"surrealism" poems
You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
She has freckles like little eyes boring a hole into your soul when she looks at you. She has a face as clear as crystal that when you look at her, you can see your own reflection—mirrorless, empty, and reserved. When you press your lips against hers, a flood of poisonous schemes awaits you, and you'll be lost like Alice in Wonderland.
She's an important chess piece that cannot be easily moved; she's a queen, the ace, the king. A pawn may capture a queen, but she is also the king. Her throne reeks of gold and fortune, her mind flows with wisdom, and her body's attached like the goddess Aphrodite. She's the thunder in the rain. Her cries are a woe of revenge and power. Death can not capture a woman like her. She's Eve and she's Lilith. She's a spirit and she can be a snake—crawling with her reptile skin. Her eyes are as fierce shaped as the diamond's emerald and lastly, she's macabre surrealism that when you read her, her true self shows and pushes you to infinite possible dreams you can dream of.
Avary is the bird of thunder. In her cage, she's a young soul duplicated to bring misfortune every time it rains in the spring of Casmorville.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 5:44 PM UTC
She steps out,
Her pea coat peppered in cigarette ashes
Her eyes contain a mystery concealed by her dark revlon lashes
Her crimson heart shaped painted lips aren't enough to distract me from her blue sequin dress, Tightly draped to shape her perfect Pocahontas hips
God bless her sole,
It was too cold for peep toe pumps but venerating value was her goal
I felt foolish handing her flowers,
For when holding them next to her they lost all their vivid surrealism
"They're wild flowers",
I told her,
"California Bluebells"
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
The artist evokes his tormented psyche
Through gestural abstraction
a systematic colorfield emerges
The blurring of dreamworld and reality
All pretensions dissolve
But…
Critics still criticize
Snobs still scoff
the creative will still drink and drug themselves the death.
whichever way the wind blows
that’s where my dreams escape me
They transform to Queens of Hearts and Princesses of utter
Royal
Baroque
Beauty
Bygone
Be Gone
my heart must resist
I will not be controlled by the guild
Caravaggio kept painting until he got killed
Went insane like most artists
Couldn’t stop before he got his fill
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
To the ancient Egyptians
hieroglyphics looked like
IMAX-HD blockbusters;
Renaissance art is so real
it's like the Holy Family's
really right in front of u!
gamers & pervs lose their
egos to avatars & **** -
the surplus visual culture
strikes future generations
like silent movies today;
commercials are empty &
expensive; drama, cliched
stereotypes for the money;
gone are the days of Baal
& Dionysus, & gone are the
ecstatic frenzies, gone are
realism & surrealism; space
is our new home, now forget
everything u've ever known
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes
Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds
The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide
Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull
Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall
I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity
Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull
Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide
Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams
Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis
With glee…
I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
Surrealism gone Awry
Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!
Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.
My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built Cadillac by Saoutchick.
Where everything utter is true.
Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
I shall love diners after Death
Famished from a million mile trek
Soft dances, whimsical, flowing
All in time and in step
Effervescent in its antiquity
Light penetrates the vociferate soul
A blinding silhouette Reveals the true physique
casting no shadows
back, at last, back to the harmony &
surrealism of our sacrarium, our home
no more hours to waste away
nothing to signifying
night from day
no need to search for words to convey
As we began we return just as we should
our recrudescence revivifies our sainthood
with No judgment charged upon us
with no reward for the good
neither condemned are the noxious
immoral nor the many many absurd
For those deleterious malignant calamities
must remain incarcerated on Earth
from whence it came
As we Return once again
soul cleansed in beatific death
The physical abandoned with sin
The dead left unknown,
un birthed
Shut in
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
I am in cold. I watch that garish ward brimming with false light. Bleached air from his lips touching hers. He hides in her mane, sterile and alone. Why is it so hard, such an insurmountable task for you to see how I lather my face with paint each day just to smile at you?
My face, my heart, my mind not a blank canvas that I hide with these diluted pastels but a deep, rich chorus of colors and oils that were never meant to be hidden. But the ward will never know.
