This is surrealist poetry by eliot-n-fox in the style of call and echoing response. that is: one person scries, the other cries its opposite, and so on.
written in a small cabin filled with the anxious insanity of early late twenty-something, surrounded by a dark winter garden, surrounded by the quiet vigilance of pines, surrounded by an inky black sky, surrounded by a world at pains.
YOUR DEAD MOM IS HERE WITH ME
Speak slow, my bones are still waking up
I flash through the inter webs like neon panda and open all the windows
o p e n i n g
l i
g h
t s
t r
e a
m s
i n
myselftiny
hateways
i
I'M THE FUCKING BEST THING SINCE GOD AND I HATE ALL YOU HATERS CAUSE YOU DONT SEE IT
sh, i'm still asleep and
your dead mom is here with me.
TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT
Religious turmoil steers our fate.
Prodigious rock'n'roll leers at the gate.
Who goes there?
I do not know
your guitar Gods
hey sweetheart, it's me i miss you i love you
i'm sorry please forgive me it's me it's me
Get off the phone, Susan.
Eat your boogers and say your prayers.
get off on the phone, Susan--
yeah, yeah. eat em. yeah.
say it -- say it -- tell me what you really want
I HEAR THE GLASS EMPTY
Fawn settling into my belly,
lay low the fear-of-crazy
hermit's glee
esoteric rabbithole
down the fog-float-ing-on-the-pond,
i drink deeply
Empty tightening of
never knowing enough.
I get strung out on surrealism
daily. Strange. Satisfying. Say yes.
Silence. The one language we all speak.
My mouth is parched.
I'VE GOT IT I KNOW
I KNOW ENOUGH, I'M FULL
YOU THE STRANGE, YOU THE
STRUNG OUT
IT IS TIME WE SPEAK
THIRSTY MOUTHS WIDE
SAY (YES) SAY SAY
you don't need to scream.
sticks and stones make up my bones
and words are the dirt i eat.
here. drink some water.
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