The Absurdity Forum

I was reading church history and came across a theologian named Greg of Nyssa. And he too was a poet and among other things a major player in settling a major trinitarian debate. He said that when talking about God it is putting words to the inexplicable. Oddly enough that is the primary job description of a poet. There’s hope for me yet. I’m still a ways off and I have no idea what my calling means but it’ll all come together I suppose.

Loneliness has emerged from the shadows
and is rapping on the window. Its face has
grown long and wears a dirtied bathrobe.

Joy is waiting in the drive
dressed in a fitted suit
with a tie that resembles the sky.
It has unlocked the doors and has let the motor run.

Happiness is flying over head…
Oh wait never mind,
It is gone now.

Depravity is ringing the bell
holding what looks to be an umbrella
combined with a pipe cleaner.
It holds an advertisement in its hand
offering discount chimney services.

Ambition has found itself a trowel
and has began digging under the porch,
muttering about genuineness.

Innocence is by the walk
lining it with flower beds.
It is impregnating the cool earth with bulbs
of human ingenuity. They are
numerous and essentially void
save a piece of metal. But they will burn brightly
given the right food and input.

Laughing to itself, Sarcasim,
adorned as a doctor, is pealing
the siding off of the house
and talks about dressing it later.

Irony sits across the street
not interested in participating
figuring the house is empty.
It sits with a friend named Murphy who writes laws.
The lights are on,
the kettle sings for attention,
ceiling fans buzz silently
like self conscience beehives
my keys are still in the dish by the door.
The house is lifeless.

I am with Mania
tip toe-ing ‘cross power lines
and screaming at the top of my lungs
admiring the brightness of the dark
damning the dawn that will ruin it
and trying to figure out how
to snuff out the stars one by one.

Excuse me for the brashness of language but fuck. It’s fuck. You know how you try to explain something that is beyond; the only word you can attribute to it is an abstract, fuck. It is the feeling that sits in the middle of your throat and oozes out like tapioca between your lips and all you hear is ‘Fuck.’ It is when the wordsmith dips beneath the surface to lose consciousness for a bit just because. It’s where ambition and lethargy collide (the unstoppable object and the unmovable force) and after the typhoon settles the only thing that is produced is a plate of gruel. And you pick up this grey slop child, the remnants of work and resistance, and inspect it; the only appropriate word that is to be said is fuck. And just like the action should imply, after a good night of choice company; you look at her face, her face veiled by blazing red hair, her face perfectly adorn with freckles, her cheeks blushed by contentment, her full pouting lips pressed into a pervasive smile, her eyes closed, resting those green orbs, and you half heartedly sigh the only meaningful word that means practically nothing: fuck. That’s what you get when you read this, fuck.

Worries are arranged in cups by layers. At the bottom they consist of either a thin layer of a sweet viscid substance made from the nectar of flowering relationships or the fleshy edible part of social situations.

The second layer is made with a profoundly heavy layer of self crafted perceptions, supposes, broodings, and what-if’s’. This layer is dense and hard to get through, much like the consistency of a custard it is made with the milk of hope that dwells in some heavenly sphere of the heart, curdled by the choice looks of others, often sweetened so that it is easy to continually bear.

The final layer is kept separate from the other layers, usually self contained in a packet or cup. Comprised of clusters of rolled comments made by others and is usually stirred in, resulting in a creamy yet balanced effect of scrutiny.

Shelf-life for worries like these is three to seven days and should be marked out on regular intervals.