There are thoughts and opinions rolling like a torrent behind this mask I call a face. This world was against me from day one, don’t you dare say I’ve given way to cynicism. Nor optimism, pessimism, or God-forsaken realism. Can't I think the earth is beautiful, God is good, I am right, and people are wrong without someone putting an -ism behind me? Of course not. That's narcissism. Egoism. Egalitarianism.
It is what I unknowingly wrote across my mask. But I never chose to attend this outdated ball, masquerades are cliched. Pure romanticism...surrealism, the kin of commercialism whose visage is a polychromatic wheel of logotypes that you just have to know en masse.
What if I stop believing that compassion Himself can hate me? No, no that's atheism. Agnosticism. And if I'm better than someone because He said so then that is monotheism in all it's delicate flavors.
Can't I breathe alone in a quiet corner? Isolationism. Can't I want to simply be a follower, and think about life, literature, and art? Incomprehensible, that would be totalitarianism, absolutism, authoritarianism. What if I want to give God all the power He gave us, and watch the world change? Fascism. Revolutionism. Extremism, because releasing the wheel is extremism. Existentialism.
And what if I choose to remove the mask, break the levees, release the floodgates, my thoughts and opinions, never watch my tongue, and speak the world as it is: A capital M-madman's schism of logic and faith. As it has always been, and always will be. I will always be in love with the counterfeit ward. And yes, there's a label for that: Catastrophism.
So I watch Beauty and his Beast touching in fluorescence. Bleached breath, save for the smoke of his lungs in hers. Sterile and alone; I am in cold, and cold hurts me.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
Those sleepless summer nights
Sweat pouring from every crack
In thinly layered sunburnt skins
It was all panties-on-the-floor
Blood-on-the-sheets
And *******
Living out highschool fantasies
Like the cool kids
Life before 22 was all a dream
Of midsummer swelter and
Salt water
In the mind of the dog
Chained up in the universe's yard
Tethered to the ether world
Racing rabbits through space
While I was turned into an ***
Staring at the mirror
And my expressionless face
*This must be how cancer feels
Growing increasingly smaller
In a world where cabinets
And aspirations grow increasingly taller
She met the devil
For coffee on diagnosis day
But the deal they made didn't take
Her hair fell out
And her body atrophied anyway
She found herself
Floating far far away
Her blood coagulating like
A broken thermometer
Of mercury*
Salvador Dali painted this fall
The house of salvatore
Minds gone to roost under warm eaves
Staring fireplaces
Hungry couches and singing windows
It's all ******* drooping like clocks
And derailing thoughts
The local biddies
Cluck their tongues
At the absurdity of infinity
And the girl in Ace Hardware
Buying shoepolish to hide her tan lines
Yawns, as her boyfriend feels her up
*Meanwhile I collapse
Like a house of cards with a flick of the wrist
Thinking about life's mathematical beauty*
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
and she is like a painting,
the colors of her soul infuse the dark world around her.
Flowers grow at the sound of her laugh,
for that's all the warmth they need.
Her smile radiates across the room,
a light that invites and guides those who are lost.
She lives, not with an overconfidence in herself,
but with an understanding that her beauty is up to interpretation.
She is able to admire the other paintings in the gallery,
but still knows she has something beautiful to offer.
She is just herself,
and she is like a painting.
Sep 16, 2021
Sep 16, 2021 at 2:09 PM UTC
promenades the sleepless night through my, like rain, palm;
tears, counting, marble-toward drops
i am to nothing degenerated,
pirating surrealism.
with my contusions, awareness-lacked, tramples
brought to the temple, rotoscoped, liquidates
from the core, curdled blood.
clouds, sickness with apathy, the air
made balcony on, flesh-spoken, impassioned.
i, the night, erotize
begin their flock, sursum corda!
tremble, i, and scrape the tower before me
pulverization may lead to immunization, where i
melt as sulfur in
Midas’s clasp.
i walked his tread, years on end, scoped out
miserable, fragmented, at startwith:
he touched my arm
and to precious
metals, pitchfork incubated, i arose
fashioned his pedestal, glamored in steps, appraised biased
no represent sources, ideal inertia, this primal adoration
slips of drillpressed kisses
caught off guard.
