The Absurd Ghazal

No, not another verse
on existentialism.
Enough of it.
These days, what I write
hardly counts as verse.
I feel an utter randomness
hazing the pattern-
the pattern-
that always reassured me.
On this 10th line,
I don't know
how this verse will end?

229 seconds,
I am still stuck on
this 15th line.

And then Thom Yorke
pierces my heart
with his icicle like voice.
I am lost
in the bends,
no green clearing
all is a confusing mix
of black, brown, maroon.

The rain,
it has taken its flight
for England again.
Everything-
me, the rain, and IC engines-
all is absurd.
And it nauseates.
It places a spark plug
in the dormant brain,
blasts off
all that was phony,
pretentious-
and a white layer
of absurd remains.

Artaurd's defiance
in the theater of cruelty-
the cries ring in my ears-
clearly.
Reality,
purity displayed as putrid.
There was a honesty
in the cries.
There was
nothing absurd.

No reason at all,
no consequence,
no phony emotions.
What you call filth
is beneath the beauty.
Its the filth
that I want to see.

Beauty is absurd.