You may think that caffeine is one of those things.
Taps on your shoulder, feels like goop.
But every once in a while you get tangled in seaweed.
Become a seaweed monster.
You might not know that the cameras could descend at any time.
Eat the garbage that got scattered around.
And the cameras will see you as if they are real people.
Letting go like a bite of candy that is unexpectedly crunchy.
I have tangled feelings in the doorknobs of my house.
And extended periods of the fans being on in the winter.
You may think that caffeine is one of those things.
That makes you eat dust like carpet fibers.
But you don’t eat dust anymore.
No coffee mug with stains on it exists.
Just collapses in my mind.
Like the seasons wreck me.
Then fall came around.
And a seaweed monster is unseasonable for now.
Whew…
There is no such thing as caffeine or bad things.
Shaking but it’s not caffeine.
It’s just winter, we don’t know how months became months.
I don’t drink coffee anymore.
I don’t think I ever knew how.
“Dream on, it costs nothing. Mind is the biggest canvas on which you can daub any shade to colour the dreams that you see while sleeping or awake.” ~ By Poet
As the earth snoozed under
a heavy shroud of darkness,
weary and work worn, I lay down,
dreaming of a peaceful sleep.
The moon hang like a silver disc,
its shimmering glow filtering
through tangled boughs of oak trees.
A gentle wind came wafting by
with smell of trellised jasmines
and sneaked through my open window.
Soon I drifted to a dream world.
Like a speeding locomotive,
that came to an abrupt halt,
I lay still, in a coffin.
amid scent of burning incense,
frozen silence, heaving hearts
and silently chanted prayers.
The chariot wheeled me along,
in my last journey through
mazy paths, stretching, stretching
to a world, beyond galaxies.
I woke up soon, my eyes still shut,
A vulture swooped down circling,
over my deceased body.
Am I dreaming within a dream?
Axiom illusion
Liquefied minuet
Sphere in watercolors
Squirrel furry fetters
Jazz at max
Tree cutbacks
Hacksaw axe
Rat-ah-tacks
Morse code fax
Acorn tax
I awoke from a dream --
well, let me start again:
My thought was that I had
awakened. Yet, I rose quite
mistily -- with ghastly figures
hanging in the air, moving
to and fro, in possessed manner.
Swat at them, I could not. My
arms would not lift, my hands
seeming porcelain objects. Residue
stillness, long after the model
had expired, and the artist had eaten
his last moistened bread meal.
The volume of Poe, lie open
on the bedstead, where it had been
wearily placed, just before my
dozing. Strange, the last page read had
been altered...and the name highlighted
for death, was now my own. Could
this deranged volume and I have
mysteriously, mystically changed
realities? My name began
to burn, uplift from the page, the savage
apparitions swarming to tear hungrily at the
fleeing image. My soul drowning in drool.
This was utterly stunning
Held on the petals tongue
Twisted Machiavellian
Acid rain in neon-lit carmine
Ineffable lyrics: sum41
Grapevine entwined the mead mind
Rapid rhyme mainline propane
Fuse-lit C4-paint-explosives
Interpretation may vary
Melting behind every word
Jellyfish pulsing through
Pushed unexplored avenues
Stork dropping off an award
Blues scale toward the top
Fingertips slide without warning
Solo-bass drop within drumsticks
Dripping water from a flask
Walking hexes cloudy dishes
Mirrors fractured pieces whirling
Framing fractal front seats
Past mistakes remembrance
Olive branches infect organs
Pulse systematically
Pixels dissolve surfaces
Birthing surreal fantasy
Our deathbed waits for no one
It has legs with wheels following close
Fore the fastest mako breaching/brought
Can slam into your reality, splatterpunk
Does the higher-ups work w/bridge$
Against the chernukha backdrops
Titan Arumatic therapeutic extras
Granite broke down into atoms you couldn't comprehend
Without a micro/scope, dreamstate dialog
Promisee talking about power, Faustian tête-à-tête
Hungry colorful golf ball(sp)oons, aim for pupils
Falcon will drop the rabbit, serpentine dance
Snake may hold insidious ideas, draw a line
That word it rights is the mise-en-abyme
In cursive with dark reverie
I'll die for literary nuance
My pages are empty-handed
Lines intersect in geometrical artistic expression
I like to write about biking.
And tangled things.
I like to enjoy.
The road.
Eyes with puffy feelings.
Fingers which have skulls inside.
The all along things.
That hide behind guardrails.
I like to write about biking.
All through the country.
With ghostly wheels and reflective shine.
And other things you can buy at a gas station.
The mush feeling.
Not in my toes,
Just plumes everywhere.
All along the highway.
All along the highway.
Dazzling.
Just like shards or plastic.
A tree or something.
The all along things.
That highways leave behind.
Plucking hairs as I travel.
They are everywhere either way.
I like to write about biking.
I went back and got tangled more.
Got tired and rested behind the guardrail.
Which goes all along.
I like to eat tomatoes.
The ones that grow from odd vines.
Whistling sounds.
A slight shine.
I like to grow tomatoes.
All of the dirt in the world wouldn’t be enough.
Seeds which are supposed to be tomato seeds.
They appear anywhere.
Vines that are plentiful,
But we can’t share, no.
There is nothing except tomatoes and their vines.
