Posts Tagged ‘surreal’

Tonight I was struck by lightning,
And solicited by dark roaring thunder,
I brook this current through me,
A maniac charge surging all over,
Searing every nerve,
Exorcising any feelings,
Cremating any remaining heart,
And creating an electrified husk,

The tempest has changed me,
Galvanising,
Newly animating me,
It’s a passing of the torch,
So now I approach,
No more impeded by my humanity,
And I’m the dark storm on the horizon,
Ever fulminating.

With this prison of a world,
Being alone in your head,
Is like being in a cell with an open door,
No bars on our windows,
No alarms to sound,

We are not bound in iron here,
Not clasped in manacles,
But we hold ourselves here,
Serving a sentence we didn’t earn,
We struck the gavel ourselves,

This is no painless captivity,
We’re tormented by jailers wearing our faces,
White-hot brands and deprivation,
Ghoulish torturers only the mind could conjure,
But we suffer through it,

Why do we?
The open doorway is right there,
Freedom is but a deep breath away,
Why don’t we break out?
I know not.

Oh to have a scrying glass,
An obsidian mirror,
Like a witch in a tower,
To peer upon its surface like calm water,
To see across mountains and eons,
To see conversations elsewhere,
To hear music not yet written,

I’d love to be a raven,
In the trees of another’s mind,
Watching and eavesdropping,

I’d love to be a spirit,
In the attic of another’s home,
Learning of their life,

I’d love to be a diviner,
To read the auguries of another’s future,
From my plum tent on the hill,

To be not restricted to one pair of eyes,
I gaze at the mirrors face,
I just want to see what others see,
How are their days going?
What charges their souls with vim?
Do they speak of me?
What whispers to them in their solitude?

I heard tell of a cult,
They awoke from an awful dream,
Induced by some story book,
And built a priest out of pig iron,
A facsimile of an orderly man,
Fuelled by a furnace of white-hot delusion,

This automaton follows that same book,
On repeat he recites litany from his speaker mouth,
And baptises babes with his steel fingers,
This righteous robot,
An ivory robe stitched to his metal skeleton,
Cheap clanging between pews,

He was made from fear and thrifty deposit,
But mineral has no heart,
Iron holds no soul,
With no understanding of that book of myths,
Dare not look under his frock,
That’s where they put the plot holes.

I find my minds eye is clouded,
Marred by ocular madness,
By the squiggles,
Shapes appearing like a vinyl,
Little lines dancing about as couplets,
A disco in my vision,
A riot before me,
No colours,
Just monochrome,
They silently play tag with my focus,
Frolicking away before I can make them out,

I seem to have a million friends in my eyes,
Or is it my imagination?
Degeneration?
Insanity finally seizing control?

I find myself shuffling through life,
Forced to play this card game again,
I’m exhausted,
I’m tapped out,
This game of life is using rules I don’t recognise,
Hands growing aches aplenty,
Card upon card ripped from my deck,
And I struggle to draw the vigour,

Life has all the cards,
Counting down in blacks and reds,
No kings and queens to be found,
Yet I still go digging for diamonds,
Beaten down by wicked clubs,
Only spades waiting for me at the end,
Hearts in my pupils as the lights fade,
No ace up these sleeves.

The fly on the wall left for a jaunt,
Out of the window,
Across a lawn laid in neglect,
There he met his companion the gnome,
In flaxen shirt and inert gaze,
Fishing rod and gormless grin,
The fly said to the gnome,

“Between us we see everything,
I within the house and you without,
Sins within this hovel and besides,
I’ve seen the married souls lay with strangers,
You’ve seen needles and shady deals alfresco,
I’ve smelt the scent of flesh under floorboards,
You’ve seen where the bodies are buried under turf,
Together we could rule this place”,


In response the gnome looked ever on,
Unimpressed,
The fly’s proposed blackmail not to his liking,
His painted eyes still staring wide-eyed,
The fly seethed at the refusal,
Zooming back to the house in a rage,
He would bring ruin to the occupants elseways.

I once chased from my den a toad,
As swift as a garuda,
Into the dank green of the yard,
A soft mist enshrouded the lawn,
It served as a suitable backdrop,
For our dance of drama,
Our filmic action chase,

This little green man,
He was of singular proportion,
An amphibian aristocrat,
I pursued him,
Through a garden I no longer recognised,
The lawn gave way to a bizarre realm,
As if walking into a dream,

The toad was there,
But somehow changed,
Elongate limbs and a humanoid stylistic leaning,
Colours of every prism swam around like tadpoles,
He began a chorus of frog song,
Melancholy to be sure,
But somehow filled with magic,

I lock eyes with him,
His bulbous oculi grow ever more violet,
I feel his tongue strike out at my thoughts,
Amphibian metaphysicality,
As his crescendo amps up,
I feel lightheaded,
Blackness pounces and descends,

I awaken far away,
With nary a memory of mine own,
Just the stink of sorcery upon my brow.

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.