Posts Tagged ‘surreal’

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.

Love is music,
Verily indeed,
The most deadly kind of music,
Is certainly a love song,
Vixen words of infatuation,
The soft tones,
And romantic nuances,
Aural nectar and petals,
They’ll give you hope,
A lie we all believe,
A heart-shaped bear trap,
A praying mantis,

Passion strikes,
The trap snaps shut,
A heart exploding,
Within a chest cavity,
Tearing wings off of doves,
As they try to soar,
This is no romance poem,
It’s a plea to hear no more music,
Forgive my subversion,
Love left me a drop topsy-turvy,
A marionette whose strings were cut,
It was all a lie.

Inside my mind there’s a checkered staircase,
Aspects of Victorian design,
If you could peer through my eyes,
You’d see it,
And shudder,
The eyes are a window to the soul after all,

The steps wind haphazardly,
No rhyme or reason,
The barbed banisters suggest cruelty,
But the gentle incline shouts serenity,
An incarnation of mania,
I don’t know what lies at the top,

Is there an attic room,
That hides screams of abuse?
A hidden room with a green door,
That contains the holy grail,
Or is it,
Where I hear that spectre wailing?

The staircase,
That scratches the edges of my skull,
Where do you think it leads?
My thoughts struggle to climb it,
My imagination died many steps earlier,
Sweaty flotsam on the steps of a soul.

I found a bunker in my dreams,
I could only enter the dank room,
The grey walls greet me with indifference,
My only companions,
They mock me in silence,
Emotions bubble up within like a geyser,

Red,

I scream out,
Unleashing a beast of decibels,
A dragon of mania,
Wreathing the land in a roar of torment,
My vocal chords obey in terror,
I tear at my own cheeks in fury,

Blue,

Spent,
I long to collapse,
Sweat descends like tears,
Pulse of agonised woe,
The walls ignore me no longer,
They tremble at my rageful becoming.