Four poems

 

This is Now

learn to forget
reverse the thinking
kidnap to help
entropy convincing
give without mentioning
breaking and entering
to decorate with paintings
unlearn to return
back to the original state
destroy degrees
its on the obituary
to live, to learn, to die
embrace the cycle
by derailing the sane
the train never stops braking
so stop routines
and everyday lifestyles
move out, give up, let go
and never be complete.

 

The Great White American Dream

they said with terrorist smiles,
theater, sits alone
all these years
the multiplied fears
and shedding the coat
the American cocoon.
the Great White Empire.
realizations and truth’s upheaval
arrival and destination
tears and angry tears.
when violence and chaos
the beautiful faces.
so red so twisted.
so jolly, so full
the dead speak
their whispers flee
in our ears
thomas paine
break the chain
our American dream
lost, blinded, kill. now.
there is no flag.

 

Untitled

why expressionists?
this panting, pitiful painting
the wrinkling of cities
the infamous of mentions
it’s all between the venting
this curdling connection
dispatch dissection, the ending
swings curly red swings
that laugh lap laugh
much holding, soaking
imposing the loathing of two
release the tease
ease back to emails
the breeze is mounting up
knocking down the “us” in you
happy and lark that marks
this starts to rise like tide
end confiding, this siding
is framed and winding
and eyes never lie with eyes
these are the joining two.

 

Hawthorn

before it is too late
we wait on waiting features
and films and glare.
stare the wear of winters
and the math behind the ideas
the solitude of the here and now
we wanted something more
there was nothing for us all.
alone and aligned to reside
in the back of the shelters
the lack of the intrigues
the neighboring beliefs
shattered and scattered and killed
we were one of the best
and laugh and dance.
since the roughing of edges
since the ending of legends
look back, lean back, fall.
we have never looked so stern
the way we went about life
the way we held nothing in
the way we wanted it all
somehow fell short of our own.
reality was never much more
than a small town in missouri
and we can always ponder
and always be forever under
the rest of humanity
but the truth seemed clear
that we will never die.
(and we will never fear.)

Brent Mathew Surrat lives in Springfield, Il and is about a year away from a bachelors degree in studio art. He has always loved writing poetry and short prose and has already lost count just how many old spiral notebooks he now has in his basement from years of writing. Brent plans to go back to school for a masters in literature. "Art has always been a huge passion for me but creative writing has as well. Eventually, I want to publish my poetry and a novel I am currently writing." Brent is 24 years old.
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