Surrealist Poetry

Dog

A large White and Black Head of and English Pointer
with an overly exagerated muzzle,
cocked at a slight angle¬,
about twenty-degrees–

Notice how the above is not a sentence.
Why am I being so precise?

The canine-head outmeasures its body,
which is non-existent against a dusty buckskin background,
seemingly coming towards me, into me
and, then, gone. My mind’s eye looking at nothing.

Running and panting,
galloping through grass’
the intestines shiny and slimy and alive.
Yes, by God, alive on the inside as well as out.

Heart pumping blood,
food digesting,
energy emanating from some magical source into the field and my field of vision.


Wife

Sensuous and desirable
kindness, kind-hearted,
looking a me with startled eyes,
now focused and coming towards me like my dog.

Young, younger maybe than what is real.
Supple curves and an image of how I might paint her,
art imitating art.
Nothing. Blank.

Wife. Part of me, forever.
Wife. Wife. Wife.
Naked and serpent-like,
moving through the firmament with head thrown back and mouth agape,
flying and moving away from me
amidst tumultuous storms with hair like I’ve never seen before, like I’ve never imagined.


Technology

A new world for me
from the imagination
¬–possibilities.


Foot

Sexy to me, yes.
Now to walk upon.
Gone¬–diabetes.


Ocean

Let loose, the mind.
No technical fixations here.
Deep and submerged, but comfortable.
Something above and a substrate below.
Where does it go? What about above?

But my reality in the middle,
here with midnight blues and reds
pasted like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Suspended and swimming,
a heavy matrix, like being buried right-side-up in powder snow.
Unable to put my foot down or even breathe.