#absurdist
Roses are blue
violets are grey
I switch things around
wondering what is life?
Mar 20
Mar 20, 2026 at 1:03 PM UTC
Alls my life I has to hop, brother!
Alls my life I...
Hard times like, “Yah!”.
Mad tricks like, “Yah!”.
Fatalist, I’m all lost
Homie, you are all lost
But if God got us, then we gon’ be alright
We gon’ be alright!
We gon’ be alright!
Brother, we gon’ be alright
What we need is a way to lose the radar
Of the creatures of gluttony that resembles
a bar.
So, I hop in hope that I’m still afar
From the clenches of them ****** piranhas
Chasin’ me like a cop car.
Call this eternal for no solace is there
And this frog won’t ever give in to that
Joker’s flair.
Twisted it is that a kiss pronounces exit from
this lair?
Yeah, sure do adhere.
I’d rather die and state my mind clear.
This circus denounces hell, I fear.
Joker’s the devil and piranha’s sin, my dear.
It’s clear what they intend to do here.
Mere resistance is futile and it tears
Lingering hope and steers
My fate. My life. My ideas.
But I take a leap of faith Cause
If God got us, then we gon’ be alright.
Brother, we gon’ be alright.
-Asher Graves
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 12:13 PM UTC
We are all bewildered dancers
Lost in an incomprehensible ballet—
Woven tightly through a rich tapestry,
Drawn from contrasting colors,
Yet forming a boundless whole,
Waltzing hand in hand—
In love and hate, joy and suffering,
Dark and light, death and life.
The universe—a radiant church window,
Fracturing light into polychromatic unity,
Drifting shards of stained glass,
Piercing through the drama of duality,
Rippling into a sea of endless complexity,
Wedged between the boundaries
of stars and the space that forms them,
A perfection found in imperfection,
Beneath this sea of contrast lies truth:
How could we be anything at all
Without two sides to make us whole?
Before the technicolor skies formation,
We were the loneliest deity,
Infinity alone in a room made of itself,
Where everything was everywhere,
And time unfolded all at once.
So we crafted ourselves a dream—
From the core of our mirrored soul,
A place where I am you and you are me,
So we may live and perish in grace.
So we may play a game with ourselves,
Performing on this boundless stage,
An intricate puzzle piece,
Fitting together in a dance of chaos,
Meticulously designed to deceive ourselves,
So we may treasure life in the face of death.
Navigators of the in-between,
Wandering the maze of nothingness.
If infinity could dream,
Its deepest longing would be
To grasp something real—
To feel the grass beneath its feet,
As it runs across the hills of our earth,
Savoring the fleeting bliss of it all.
The present is so precious,
It hints at a reason we call it so—
A split second glimpse of meaning
In the eternal dance of existence.
Sep 9, 2024
Sep 9, 2024 at 10:50 AM UTC
Humans tread this lonely universe,
as an ever-dispersing body,
but our I’s never meet.
Behind the velvet curtains of our minds,
within the iris of our eyes,
rests an endless expanse of stars,
refracting off a crystalline hall of mirrors—
a boundless,
eternal reflection,
devoid of every word.
Whispering so softly in us,
behind all thought, all form,
revealing everything,
yet ultimately nothing—
nothing at all.
Sep 9, 2024
Sep 9, 2024 at 10:49 AM UTC
Vestal shores of youth,
Life! -Render once forth
Coasts, before every home.
Turn castles to glass,
Liken ivory to stone.
Our long mass, come to close-
Hunger no more.
What is achieved, at last;
The peace found within,
Begins to unfold.
Aug 28, 2023
Aug 28, 2023 at 3:08 PM UTC
I've realised that I have taken life too seriously. So, I delved into absurdist thought. The idea is so fascinating. There's no meaning to this life, to this universe, to this reality of ours. And the protagonist is going insane, trying to find a meaning to this meaningless existence, toying between societal perception and individual perception. In the entirety of his/her journey, ***** meets a variety of people, engages in crazy doings, takes the unwalked path, develops a purpose to prolong this mundane existence, eventually leaves it and drowns in melancholy, haphazardly moves to another purpose, then another, at some point maybe religion, then back to reality, unleashes creativity in the most disdain places, unleashes creativity in the most affluent places, moves to social work, gives out opinions on social realities, and fantasy(utopian society), finally commits to a normal job, earns well, gets married, most likely has children, gives love to them and dies, probably peacefully.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 3:53 PM UTC
bury me living
for i am in a world of dead
where the zombified stumble around
looking for meaning
maybe it'll make more sense
six feet under
and down the river styx
tie me to a raft
and let me drift
far, from this meaningless charade
known as life
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 1:11 PM UTC
She met me by the river and turned her cheek to the sun
taunting it. Her willingness could cause a mark in red,
like a statue she sits so still.
My feet dangle in the river, which she dare not touch and I know
why she must stay so fussed with the pray that is all in her head,
to think she may die.
Or end up dead down some dark dingy creek
gives me no better reason to meet her here where she knows, her
friends. To say goodbye is to become a foe with the daring woman.
So I just hope that she'll turn her head and pull the mask to her chin.
To look me in the eye and scream in my face,
that I might die tomorrow.
Even though I know she could strike me down this minuet,
with the river raging i'd close my eyes,
to the fish flailing, and my friends across the waters.
To the beat of the rapids, i'd happily die.
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 9:08 AM UTC
In my mind there's a power that I keep by the shelf of books I once accumulated in an attempt to own everything
to keep something that would always stay, permanent to years
I never use it and at times the dim light from overhead makes me forget what it is i'm looking at
I don't touch it in case I've forgotten how to handle it and I think I may have
it might leave room for discussion or leave the room altogether
I was never good at piecing puzzles, the truth lying somewhere in the invariability of the same outcome
some call it probability or fate and fortune
it may even be unlucky
I used to be a woman who knew exactly what to say however poorly timed it could be
but now my mouth can't cooperate and I've forgotten all my favorite words
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 12:33 AM UTC
the sun is my king and sometimes it asks me
what i'm doing down here on earth
i can't help but explain that everything has it's place and there are certain rules you cannot bend
i consistently want to have a ****** job wherein it slowly melts my spirits but not really
what i really want is nothing by the sea
doesn't matter which one
where i can pray into the sand
where someone asks
who are you? what are you doing?
and i can tell them
at ease, at ease
like that cowboy i remember from my childhood
this is me at my most degenerate
at my most free
but you wouldn't know
except the sun king and I
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 11:31 PM UTC
a swollen finger rising to the occasion
rising to the size of a grape, purple
bloated like a stuffed pocket or pregnant chicken
green oozing out like the slime i got from the museum and the smell of rubber and plastic following me in my sleep
a ghost by the window slipping into my thumb and biting pain
the numb pressure of muscle tissue ripping
the phantom claws out and shouts that women are debris
swamps with lost metal buried at the bottom if you dig long enough the days become one and their hair consumes you whole
i argue with the shadow, threaten that this bruise will burst and blood with meet alcohol, an antibiotic fever dream
it stares at me defiant, like a giant pulverizing a village
my fingers wrestle and before the abscess can pop
the fingerprints unravel until i am nothing but thread
a coil at the bottom of the floor
a dress to be sewn in a bedroom
the shadow stand up and fits her bones into the fibers, a bride in white
the thumb hurts no more
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
I have faced down
the existential anguish
that drives lovers
to padlock themselves within.
I have woven blankets
to warm my cold shoulders
when I tumble
through the abyss.
I have created
Reason, Religion, and Reverence
out of Absurdity and Stardust.
I will always be
more desirous of desire
than secure with security,
more comforted by wonder
than wondrous of comfort,
and more of the romantic than the realist,
though neither is whole
without the foil.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 2:31 AM UTC
I am alive in a home-made dress that was bought for two dollars at a yard sale
there is domestic bliss in routine
in the inching of my hand on a knife that will be used to slice the
tomatoes growing outside
there in no harm in loving you eternally
I think about everything often
about the way I tried for years to soothe my fathers’ psychosis
and my mothers’ sadness
I think about the temporary loss of my body and the way I absorbed it in sweat
my bones constantly caught in bushes of bramble thorns
and I wish you could see how far you have to go to come back home
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).
Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.
All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.
"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!
She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
Let's not make any bones about it,
For I have no bones to pick.
Ah, and I've got you there,
for I am a sack of meat.
O, to live amongst the squids!
and be so jubilant and jiggly,
why, no pleasure's ever met my eye,
as that leathery wriggling beak.
Am I to blame for my misfortune?
Surely so, but of you I must ask,
what misfortune? Am I to assume
that because I have agency, I must fail?
Nonsense! And how fitting.
American manifest. Living
in a land, for himself, most befitting.
Laugh with me, for we live in Clown World.
This is the power of
the untamed duffle bag.
Vicious! O how vicious, his maw,
his all consuming zipper unzipped.
But my zipper, too, is unzipped.
Such a faux pas passes not
in our society, unforgiving,
unforgivable.
Original sin.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
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.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
There was ink in his mouth and it was Monday morning, doomsday morning.
The comparison of both these seemingly random attributes could mean nothing at all
to anybody else but they came hand in hand for a man that always walked with his shoes untied
and while the rest of the world chewed tobacco; he chewed cinnamon sticks that he would grind
to a fine powder in his mouth spitting it out at nearby ant mounds and by the nests of bumblebees.
This nomad’s of nobody’s business would wander the streets of his hated town, the world’s armpit, the city of fire and angels and whatever the hell else.
He would walk Pico Boulevard all the way to Wilshire Ave., towards Venice and then crookedly stumbling to Van Nuys but he didn’t know his bus routes and his mind was always swarmed by imaginary bugs that he picked up from old soda cans.
What he loved most of all was stopping by the bridges of highways and looking all the way down to
the cars below swimming past in a hurry; the sky dark blue and the headlights like light bulbs
almost running out of their batteries. He saw this as cathartic as most people saw sunsets or a pianist
shaking his head violently to his own tune and it was true. This simple man was born, some say, out of dust, car exhaust and the lost ID cards of peoples’ whose wallets were stolen. However intriguing this could be it wasn’t so. He was born in a hospital in Chinatown and his mother had gold teeth that glistened whenever she drank too much and how often they shone.
You see, I knew this man long ago when my hair cascaded down my back in fine strokes and my lungs
weren’t yet tired from the things I chose to inhale. For all my purposes, this was the only person I wanted to talk about, to spit and screech whenever I heard his name and I didn’t even exactly know his name; The poor imbecile. He went by different pseudonyms and I suppose I did too but I had a name that most knew. Carmen and Leopold. They chose to remember it because it rolled off, it clawed at your teeth as you said it.
But Monday mornings were a specialty. It meant that he could go and see his brother who lived across town, the one who sang at fancy pubs and refined restaurants, where people didn’t have to yell to admire you, but slowly clapped, a soft hum in a room where everyone understands and doesn’t have to make up for it in the way they whistle your name. He always shook his head at this profession.
“You’re an animal to these people, an exhibit they can safely see from their auditoriums and then go to sleep without having to take you home. Your last hurrah will come soon and then what will you do?”
He didn’t understand Leopold’s hostility. This art he was drawn to. This voice that could have been
given to anybody but it was given to him. Deep down he knew he would never be a big star, he would never leave the place where he born. He would die close to where he went to elementary school and what a big sham, the whole big world so big and he would never see it. Never unfold, instead slowly
crumble like the crust of cakes he stared at through shopping windows.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 11:02 PM UTC
The man who wears a leather belt and uses sensible words
loves her in cobalt violet, in the streaks of a hazy violent sky
after a storm has passed and she lets him
he claims that the egg people are coming, they’ll bring with
them handful of gifts of glory, of the things people hide
in the crevices of sidewalks, in the spaces where identity cards
are devoured by the teeth of the unknown
the television is always on and the static that surrounds them
is the serenading music she listens to before she falls asleep at night
she pretends that love is painting one’s nails while the other
loses their mind
as he laughs at the invisible neighbors outside the window
his bones can smell the coming of the apocalypse
and it’s not in the form of a swarm, or a flood
it comes in the bodies of girls with strawberry blonde
hair and that’s why he’s so drawn to her
and why his mother was swallowed by the earth
she learns that illness comes in permanent mauve
the walls of her room are covered in that hue
the boy she sneaks cigarettes from at the diner
in his car the color is almost a tangible personification
the smoke blows out into the crisp air like a bag of potato chips
the lungs constrict and expand
the thoughts hindered from years of yielding to the yellow sun
with the ****** robe
the child, the woman, the human lives in ****
but the thinker manages to escape years later
and live in the suburbs on an easy paycheck from
foolish strangers that believe that gasoline is a cheap party trick
and a fantastic high
she doesn’t recognize touch anymore besides
the harsh graze of asphalt hitting her knees
people seldom realize that freedom is not in
the way your toes curl but in the way they finally unfurl
how curious you can spot patterns where there are none
to be rescued does not always come in the way of clean arms
She loved him in transparent maroon
the grasp of warm sand kissing you gently
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
you’re a shy hiss
her voice echoes, whispers through the
stringy hair of green overgrown grass
I’m not the sister you knew all those years ago
the gods have been dangerous to me
in the city of root rot in between the cashmere sweaters
you stole from heaven, from shopping windows
the harvest is unfinished, as the gladiolas bow in prayers
for the follies underneath my petticoat
you wanted the birds to sing but now they scream
for the arrival of summer in the veins I consider
abused blue but have always been crimson sugar
I want to reach out and hold your hand
but it’s foreign now, the youth like creeping vines
that we clung to have vanished
leaving residuals of a wasteland that we once considered
home, manicured to remind you the letters you
threw out of your mouth from the roofs of
sunset apartments
the drugs you hid in the eye sockets of boys
that would eventually be murdered in ally streets
in downtown LA
adulthood didn’t come in a red box
it came as mother death, knocking her meaty hand
on the door, uninvited and unintentional
as she rubs her temples with the bones of
the misguided
I’m grown don’t you know, you exclaim
I know the difference between the red rose
and the sick serpent underneath it
sure the children would think you crazy before
but when you talk about the rats always clawing
at night at the ceiling of your mouth
you know to laugh, you know that the wallpaper isn’t
shifting for everyone but it’s the gift of
knowing that there’s always two sides of things
that keeps you grounded
in the ever shifting quicksand of this moderate
temperature room for the easy living
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 4:33 PM UTC
It’s no longer burn the witch
it’s drown the ******
purity only attainable when it’s served
as a death dessert, martyr Mary
do you understand TV dinners
made the housewife go extinct
or berserk, I think that’s how it goes
catching their heads in ovens as protest
but listening came in through the door
as a catcall, festering on ottoman chairs
smoking that new cigarette with a cautionary
tale at bedtime
the ends being ground, like the beef
that we’re all guilty of starting between
sighs, or the coffee beans blistered
trying to come up with an excuse as to why
high heels won’t break that man’s spine,
and it won’t in that new suit he’s so possessive of
because he paid for it with the sweat of his back
as the gaggle of his fellow businessmen
scuffle over who gets to lick the perspiration
that earned him that respect, that bought
the privilege of feeling like a man that stands out
from the wolves in offices, waiting at midnight
for the froth to begin to foam and to
claw at reasons why the bed is always empty
when he’s everything everyone wants to be
and I think you begin to sympathize,
I think you begin to understand why
balancing a ballpoint pen between your
forefinger and thumb is equally as
drinking the cup half full
the modern man with his chiseled teeth
and overt way of speaking throws
up at the American Dream, standing
naked in the glory of publicity fame
there’s too much lights, the makeup
is too intense
the crown of jezebels
Belongs to the hardworking man
with the unkempt lawn, and the
natural features of a god
it’s no longer burn the witch
it’s freeze the *****
while they stand flirting
with the boondocks trapping
fireflies and weak Christians
in their hair
and will you listen to me now?
as the hordes of provoked
believers stand in crowded
bars and in your own home
******* themselves mentally
as they chew and spit
into each other’s mouth
what they’ve always wanted to hear
and the pleasure comes from
not knowing and not wanting to know
and will you touch me now?
that the fantasy is created in your own image
and will you worship me now?
that I agree with these shackles
telling me that they were always meant to be there
that ******* is next to holiness
and will you accept me now?
that the book has been rewritten
and the villain is not you nor me
but the refrigerator with the lizard
that tempted humankind and
banished them from ever entering paradise again
and will you **** me now?
that comedy is only worth in whoever
has the longest tongue
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
There’s a feeling one gets
oftentimes evoked when people wear clothes too tight for their skin
or hotels by the ocean that have pools
and you wonder if the pool gets jealous
does its’ hands get clammy
does its’ mouth quiver with wondering
why it tastes so much like bleach
and if it feels as exposed as a schoolboy’s battered knees after Sunday mass
and the feeling is reiterated once more
this cramp of the foot, this skipped heartbeat you become so fixated on
As you watch the old man on the crowded subway
pick at his scabs, the ones he got when he was 23 or 24
he can’t quite remember anymore but it’s hard to remember
such fine details when your clothes smell like ***** and your
children don’t visit anymore
so now he’ll sit on anything that moves as long as it propels him forward
as long as he doesn’t have to see the wrinkles
in between the birthday cakes and the heart medicine that
he’s supposed to take but what’s a chemical to a heart
and what’s a heart to an electrical socket someone with
a medical degree keeps poking at
so this feeling starts getting a name, starts calling cabs and giving them fake addresses
starts moving in and calling itself mister Al on week days and Sister Wendy on the rest
and now the soap stops cleaning and your hands becoming red with scrubbing
some internal message you were supposed to detonate as soon
As you graduated college but the degree was burned in a fire
and all the things you were taught were sold at half price in local yard sales
and so you stop eating dessert for dinner and stop living and
start recollecting, start rewinding the past, time traveling back to a
time when the sun would hit your eyes as you walked crooked streets
the pavement cracking like frost of a glacier in mid September under your feet
and as your voice gets low you smell the scent of lilac flowers in a basket
carried by a woman in threads of agave and cotton, colorful shawls draped
Across her bare arms, wearing rosaries in both her hands chanting words
that you could almost know but you don’t, asking if you’ll buy the flowers
made by the tears of god, crafted by the arthritic hands of mother Mary and
Don’t you just love the virginal white of martyrdom
but there are stones being thrown across the street by rude boys in t-shirts
long enough to be dresses, jeweled numbers on their backs like football players
or prison inmates and the distinction is not as clear
as they ricochet off the tough brown skin of the woman
you begin seeing embers of scarlet and it’s beautiful in the way
the slaughter of a thousand roses by the hands of scissors is beautiful
but the taste of disgust is not far behind,
and you wish the lilacs were a shield of ivory armor
And you wish the boys were boys and not men
there’s a feeling one gets
and I’m afraid you’ll always feel the feeling
like the peel of a peach
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
the dust
that collects underneath my
bed
flakes of old
skin
are more myself
than I am
the person I was
when I was seven
is not me
nor
the person I was
on my fourteenth birthday
the person I was
yesterday
is not
the person I am
in this moment
the cells
the building blocks
of this body that carries me
are constantly
changing
they die
and entirely new ones
take place
how can I say
I am the same
person
that I was at fourteen
when every particle
of myself
is completely different
what is it that has
kept me the same
person
throughout my regeneration
is it my consciousness
is this my soul
I am a tree
grown from just a seed
every year
my leaves
shrivel up and die
and every year
I grow
brand new ones
it is still the same
tree
because it's trunk
remains the same
I am still the same
me
because my consciousness
remains the same
after a tree
is cut down
it does not disappear
it's trunk
remains
smaller,
yes
but still there
now a stump
if I am still myself
after my body
changes every molecule
of my prior self
this begs the question
will my consciousness
remain
after this body has died
if
I
am not limited
to a specific
chemical makeup-
able to transcend
different bodies-
does that mean
I will transcend
this
life
as well
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC