"surrealist" poems
Surrealist Cut-up
boatman Purple haze
contemplative pouring
the sky as lone
rides the horizon.
islanding
into the lake,
Cubist
Arc to the horizon
apparition, brooding figure,
a form rides in twilight haze
junction of the worlds
into a slither of light.
Literal
Purple haze islanding the sky
pouring into the lake,
as lone boatman
rides contemplative
into the horizon.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Surrealist Cut-up
them of drooping
perspective them blue water lilies,
branches boughs, the blue wavering
illuminated that window is causing These the stars
in moonlight, to shiver; late in
a ripple, then, blooming
The clouds, sky, tither.
Figurative-Literal
These the stars then, blooming
late in the blue sky,
a ripple is causing them to shiver;
The clouds, perspective
branches of drooping boughs,
that window them
blue water lilies, illuminated
in moonlight, wavering tither.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Surrealist Cut-up
lotus pond lonely on the bridge
verdant in spring still in the garden
Literal Figurative
Lonely bridge on the lotus pond
in the still garden verdant in spring
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
ARIES: stay away from cats claws and hours past midnight. good day for purple lips and kissing your mothers cheek
TAURUS: your leg hair will grow and it will feel like beauty. you are lost and will not be found and this will feel like being a child again
GEMINI: clocks will move backwards for you today. when his hand catches in your hair, go home with your shoes clutched to your chest.
CANCER: spiders beckon new hope and your feet will crush the crocuses in your front yard. don’t be late.
LEO: today is a day to listen. listen to silence, listen to noise, listen to sobs, listen to laughter, listen to your heartbeat. hush
VIRGO: itchy scars are a sign of past romance bubbling to the surface. avoid broken windows and crying
LIBRA: you will love your freckles in the mirror and when he says he does not, leave him. good day for hauntings
SCORPIO: you will feel it. bad day for fresh-cut flowers
SAGITTARIUS: two chimes means a secret is about to be revealed. watch for smudged mascara and track marks
CAPRICORN: destruction comes with a price. squeeze her hand extra tight when you leave; she’ll be back eventually.
AQUARIUS: you can not be silenced today; this is not always good. bad day for second hand books
PISCES: read your mail and stay out of the rain. avoid gray eyes and sleeping late
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
My flesh grows tired.
Sounds seep through the walls
Chaining me to consciousness.
The flood seeps through the walls
To drown me in my sleep.
The floor breathes beneath my feet
And its heart bleeds in the corner
Where I dare not glance.
My flesh has betrayed me.
My mind is a surrealist.
I hear birds taking refuge
In my ceiling
Leaving their hollow bones in a pile.
If I spoke their language,
I would ask them to stop,
For I am not fond of
The sound of wind chimes.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
Walking past spiral arms of galaxies I hid myself in folds of a warped
reflected on the morning walls, timeline; deeds that filtered all light out.
Bent clocks, warped doors, stretched arms, Awash in the waves of your G-rays
But your song found me. bathed in sublime warmth;
I see your finger twirling universes out, I've seen your hand pick me up
your lips kiss the flaming skies. in every timeline I've walked.
Which manifold do you inhabit, I know you, time-traveler,
miracle-monger?
Hymns, hushed whispers,
a hundred jasmine buds,
the distant stars,
synapses.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
Today, I am eighteen
And I'm going to the park later but sitting in the dark right now is honestly the only thing I need
Eighteen
I can buy cigarettes and lighters - responsibility is everything and it's like all these chains are getting tighter
I'm eighteen
I can get ***** magazines
go into bars, but I can't drink
And if I break the law my adult record'll forever be unclean
Eighteen, im all grown up now- act professional, be completely unsusceptible to childish things like tears and tambourines
Eighteen-
and this feels just like a dream, like a surrealist painting come to life but nothing's changed at all
And I'm finding myself missing
Seventeen
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 8:58 AM UTC
If I could draw or
Paint or sketch,
Or sculpt or even
******* embroider,
My self-portrait
Would be titled
Cliché, Bright Eyed Girl,
Girl Who’s Falling
For ‘The Bad Boy,’
Girl who Doesn’t
Stand a Chance:
Girl Self-Involved in Petty Problems.
I’d be a surrealist
I’d befriend Zelda Fitzgerald
In Paris, then the clinic:
A sad clown face
So eager and fragile,
Drooping low,
Fair, but not the fairest
Dripping, melting,
Like those clocks, or something
into a dream,
Where I, a Botticelli,
Venus,
You, a Gonzo trip
And you’d press into
My soft full hips
With nicotine stained fingers.
