| Poetry |
Surrealism
“What is surrealism?” I asked myself while sitting in a Chinese restaurant with an awful comedian and a college professor with an empty Sprite bottle for a left arm. The repugnant creator of puns used a jackhammer to provide relief to his glass eye, although we surmised he was trying to contact Cthulhu (or so the college professor says). “I’m trying to figure out what is surrealism,” I confessed to the professor. “Do not ask what is surrealism,” the professor responded, afterwards metamorphsing into Sigmund Freud, if Sigmund Freud were Spanish. “Ask what surrealism is. Surrealism is the incomprehensible. Surrealism is the metaphysical. Surrealism is everything.” The college professor (because he was much too melancholy to truly be Sigmund Freud) then spontaneously combusted. The comedian danced around to elevator music. A centaur entered the room, grunted, then left. We became disturbed at the awareness of something in the next room, although we weren’t sure exactly what it was. The answers to the SATs floated into the room in the form of ghosts. Me and the comedian stared at them for seven and a half minutes before vomiting. “Do you know what is surrealism?” I asked the comedian. The comedian stared at me awkwardly, then disintegrated into abstract thought. All motion ceased and the restaurant swirled out of existance.
by Collin Breaux
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