Think not of them, thou hast thy music too.
Here is a ‘surrealist’ poem we had to submit in our coursework portfolio. If it doesn’t look like poetry, well, it isn’t. Apparently surrealist poetry is meant to merely involve writing down the first thoughts that come into your head. Stupid, really, but I noticed it has some similar ideas to my first post, so here it is!
If I am Frankenstein’s monster who is my Frankenstein?
Too small to control my legs and arms and mind they’re driven
by the master puppeteers, I can’t stomach you
but I can probably make some room in my head.
Individuality is a joke, we’re a patchwork creation
of corpses and words, not quite the same
but we all have the same parts.
Our gods are omnipresent, but not omniscient or omnipotent,
they are just there. Inanimate. We are the aborted children
of the earth, resurrected by the times.
They say your body is god’s temple, they’re right
but not in the way they think.
We are god, we are the master and the servant,
but we are out of control.