If surreal people were the world
our landscapes would
reflect the inconstancy
of our unconscious condition.
The evolution of flora and fawning
would have learned nothing
Our bodies would undergo
from the grotesque to the sublime.
We would sleep dreamlessly,
our thoughts and desires at rest,
to wake each morning to a reality
framed by random association.
Worlds of metaphoric explosion
and grotesque hyperbole
lost in the moment
of their comprehension.
We would confront time
and its liquid ticking
in a petrified railway station,
and exalt in the
creation of gods and goddesses
of geometric exactitude
while burning herbivores
strolled across a lean horizon.
If surreal people were the world,
the wonders and horrors of existence
would forever begin anew.