Posts Tagged ‘surreal’

The man was akin to a bough,

He has had a long life,

Knowing whether it has been good or foul is impossible,

He can no longer speak,

It can only be read upon his gnarled bark,

His worn face,

Stories carved into knots and wood,

Legends and legacies,

Storied mosquitoes in amber,

History written in oak,

This storied gentleman stands tall,

Thought scored by the years,

He is a monument to his own life,

Paragraphs in timber,

The years read out in rings,

A gigantic redwood in the forest,

Bare in the winter.

This plane of existence is tethered in veiny ivy,
Wrapped up in vines of jade design,
Strangling it while in turn holding it up,
The world in perpetual struggle,
Enduring strangulation,

I thought to climb them to the top,
Foolish Jack and a dire beanstalk,
To look out across the cosmos,
To see if there was escape somewhere out there,
A metaphysical cure for this infestation,

But the thorns claw at my hands,
A million little bayonets defending the crown,
The status quo,
Mustering pain and blood for each inch taken,
Punishing my hands for daring to seek change,

As the atmosphere grows sparse,
There are still malms of viridian barbs above,
Even the very heavens are tied by these green fingers,
Bone-weary my grasp dares to let free,
Maybe there is no way out of this sphere,

I do not know.

Look at me,
Gaze upon my singular face,
Hark to this clown,
For it takes a fool to see the truth of things,
A madman to understand the world,
So I daub each colour upon my jesters aspect,

This face of paints,
It shifts like a tumultuous sea,
Replete with vivid corals of all shades,
Prismatic tsunamis as expressions shift,
Yet this mind is more of a circus,
I’m a deranged showman in truth,

I wield these colours instead of emotions,
Each chroma deciphering an aspect of reality,
To shine light on mans vices,
They are my true face,
For it requires lunacy to be totally free,
And insanity is the only truly sane way to exist,

An arbiter of pure chaos,
True art,
A clown to point the crooked way,
I’m the Oldschool Harlequin.

I am surrounded by the Immaterial,
Fingers and faces I cannot see,
Like a wind tunnel splaying out to the heavens,
I feel it swirling around me like unnatural wind,
It’s like being submerged in icy water that pulses,

I dont know from whence this supernatural force materialised,
A heretofore unknown elemental dynamic,
Whispers and hymns sung in flux,
Butterflies and figures waltzing in florid vividity,
Their colours unaffected by the dusts of the air,

I dont know what these spectres want from me,
Be they incorporeal apparition or trick of the mind,
The whispers that I can’t help but heed,
Be it sorcery or illusion,
The tingles upon my skin that I cannot feel,

I am haunted by the Immaterial,
A force that sends my senses in to spasm,
Disbelief sprouts from my very mind,
And yet I cannot deny it,
This ever-present wind that screeches to itself,
Neither friend nor foe.

I sit reclined upon this scathing sand,
With the resort of the present behind me,
Belly laughs and dances and skipping,
And the broiling sea of the past before me,
Do-overs and regrets and flashbacks,

I spy herds of elephants migrating along the horizon,
A parade of weighty emotions,
Carrying memories myriad of years past,
Mirages of yesteryear images against the sunset,
Fizzing above the waves,

The herd continues unabated,
Each heavy footfall was pachyderm remembrance,
A weighty vision of events past,
My brain sits astride them gazing back at me,
Quizzically inquiring why I look upon their assemblage of years gone,

Why look back?
Why hark to the trumpeting?
Forget the elephants and pain,
They do not walk in your future.

We are unwanted,
We are unloved,
We are forgotten,
We are the given up on,
We are the lost teddy bears,
We are the abandoned pups,

We are the left behind,
The left out in winter,
The mad prophets,
The ladies who eat cats,
We are freakish,
The dropped on our heads,

We ourselves know not why,
But we are unwanted,
And for good reason.

I once left my body,
Off into the night,
Not into a dream,
Nor into my mind,
But careening into the sky,
Imitating a cosmonaut,

I found myself in an ethereal state,
Riding the coat tails of a comet,
Like a wandering gentleman,
Swept right up,
On a cruise through the cosmos,
Surfing through the silver,

I saw stars die in colour,
And be born from the void,
Attempted slow dances with meteors,
Finger painted with nebulae,
Excursions upon the edges of black holes,
A stellar vacation,

Despite the Earths assertions,
Of sheer importance,
Declarations of eminence,
I could barely glimpse it in the black,
It became an afterthought,
Just another speck.

I once met a lady,
Beautiful in body,
But simply divine in intellect,
We found ourselves alone trading words,
Lessons and stories,
Fables and songs,

Learning and cavorting,
We make love with words over warm cider,
Each anecdote a kiss on the neck,
Syllables and verbs are lips and tongues,
Words are caresses,
Our conversations are as a moan in the ear,

Soft music plays somewhere out of sight,
The dark begins to lift,
We each are spent,
Our minds sweating,
And the night ends too soon,
Will we ever meet again?

Such childhood dreams I remember,
Of artwork and vividity,
Smiles were the way,
But then the conveyer belt fired up,
Careening me through a decided life,

It appears to this dreary soul,
That a lifes worth,
Such as it is,
Is merely based upon ones employment,
Dollar and stirling signs,

To contribute is just of course,
But life is not purely about what you can give,
In terms of finance,
We should follow Euphrosyne,
Not remain serfs to Plutus,

You are what you earn,
Does a bad back,
And a full pension,
Mean a life fulfilled?
Should respect be dependent on vocation?

We live to work,
And work to live,
But what about the end?
Will I too have to build my coffin?
Dig my own grave?

There was a man born of Catalonia,
To whom normalcy was a razor,
Tracing lines of grey across his wrists,
Uniformity he fought tooth and brush,

With an upturned moustache,
And a cane,
He carved a path for artists everywhere,
A proponent of classicism and surrealism,

A true artist,
A personality of eccentricity and controversy,
Ostentatious to some,
But wholly himself,

Works that tore open reality,
A burning giraffe and a lobster telephone,
Galatea and Columbus,
A perplexing mix of science and madness,

A genius without the right to die,
But even allowed to rest,
In the grave,
Beneath a house of art.