the door creeks
"Ah, I've been waiting it for weeks."
"It's surely the Reaper, the final undertaker."
waiting for nothing
"Maybe, he has another job. The door creeked, but he sent one of his helldog to do the job."
the void avoids my thoughts
"Hellhound or a fluffy bunny, stop me feeling so moody."
"Somebody, take my thoughts and take me voice. Not to feel more sore."
For you who has seen
Beyond the spectacle
What you find
May cause isolation,
Self-doubt and misery
So cry like a little child
And then rise up again
For you have found a purpose
in the absurdity of life
Guy Debord’s book Society Of The Spectacle is kinda spectacular
head on the floor
to be less notorious I ask
laughing in the record
welcome, home they said.
I was bad ...guess still
What do I do to prove my worth and show my love for you?
I might ride a mighty raging steed to defend my maiden’s honor.
Well, maybe not. I’m very bad with horses.
I’d just fall off and bust my ***.
It would be a bit absurd.
I could pick you every daisy, rose, and mum; every flower in the world.
And make a huge bouquet.
But that would make you sneeze, I think
and no one else has flowers.
I could bring you down the moon and stars from their home up in the sky.
But where the hell would you possibly put them.
Your closet can’t have near the room,
and it’ll cause havoc in the tides.
I could give you the beating heart from my chest to prove my endless love.
For truth, no—I don’t think I could.
I kinda need it now to live and,
well, frankly that’s really rather gross. I mean…yuck.
How do I prove my love for you and convince you of my worth?
I hold your hand.
I hear your voice.
I kiss your lips.
I give you all my time.
For such a love as you
Life is better if you embrace the absurd, I think. It can broaden the possibilities and sometimes make you smile.
I wanted to write without rhyming
but it became a question of timing.
How could I just flow
and not ever know
when to st
A chalky, sepia-washed room seen through an ailing CRT. Vantablack lines sprawl across my gnarled face in patterns, playing games with the sun that blares on through the rangy blinds.
Digital clock: 2:43
A cardinal red cigarette pack in my right hand, a turkey baster in the other, submerged deep within the sheet's motherly void. The simmering glow of the hallway dances like a pendulum; a vicious debutante, waiting to coerce me into life. I am enveloped by some capricious rhythm that has no origin, and no destination.
I'm coming to uncertain terms with this lucid halcyon.
Ink drips, from the pillow to my shoulder. I am currently a piece of fiction, held within a lissome frame. This is complete autonomy. Nothing is as it really was, only what it should've have been from the very start. A muted slur from beyond the window comes hurtling through my head. It starts to look like a tumor tree, having its branches, limbs, and spine torn to and fro in such a hideous manner. I've let something go to my head. The dream is broken, through no request of my own.
So we found some green pine cones
with black spindles poking out
and a funny, fuzzy fur.
When we pulled apart the scales,
a pungent Christmas smell
wafted from its fruity core.
Speculations ran amok
until we recognized an
time is the ultimate currency
by existing we gamble
the globe glitches and moves
around the open sky
with a fruitless frequency
if living is preconceived
and it mirrors the chaos
then what shall i do with this knife?
the globe looks like glass to me
can no one else see
this algorithmic ******* life?
i can't look at my own
reflection for too long
or i start to look like my father
the globe is tiny and absurd
it could never make sense
so why do we all even bother?