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.
Not Growing Up with Fireflies
Not growing up with fireflies I knew no wonder (NO wonder)(truly no wonder, like some Roman scarred by bloodlust wavingsome bread/circus-tendered hand at some poor soulcondemned to die) which sounds dramatic–save for whenI hit one on a highway choked with tiger lilies,running through the town of Van Leer, Tennessee.I stared, dumbfounded, at the incandescent splatter(like some Roman, with one bourgeois ear to Pauland his Good News that even if you lacked religionyou had nature from the start to prove to you that God existed) and the wipers spread it thin–it faded as the skypaled bloodless into dawn, and I was struck (was STRUCK)(truly was struck, as though some parable had resonatedthrough my thick and Gentile mind) with its climactic disappearance,matching stroke for stroke the spangled cloudless blackwith neon lime, and then the aquamarine with a subtle sea-foam,and then the fading ochre-denim with a fading greenish-grey.Then, in light, of course, a spittle-seeming smear. I trustthe sunshine always to decry the mystery.It does not touch the memory that, clinging, now,invites me to hold forth (like some poor Romansinging candidly his praises to a deaf and dying god)(like some dead god, who, hearing him, must then exterminate humanityto make him see the error of his ways.)
By Devon Heavenshire9 years ago in Poets
The Good Witch
In an instant I knew where I was! The heat, the screams, oh damned be all. They sent me to the wrong place. I'm the good witch and was supposed to stay in purgatory to aid in the transition of the other fairies and witch goddess's to move freely threw this life to the next. Oh damned be,surely not me, the one who strived to do all things right! Now look at me all hot and sweaty, but with ease did I go and always to know thine enemy when a witch ye are!
By thomas coriell9 years ago in Poets
