Nothing ever happens (Part 3)

Bar Poetry

At last, alone
a new bar
quietly staring
at the incongruities
of a Friday night.
A whole sofa for myself
noise and smoke
chaos in small doses
— slowly letting the booze
sink in
as I begin to feel
like an invincible dragon
ready to scorch the night
in one terrible yawn
of boredom.
Not much later
I got up and headed home
to drown
whatever was left of this life
in the substance of
dreams.

nihilistic poetry

Nothing ever happens (Part 2)

Bar Poetry

Then, suddenly
I’m sitting next to
a Lithuanian, a Turkish and a Palestinian
the latter dressed in sweat pants and barefoot
the middle is big-boned and not shy about it
the former eager to raise havoc over any trifle —
a heavily drunk balding man gets up in front of us
slips on a step
only to land in an acrobatic display
and then challenge the step
to a duel of masculinity
moments later he is throwing kisses
to a seated woman
and is thrown out politely by the bartender.
the two girls (the Lit and the Turk) are discussing loudly
something in German
the Pale leaves for the bathroom.
I follow after a couple of minutes
only to find him washing his bare dirty feet
in the sink.
I return to my seat
finish off my beer
look around
and I keep saying to myself
nothing ever happens.

nihilistic poetry

Nothing ever happens (Part 1)

Bar_Poetry

I’m sitting alone in a bar. Again. It’s one of those nights.
Waiting for something
to happen.
Moments before
walking, beer in hand
no destination
no subject to develop
pure whim
an attempt to submit
to the greater forces
that control this life.
They never show up.
Now I sit alone,
beer in hand
waiting for something to happen.
 
 

nihilistic poetry

entiérrame

vino y poesia

          Viví
salvajemente
insólito como el destino
de las nubes
y al fin, ya,
morí
con la conciencia
hecha trizas
por haberle robado
tanto vino
a los que tanto
lo ocupan
en los últimos
días
de la tierra
fugaz.
 
 

poesia contemporanea

projections

Modern Abstract Art

what kind of poems
will I write
when I’m fifty
and have outgrown
this adolescent existential
playground
 
 
 
what insect
will I become
that creeps through
the routines of madmen
and slithers past
the bars
wistful
of the first
days
when all was violence
and hunt
 
 
 
what kind
of
outpouring
will my language
pretend
when all it has done
is clothe
the only sacred
but forgotten
word
 
 
 
what hour
marks the descent
not unlike this
slow motion snow
that takes me
down with it
till I’m all
bliss and abyss.

 

 

contemporary poetry

 

 

possessions

What do I have

What do I have
a book
and no convictions
perhaps
all I have is
this:
exiting a subway station
going up the steps
squeezed between
too many pedestrians
I hear every shoe
scrape against the cement
and stare at the spit
of punkasses
frozen at -13 Celsius
a night that howls
like a monster
but does not eat me
steps
aimless steps
driven mad
like the man
without a thought
that laughs
at the joke
of
eternity.

down south

Nihilism Poetry

I’ll erase the ifs
on a one-way street
to perdition
till there is no more
ground to roam
crossing the enigmatic landscapes
whose symbols
remain incomprehensible
while the incandescent journey
coils spirals south
towards the dead-end;
then – a look back to
the effluvia of decisions
an impressionism of the past
of equal value
to the hallucinations of dreams
I remain dumbstruck
such as the puppet
performing an unlikely role
before the theater
of the night.

contemporary poetry