SurVision Magazine
An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Issue
Nine
S. C. Flynn
Where the Unborn Are
I ride the world to
the end of the line,
a fragile thing under a hard metal sky,
hearing the future say
the gods no longer need us
and heaven still costs what each can pay.
It's calling us on, but who knows where;
when all the questions are answered,
the problem still remains,
a child crying forever in the night.
a fragile thing under a hard metal sky,
hearing the future say
the gods no longer need us
and heaven still costs what each can pay.
It's calling us on, but who knows where;
when all the questions are answered,
the problem still remains,
a child crying forever in the night.
The Good Things
A
grey and heavy Tuesday
sprawls to the horizon;
the window might open onto a courtyard
filled with colour and life,
but never does. I want to drive a nail
deep into the clouds
and hang a bright canvas across the sky –
a crinkled hymn to day and night –
but try as we might, we'd always know
that the moon is just a lump of wood,
the sun a crumbling dried flower
and the stars only shiny little stones
hanging by loops of string
from the spindly branches of a tree.
We see ourselves as reflections
smudged in the back of a spoon,
two changing people in the same clothes each day,
so we rush on like open razors,
cutting open all the things that could have held us
while we grab a feeling or two
from a book as we pass by.
Now there's noise in the courtyard,
but the spoon needs washing
and the brittle sun slowly drops a petal.
sprawls to the horizon;
the window might open onto a courtyard
filled with colour and life,
but never does. I want to drive a nail
deep into the clouds
and hang a bright canvas across the sky –
a crinkled hymn to day and night –
but try as we might, we'd always know
that the moon is just a lump of wood,
the sun a crumbling dried flower
and the stars only shiny little stones
hanging by loops of string
from the spindly branches of a tree.
We see ourselves as reflections
smudged in the back of a spoon,
two changing people in the same clothes each day,
so we rush on like open razors,
cutting open all the things that could have held us
while we grab a feeling or two
from a book as we pass by.
Now there's noise in the courtyard,
but the spoon needs washing
and the brittle sun slowly drops a petal.
S. C. Flynn was born in Australia to Irish parents, and now lives in Dublin. His poetry appears in Cyphers, Strukturriss, Bealtaine, The Waxed Lemon, Drawn to the Light, and Beir Bua.
