#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]

[em-iliart]

two headed calf ✨

[free-grandmaa]

"Consume me to bone my flower bud."

[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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[lostdeviantartcollages]

we can change the future

[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.

[secret-restaurant-press]

FOOTSTEP VALLEY - AVAILABLE TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!

[beefpattysupreme]

god save me lololololololol

[sbblake]

never 🏳️‍⚧️

[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.

[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

[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]

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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