What an unsympathetic creature is sanity!
Lurking behind us in its own insanity!
If the dreamlike rays of surrealist art
cannot cast out this relentless foe’s heart,
our gift of imagination, and will of expressionism,
will ignite its stalking shadow with a vengeance!
I’m proud to be of another psyche.
Our passion’s fire burning brightly.
Without it, would we write with such metaphorical beauty?
That which is inhered in our inherited genre’s psyche?
All these words would otherwise be ordinary.
The hell with ordinary!
I want my head to whirl within the surreal mist,
without the sense of what is in front or behind me.
Can a head spin 360 degrees?
And not a deathly still, in realism’s unbending freeze?
Turning this head again and again
until it screws off its spine and lands by my feet.
Even then, I’m not spitting dirt, I’m chewing what the world has rejected.
Whether it be taboo or the unspeakable, it belongs to me.
Something realists in our realm cannot see.
My words, my feelings, my thoughts, there’s no defined script for imagination.
So, latch the hooks into our mouths with what you think is sane,
but we will not sing for you, or in a way in which you’d perceive.
The distinct silhouette of reality will be within sight, the metaphor,
however; will have a shadow which blends into the most potent of light.
Wherever the creature of realism may lie,
its white eyes illuminated in some dark shadow.
Now and again, its claws sting
the outer reaches of my body.