A bee coating the peony,
Such slick pollen
From past flights of fancy:
You linger for the most succulent taste.
I’d trace the ink of your tattoos,
They lay beneath your skin.
I’d crawl down there too,
Pushing up against your veins.
With the crest of a wave,
We’d crash together,
Golden silk surrounding us:
Coming
Out of the foam.
Then I come back,
Back into the frame:
A sad little girl,
Face lowered,
Unruly hair shadowing her face,
While you look past,
Walking away in the foreground.
But I can’t paint,
Draw, sculpt, whatever.
I’m no Dali.
Just like I
Can’t make you
Fall, fall, fall,
into a cliché,
In love
With me.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC
what is a telescope
-a tyrannosaurus skeleton
-a reluctant birthright
what are *****
-a state line
-an obsolete receipt
what is a wave
-grandmother says: she will never forget as long as she lives
-a forest trail in thick fog
what is sea sick
-he ran over a dog
-wettest March of the century
what is an hour
-no smoking allowed
-the fuming face of a buffalo
what is sunburn
-inedible black toast
-I think she slanders me
what is wine
-overnight contact lens solution
-a humble canal
what is a mirror
(child | beluga)
~(ham):o + ¥ineapple
what is travel
-a last minute thing
-warmth within a windshield
what is revision
-a slow explode
-milk in coffee
what is antacid/calcium supplement
-a bottle cap
-handy clutter
what is a fist
-something to try eating when in circles
-flour, 1-to-20 eggs, some ennui, expiration dates
what is a sigh
-a fresh seismograph sheet
-sound mechanical in early morning
what is skin
-a shoelace
-child labor
what is a workshop
-scalpels, piñata bats
-a lunar module
what is that shiny dead thing in the green eyed river
-New Year’s Eve ball drop
-otherworldly return to beginning
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
A red bird has flown soaring in the great height of the
purple sky. The thrilling scream was as a shrill cry on
the soundtrack. The bird has disappeared into the sky,
and all it could be heard was the sound. That cold sound
became fluid in the ears. A forked green lightning following
a zigzagging pattern appeared from an antimatter space.
The eyes fixed wide-open up, and the mouths kept silent.
A ship has left the dock to disappear in the mobile horizon.
It seemingly disappeared and reappeared based on where
the eyes were looking; the eyes were not able to leave the dock.
When the ship could not be seen, a prolonged blast could be
heard. Finally, the ship disappeared in an antimatter space,
where cold could illuminate and beat the heat to burn everything
as we beat the heat with icy cold neck wraps. The eyes fixed
wide-open toward, and red screams grew from open mouths.
The sun lost its strength to become redder than it was before.
In the twilight, its disk disappeared below the mobile horizon.
Its power was in the spirit and the matter of the freezing cold.
The eyes were unable to see where the sun was going. In the
soft and purple mist, they looked like little amethyst stones.
The violet light slowed down in the water much more than the
red light refracted. The waves of alternating strength in electric and
magnetic fields moved around the Earth in the tick of a clock.
The mouths murmured, but the anti-sound made them all be quiet.
From an airplane in the sky, the eyes could see two rainbows with
colors in opposite order forming a complete circle. The eyes could
move up and down to see the red light that refracted out of
the droplets at steeper angles than the blue light. The mind could
imagine another rainbow made of complementary light wavelengths
such as green, blue, violet, red, orange, yellow-orange and yellow. The
sea shone brightly as a sky full of red and bluish comets having
tails like trains carrying hydrogen cyanide. Strange, sharp and
cutting words wounded the mouths stopping the thoughts to breathe.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
This the inspiration from the same old songs
Painting memories as the sunrise sways to moonlight
Writing out immaculate fantasies in which I long
To see vividly in reality as an endearing sight
Seducing fixated thoughts into a surrealist abstract
A senseless halucination seperated from common fact
Spilling out vague accounts of thoughts days before
Monotonous literal interpretations of living dreams
Dwindling epiphanies leaking from persepections pore
Forgotten pieces of satisfaction that we can't redeem
Except on these tattered memoires I've come to resent
Piles upon piles of dying highs rotting on parchment
Despondent attempts to reanimate decaying emotion
Through a larger than life sincerity hidden in rhyme
Showcasing empty facades and uncertainties devotion
In vain of the first conception that changed as time
Makes a mockering of the beauty lost in every moment
Restless sensations trapped within all the verses spent
Broken words of rememberance that a poem leaves behind
Untimely rhythms growing more useless as days pass by
From the deliverance of meaning in our star-lit minds
To the desperate hour where we can't find a reason to try
We're searching for an excuse to have our names defined
A theme on a story that will mean something once we die
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
It is here
that broken memories find their home.
Divorced from the nests
they have made in our chests,
sinking talons into hearts
and clogging our veins
like the junk from a million Wal-Marts.
The air hangs like flypaper,
catching every breath
like a moment in time.
Every foot falls on crust and grime
and used needles.
The colors are faint
but still bursting with life,
pastel shades of peeled paint.
There's a girl with antelope antlers
and a man with a lobster head,
A lobster made completely
of whole-wheat sliced bread.
There's freaks of every size and shape
abominations of every description
but for a surrealist,
these thoughts are our prescription.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70
I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both
I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands
I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses
I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction
I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship
I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist
I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree
I want to be like Jeff Lebowski
I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties
I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path
I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies
I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral
I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, **** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’
And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be,
I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now,
I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke
I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow
I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11!
I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be
But right now, I am the me, that I want to be
And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
Surrealist Cut-up
pouring in together in the cold, huddled
in the harvest Grain-stacks, on the farm
from the palms. gathered
heavens for Thanking gradient mist
clenched the earth in evening skies;
Figurative-Literal
Grain-stacks, huddled together in cold,
gathered on the farm
in gradient mist pouring in
from the evening skies;
Thanking heavens for the harvest
the earth in clenched palms.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
I dreamt once of falling,
falling, through
the tales of my life;
and everything
was dim, and my
truths were twisted,
distorted into beings
of fantasy, of light,
and of darkness.
I saw then that this
was because my eyes,
though turned inward,
had yet to cleanse
themselves of the dust
of illusion, which is the
nature of existence,
and which, though neither
good nor bad, is an obstacle
to the perception of the
truth. Thus, when I looked
upon my truths of vision,
I recognized that these were
doubly mine, for they were
formed not only of experience,
but of illusion, and the dreamings
of my mind. And I acknowledged,
in dream, that this was neither good,
nor bad. Determined, however, in
the view of my understanding,
flawed as it was through its
passage into my-self, through
my-self, I looked about me for
the eye of my beholding, that
I might wash it clean with
the realization of its folly,
and I saw that I was within the
eye of my perception, and that
it was in me, and that in ultimate
reality, my Self was the essence,
and the quintessential embodiment
of the eye of my perception,
which was clouded through the
veil of existence, but which
possessed the power to see into
the depths of the universe, and
into the sacred mysteries of
the cosmic heart. Therefore, I
reached outside myself, into the
vastness of the universe,
and inside myself, into the
intricacies of my heart, and
found there my eyes, and
wiped them clean. Held in my
hands, within the clasp of
my fingers, blind I saw, as my
eyes saw, the pulsing of the
veins through my fingers,
webbed and branching
bridges, filled with the blood
of my heart, which was life,
which was the essence of
the universe; for within every
speck of nothingness, I saw, were
the seeds for a thousand, thousand
universes, of boundless life. And I
saw, in that moment in dream, that
there is no end to nothingness,
and so is no end to life, even in the
midst of all absence. Seeing this, I
released my eyes, and
my sight returned to me; and I
saw through it my distorted truths.
And before the sight of the eye
of my perception, cleansed of the fog
of life, which had clung to it
unceasing, from the moment of my
birth, free of all illusion, I for the first
time beheld myself; and I wept, in joy,
and in sadness, for I saw then that
what I had perceived as the distortions
of illusion, were in reality, but the
essence of my truth, tilted so,
that the light of my perception would
scatter upon them, shattering into a
thousand fragments of reflected hues,
and that these were not the images of
falsehood, but rather my Truth, colored
in the truth of my perception, into a
form that I could understand, within
the illusion, that is the nature of
existence. I saw this, and wept, and in
weeping, my heart was cleansed,
and my soul was freed of the burden of
existence, and of perception. Adrift then
in the nothingness of my Being, I recognized
that I was not, and yet, that I was, unique
in the vast glory of the oneness of my soul
with the soul of the universe, which is the light
of all souls, future, past, and present, as it is
One soul, of all, above all, within all,
which is Love, and Truth.
I saw this, in the nothingness of
my being, which was in truth,
everything, as it was nothing,
in time and out of time,
in the glory of change in stasis,
and stasis, within change.
I saw this, in that moment,
in dream, outside of all
moments, in the circle
of time; and I woke,
to the illusion of the world,
forgetful as always,
as to the nature of
Dream.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
insatiable hunger
your lips pressed into my neck like a velvet secret
your hands dripping down my body
washing away the broken bones of the past
my back arches to the heavens
and i tear away the skin from your rugged back
unveiling blackened angel wings
wings weathered by far too many storms
as you water my forbidden garden
your eyes devouring every inch of my presence
finally lay into mine
draping my trembling body in a blanket
woven from acid sunsets and the fullest of moons
succeeding the surrealist of dreams
i lift a gentle hand to your mouth
and slip my finger past your ample bee-stung lips
you take me in as if my fingers are oozing honey
as your love oozes inside of my pulsating lotus
the petals spill from inside of me
waltzing atop my lust soaked thighs
these thoughts they drown me in star-less nights
writhing to keep my head above water
just so i can once more
perish in loves arms
and be reborn into your eternal light
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 1:50 AM UTC
*insinuate me
into your waking moments
like a pervasive mist
unveil my presence
like a long-kept secret
and hold me desperately
like i matter
nibble my ear lobe
and whisper to me
things no one else will
drift away with me
till dawn
and walk us through the avenues
of your mellow dreams
till all i can do
is pace the mad floor
like van gogh in relapse
or splash paint
like a surrealist brat
carry me on your person
like a gem
and elevate my image
like a crucifix
be thou my muse
when i create pieces of rare genius
for posterity to marvel at
above all
savour me
like i was made of honey
and follow this template of love
like your sanity depended on it*
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
He creates alternative facts
for no good reason
just to be an ***
what the hell for
don't ask me
he thinks someone is listening
to everything he has to say
all the lies he tells
taking pictures of himself
through the microwave
lying through his teeth
about his taxes
throwing mirrors at stones
shattering the truth
roaming his labyrinth
fiddling with his ******
while Rome burns
with little hands all a twitter
making up political speeches
while sitting on the *******
and spitting on the floor
writing surrealist poetry
on the walls and calling
them executive orders.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
Morning
Moon
Grey wind
Howls
Sophistication of
Alaska snow even
Buries those holding
Bouquet of rose
The sudden ennui
Kills the burning fire
When partly sunny turns
Mostly cloudy
When the universal hue remains
Silent with a smile
Whose sly portrait
Flashes once in a while
Yet this book of a surrealist
I hold close to my chest
Secures me whose oblivious minds
Attempts to retreat to the west
and the feeble flame of
The spark of a pen
Ignites my depressing hay
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
Slip the knife in to feel incredible
Uppity old fiend
Consumate and scheme
A ragged representation
Reveal yourself offscreen
You ain't all what you used to be.
Dopamine disconnect
Reprint the picture
Surrealist architect
Initiate surrender
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC
Poetry, my companion poetry,
Always with me in the grind,
The one I speak to in the solitary
Confinement.
You were born out of life
That was silent until I met you,
From the fountain of words
That I am drunken from.
Your grace in the theoretical
Chaos is what keeps me focused
As I trace the oblivion into form,
Together birthing inklings of
The journey.
And you are the voice of wombs,
The beginning of my dreams,
The ending of my awakening,
At times we collided and formed
The polyhedron shaped mirrors
Always conflicting the original reflection.
But you are my friend,
All that is real in this surrealist
Pavement, I am not myself without
Your balance,
Both crazy and sane,
Still I have not known the difference,
And I have no cover without you,
I become a picture of a child,
Lost in the city,
Lost among the sea of eyes,
All staring at the orphan.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
Aniu,
dostałem słuchy na temat grafiki - nie jestem Surrealist'ą z poprzedniego wieku (tzn. dwudziestego), to już mineło... może i też miałbym pozory sfobody by skrytką zza popularną sztuką miałbym brać jakiegoś malarza na front jak by to było wydanie Ortodoksji zwane Penguin Publishing House, ale wolałbym mieć pod uwage geneze, tzn. kompromis braku koloru i tą nadrentą komplikacje modernizacji na tle "programming" szyfrem komputera - a ten kompromis? szyfr chemika... wiem że to może brzmić zbyt contra idei ładnego obrazka czy tez ikonoklazm'u wedle sukcesu sprzedarzy książki - ale jak orginał to orginał, bez kiszeczki, bo kto tak naprawde chce pokazać tważ niechaj pokarze ją niż maske pierw - wiec myśle o notatkach z sfer chemii w goły-trakt poezji. przesyłam jeden przykład, trzymam notatki inne takrze gotowe, ale to jeden przykład; nie chce sie chować pod skórą innych artystycznych wybryków - szczegółowo poza gruntem orginału pisma jako malunek pierw, a pismo po (ksiązka to nie Boeing 747: obraz pierw a dzwięk po - tzn. dzwięk pierw, a obraz po) - a więc i też skreślam zaufanie co do piękna malowidła jako przeciw tego samego niby ambasador'a dającego ochrone pod tytułem: brzydastwo wiersza konieczne; wole by jedno z drugim miało zaufanie, czy też wpomnienie obojga na począt i na koniec: na trasie wątpień i zarysów warte twarzy w publicznym miejscu poza oh ah ah oh galerii. a więc zakończe - inne e.g. prześle jutro - ten jako prolog w temacie: o co mi chodzi.
Mateusz.
p.s. oczywiście ominołem ę czasem, lecz jest zachowane w przykładach głębin - ale to nazwe proto-ortografia Polaka poza Polską, takie potrzebne lustro w Angielskim 's - czyli liczby mnogej co nawet tłumacz by powiedział: sprechen Deutsche?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
You don't like me.
You like the idea of me.
You like the idea
That someone who is
Suicidally depressed
Can make you
Extraordinarily happy.
You like the idea
That my deep
Cynicism and scepticism
Can fuel your
Overjoyed optimism.
You like the idea
That I'm the
Wonderful, beautiful
Intelligent, nerdy girl
You thought I was.
I am nothing.
I am empty.
I am not an idea.
Ideas are dangerous
Exciting, giggly.
They fill the idealist
With roaring delight.
Such a fantasy
Couldn't be real but in
The mind of a
Surrealist, Idealist
Socialist, Capitalist
Fascist.
I am not an idea.
Ideas are fun.
I am not an idea.
Ideas get things done.
I am not an idea.
Ideas are good.
Ideas aren't real.
I am real.
I wish I was only
Your idea of me.
I wish I wasn't real.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Here comes this serial killer looking creep
Thinking he's here for just a little peep
He just a little whacked out manic
Energy spurts come in an inconsistent panic
But I promise I'm an all right dude
Even though I act a little rude, but crude
I'm the leader who takes apart machines
Been my own man since I was fourteen
He's the maniac creator
Makes all the world his theater
In his head lives every world
Swirling around in a surrealist twirl
He's a trash picking racoon
Looking like a tin foil hat loon
Now here I go making another promise
I'm a monstrosity Frankenstein colossus
I build dreams out of your waste
Assembling beauty with a fever pitch haste
Don't ever doubt what I say
Even if it sounds preposterous and risque
I make some of the weirdest things
Meant to illicit grins from my deepest sins
Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 9:01 PM UTC
A red bird has flown soaring in the great height of the
purple sky. The thrilling scream was as a shrill cry on
the soundtrack. The bird has disappeared into the sky,
and all it could be heard was the sound. That cold sound
became fluid in the ears. A forked green lightning following
a zigzagging pattern appeared from an antimatter space.
The eyes fixed wide-open up, and the mouths kept silent.
A ship has left the dock to disappear in the mobile horizon.
It seemingly disappeared and reappeared based on where
the eyes were looking; the eyes were not able to leave the dock.
When the ship could not be seen, a prolonged blast could be
heard. Finally, the ship disappeared in an antimatter space,
where cold could illuminate and beat the heat to burn everything
as we beat the heat with icy cold neck wraps. The eyes fixed
wide-open toward, and red screams grew from open mouths.
The sun lost its strength to become redder than it was before.
In the twilight, its disk disappeared below the mobile horizon.
Its power was in the spirit and the matter of the freezing cold.
The eyes were unable to see where the sun was going. In the
soft and purple mist, they looked like little amethyst stones.
The violet light slowed down in the water much more than the
red light refracted. The waves of alternating strength in electric and
magnetic fields moved around the Earth in the tick of a clock.
The mouths murmured, but the anti-sound made them all be quiet.
From an airplane in the sky, the eyes could see two rainbows with
colors in opposite order forming a complete circle. The eyes could
move up and down to see the red light that refracted out of
the droplets at steeper angles than the blue light. The mind could
imagine another rainbow made of complementary light wavelengths
such as green, blue, violet, red, orange, yellow-orange and yellow.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC