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Albert Camus
Kept an Emu
Tied to a potted,
Portable wisteria
To keep him company
Whilst he kept goal
For the University of Algeria.

As Albert was fishing
The ball out
From the back of the net
The Emu mused
On the conversations they'd had
About The Oprah Winfrey Show,
The significance of suffragettes,
Adam Smith's Wealth Of Nations
And the ****** orientation
Of Sir Galahad.

Whilst discussing the plots of
The Plague and The Outsider
Warm feelings would suddenly
Well up inside her.

Why should such intellect
Elicit so much love
And even more pain?
My thoughts for this man
Aren't getting any vaguer.

Then Utrecht University
Scored again.

There are no happy endings
With Albert Camus -
Decades later he dies
In his publisher's Facel Vega.

When she heard of Albert's demise
Her initial reaction
Was hysteria
And it comes as no surprise
That a few weeks later
She died of diphtheria

Which is so much easier to do
When you're an existential emu.
Humour nonsense verse bizarre random surreal fantastical Albert Camus Emu football goalkeeper existential The Plague The Outsider
Emily Nolan Sep 2013
If I did go wrong more or less at once, I wonder where
The chop block decisions of grade school, when you first realize you don’t care
‘I just don’t care’ in whiney and off-pitch voices and messy drawers
Was it the first time you realized you couldn’t be perfect and so just stopped
Being
Was it sneaking on to computers and secretly learning more about life in books than your
Parents wished you to (***** things)
Or was it when you learned because you shouldn’t
And didn’t learn and didn’t learn, and that persistent bubble as you grew up got bigger and bigger
Some looming threat about your future dangled over your animal head like a carrot as you trotted through worksheet a, a-2, a-3
And exercises you could finish in two minutes or two hours and get the same grade
Or copy and get the same grade
And those grades mattered more and more, and vaguer and vaguer
And they guided you less as they shoved more in front of you and grabbed your nose to say
This is important, this is you
And your friends started laughing like lunatics as well as *******
And the first kids ended up crying in stairwells
And you slept in class?
Was it all that, or was it outside. Was it your parents admitting they weren’t happy.
Was it the first time you had to recognize dishonesty or cruelty in others
(you had long since seen it in yourself)
Was it the first time you wanted to die.
Is it now?
God growing up is killing me.
Kathy Z May 2013
Since I don't know if we'll ever meet again-
I guess
that we'll try to stay together
forever.

"I'll tell you someday."
Laughing and sticking your tongue out,
teasing me,
you were the most beautiful then.
But-
When is that someday?
A link in the far distant future;
without any promise
or solidity.

Your back is growing fainter,
more distant,
vaguer,
quieter,
it's almost transparent now.

The fact that no matter how long my fingers were;
How much I grew;
How much I learned;
How much I matured-
The fact
that I could still not reach or touch you
or your standard;
I could do nothing
but slump to the floor,
Admit painful defeat-
And cry.  

The Villain-
was me.
The one who ran away-
was me.
It was no lie,
For I am
the true deceiver.

And
I say to the plaster
peeling wall-
"I'm Sorry."
Uselessly,
Meaninglessly,
inutility,
I just sit there
in a wooden, peeling
chair;
Wondering.

The Characters that I wrote then-
They don't dance for me anymore.

"Is that so?"
The poems that I scribbled-
on a napkin at a fast food restaurant,
Where are they now?

"Who knows?"
My memories and limits-
Are they gone?

"Why don't you figure out yourself?
Isn't the person,
who knows you best-
yourself?"  
--
--
--
I'm sorry-
My light was gone.
I'm Sorry-
My head wasn't thinking straight.
I'm Sorry-
I let go.
What kind of excuses are these?

For being a coward,
For being a shallow person
who didn't see the world-
Sorry doesn't even take up half of it.

The beginning of the end,
tell me,
when does that time come?