in the tufts, my mortal : remember, i, of parquet deeply hidden;
i am of a world, peace, cast : however,
deeply
lachrymogenic
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
*
Love is like a dream, so real and unbelievable
It is pure magical realism and surrealism combined
Pinch me if I'm dreaming, pinch me if I'm in love,
For I can no longer distinguish both
I can fly and am omnipotent in dreams,
But I never sleep, and feel powerful when in love
I love her, and she loves me
Everything's a fantasy
I dream and everything is sublime
I can breathe underwater,
I can breathe in space
The stars right before my eyes,
They come, in various shapes and colours,
Like the little fireworks above our heads
When we stare deeply into our eyes,
Stares that melt the heart like clocks inside our minds
Imagine if we fall in love inside our dreams
It would be a layer of inception that repeats infinitely
We dream and love, love and dream, dream and love
And if we ever wake, the memories will remain
So real and surreal that makes us doubt if the memory is real or if what's real is unreal
Did it happen, or did it not happen?
Was it love? Was it a dream?
That is why I say, Love is like a dream.
*
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
_New York
after a trip to Mexico, & not finally explored_.
In 1991, shortly before he died,
Motherwell
remembered a "conspiracy of silence"
regarding Paalen´s innovative role in the genesis of Abstract Expressionism.
Upon return from Mexico, Motherwell
spent time developing his creative principle
based on automatism:
"what I realized was that Americans
potentially could paint like angels, but that there
was no effective creative principle around,
so that everybody
who liked modern art was copying it;
Gorky was copying Picasso;
******* was copying Picasso;
De Kooni
ng was copying Picasso;
I mean, I say this unqualifiedly,
I was painting French intimate pictures or whatever:
All we needed was a creative principle,
I mean something that would mobilize this capacity
to paint in a creative way, & that's what Europe
had that we
hadn't had;
we had always followed in their wake
& I thought of all the possibilities
| [ ], [ ]
of free association—because I also had
a psychoanalytic background
& I understood the implications of—let's just say it
might be the best chance
to really make something entirely
new which everybody agreed was the thing to do;"
Thus, in the early 1940s, Robert Motherwell
played a significant role in laying the foundations
for the new movement of
Abstract Expressionism (or the New York School):
"Matta wanted to start a revolution, m [a movement w/in
Surrealism].
He asked me to find some other
American artists that would help start a new movement;
it was then that Baziotes
& I went to see ******* & de Kooning
& Hofmann & Kamrowski & Busa & several other people;
& if we could come with something;
Peggy Guggenheim, who liked us said that she
would put on a show of this new business;
... so I went around explaining _the theory of automatism_
to everybody because _the only way_
that you could have a _move - - - ment_
was that it had some _common_
_principle_. It sort of all began that way."
In 1942 Motherwell began to exhibit
his work in New York and in 1944
he had his first one-man show at
Peggy Guggenheim’s _“Art of This Century”_ gallery;
that same year, the MoMA
was the first museum
purchase one of his works; From the mid-1940s,
Motherwell [ ], [ ]. ( )
became the leading spokesman
for _avant-garde art in America_;
his circle coming to include
William Baziotes,
David Hare, Barnett Newman, & Mark Rothko,
with whom he eventually started the Subjects of the Artist School (1948–49). In 1949 Motherwell divorced
Maria Emilia Ferreira y Moyeros and in 1950 he married Bettie
Little,
with whom he had two daughters
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
hope springs eternal
in the human breast.
though, we cope to journal
what we can't digest.
i digress. i confess,
i’m a mess yet i address
what i transgress and i reassess
my disposition. for instance,
i made a decision to make progress and what i set, i met.
yet i let myself regress to a great depression
in which i questioned what was predestined
so i searched for penance and found surrealism.
i heard sundry ideals, the sounds of theism.
i let my thoughts run free among the prisms
and tasted other worldly wisdom on my tongue.
© Matthew Harlovic
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
Amidst my self-sinkin' a'droppin' down
into involuntary shunts you note:
*"Pensive, pensive–
He is always so pensive.
