Tag Archives: Surrealism

GUEST POST // Interrupted by Kenneth P. Gurney

Paul threw a knife.
It bounded off an aspen tree.

The blade vibrated as if it thudded into the trunk
and the remaining energy wiggled off.

The vibration created an audible sound.
Similar to seventeen year cicadas.

Paul turned his back to the vibrating knife
feeling a sneeze coming on.

His sneeze thundered through the aspen grove.
It displaced the slender trees a few millimeters.

Surface bracken puffed up into the air.
Maybe an inch. Dust lingered at ankle height.

The sneeze rolled the knife over.
It ceased vibrating and played dead.

Paul kept his eyes closed after the sneeze
and stood up straight.

The sun shone directly on his face
and whispered Gesundheit.

by KENNET P. GURNEY
© All rights reserved 2021

Dada (Fragment #018)

I marched towards the library and collided with Patrick near the main entrance. I remembered this boor. He was an assistant at my entrance examination. I decided not to waste time greeting him and just passed on by.

The 20th century German literature section wasn’t a very popular place. Well, good riddance! It was much better to work without the silly background chirrup of girls writing endless nonsense about heroic troubadours and sighing over modern guys who’d forgotten the art of courtship.

Anyway, I figured I should get to work, so I thumbed along the high stacks looking for the letter ‘T’. Gotcha! Tristan Tzara, ‘Seven Dada Manifestos and Lampisteries’.

“Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are – an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.”

So, professor, you didn’t like my poem? I giggled at the thought. I’ll learn how to break something that was already broken. Let’s dada, baby! And suddenly, my attention was drawn to some other voices. They sounded pretty tense. I cocked my ear.

“I need this book!”

“The rules are the same for everyone. You can only read it in the reference room. This book mustn’t leave the library.”

“But…”

“No.”

I peeped out of the stack and looked over to the counter. A disappointed Patrick was talking with the library custodian, a large leather bound book clutched to his chest. Serves you right! I thought with gloating delight.

I’d always considered the ‘Codex Seraphinianus’ to be a bit of a joke. I didn’t think anyone of stable mind could ever truly take it seriously. My eyes flicked across Patrick’s sad features again. What a putty head!

Anyway, I needed to care more about completing the task at hand.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

100 WORD SKITTLE // Jump-Off (Follow-up to Push-Up)

That boob was rather more tangible than my eyes had led me to believe.

No mere shadow, it yielded beneath my boots when I jumped on, and as I catapulted away it sprang back into perky, domed perfection. Actually, I don’t know for a fact that it did. I was rocketing at such speed that I was physically unable to check behind me.

No bother. I was more interested in the giant, fiery nipple in the sky. If I could reach that then the Areola Belt wouldn’t be out of the question. Good thing I was wearing my space suit!

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

GUEST POST // Bee There by Spahr Plops

bee the buzz
from Flora juices
Bee delighted about
intoxication.

Sip a lip the same
frame of forever.
bee filled with hop
budof hope & wonder

sought to fascinate
mundane pollinate.
Too bee sets shadow
seekless when Spring.

Bee mindful in offering
ambrosia cotton surround
Sound of solitude. bee life
the allergic unconscious.

by SPAHR PLOPS
© All rights reserved 2017

100 WORD SKITTLE // Push-Up

The road was covered with tits.

I stopped and took another look. An endless strip, double bulged on one side and even on the other, stretched to the horizon like a runway. I imagined the disturbed artist who frenetically draws tits on roads. Then I imagined how he runs on that strip, dives off the last boob, and flies away into the sky.

I looked up in hope… and saw a row of utility poles that were casting this odd shadow. I felt disappointed. Another story without a happy end…

I stepped onto the first boob and prepared to run.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017