The promise that our naïve selves made together
"Forever, Eternally,"
You believed in those words.
For crushing your morals,
For mocking them,
For taking away your innocence-
"Forgive me."
CH Gorrie Jun 2013
Sometimes marriage is like a molten sword
in that both personages continue
being slam-hammered by hammering toward
some vague perfection vaguer hopes pursue.
khwaja Oct 2014
i got some pretty
bad blisters that
time you had cane's
for the first time
and i tried ice skating
for the first time
and we gave it some
conjugative name like
it could live on
forever or less
but nothing does
not truly
not existentially
the 7 billion billion billion
that hold each of 7 billion  
are what we might call
forever or more
but only god apparently
knows where they go
because the laws of attraction
are not visible to our
poorly developed eyes
our brain like a computer
does not understand
what it hasn't seen before
but unlike a computer
forgetting is easy
remembering is hard
so let time take you
by the hand maybe
help you understand
that it never looks back
so why should you?
atoms live forever
memories fade away
whether i like it or not
i was given what you gave
i understood what i took
but history is vague
and the future is vaguer
so i stick to the present
one second at a time
keeping everything cool
staying on my grind
hope things happen soon
stay up off my mind
staring at the moon
hoping for a sign
and maybe when
my feet heal the
blisters on my
mind will too
Adeline Dean Jun 2013
Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved.

Don't wait for something to change, you be the change.
Mikaila Aug 2013
You
You disappoint me.
You light me up.
You freeze my bones,
And you set my soul on fire.
I want you
Just as much as I fear you
And both consume me every night
Through the haze of dreams
In which your face becomes vaguer every moment.
You hurt me,
Because you can heal everything
And you just don't.
You are my faith
Because you love me even when I fail
And you came back.
But I hate you
Because you deny me.
But I love you
Because it is in my blood.
I am in awe of you
Of us
Of how impossible it is that we mean so much
To both of us.
I scorn you, as well,
In the sad moments when my heart screams for your words
And is crushed by your silence.
This love,
It consumes me.
You consume me.
No matter how much I lose
There is always further to fall.
No matter how happy I am
It's never as ecstatic as I could be
(As I was)
In your arms.
David Hilburn May 2023
Brown temples
Avid, too sore for sense?
Background music, finding what will...
A look of devotion, for a tooth called suspense?

Black wishes
Turmoil is a vaguer clique
Of comment's, sigh's make God's fishes
Just a rue to understand what is...

Grey orbit's
Of miasma, found in a suggestion's field
Known by sight, a bird has wit's
Another bird has seen the sun, and it's yield

Green future's
Vicinity to unity, the poor
Is realm to *****, word's of impurity
Set amid tree's, worth their wars

White death's
Would we save a child's shadow?
Regret as hot, as marvel's lead
Meant only with yesterday's yawn, are we that we are, mellow?
Peut-être un jour l'époux selon l'amour, l'épouse
Selon l'amour, selon l'ordre d'Emmanuel,
Sans que lui soit jaloux, sans qu'elle soit jalouse,

Leurs doigts libres pliés au travail manuel,
Fervents comme le jour où leurs cœurs s'épousèrent,
Nourriront dans leur âme un feu venu du ciel ;

Le feu du dieu charmant que les bourreaux brisèrent,
Le feu délicieux du véritable amour,
Dont les âmes des Saints lucides s'embrasèrent ;

Tourterelle et ramier, au sommet de leur tour
Mystique, ils placeront leur nid sur lequel règne
La chasteté, couleur de l'aurore et du jour,

L'entière chasteté, celle où l'âme se baigne,
Qui prend l'encens de l'âme et les roses du corps,
Que symbolise un lis et que l'enfant enseigne ;

Celle qui fait les saints, celle qui fait les forts,
Mystérieuse loi que notre âme devine
En voyant les yeux clos et les doigts joints des morts

Rêvant de Nazareth, sous cette loi divine,
Ils fondront leurs regards et marieront leurs voix
Dans l'idéal baiser que l'âme s'imagine.

Qu'ils dorment sur la planche ou sur le lit des rois,
Le monde les ignore, et leur secret sommeille
Mieux qu'un trésor caché sous l'herbe au fond des bois.

La nuit seule le conte à l'étoile vermeille ;
Pour eux, laissant la route aux cavaliers fougueux
Dans le discret sentier où l'âme les surveille,

Ils ne sont jamais deux, le nombre belliqueux,
Jamais deux, car l'amour sans fin les accompagne,
Toujours ''Trois'', car Jésus est sans cesse avec eux.

Paisibles pèlerins à travers la campagne
Et la ville où leurs pieds fleurent l'odeur du thym ;
Et l'époux reste amant, et la Vierge est compagne.

De l'aurore de soie au couchant de satin,
Leur doux travail embaume, et leur pur sommeil prie,
De l'étoile du soir et celle du matin.

Ce sont des enfants blancs de la Vierge Marie,
Rose de l'univers par la simplicité,
Et mère glorieuse autant qu'endolorie.

C'est Elle qui leur ouvre, étonnant la clarté,
Sur ses genoux un livre, où leur cœur voit le rêve,
Sous son manteau céleste et bleu comme l'été.

Pudique autant que Jeanne, autant que Geneviève,
L'épouse file et songe au lys du charpentier ;
L'époux travaille et songe à l'innocence d'Ève.

Avec sa main trempée au flot du bénitier,
Chaque jour dans l'Église où son âme s'abreuve,
Les doigts fiers de tourner les pages du psautier,

Pour les pauvres amours qui marchent dans l'épreuve,
Les membres de Jésus dont le faubourg est plein,
Pour le lit du vieillard et l'habit de la veuve,

Elle file le chanvre, elle file le lin,
Comme elle file aussi le sommeil du malade,
Et le rire innocent du petit orphelin.

Musique d'or du cœur qui vibre et persuade,
Sa parole fait croire et se mettre à genoux
Le plus méchant, qu'elle aime ainsi qu'un camarade.

Elle est plus sérieuse et meilleure que nous ;
Il n'a que les beaux traits de notre ressemblance ;
Couple prédestiné, délicieux époux !

Ils ont la joie, ils ont l'amour par excellence !
Leurs cœurs extasiés de grâce sont vêtus ;
Car ils ont dépouillé toute la violence.

Sortis forts des combats vaillamment combattus,
Ils font vaguer leur corps et se mouvoir leur âme
Dans le jardin vivant de toutes les vertus.

Pour plaire à la beauté pure qui les réclame,
Elle veut demeurer intacte, ainsi qu'un fruit,
Dans la virginité naturelle à la femme.

Docile au rayon d'or qui traverse sa nuit,
Écoutant vaguement le monde qui va naître,
Comme des grandes eaux dont on entend le bruit,

Pour lui, content d'aimer Jésus et de connaître
Le sens prodigieux de ses simples discours,
Il met en Dieu son cœur, ses sens et tout son être,

Respirant l'humble fleur de ses chastes amours,
Ne prenant que l'odeur de la race éternelle,
Ne cueillant pas le fruit qui réjouit toujours.

Car cette part amère à la race charnelle,
C'est la part du mystère et la part du lion,
Et c'est votre avenir, Seigneur, qui couve en elle.

Car nous sommes les fils de la rébellion ;
Nos fronts sont irrités et nos cœurs taciturnes,
Et la mort est pour nous la loi du talion.

Fils du désir d'Adam sous des ailes nocturnes,
Engendrés hors la loi des chastes paradis,
Nous errons sur la terre, et puisons dans nos urnes,

Avec des vins impurs l'oubli des jours maudits ;
Partageant nos trésors tout pleins de convoitise,
Tel autour d'une table un groupe de bandits.

Mais peut-être qu'un jour, sous les yeux de l'Église,
Verra luire l'époux comme un diamant pur,
Et l'épouse fleurir comme une perle exquise.

Et ce couple idéal brûlera d'un feu sûr.
topaz oreilly Oct 2012
An answer is seldom as long as the day,
vaguer than a whistle stop
we gathered pace
recalling that question
we thought as clever,
those fledgling time lags
have since prolonged
the prodigal quest.
Alex George Jul 2013
As they revolved
Welcoming me
Into the mechanization
The clock whispered "10.10"
All the answers
were now vaguer. Better.
AFK
Alison Elliott Sep 2015
“Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you'll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so ******* sad, and the truth is I've felt so ******* hurt for so ******* long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, **** everybody. Amen.”
-Charlie Kaufman
mike Aug 2015
a darkness alone
in the human.

where it is wrapped
in perfect peace.

perfect pleasure.

drinking its sweat
and talking its philosophy
in full detail
to itself.

