Manifeste du Surréalisme

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“Dans mon élément”

Chapter One: Fríðrun[edit | edit source]

In a tranquil, encapsulating darkness, Fríðrun watched as his hand lifted a small, aforeunseen object and twirled it round. It was foreign to him - shaped like a bowl, but with a lid. It reminded him of an urn. It caught a light from what seemed to be nothing, and revealed its true colours; well, all one of them, but there was a lithe, circular depth to it that seemed to go a little beyond its outward appearance. Why?

Fríðrun’s younger sister Dialogue lounged leisurely reading a book called “Into It”. She’d read it far too many times and as a result had read “Into It” too much. She wishes she had another book to read. It would surely brighten up those long hours she forced herself to undertake sitting lazy in her red leather chair.

Nothing much happened as they did this. Mothers and wives died and no-one saw. Wars began and ended. Politicians married Despots before being taken hostage by Escaped Mass Murderers. Millions forgot they saw it and ate their breakfast contentedly. Nothing much ever happens anymore.

Fríðrun stepped out of a room marked "Fríðrun", whistling. He wandered down to the kitchen and found his sister frying sausages whilst humming. Their vaguely musical emissions combined into a somewhat unholy harmony which unsettled the both of them, and they slowly drifted into silence.

Fríðrun spent the rest of the day writing a poem. Each and every letter, word and syllable took an abnormally large amount of his time as he formulated and reformulated it into perceived perfection:

I've got a joie de vivre filling up defending virilely
You've got a hunch, a notion telling you there's something you can't see
I bought a ticket today telling me that I just might succeed
Silly girl tends to drive to places in a state-of-art machine
Floppy-haired youth dictates the region through a single well-aimed deed
A flag can tell it where to go a cloth can order us to bleed
Debate the state I'm sure it listens but may tend not to agree
Stimulate hesitate arrive contrive just make sure that you please
Haiku heist attack nature bring the whole damn system to its knees
Look what you did you vagrant time to reap those hardly well-earned seeds
So what so why so lovely take it further don't stop 'til it gleams
You've got a nerve being a soldier when the rest are in-betweens
Wilderness comes what of it what you gonna do imprison me
Hard graft hard work hard labour take it like a man amid a team
It's getting sweaty what you bargained for might not be what it seems
What you got now's your limit overthrow it set it cagily
It falls oh couldn't I have seen this inevitablility
You've got reproach approach it reconfigure set the roaches free
Take it in pound for pound it's dirty but two dirties make a clean
Soapscum and water rabbits breed too fast to form this heirarchy
Perhaps next time relapse perhaps next time you'll be one with the trees
Consider despite your written beauty you break so easily
Brittlely see we see saw once we saw something we could unsee
A picture's not a picture once you rob it of virginity.

"P.S, hold your breast to your bosom, the friction could warm your seams" were Fríðrun's first words of the day, lost on the tranquility of emptiness.

A lost seafarer, alive, has returned home.

A lost seafarer, alive,

Has returned home.

The first thing this man did was call his friend Fríðrun. He was shivering and wet, probably close to death, and most likely inhumanly flexible. Fríðrun was not.

"Hello, Fríðrun?"

"Maudlin? Is that you?!"


Chapter One: Relentless Waves of Static Noise[edit | edit source]

A single boy stood in a planet of sound. it encompassed him like he was swimming in a lake of lava. The air was overcome and began to fuzz before letting in black dots. A small dog had its throat cut and was recorded on a zoetrope and left to be spun on demand. It never stopped spinning.

The boy's skin began to run like a slightly erased colour sketch. Small snippets of falsetto found their way into the overwhelmingly omnipresent static, filtered like dots flashing on the surface of an ancient fluorscent neon ladybird.

The whol experience was, on the whol, rather positive, if slightly too sepiatone.

Chapter One: Symbolism[edit | edit source]

A man believed in symbol. Sadly, he is now passed away. If only the sentence flowed as freely as his blood.

A single, brilliant-white ray of light penetrated and impregnated a rainbow before harnessing it and influencing it into its own colour. It was perfect.