He smokes another cigarette
and takes another bath."*
Amidst crossin' o'clawfeet
in clawfoot tubs you repeat:
*"Check the water for them words
you were park-wanderin' a'lookin' for
while I was out all last night
a'lookin' only for you."*
And as I look,
I do only, for you.
*"Sometimes – sometimes I am so in love with you, it's surrealism.
My heart's breaking from the weight, from my romanticism,
a castaway'd castawayer a'makin' memoirs in the morning.
I'm a beach-combing romantic; I'll fall out of love by the morning."*
Ponderin' a'wanderin' takes me back to the Fall with leaves, fallen too;
to our breaking point, pointing skywards in the off-season kite flying season.
I kiss the wind washing over my face and curse all the dumb, **** reasons
that I never did kiss you; I never meant to kiss you. I do only, for you.
*"Pensive, dear pensive,
you do this for me:
Go ponderin' for months–
O' sonderin' on o'er me."*
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Like a fresh breeze
You softly glide along my skin
I breathe you in like oxygen
Filling my lungs like my heart
I love you like art
True, your body is a masterpiece
But too this connection is timeless
Surrealism conjured into existence
We are both and neither one force
While equally, distinctly ourselves
When magic met reality
Our love emerged from the collision
I can't imagine a better life
Without your soul touching mine
I never knew a love like this existed
And I am grateful for every minute
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 3:23 AM UTC
Dost thou even go here?
Can thou even read?
Doth thou know the website thou art on?
Poetry be what we breed!
Ye foolish man!
Ye simpleton!
From whom unrefinement flows!
Thou shalt not write,
On a poetry site,
A work of ****** prose!
Oh yeah? Watch me.
Hello beautiful people. I'm in the mood to philosophize. And this being a poetry site, let's make the topic poetry. (WARNING: this piece will be filled with opinions, personal beliefs, and probably a little butter. If you don't agree with anything I say, good for you. Way to have opinions. AND WHATEVER YOU DO. DON'T SUBSTITUTE MARGARINE FOR THE BUTTER!) Ok, so poetry. I like poetry. And since I'm the one writing this, I'm gonna tell you about my philosophy, and my personal style and influences.
My philosophy that I try to live by is minimalism. Which is NOT laziness! Minimalism is quite difficult really. Anyone can write a nice fluffy poem (and yes, nice fluffy poems can be dark pieces about death and the like.) What minimalism is to me, is the stripping away of all of that fluff to get down to the raw emotion of a piece. An abundance of words pollutes the emotion.
Now, my stylistic mumbo jumbo. My aesthetic has gone through a few phases. A lot of my work is very modernist. What that means is that it deals a lot with... well with failure. Failure of the human race, failure of people, and my own personal failure. But also with separation. Some prime examples of my modernist works are "here I lay a martyr" and "of my faults and follies"
The next phase is when I started writing music for my band (Bisclaveret Marie, we're on Facebook. Check it out.) I became enamored with a man by the name of Jack White. (yes, that Jack White. The one formerly of the White Stripes.) Also the source of my minimalist approach, Jack revived my love for the Blues. When that came crashing into my poetry, it was definitely for the better.
The next phase was surrealism. The use of images and metaphors and weirdness to paint a picture of the emotion I choose to write about. (I don't really know how to describe this, just go read Though There Be Dragons, A Journey Through The Mind of a Madman. It'll make more sense.)
And most recently the Blues have seen a renaissance in my work. The simple lyric structures and rhyme patterns tickle my inner minimalist.
Yeah, so that's my spiel. If you actually read this, you freaking deserve a medal
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
I pull the down blanket over my burns -
body separates from mind, locked to Earth,
held tight against material concerns,
rest awaits overworked tendons of worth.
Body separates from mind, locked to Earth.
When the spirit drifts into reverie,
rest awaits. Overworked tendons of worth-
while masses reject reality, every
drift into reverie. When the spirit
sings an ethereal subconscious spell
of masses. While reality rejects wit
for surrealism and fortune bids farewell
to an ethereal subconscious spell. Sing
against material concerns, held tight
against fortune and surrealism.
