The monocled heaven

The monocled heaven

A Poem by Laerrus

Lavender games in the summer bracelet

Charging my attire with indecent assaults

If in doubt I am not to be touched before the clocks run across

    the roof tiles

They are pictures in the form of pomegranate toenails

Chasing my dreams underneath every small lunch in the sea

Passively crossing the realms with a telephone voice

The binary motion of wires in the tundra is vacant again I see

Supposing I realise the next wave of intellectual doubts

In heaven and some small place just above me I touch all the

    crickets with batteries in my chest

Confident of the aspects placed on my shoulder the night

    before I spoke to the myths

Indecisive tree surgery is forming

Simple and strong in the vernacular hamster cages

Winning all the posted cartwheels for a breath of unborn air

The hands I see on the face are faces in backward situations

Never alone for a moment

Leaning forward to greet my nasal hair with perpendicular


I am a charm in the far off playground

Crested with answers on the soporific head lace

Chaining all the creatures to rubbed out rocks on the forest


I no longer know where the night has gone and when it was

    ever in the mind of a passing dog

It is a crazy kind of red with a hint of unbearable oil

Wrapped like linen on the back of the elephant umbrella

They are the ones who are hiding the permutations

The pocketed idealists in the littlest of dressing stones under

    all the saffron whales

Chime with them and chime with me in the incandescent bowl

Perched in unison with no sundials to surmount their parted


No landing stone to watch them curl under the picnic bench

And before the sun dream is over

A new and wonderful conclusion becomes the leader in the

    basket of eyelids

Dressing for a part in the story under the sink

© 2013 Laerrus

My Review

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Oh please pardon my language dear, but I am so f*****g brilliantly, blessedly, blissfully relieved that I just happened across this page. I have no words. Just tears. I do this, this "style" you've described. I was not aware there was a name. I have spent ions shocked and angry and frustrated that people couldn't understand my meaning when I used this "technique"?? When I would write from the perfectionistic place in me, I loathed the result that seemed to perversely please the masses. However, writing in this gorgeous, lush fashion is an orgasmic celebration indescribable to my senses....But....nobody knows what the hell I'm talking about. Although, when I kick my throbbing, pathetic, useless ego out on its a*s and revisit the piece, it is so filled with the juiciest, most delectable fruit of the most treasured and valuable kind: Insights into The Mind. The most magnificent, revealing mirror imagined!
Now, about this poem...first of all, the tears are only now drying on my cheeks from reading this...literally. And how absurd that I could see your meanings...not in an egoic know-it-all, smarty-pants kind of way, but it seemed so obvious to me. You must have thoroughly enjoyed unraveling this precious gem...I particularly loved these lines:

-It is a crazy kind of red with a hint of unbearable oil

-Wrapped like linen on the back of the elephant umbrella

-They are the ones who are riding the permutations

-The pocketed idealists in the littlest of dressing stones
under all the saffron whales

I could live the rest of my life on those 4 sentences alone...I could make 7 worlds over with them...

Just exquisite and brilliant and every other boring-a*s word that wreaks of repetition and insult.

Thank you for this!

Posted 8 Years Ago

I look at this as an abstract painting. I don't really know what I'm looking at, but I'm sure there's something I'm missing. The imagination takes some weird turns.

Posted 8 Years Ago

I too have come to a new and wonderful conclusion....


Posted 8 Years Ago

Saffron whales... Cool...

Posted 8 Years Ago

I am not really too familiar with Surrealist poetry, unlike Surrealist paintings, some of which I love (Magritte and Dali in the main). This form certainly paves the way to stark and startling imagery. I am particularly taken with the "basket of eyelids" here. The imagination can have a field-day, as yours has here! Intriguing, and quite stimulating!

Posted 8 Years Ago

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5 Reviews
Added on November 24, 2011
Last Updated on January 25, 2013
Tags: poetry, surrealist writing, surrealism, automatic writing, surreal, Laerrus



Somewhere, under a passing windowsill, United Kingdom

I'm an English Surrealist artist. I wouldn't really consider myself a writer but I do enjoy words and my writing mostly comes from using the Surrealist technique of automatic writing. You might.. more..

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