In this world.
I like to eat tomatoes.
Sliced supernaturally thin.
The crust of the vine.
Ends with nothing.
There is nothing left.
Except what grows on the ends of those vines.
That appear in my bedroom and tangle me up.
Scratch my arms and legs.
I like to grow things.
With dirt, rain, and sun.
Maybe a sprinkle of something odd.
Like the glistening of my eyes in the morning.
They appear anywhere.
Dreams or not.
Awake or tending to the land.
I don’t remember having 20 acres.
A forest of tomatoes.
Tend not to let anyone inside.
I like to eat tomatoes.
Which scratch my arms and legs.
Maybe a sprinkle of something odd.
So long ago did it.
There is nothing left.
Except my soul in those vines.
I ran through it.
My arms are ribbons twirling around.
There is always a spot available.
On a bench which is made up of livelihoods like mine.
But there’s something so nice about sitting down.
When there is nowhere else to sit.
This is the most splintering kind of panicking.
This bench is made of old wood.
So it’s one of those woodsy types of places to sit.
And everyone does sometimes.
It’s the most ruined, run down panicked feeling.
The last person who sat here?
I think he was a music teacher.
I can tell by the music he left in my head.
On this bench which seems to conform to my body like a couch cushion.
I think he stopped following me.
So I can fall asleep in the woods.
Wouldn’t it be weird if I kept running?
I thought so too.
A feeling of doorways.
Crumbling while we’re trying to relax and watch tv.
Numbers while chewing.
On my mind are edible as a fire.
I’m available for that appointment.
If it’s the clear kind.
That makes my joints itch.
And spiders make it worse.
A feeling of doorways.
Like a path but rectangular.
Seems normal yet is uneven.
Like cherries which are soft and have small creases.
Creases like sand.
On the path to the door…
We lift off.
And embrace.
It’s weird like a chair standing up.
He lifts off the ground.
Lassos us in.
A feeling of doorways.
A feeling of doorways.
Is inevitable.
The murmurs in the wind named me a whore
According to those prayers i never wished for more
Than to be touched by the purest
And held like fine wine
All In the hands of a caliber
I held that knife like i held you darling
And when you told me all i am is ing boring
I threw the knife straight between your eyes
Hoping you wouldn't notice the hole in my mourning
And i told you death was better mercy
In the hands of a caliber
No one can hurt me
So i slashed off my hair
And killed all my friends
Hoping i'd never again find a caliber in my hands
Woah for this winter
Mourn for this winter
Up here in the mountains
No one can hurt you
Expect for the snake
That hides in the hole
With the same name
Same voice, and same clothes
And it hisses at you
To reconcile
All in the hands of a caliber
The more spines I swallow.
The more rattled it goes.
Tea leaves behind smells.
Like broken pianos.
Raspberry leaf tea.
And someone giving a bike for free.
The more miles I ride?
The less taste there is cried.
Raspberry leaf tea.
Unreal as…
The musical key of a pencil tapping.
Or clouds being pointless.
Crumpled up.
The rule is you have to eat them.
Steeped and harmless.
A taste.
Raspberry leaf tea.
Is good but might be sour.
Horrible whiffs of steam and indescribable.
A little honey too.
eternal- under the scope of your breath.
do you think if the world falls apart, your touch would falter between my heaving?
all i want, all i need,
is to get lost in your words,
or to get lost even in the semblance of your shadow,
in hopes to feel the twinkle in your eyes
you’re the tinge of orange in my song,
but am i even an image in your eyes?
even so, who else would i long for to hum in my chest?
i can feel your whisper on my fingertips,
swept across the meddling
can i listen to your heartbeat and stay forever in your laughter?
or should i leave with an agonizing pain?
until i have no choice but to scream.
your name i scream across the stars,
crystalized on a hand written letter,
delivered from my utmost desire.
you, only you.
It’s whispers.
Can you hear them?
I don’t want to,
but they force me to.
Sitting in an empty room,
with no one—
just a cigarette in my hand.
Every time it touches my lips,
it kills me
and makes me want to avoid it—
I know that cigarette is not good for me,
but I like doing something
I know is going to kill me.
But he likes that I do that—
killing myself, he whispered to me,
saying, “Can we switch places?”
I said, “How can I get into the wall?
You are a shadow.”
But how…
I was talking to a shadow
in a room
completely empty and dark.
The whispers say to me:
“Look at me.
Look at the darkness,
and feel both sides of it
that you don’t think exist.”
I thought something was wrong.
I kept hearing him
until he said:
“Come closer…
to someone else in the room,
because my name isn’t dead.”
When I turned on the light,
I saw nothing
but my shadow dancing in front of me,
my body frozen, watching.
And when I looked back,
something was coming out of the wall
with a cigarette,
saying to me:
“I like doing something
I know is going to kill me."
Crack...Boom!
Is it the Big bang...
Or the boom of 9/11,
Everyone goes deaf,
Tears and teeth are out
Are these tears of joy?
Are these teeth of smile?
Is it the beginning or the end?
One boom gave life_
Another took it, and...
For the boy the boom collided
Somehow, he made it out alive.
A miracle, isn't it? a joy in chaos
Luckily it was in USA with U silent.
Specific Types of Surreal Poems
Definition | What is Surreal in Poetry?