Over these burns, we pull the blanket down.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC
she smiled at me
through lab goggles and
a light, latex-gloved touch;
I blushed, looking down at my feet;
I caught sight of
the unseemly lump of
flesh on the table between us.
strange, that this dissection was so
[Russian Nesting Dolls]
meta; two brains with bodies
dissecting one without.
technicolor dreams drenched in
formaldehyde leaching out
upon the stainless steel table
parietal lobe corpus callosum Brocke's
area god I think I love
this girl I
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
It was the rain against the windows
And the moonlight sonata playing
That accompanied my transition
Into melancholy insomnia
In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky
The reading of books and Freudian dreams
The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all
Where emotions are captured and paraphrased
Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia
The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls
A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time
All dissimilar reinventions
Swirling in the incense smoke rings
Dancing in the flowing spirit air
Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes
Memories recall the rain of Pasadena
Over rustic-themed modernism for
Eager tourists and the nonchalant few
Whispering words to descend the stairs
From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside
Years ago in the same position
But younger than I am now
At another desk with a bleeding pen
Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw
Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows
Something hidden underneath the seen frailty
Single mothers courting hairless young men
Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own
Act of demon from the hand of God
Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all;
the men can take a turn in bearing the small.
Tales written from reflection and soul
Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick
The dead that laugh and the living that cry
Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe
Like so many humans do
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
Thriving thrush and widened poppies
Blinding green; a blanket, sprawling
The snow recedes, nature ignites
Wrapped in heat, and warmth, the light
Just like the renewal of my unfolding time
Stepping out from the shadow of my mine
Twas dug deep into the hillside of youth
Slowly we’re pushed out, hatched, spooked
It’s time for growth, and strength, and spirit
Walking towards the stones to clear them
Pushing, heaving, life goes on
A rumble of waves and thunder and drums
My feet will meet the ancient rough
Emotion of awe and surrealism erupt
Highlands and high towns , all that I’ve wanted
cobblestone streets I have always trusted
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
i think
i once read
salvador dalí
dreamed of worlds
full of divine creatures
that fell from the sky like
comets falling from the heavens.
and in his dreams, these creatures
appeared to be different from others.
they reflected a new beauty, a new way
to see the world. and although he attempted
to create art so that others could see what he saw,
many thought that he was a madman. many thought
that he was seeing a world that didn't exist; that couldn't --
but if you see it, who are we to say it doesn't exist; who are we?
salvador dalí once claimed to be both an anarchist and a monarchist.
i like to believe this is possible...if one believes in a world full of kings.
people probably thought dalí was viewing the world through drug-filled eyes,
but dock ellis pitched his one and only no-hitter while under the influence of LSD.
dalí saw, and created, surrealism because there is no other way to see and create the world.
but dock ellis pitched his one and only no-hitter while under the influence of LSD.
people probably thought dalí was viewing the world through drug-filled eyes,
i like to believe this is possible...if one believes in a world full of kings.
salvador dalí once claimed to be both an anarchist and a monarchist.
but if you see it, who are we to say it doesn't exist; who are we?
that he was seeing a world that didn't exist; that couldn't --
many thought that he was a madman. many thought
to create art so that others could see what he saw,
to see the world. and although he attempted
they reflected a new beauty, a new way
appeared to be different from others.
and in his dreams, these creatures
comets falling from the heavens.
that fell from the sky like
full of divine creatures
dreamed of worlds
salvador dalí
i once read
i think
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
A door in the mind blows open -
It floods with grey matter
And hot stares.
Ashes of darkness
Coupled with
Tears of growth
This is incomparable.
Roller-coaster rides
And unrecognisable mirrors;
We've steeped into a portal of surrealism:
With sins and judgement calls that question
The very essence of our hearts.
I really do not want to grow up.
I'm a pair of pigtails who can't
Climb up a step.
Push me, push me, but I can't reach.
When I feel my faith restored
In the overlap
Of green scenes and dental dexterity -
I can only think of one line to combust me:
"He's just being nice."
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC