"absurdist" poems
start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.
it could be you
and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment. cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break
Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-
bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Everybody’s going nowhere and I am far gone
I can’t even see the ocean the motion was all wrong
Just a sea of broken bottles and cigarette models
On the floor, so high I had to clean the sky
Never been an existentialist, cynic, or a pessimist
Just another body on the edge of metamorphosis
Clinging to a rope I hope will not snap
Like my neck if I hit the ground, oh crap!
I’m apocalyptic fresh and I can’t say why
If I do it’s a lie, see the needle in my eye?
Meditation, preparation, or a conscious legislation
Couldn't help the fact my words are often littered with abrasions
As if shock rock poetry could save me from my death
It could possibly enlighten but I wouldn't hold my breath
Now I’m frightened by the notion of a new world order
But anarchy is hip if you’re on this side of the border
I digress, what a mess if you know what I mean
But I've burned out quicker than gasoline…
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
There is some genie
in our house, curdling poisonously.
I stay in the house
with a freckled old lady;
we're roommates,
unlucky enough to meet each other as life abated.
He does not live in the attic,
like a ***** ghoul; or in some
rubbing bottle like an amnesiac.
But we call the spirit lady, because the genie is vicious.
She comes to the house and says we need to move
things
around.
Her eyes are circled by some creamy mascara
into these black, skin-tight, **** rings,
like absurdist ****** targets.
Things are moved,
the genie stays, gets more vicious.
The mongerer is blamed
for bad things:
broken pots, fights over rent,
**** on the toilet seat,
lost keys.
We call the spirit lady,
this time her fingers jingle with golden rings,
her wrists sing with wrought-iron rainbows,
and says rain will send that sucker running.
So, we build little smoke pits in our house,
and take the most important things:
bills, and alumni letters from my school,
and birthday cards for her,
and burn them until it rains.
The genie calls us falsifiers.
The spirit lady comes back,
a necklace of grimacing clams around her neck,
and knocks around dancing, dancing,
a frenzy, a wildness, a knee-knocking,
throat-throtlling, dismantingly,
limb-ecstasy,
until she poops out and,
breathing heavy,
saying finally:
"there is nothing I can do for you,
I don't think I ever could,
some things are just bad luck."
She turns,
walks away,
and one of her clams drops from her necklace,
it says made in America on the inner lip.
The genie left a few weeks later.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
Wouldn't it be weird if
JFK was reincarnated
as Monica Lewinski?
Buddha probably
ate better butter
than Ghandi.
If we keep fighting
the divine fellows
we pray to
will be too afraid to return.
This isn't ******* Highlander.
Christ, what a hilariously insane movie.
They probably show that
to people who drink caviar & say things
like "pip pip!"
Either way,
we're all related.
Otherwise than that,
let's all be
LOVE.
Except for people
who commit genocide.
May they be reincarnated
as Hitler's final excretion
as he killed himself;
including ******
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
Theravada or Zen?
It used be Theravada
Little did I know of Buddhist scrolls
Just a couple of commandments
obsessed with death
and a-clinging to enlightenment
Everything I did was with dharma and importance
Then it went to Zen, anything goes
absurdist, all for enlightenment
except overly polite ritual hymns
What’s up with that
when you don’t fear death?
Now I’m sort of back to Theravada
With a hint of roots Zen, Bodhidharma
But devotedly, I’ll take none of it all
Why believe in enlightenment?
Just appreciate the fall
changes
**** It
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
Donald Trump's presidency
Is one of the greatest achievements in art I have ever experienced
And Trump is a true artist
He takes words from the page
Like corruption, disenfranchisement, xenophobia
And brings them to life
Highlighting fear and paranoia so clearly
Contrasting the blacks and whites
Emphasizing anger
While reminding us we're mere infants
In the digital age
And warning us of our seniority
And capitalism's
We all like to think life has meaning
Until we hit an animal with our car
Then that's just the way things are
And I'm staring at an absurdist painting
Of a child driving a car
Through a herd of sheep
As I watch a heist film
Where the robbers turn their guns over
To the mentally unstable guy in the group
Trump is a national artist
Placing riots on the map
And drawing infernos on the Internet
His art forces an opinion
Everybody has something to say about him
And it's all true
Even the pages he ripped from his own cabinet
Tried to villainize him in their script
But he was already an anti-hero
The humor is that the mud slung onto him
Is dirt kicked up from his own tires
I guess if you surround yourself with hateful people
You're surrounding yourself with people who probably hate you
Trump's art is deeply conflicting
He reminds me of the people who want me to live in shame
Yet he embodies the individuality that separates me from that shame
His insecurities remind me of myself
High school is the White House in the eyes of a kid
And I had secrets I wanted to share
But felt I couldn't
I learned things
That changed my entire perspective
And didn't think people would understand
Afraid of being assaulted for my indiscretions
I hid behind a boisterous personality
And a nonchalant attitude
Trump's art evokes sympathy and hatred that feels so strong
When he holds a mirror defining our worst qualities
To a man viscerally opposed to his own reflection
The confliction of emotions
Is the hallmark of great art
We are all artists
The lines we write or the strokes we brush
Are in our actions
And Trump's canvas displays
A life filled with accomplishment
Inspiring me to live my own life
But I still wake up in cold sweats
From the American dream
That anybody can be president
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
kiss my sorry *** and imagine
a differential. divide it by two,
see? this will give you the
circumference of existential
convulsion; you will see past
the freaky book you can't read
for lack of knowing and how
absurdism scares you if you
believe it. that's why you dropped
The Myth of Sisyphus part-way
through cuz what came to mind
with all the drippy Dali-mentalscape
spa of shread-dread WHATSyness!
was Camus coming to so many a pessimists
ending he had to turn it last second to say
'but in the end, we must assume that
Sisyphus is happy' and all you see in your
minds-eye is pursuit of this absurdist
paradise for nervous thought-drawn chain
-smokers is a gun to your head with one
last glance at the ocean.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
*********** is what I live for, necrophilia is what I die for.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:17 AM UTC
Clearly an absurdist.
Small stakes for what his word is worth.
The hare let the tortoise beat him accidentally on purpose.
Everyone loves a good story.
When ego is beyond everything
how can you care about fame and glory?
Victory feels silly.
Like a brand new bride without her ring.
Losing only hurts the pride if they allow themselves to feel the sting.
I am far from winning,
but farther still from admitting defeat.
When that rhythm hits me,
I'll sing along and move my feet.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
The stellular supernal of
Translation exalting the
Absurdist rudimentary
Vale of tears; the place
Death was born blanketed
In twilight's eternal
Oblivion, breaking
Immortality-
The propitiative law
of Medes and Persians
From time out of mind,
'Whom the Gods love die young';
The amaranthine race to
Drink from the retentionist
Cup filled by Medea's ichor
Imbrued kettle readying for
The harrowing of Hell.
Eleete J Muir.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
i'm wandering along a beach and i just killed the Arab
i'm waking up one day sophomore year and i'm deciding that it will be the last day of my entire life as i tie my shoes to go to school
i'm at my mother's wake and i'm trying to care but i just can't and i'm okay with it
i'm walking down the hallway and no one is making eye contact with me because they are afraid or disgusted or don't care or all of the above
i'm using some of my last breaths to yell at the priest and feeling no remorse
i'm making conversation with my last period teacher and smiling for the first time all day
i'm looking out at the crowd about to witness my death and feeling the gentle indifference of the world
i'm relating more to a sociopathic man in an absurdist novel than anyone i've ever met and i'm
not worried about it at all
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
you write like a tricycle that hasn’t been touched in thirteen years. as an infant, you were no more than a dot denoting an absurdist birth. adolescence was in the blood left to your mother. self harm is the gateway wound to pilgrimage. you can’t say god is everywhere in the presence of god. factual events have ruined the world. you are here because hating you is forbidden.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 5:29 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
At one point I couldn’t find love to purchase
I thought you ended those searches
but now I’m getting nervous
thinking I might be allergic
to your nature absurdist
and I can’t swerve this
feeling I’m worthless
stripped of all purpose
boils start to burn us.
I’ve got an eczema
sense of a
relationship
rashly lips
can’t kiss
who they wish.
I can’t leave the house
or your eczema breaks out
you scream and shout
and make me doubt
if your love is devout
when you treat me like trout.
Stress boils through my skin
after you tell me I win
and leave my house of sin
leaving a gift in
an itch
given by a witch
to make me twitch.
You’re the itch that rashes
causing unnecessary scratches
leaving a width of lashes
on my skin in patches
your personality matches
the blistering ashes
of my skin that detaches.
I keep itching
I keep scratching
to be switching
from your thrashing
into comfort
to numb hurt
of dumb words
creating thunder.
A doctor gave me a prescription
to avoid your dereliction
and feral diction.
He gave me an antidote
in a plan of hope
helping me cope
with saying nope.
The rash lingers
like poison fingers
choking me
woefully
draining life
like rain at night
I pray for light
and wait inside.
I found cortisone
in the form of a home
with a man
so I’m in demand
not your empty hand
red from the brand
of all the discomfort you withstand
now that you’re itching like sand
seeing I’m no longer ******
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 5:46 AM 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
I hope you're happy
And don't you just think
You are so great
With your husband
And your new child
On the way
And your nice home
And your American dream
And what about me
I told you companionship
Was important to me
I enjoyed sharing my poems
You just left
And didn't give me much notice
You won't spend
A second of your life
I'm sure
Thinking about me
Remember the poem
I shared about
Mary Wallstonecraft?
I think you enjoyed my poems
And I wanted to hug you
And feel warmth
But I couldn't and
Now I'll never see you
Again
And it doesn't matter
And nobody
******* cares!!!
You were my companion
And you left
Oh well
I just don't ******* care
Just imagine
I am imagining
Tomorrow
On my yoga mat
Maybe eating some crunch carrots
Watching a squirrel hop around
Yum, yum, yum
Crunchy carrots
And maybe I'll cry
And maybe I won't
I don't cry
I laugh
I laugh at life
Because it is
Completely absurd
I think I am an absurdist now
HAHA!
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
What if I told you I cannot breathe
For I know one day I will not
would you understand me?
Let me explain...
I get out of bed and sigh
I make my bed and laugh
I return to bed on time
I get out of bed and sigh
I make my bed and laugh
I return to bed on time
I get out of bed and sigh
I make my bed and laugh
I return to bed on time
For I know one day I will not
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
Crawling backwards through my dusty spiderweb of neural connections, I am projecting comedic tragedies
Call me crazy, because you're probably right
Absurdist fantasies of long lost dreams and an empty train station smelling of **** and departed railway cars
It's time to turn it around and
crawl out of my tunnel of silk
I will explode into butterfly
from the silk in my belly
Spit me a story, Oh Old One.
I am astounded by the revolutions
you have memorized around the sun.
Stellar vortex, find me twirling
through the disconnected
and unreached.
Remember me
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
Trusting Erik Satie
I introduce myself to
Her
As an absurdist.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 10:11 AM UTC
Zippy sez:
“Shark repellent Bat Spray!"
“Shark repellent Bat Spray!"
“Shark repellent Bat Spray!"
At least three times a day day
Between lug-nuts and Valvoline
He shows us the in between
Polka-dotted yellow-red muu-muu
Absurdist existentialist
Shows us how to do-do.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 11:17 PM UTC
the senseless sensorium
lodges whispers tympanically
they speak of Capgras delusion
alone in a full room with hope
spindling on an automated function
talking heads spitting trivial
commence antiquated response
****** en masse keeps you from barking
don't partake in Ramadan
you'll end up an absurdist
"Billy asks too many questions.
Must be a case of premature gestation.
Just give him 300mg of something stronger
than gummy bear vitamins til he's cycling
between attenuation and remorse."
... they gave him 25 to life for beating a dead horse.
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
Why is God killing me
So willingly?
He’s filling me
With a ***** disease
Brought by biting fleas
Who do as they please
Until I’m on my knees
Begging for release
Sneezing wheezing
My phlegm is breezing
Through air that’s freezing
Trying to teach me
To act more pleasing
Can I kick this sickness
Brought by wickedness?
Or will it punch me
Into lunch meat?
To be in His vicinity
Is to have divinity
So why does He get rid of me?
Could it be the viscosity
Of all my atrocities?
Or the viciousness
Of my wishes wished?
Or my visceral
Scissor hold
On growing old?
Despite my reverence
I fear his benevolence
Involves my severance
The difference between dying and trying
Has me in bed crying
Fever frying
Medicine buying
From salesmen lying
Saying add pills
Of Advil
And mad will
To not be ill
My plague remains still
On Sisyphus’ hill
Can God cure me
Of this absurdity?
Almost certainly
But by hurting me
I learn to see
He uses pain to teach
The one thing that’ll reach
Through the ******** I preach
My gut round
Shuts down
Lust found
That must drown
In a dust cloud
Of an allergic assault
To an absurdist result
Of catching a cold
To examine my soul
He gives a heart attack
To the heart I lack
As part of the pack
Ignoring God’s path
And finding His wrath
Once He chooses me
To lose and bleed
The flu He feeds
To pull the weeds
That ghouls breed
So cough medication selection
Becomes a time for self reflection
At least until my health inspection
Shows no feverish detections
Of the feeblest direction
When the evilest infection
Is joining Satan’s section
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:14 PM UTC
I can see the suffering in your eyes
Can feel it in the silence.
Overcoming Emptiness. An Absurdist defiance.
I want to share your spirits
Bring you into mine
Sentience to Sentience. Ego-less Divine.
For I'd drink from your Sorrow
If it lower the Tide
But even Atlas shrugged when Sisyphus died.
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC