#surrealist poem

[theaskew]

White Gloves, a poem by André Breton & Philippe Soupault and translated by James Laughlin & Clara Cohen. [The Milk Bowl of Feathers: Essential Surrealist Writings, edited by Mary Ann Caws. New Directions Publishing Corp, 2018]

[free-grandmaa]

"Today, I stand for love.. I may not know just yet how to trust it.. but I know it's right, I stand with empathy, compassion, connection.. Maybe I'm a fool, maybe I'm one of none, I can't help who I am."

[zaneshoe01]

Indecisive

Hours pass by Don’t know what to do, so I do nothing Waste my god damn time away Guess I’m in no hurry Of course it’s got me itching Got me thinking overtime What the fuck do I do? Tryna be a poet baby, gotta live that poets life Of sitting in empty rooms wondering what to do Or gritting my teeth anytime I gotta do anything at all Professional bum with the excuse of being a writer Take…

[fallingicarus111]

(Poem 13)

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Voluptuous Mors

In the dimly-lit room,

Half covered with light and

Half consumed by the dark,

I lit my temptation with the fervour,

Veiling beneath the deco-ed curls

Of my late night paramour's

Circled love.

A little, though not ignorant,

I noticed the curled up

Hazy dreams of mine,

Dancing on the beats

Of my tinted,

Yet, pale sighs.

Tearing my skin off,

Naked I was, plucking every damasked petals

Of my aqueous thoughts.

Listening to the unrhymed rain-drops,

Singing in rhythmical choir,

The mockery of the rhymed clock,

Seemed lucid and clear.

I tossed my ash-tray, burning my fear,

I tripped into my perpetual nightmare;

Getting ready for the concupiscent game With Tux on my grey carcass,

With cologne on my foul breath;

On my natal bed,

Shattering my pristine waterfall

I was damned,

I was damned to the liminality of hell.

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~NØiR.

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[eon-seven]

Mirror, awaken

Heartbeat is stronger,

I feel I could survive a little longer, If I see you tonight

Or If feel your love inside

Created, You’re my AI

Walking,

Awaken,

Mirror mind

[justanoval]

A Hall to Remember

A familiar place, in all of my dreams. A peculiar face, with all of my screams.

Singing, breathing. Talking and teasing. Thinking, feeling. Walking and wheezing.

No one is here, except me and my fear. Nothing is near, except he I can hear.

Twisting and turning, walls reach to the stars. Shifting and churning, it's all quite bizarre.

It repeats, it extends. It jumps and it yearns. I don't see the end; I may not return.

[beefpattysupreme]

god save me lololololololol

[sbblake]

never 🏳️‍⚧️

[salovie]

sips of earl grey in gray light,

running on affection fumes,

kissing scrapes with bloody lips

memory, too paper thin:

that first glance as strangers

a leaf still pushes through the stones

[angelkarafilli]

Paul Éluard born Eugène Émile Paul Grindel was a French poet and one of the founders of the Surrealist movement.

In 1916, he chose the name Paul Éluard, a matronymic borrowed from his maternal grandmother. He adhered to Dadaism and became one of the pillars of Surrealism by opening the way to artistic action politically committed to the Communist Party.

During World War II, he was the author of several poems against Nazism that circulated clandestinely. He became known worldwide as The Poet of Freedom and is considered the most gifted of French surrealist poets.

Tout dire

Le tout est de tout dire, et je manque de mots

Et je manque de temps, et je manque d΄audace

Je rêve et je dévide au hasard mes images

J΄ai mal vécu, et mal appris à parler clair.

Tout dire les roches, la route et les pavés

Les rues et leurs passants les champs et les bergers

Le duvet du printemps la rouille de l΄hiver

Le froid et la chaleur composant un seul fruit

Je veux montrer la foule et chaque homme en détail

Avec ce qui l΄anime et qui le désespère

Et sous ses saisons d΄homme tout ce qui l΄éclaire

Son espoir et son sang son histoire et sa peine

Je veux montrer la foule immense divisée

La foule cloisonnée comme un cimetière

Et la foule plus forte que son ombre impure

Ayant rompu ses murs ayant vaincu ses maîtres

La famille des mains, la famille des feuilles

Et l΄animal errant sans personnalité

Le fleuve et la rosée fécondants et fertiles

La justice debout le pouvoir bien planté

Pouvoir Tout Dire (1951)

[postmodernprophet]