-laughing.

-grinning.

swirling its ten-inch finger
around the rim
of its glass-

-it is the ringing in your head..

drunk in the cave
with spiders
walking
through
the nightmare
carrying away
the vaguer pieces
on the well defined rine
of their oil-slick backs.

nesting
and nurturing
incestuous pods
to light the walls.

to ignite the glow
of its vacant grin.

the mist swims out
and dies.

scanning your body
and watching the show
of your soul decomposing

with its ****** eyes

half open and
tasting you.

rotting the tongue
which talks in
your broken,
burnt-down
asylum of a mind.
La chambre est ouverte au ciel bleu-turquin ;
Pas de place : des coffrets et des huches !
Dehors le mur est plein d'aristoloches
Où vibrent les gencives des lutins.

Que ce sont bien intrigues de génies
Cette dépense et ces désordres vains !
C'est la fée africaine qui fournit
La mûre, et les résilles dans les coins.

Plusieurs entrent, marraines mécontentes,
En pans de lumière dans les buffets,
Puis y restent ! le ménage s'absente
Peu sérieusement, et rien ne se fait.

Le marié a le vent qui le floue
Pendant son absence, ici, tout le temps.
Même des esprits des eaux, malfaisants
Entrent vaguer aux sphères de l'alcôve.

La nuit, l'amie oh ! la lune de miel
Cueillera leur sourire et remplira
De mille bandeaux de cuivre le ciel.
Puis ils auront affaire au malin rat.

- S'il n'arrive pas un feu follet blême,
Comme un coup de fusil, après des vêpres.
- Ô spectres saints et blancs de Bethléem,
Charmez plutôt le bleu de leur fenêtre !
BT Joy Oct 2019
Ink falls spherical in the air
and maintains that shape while falling.
Ink in the air’s a gymnast tucking
her legs and arms into her core.

Hitting water everything contained
within the frame of its own self
spiderwebs out and so becomes
vaguer and more formless as it grows.

Days in human memory appear like this:
Clear for hours after they’re provisionally made,
then all fade and deformation as they tend
to nothing but suggestion in the end.
B.T. Joy is a British poet and short fiction writer living in Glasgow. He has also lived in London, Aberdeen and Heilongjiang, Northern China. His poetry and short fiction has appeared in magazines, journals, anthologies and podcasts worldwide including poetry in Yuan Yang, The Meadow, Toasted Cheese, Numinous: Spiritual Poetry, Presence, Paper Wasp, Bottle Rockets, Mu, Frogpond and The Newtowner, among many others. His debut collection of poetry, Teaching Neruda, was released in 2015 by Popcorn Press and his 2016 collection Body of Poetry is also available through Amazon. He can be reached through his website: http://btj0005uk.wix.com/btjoypoet
La chambre est ouverte au ciel bleu-turquin ;
Pas de place : des coffrets et des huches !
Dehors le mur est plein d'aristoloches
Où vibrent les gencives des lutins.

Que ce sont bien intrigues de génies
Cette dépense et ces désordres vains !
C'est la fée africaine qui fournit
La mûre, et les résilles dans les coins.

Plusieurs entrent, marraines mécontentes,
En pans de lumière dans les buffets,
Puis y restent ! le ménage s'absente
Peu sérieusement, et rien ne se fait.

Le marié a le vent qui le floue
Pendant son absence, ici, tout le temps.
Même des esprits des eaux, malfaisants
Entrent vaguer aux sphères de l'alcôve.

La nuit, l'amie oh ! la lune de miel
Cueillera leur sourire et remplira
De mille bandeaux de cuivre le ciel.
Puis ils auront affaire au malin rat.

- S'il n'arrive pas un feu follet blême,
Comme un coup de fusil, après des vêpres.
- Ô spectres saints et blancs de Bethléem,
Charmez plutôt le bleu de leur fenêtre !

— The End —