poets
Inside This Oven
Inside this oven where i belong I flip through pots and pans going beyond what most mortals have. I can smell how the butter leavens,
By Greg Sanchez8 years ago in Poets
Psychedelic
So nice, so kind and pure. Once of what she was, 'til she found a new world, one filled with illusions and joy. She used these tiny pills as toys, knowing what they could do. Some might say she had no clue. One then two now it is was a constant move. On the contrary she was smart and boastful just trying to trick the human mind of her abilities. So mysterious, her life could be a conspiracy. She passed as a human but really was an alien. Everything was different she saw the world with constant movement. It was the little pills that changed her view it allowed her to say what she felt was true.
By Cameron Pastore8 years ago in Poets