a future odor

rose poetry

A rose with its minds
blown off
because songs are dreaming eyes
the walls are stained with words
only listless hearts can erase their meaning
the epoch always without windows
we dress in smoke and carry guns of nebulae
and if there is agony
do not blame it on the category of your faults
like memory the numbers of pain will one day be outgrown
by a senseless architecture of self
one must oblige to the pressure of the evening
and if hairs have fallen from the holy hour
in giant swirls of time we’ll be as if
we’ve never been
a rose with its desires
crushed to a
solitary perfume
of clouds.

 

Absurd Poetry

solid air

Don’t know how to drive.
Can’t even park
into huge chasms
of disquietude.
How can I comb
the hair of my
marble personality
under
the incredible wobble
of the universal flux –
my feet are spaghetti
and the air around
one gigantic block
of solid
impossibility.
I can’t breathe,
my incomplete dreams
have begun unfurling
in an inexplicable atmosphere
of suffering.

Nihilistic Poetry

mother

 

Life is too much
MOTHER
let me sink back
into your soft breasts
let your milk flow
like warm tree branches
over my defeated shadow
let it flow freely
into the grooves of my ears
until it descends into
the pit of my dreams
and blends there
with all the
pain
 

of grass

Grass Poetry

I’m in transit

seeking still
the passage
between skin
and universe

the boundaries
have begun to turn
into long
horizons of
coiling water

soon, I gather,
life and death
will collide
in one
tidal splash
of beauty

and I shall
stop
moving

and lay my head
on the meaning
of grass.

Nihilistic Poetry

a meaningless epic

Not in the sensation
nor in any substance
I found the budding smoke
against the bitter pulp of your tongue
– an escapade –
stranger
in three seconds
you seemed like a new hero
unlikely to be born
but already running from death
with long undulating hair and cigarette smoke
as the aura of your magical feats of scorn ; –
I followed your pace briefly
soon losing sight of your epic trivialities.
I am intent of becoming hiccups
your dirty nails or the drunken laugh
with which all serious things
are consumed .
Where does your unguided purpose
take you now?
Who cares. Matters little.
I was simply eager
to be abducted
by some viscous phantom
a passing nondescript
taking me suddenly out
of my routine,
to exist carelessly
in the passive ruin and
ordinary acts
of someone else.