Surreal Art. Plastic Poetry
© polka

The storm, your absence – I live surprised in the dismay of ill-fated occurrences which tenaciously shrouds my hope in a mantle of poisonous extravagance, I breathe yet I don’t feel alive, and when I feel alive, I don’t get to know why? I feel being on board of an old wooden ship with holes in its surface touching the inch think sea surface, it withers me, sinks my soul, but it doesn’t deliver me anywhere. I am still living in it and looking out from the passage meant to be leading on for you. As far as my deplorable memory could recall, it recommends me that there is a man looking at his will to take and liberate everything which once had a meaning.
I floated blank in sheer black space; a tear fell from my eye which alienated me into an ocean splashing its wildest waves onto me, it didn’t flow away and neither did it pull me down. I was slipping into deformed shapes of object around me as I turned my head away from her. I could fall deep and there will be no return.
Such was my wandering love who drifted alone in the dark nothingness of the empty sky, forcibly waking me up from a dream in a dementia of perplexing oceanic state. I struggled to stay afloat as her tears fell down from the sky, I was punished to hear her screams as the gods slipped a cry from the devil’s eyes.
It was more like the brightest sunshine being traumatised by the darkest cloud, no matter how hard I blow the wind, it never stops raining and the darkness never goes away. I think I love her. 
I am ranking in the garden of this unfounded null.
‘A feeling, no one has ever described to me. It almost felt like I was rupturing my own tendons upon which I hold my vision and hang my soul on. Just like that, she winked and encumbered me in a never-ending delirium of my own existence. She crossed her legs and looked into my lifeless eyes for a brief jiffy. ‘I felt being consumed, I was aghast in a stance of owning her, I was surpassing the worldly pleasures and materials I own to throw. I belong to her now.’
I saw her with a delight, her skin shone like a polished ivory; her benevolent legs were magnificent on its own. Her postured thighs, orchestrated to enslave any living or dead, no morals I could think of, I was short of words, she made me a wanton again.

This love may hurt a pain of thousand nails, a nail may rust inside, for I decay for I remake, her coldness is my warmth. 
If the dreams are made of you, I'd never want to sleep
Never had it happen before, never did I feel such a wreaking desire inside of me. I couldn’t sleep; this sudden hollowness was prolonging its surreal labour of rinsing every other thought I could think of. It felt like I was walking on a thin rope with burning ends, in a delicate state of losing my only being left; If only I could insist on her presence and even if I try to summon up her of what I could remember, her moving silhouette was summarising my grounds and reasons of my continuation.
The water falls aimlessly on me and turns my life into broken pieces of ice
I think, therefore I am. 
My dreams departed on a one way trip to an ocean as barren as my drifting thoughts. She changed the course of her moving head like the way a raven does in the farthest sky, her hair floated in the air like the dried dandelion seeds in the vacuum-less sky and I just kept howling in her never ending eyes. She then silently whispered, be like water. 
Maybe for a while. I'll be yours and I'll therefore belong.
Minutes were passing by but they didn’t turn into hours, the slow music from my laptop tried to fold my apathy into discussed flavours of my romanticism and lunacy, just like a blind shot of warmth on my cold skin, troubled I was dwindling and I couldn’t hold my back. I looked around at my studio, only her bits of invigorating scent were left – just like her absence and even being unable to reconcile, it just painted my colourless silhouette in a blank frame of solitude without a canvas.
I saw my death and birth, a necessary one, the only one you’d last to see. I was scared; I felt certain nervousness in tomorrow’s event of, if I’ll ever see her again? ‘I was brought down on my knees before even I could analyse my own senses; I could see myself painting on a division of Horizons.’ Inside my mind, thick clouds of haze were forming, the darkness which danced around my limitlessness was staring at me from the very bounds of inconspicuous truth. I lowered down my head and gave her a side note into her somnolent eyes; ‘I felt a sudden urge to consume her, as if, if I leave her, everything would end. I was walking in absentia, there was a soul entering and leaving in a motion unknown, my fingers were dancing onto each other’s plane; and a certain shiver was flowing and appearing in a hallucinating path down my spine in a strict narrowness of ever changing degrees.’
I was greyed out; my mind had shifted its burden to this weakened heart which was on the verge of nailing its counted pumps left to breathe in this body of mine. I felt cursed and blessed in a morning where I could charm my way to appreciate its beauty in an everlasting scene. As I started walking, the echoes of my steps were forming their gust, almost engulfing everything coming on its way. She was sitting deep inside the clouds of my meditation.
She had ripped every meaning of time, space and life apart in front of me and yet I felt she was scared of something, something I could never know and help her to deal with. We opened our mouths to amalgamate the sanctity of the universes within us, I got sucked into hers’ and she got sucked into mine. All my emotions transcended into a neutrality of superb lucidity, I was there but I didn’t know what to look for. She was the thin fabric of epiphany that covered my inexistent body like a cocoon inside a hearse.We were dissolved into the thin inflatable membrane of insatiable desires and reached to a point of no return as we travelled from a point of no embark.
Her floating hair constricted my breath into an overly surreal feel, a flawless extravaganza; she was the planet without moon, the sun bathing in the universal light, I was again falling into my renowned stage of trance. Her floating soul suddenly turned her face at me, stunned I looked at my other part but he was long gone, I turned my head to see her and saw her standing inches away from me. She faintly looked at me and smiled and I fainted after losing myself to live again.
I wandered and wandered alone to seek of what I couldn’t find, I was in a stuck in a state of my own misconceptions, thoughts and in a never ending fight with my own senses. I could fall and never think of coming back again. This loneliness has pitched so deep itself in me that I couldn’t think of what was right or what was wrong. I could stare at the coiled horizon with my cataract vision for miles till I fall into pieces and still be unable to think of anything else than her. 
I felt as religious as a summer breeze smashing the winds of our past scattering of whom I had idolized and whom I have detached from my life.
Perhaps I obstinately wandered off from the only path I promised I would never wither in my life; her words and her love thunderstruck me like a burning lighting falling aimlessly from a heart broken cloud on a forlorn tree’s last vestigial leaf. I don’t remember how or why, but that night seemed as felicitous and imperative to me as a blind faith of a man in his god.
April Ethereal

