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adi Apr 5
Broken lovers float around
Like blind shadows looking for light
And sleepless walkers searching for night.

Like burned matches in winter forests
Disguised as trees,
Awaiting fire.
Navigating the morning migratory commute
      Mother Luna, Venus Magus, Jupiter Rex
      and little cygnets of pink appear
            —just for her

She hums a few notes
      from her Hildegard repertoire
             in memoriam
      to a mostly recycled paper cup
      organic hand-roasted coffee, fair trade
      brewed by a kid, her favorite barista
      because he can quote Albert Camus

She soars on a plain of existence
      Alto Cirrus Allegro
      where gods kibitz in several languages
            —at once
      on topics that span the gamut
      of not-so-trivial pursuits

My Pen, at her desk, preens her brand
       though this is the season of her last days
       an executive where money
            is unapologetically—God
       where women are hens
       recognized holistically
             as the large fleshy area
             that surrounds the ******

It's difficult paddling upstream
      in that sewage
      when you are a swan

That's why, I, her Cob who surely,
      surely by true gods that fly
               do not deserve
      such a precious spirit feather as she
      calls to her, waddles my mating dance
            —just for her
      spreads my wings
      to flap scents of sky in display for her
      cranes my neck to honk
      across interstate traffic
            and elevator gropes
      to bring her back here—home
our pond of still water
for LoML
Rekha Nur Alisha Nov 2018
She was that Chekhovian girl
who fell for Dostoevsky
and Camus and Sartre
and
   you.
JJ Inda Nov 2018
This mind,
this ability to create,
and study and learn
and teach,
this is the tool which harms us.
This mumbling about meaning,
this world devoid of purpose,
the world from which it sprung.
-the struggle at it's root
and so the Absurd is born.
a very loose interpretation of the philosophy of the absurd.
a o karenin Jul 2018
but your way of
v a n i s h i n g
has the power to question
my own existence.
was it real? or was it just an awfully
l
o
   n
     g
       dream?

- анна о. к.
why look for meaning
behind the pain––
find it in the bleeding
and the stains
Josh Jul 2017
Camus asked, his question
A cup of coffee
Or death?
Because life has no meaning
So the absurdists said
These actions are equal
They mean as much as you decide
So why choose death
I guess its saying
It's no more or less
Than life

So every day
When I wake
If I'm feeling, like i normally do
I have a cup of coffee
Because coffee burns
It is bitter
Truthfully though
It's over quicker
Than a noose
And why
Should I
Die?

When the universe
Will not
Cry
For me
Another insignificant
Human life
To fork no lightning
And to vainly
Oh so vainly
Rage, as Thomas said
Against the dying of the light

So instead
I strive
To be free of my darkness
And to live free
Live a life so meaningless
Yet filled with beauty
This I will do.
Absurdist ramblings
r Jan 2017
My problem
isn't with the philo-
sophical side,
but lies more 
in the how
and the when and
the courage
required.
Pearson Bolt Dec 2016
they say god is perfect.
that holds true for me, too.
no concept contains me in totality.
Stirner wrestled with the undefinable:
an indefatigable Unique,
anarchic,
lacking category.
Camus perhaps said it best,
"i rebel, therefore i exist."
i strive to personify resistance.

i find the answers
in harmony with Counterparts,
defining The Difference
Between Hell
and Home
:
"i am what i am
and i am an outcast."

an outlaw,
a nobody
akin to Nietzsche,
returning infinitely—
stretched like so many grains of sand
on time's flat surface, orbiting
eternally around the creative Nothing
at half-past 3:00 in the morning.
a singularity,
deconstructing
Derrida's Différance.

a nomad on the margins,
wandering aimlessly,
roaming perpetually
with Deleuze and Foucault,
an astronaut arranged
along the endless frontiers
of an ever-expanding cosmos.

Vonnegut recognized
the periphery affords
a radical view
to the few who choose
to embrace that which cannot be Known.
a zero-sum game
between Death and me,
staving off manic-depressive ennui
if only momentarily.
‪"The lyricism of marginality may find inspiration in the image of the 'outlaw,' the great social nomad, who prowls on the confines of a docile, frightened order."‬
‪- Michel Foucault ‬
s Jul 2016
I hope you watch television
with a grain of salt.
I hope you make an effort
to curate your own news walls.
For never before
have we controlled
the medium quite as much;
But neither has it been celebrated
to use ignorance as a crutch.

I hope you find humour
in all those big screen dramas.
I hope you don’t take seriously
the Popes and Dalai Lamas.
For every word has been written
by a human along the way,
who too is in need to feed
a family & go about their everyday.

I hope your imagination stretches
beyond that which is easy to grasp,
for the medium is the message
of those who create its clasp.
Seek instead the reason
that drives the deeper intent,
And learn how the process of creation
can be used to augment perception.

I hope you find beauty
in poetry -
that holds your heart
and tickles your mind -
not the kind that sells as art
to the gullible, easy and blind.

I hope you find happiness -
your very own kind -
And unfollow that
which entertains the mob mind -
The kardashians and the goswamis -
and all the twisted fiction
that sells in the name of reality.

I hope your version of cool
aligns with your pursuit of discovery.
I hope you find peace with being unpopular
When your amusement begets Camus & Rumi

I hope you find the courage to ask
questions that call upon your intellect,
and then to announce your findings
on love & mortality, as you introspect,
on what it means to be human
and how death does define life;
And how language is only a translation
of a silence that is perhaps, divine.
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