Posts Tagged ‘surreal’

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.

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.