The second hand on the clock mercilessly drones on.
Surrealistic seconds spin dizzyingly.
Distorted colours of sagging sunrises melt into intoxicated sunsets.
Vapours of innocence dissipate into laughing
stars,
hysterically hyperventilating on sorrow’s torment.
The stinging dirt beneath my feet offers no condolences,
only festering deeper into subcutaneous wounds,
infecting every white blood cell until delirium overrides.
Shame and regret drip from screaming clouds
as a murder of crows gathers in the dank ambience,
criticisingly cawing between razor-thin lapses in time.
Frenzied winds obscure judgement.
Vines of poison ivy tangle,
dragging me down in the pandemonium,
whilst a growling ground begins to open,
exposing the truth—my festering grave.
Feel the accelerating pain of memories taking hold.
Already dead, drugged by denial,
a soul bound to a faded reality,
vanished within the cracks hidden
within the confines of time.
Black-blue paint bleeds from within the cracks of crumbling cement walls,
Crushed skeletons infused within limestone erode,
exposing nameless sorrow hidden behind faceless grains of gypsum,
while a forgotten galaxy's celestial ceiling peers through a decaying thatched roof.
Misguided souls reach out into night's void,
screeching repeated sins into feverish gusts of wind,
tethered to each rusting rebar that's barely holding what was once their haven together,
unable to let go, doomed to relive past grievances.
Weathered spiral staircases lead towards nowhere.
Bleakness suffocates while hope is snuffed out,
like the wick of bitter candles drowning in their own wax.
Spinning surrealistic scenes melt into intangible realities,
each soul writhing in agony, trying to break free of abject cycles,
yet punishment clings like the smell of burnt tobacco,
unable to separate the scent from the fibres of existence.
Disembodied voices find no reprieve,
only more excruciation
at the hands of cruel judgement.
“My soul is a black maelstrom…” ~ Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet.
Molten lava spews from my eyes
My mouth feels dry as the scorching desert sand
Fear like a heavy boulder sits on my chest
My heart is chasing a Chimera
A pit is forming in my stomach,
My head is riding upon a vortex
Conflicting thoughts swirling through my mind
forming a surrealistic whirlpool,
Grim and gloomy feelings shroud my being
permeating a fatalistic suspicion of society at large
dragging me down the road to depression.
A sense of emptiness is mushrooming within me,
like the morning miasma blurring the view,
All hands of hope have been withdrawn
Every moment henceforth
is pregnant with some novel challenges,
Tackling a new task overwhelms me
and despair prevails over my soul undeterred —
Bogged down by fate,
Tethered to my faith,
and mired in a spiritual quagmire
I am unable to claw my way back up
to Mount Calvary.
~Prompt 2: "As I slip into the void of this endless black."
~Contest: Venom and Stardust: A Birthday Prompt
~sponsor: Sara Jama.
The Camera Man
Depression
Depression clouds the lens, throwing it out of focus.
Distorting the images before it, altering perceived reality.
Depression hovers above like an ominous, menacing black bird,
hanging onto the winds of times passed, over its pray,
ready to swoop down with furry upon its victim with vengeance,
with razor sharp talons ready to pierce this fragile spirit’s soul.
Dragging it over shards of broken glass, slivers of glass reflecting,
refracting moments, experiences, stories that shed some light
before dropping it all into a black hole, from which seems no escape.
Times passing has deflected, yet the mirror still holds sway to the past.
The past, not but an evil land, a prison with tarnished, rusted, rotting cages
wherein lies skewed images, much like Salvador Dali’s surrealistic paintings.
The Camera Man – Depression, will either find serenity, a beautiful lake, still.
Its surface calm, un-rippled by life’s journey, reflecting not but blue skies .
B. J. “A ” 2
January 21st, 2026
Standing on a rusted platform,
I look towards the looming, tarnished steel clock,
Ticking away my final moments of existence.
Oceanic eyes swell with liquid salinity
As a hollowing whistle booms in the close distance.
The scent of petrol mingles with midnight paranoia.
Placing a shaking hand upon my vibrating chest,
I can detect the trembling of a trepidatious heart,
Whilst the monstrous whistle is getting louder now—
Signaling the next, next stop: ruination.
Pulling up, two ghastly doors creak open,
Heralding me towards finality.
Stepping inside, all that surrounds is a blazing fog,
Like some surrealistic, dreamy haze
Engulfing my every gasping breath.
Choking on the ashes of all the sins
I have branded onto loved ones’ flesh,
I slam to the floor as the tempo of the train accelerates,
Jolting over a swinging bridge,
Taking my corrupted spirit
Over a modern-day River Styx.
A surrealistic silence hangs sluggishly in the air,
as I sit upon your violet clawfoot recliner,
sorting fuchsia dresses into melancholic piles.
An opal ring glistens while the sun drapes over your portrait,
reflecting splashes of kaleidoscopic colors on barren walls.
Dust cakes the creaking floorboards as I place belongings into cardboard boxes.
A faint lullaby gradually infuses this somber undertaking.
The scent of floral perfume permeates—grief crashes over like cresting waves.
The wind whips outside, rattling the bones of a bitter house,
while a heavy heart sinks, drowning in agonized saline.
Tin plates and yellowed photos decorate mahogany tables
antiquated keepsakes, solidified moments in time.
The cerulean dusk creeps in, and the world softens.
Yet grief cloaks nocturnal restfulness,
as your sentience has been reduced to ash.
Merely confined within an engraved urn.
Go ask Alice, I think she'll know.
~ White Rabbit, Jefferson Airplane, Surrealistic Pillow, 1967
I cannot go ask Alice,
for she has fallen down
the white rabbit's rabbit hole.
Deep within sleep's palace
in dream she gives a silver crown
and never pays attention
to the shadow troll.
The shadow holds a golden chalice
filled with wondrous bits from town,
but the bits will surely take a toll.
The bits are made of malice
just like the troll layed down,
and tall or small the white rabbit
takes it all.
Pink Floyd
Such cruel misery, shocking
Parents generation distanced themselves
"The Dark Side of the Moon"
Psychedelic rock,
they could not believe -
or did not want to believe
Hallucinogens on vinyl !
Surrealistic !
"Is There Anybody Out There?"
Worldwide recognition
"Shine On You Crazy Diamond"
Pink Floyd - giants without a doubt
innovative in their; "Time"
"Oh, By the Way"
... "Have a Cigar"
Molten lava spews from my eyes
My mouth feels dry like the scorching desert
Fear, like a heavy boulder, sits on my chest
My heart seeks where the Chimera dwells
A pit is forming in my stomach
My head is riding upon a vortex
Conflicting thoughts swirling through my mind
forming a surrealistic whirlpool,
And I stand rooted
to the ground like an Ancient Oak.
A sense of emptiness mushrooms within me
like the morning miasma obscuring the visibility.
My past carried off into the oblivion,
Every moment henceforth is
pregnant with some novel challenges,
tackling a new task overwhelms me
despair overwhelms my soul undeterred—
Bogged down by fate
Tethered to my faith
I am mired in a spiritual quagmire
unable to claw my way up to the Mount Calvary.
My head is a television
With the dream channel turned on
It always turns on
Once I forget about this world
The screen becomes clear and more focused
Once I’m far, far away from here
The colors beyond the normal spectrum
Are animated and strangely surrealistic
Almost paranormal
Anyone and everyone are welcome
To tune into my station
It’s easy
With eyes closed, just forget
About this world for awhile
Believe in the unbelievable
Imagine the unimaginable
Tune in . . . turn on
And replace your head with a television
Just remember,
don’t lose the remote
Surrealistic impulses
create songs impositions
upon the sphere of
evening coincidences
that beckon truth
beyond the scope
of reality as
you finally realize
that to some
it's just a problem
upon their realm
of personal satisfaction
Inter-relationships surface
amidst the turmoils
of daily excursions
siphoned through kaleidoscopic
determinations that have
no basis in justice
but are constructed
amidst contemporary delineations
that stifle happiness
Spaced Out
Inner Space
Astro projected, in the seventies, travelled into the Universe at the speed of light,
Into my memories hoard, exploring the essence of every solar system.
Experiences come to life, memories created, permeate histories moments.
Memories flash by at lightening speeds, lightening scorches the essence of life,
changing its molecular structures, its psychic abilities, forever altering reality
from what once was, to what is, to what will become a new reality.
A surrealistic vision, once harbouring the colours of rainbows seen through prisms.
All colours of the spectrum, life’s experiences, fading from view, only shades of gray
covering this universe, memories hoard, life’s experiences with, one day soon, a death mask.
B. J. “A” 2
February 6th, 2024
Have its lobster claws times two pincered off
One way sticks of this crustacean’s underwater trap?
Eight leggedly it gallops off among arthritic, bulbous trees.
And waves its spiny tail to cover up its tracks.
Dogs have joined the spirit of the game,
Spaniels with foreheads as regally as high
As their master princess on a unicorn
And will play this pint sized monster-knight to death.
Undistracted by surrealistic fish camouflaged in dark,
Untempted by sea horses following her braid.
Never can crustacean hunts be lost
When hounds are hot upon a trail of lobster sauce.
Contest: Brooding Nimbus Sponsor: Edward Ibeh 6-19-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brooding Nimbus
Midnight trails a filmy brooding nimbus,
Idle shadows etch lines on the daylight;
Vertigo lingers, teeters on limbus,
Distorted ghosts escape into dawn’s sight.
Remnants of realms, inborn of misshaped clouds,
Ruminate raindrops to bleed the bizarre
Palpable phantoms the mid-day enshrouds -
Reclines as shape-shifts in murmuring stars.
Hobbled memories drifting unresolved,
Surrealistic needles stab dazed eyes
Fretting repines, floats in veils unabsolved,
Fades slowly into the unanswered why.
Slowly day chases back mystic extremes
Evening broods in misty nests of new dreams.
A surrealistic world garners followers in the hills of the high
Royal highnesses and gymbuggers flitting among the spry.
Make believe words creating a world of fluff amid the rye.
We love the ambiance of the valley and give a gusty cry.
Spirited delivery of unearthly things created on the fly,
Conjured out of mountainous glunkybirds that rise up to the sky.
I dance in joy at the melody and the friendly happy artistic dye.
Surrealism is beautiful, it gives me pause, and makes me sigh.
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