Her head formed an aureole of brilliant light above her fragile skull, her eyes turned into darkest shade of night, a kind of colour mankind has never ever seen. The sky glowed purple, and after exact eight seconds, the thunder had hit the water and had turned everything feral; the sound of thunder accentuated my hollowness and filled it with new born lotuses which came out in fossilised form, thus I was born again. 
I was deliberately withering down lose; moments later I was lost, knotted off, turning away from this celestial reality, a place where I could see her, be with her, hold her and never let go. A place of no-man, a place of the unknown. 
I know in my head, the voices are real and they won't stop singing the melancholy of your lullaby. 
We both had levitated far above into the deep dark starry space; around her I saw a shimmering nebula bursting all the colours from her pale white skin. I grabbed her in the absolute nothingness of the never ending space. Our bodies slowly started melting by each other’s heat and then abruptly got submerged into each other leaving an aura of undefined yet newly composed hue; by the time we both could realise, we were a single entity written down in a unified celestial spectre of tribune. We floated and swam in the compressing dust of broken stars, for ours was a love that gave meaning to the heart among hearts. I heard her voice singing the song of birth at the surreal extremity of impeccable singularity; we then finally took everything in like a new found black hole touched by the last poisoned points of our minds.
You call me in your sleep, you call me when in need.
So I am now falling, falling into the sky, this deep hole, a hole in this life.
Who has my time? Who holds my fate? I am in a maelstrom of madness living aimlessly in a guilt of love today.
Where is my silence, oh! they took that in the hymn once I prayed? Inane, is it me? Is it the time for me to comprehend?
My visualization are biased and unfree, my mean thoughts strayed into the wilderness of what I call not so green.
Disobedience is in my bowl, colossal and out of reach. What is the meaning then? I guess the meaning was to demean.
Entered in this hole, a sangfroid feel floating inside. Is it my calm is not in place? or what I see was erased by time?
I am now consumed, I am not sure what do you call a life. If there is some left, it will be oblivious in it's own eyes. 
I was in a outlandish state, my vision grew blurry as I broke the walls of my numbing pain. Her fainting smile was like an epitome of that enigmatic brief journey from death to birth and her vision was like a refraction of a white light passing through many new born prisms. In this blinding light, when the world is high, I am alone and comfortably drunk in her name.
Polka
73
388
15
Published:

Polka

I have written surreal art and made poetry. The words are true to soul and detached from mind, the pictures are close to eyes and far from being Read More
73
388
15
Published:

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