The secret white mind whispers

And it had this to say: And the hippopotamuses were boiled in their tanks, and the tanks won't stop until they've drank at the water hole, and the waterhole is made of wheat, oil, and tar, and Jesus abiding in those fields of wheat was refused food & board for looking a little too effeminate, and who would risk such a thing in our economy? The economy is about disposable income, in come the cash and out comes the cravings for more, out comes the cash out of jean pockets bubbling and bursting forth like improper dew, giving out their due, out and into the world and into the mouths of cash registers and into the pockets of skeletons in parliament and insurance company boards, and god finds no tithe for Him in there, and at the church they also take your money and say that God "can make the money fit through the camel's eye", this is the religion of accountants & sales clerks & egotistical entrepreneur, receiving into their empty dog-like paws, receiving into their palms, the psalms of some obviously secret revelation, and into my palms there is nothing but the insalubrious psalms of my own salvation, and wrapped around my fingers the serpentine phallus that serves me as a pen, and this black notebook much like a void, a ravine into which visions are dispensed with, like corpses thrown from the bridge down below, and a the body of a dog follows after them.

And I had a dream about this ravine and aren't the mountains high? but don't the vultures soar even higher above the peaks? And although they gorge themselves on filth and gore don't they reach heaven before us? And the dream that I had was that we were all stuck down here in the ravine, and in flowed the filth and shit from the world above, all the disgusting juices of humanity, and a series of vultures with human faces and human hands and human teeth forcing our heads down into the muck, slowly turning us into more & more disgusting vultures ourselves, until the transformation was achieved and we'd fly into lone dirty empty kitchen rooms and take our pleasure with each other in the slime with long slimy penises that wrapped around our perches, but at the moment of orgasm me myself that had become a vulture realizes that we weren't down in a ravine, but up on a mountain ridge, and the filth and muck was nothing but the clearest, purest, rainbow filled water possible, and the vultures and their awful penises were purefaced angels with their swords,

And the world of vultures and the world of angels weren't separated but always already there, and through the world of vultures you could see in negative, like the imprint of the sun on the retina, heaven reflected, and in the world of angels you could see in negative, like the footprint that suggests the foot that was there but which is not anymore, hell reflected, and they were one and the same, and we are already in heaven, otherwise the vultures would be there before us.

[theaskew]

Ceiling at Dawn (1930) by Mina Loy

The Ceiling Afloat in oval of unclosing eye

white-washed shadow-drifts of indoor dawn film idle clouds — —

a Cinema-Nirvana shifts palid ideograms the epitaphs of dreams

upon a white slab slanted.

Visual echoes in blanched rows — — — the dissolved, derouted traffic of slumber.

An arid air-flower adrowse in the etiolate pasture of our arousing.

As droning day dilates in early light the spectral acre Under the sunless artifice of this four-cornered sky

lingering flies convolve their slim-winged circles.

[free-grandmaa]

He got me this way

I lean into him a bit

He pulls me to stay

In black and white

An eclipse of passion

A line of fate

I misbehave

He likes me this way

[zaneshoe01]

Angry

Scream at who? Who is this anger directed at? Fuck if I know Still feel like screaming Suppose I dislike God But unless I could hurt him somehow it makes no difference Aimless anger, contained because there is no release available Write a poem to express it, then return to it afterwards It is my darling, my secret lover I cannot withstand it’s embrace So I lie to everyone and see which…

[fallingicarus111]

(Poem no. 11)

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Hamlet's Kafkaesque.

The tenacious kiss from my voluptuous vampire,

Will tint the white floor,

Where my mother used to breast-feed me with the lies,

Which were supposed to shape my eyes;

Into a crimson 'vaxasaurian' butterfly.

With each fondle of its tinted wings,

My eyes weep the tears

Of an 'Ozymandias' king.

Yet, never quenches my thirst for

The glimpse of Van Gogh constellation;

Now on the great waves of eternal lethe,

I drink each rheum, stored

In the cursed chalice,

Remembering myself.

Who am I or who was I?

With the kaleidoscopic hues,

Whispers the butterfly, blinding my eyes,

----- "Hamlet, the prince".

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~NØiR.

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[eon-seven]

Mirror, awaken

Heartbeat is stronger,

I feel I could survive a little longer, If I see you tonight

Or If feel your love inside

Created, You’re my AI

Walking,

Awaken,

Mirror mind