I found
the shadow
carpeted with
ache
I couldn’t
leave the
island of my
skin
unable
to break and free
as a sky without
zenith, I sunk
into a low and
blue tear
then morning hung
as the erotic
fluvial voice
this mouth is a gash
that never heals
thrusting verbs as blood
in the bloating thought
I look down
to find my shape
covered in otherness
I was there
alloyed WITH
the world
like
the élan and heart
together
in immeasurable desire.
I hold
the final ache
that fragment of ash
shrouded in perception
the wind passes
through the world
wrinkling it
as a docile flag
when did I cease
to believe that
I exist
now all this movement
wanders ownerless
without a pivot
these loneliest eyes
still gathering
the last details
of the vanishing earth
it is so sad
to lie
and pretend this
will last
the canal’s waters
are fleeing from
the light of the sun
I hold
a flake of pain
tight within
my clenched fingers
it is not my hand
but a boat
carrying illusion
till the horizon
as its wake
unable to wake
I remained
behind the ruin of a memory
a Chinese serpent
swerving in the currents
of my dormant eyelids
nothingness was a province
where an obsidian pyramid
stood against a starless night
there in bed
roving like a raving raven
within the
delicate depths of darkness
surrounded by
a deep moat –
the dark waters
of space
swallowing any ray of light
that may cross over
to my dispossessed eyes
lone
existing alone
light as perishable infancy;
heavy as a bridge above years
a statue
untying itself
from its surface
of imitation
so I squandered the imported
bullion of dreams
and with quivering fascination
became empty and
bankrupt
of image
unable to wake
I surrendered
like
a history
written on the soft
tissue of the spirit –
never to be
read.
The poet does not stand
atop of creation,
the world’s veins
drip their silent desire
over the poet’s thoughts.
The poet struggles,
upstream the imaginary,
irremediably crushed by emotion
that has the absurd behavior
of a happy ant.
The poet does not hold reality
but rehearses the repetition
of genesis and the dangerous
length of decay.
A recluse whose language
is tired of the simpler flowers.
The poet knows why
cannot be unearthed from his tongue.
Two or three words
have the function of
weightless evenings.
There is some truth
in the smells that drove
him to mindless ecstasy.
There must be falsehood
when he attempts to season
the Silence with adjectives.
The poet recalls
feelings as the leaves
of the tree of life.
The poet hums
on the road to another delusion;
and uncertain of the meaning
of anything, smiles at the stones
that he dreams under his feet.
I will sleep tonight
cargoless
adding only to my lightness
the thickening trickle of a trance
to behold the failing world
cradled by darkness
such is my noiseless faith
to whom belongs today
when it is already recollection
the eyes drown in intimate vastness
the ears dip into soft limbo
the earth and its history
recede and disappear
as does the voice
that defined them.
The future does not care for poetry or ambiguity.
It thrives in pristine clear expressions of thought and action.
It despises the vagueness of unnatural associations.
The sinking sound
the crest of the red suppose
the eternal system
elected a song as carriage
of its power.
Grandiloquent expressions as the above will be ridiculed.
The concrete matter-of-fact will be the only subject of interest.
Poetry will slowly fade out of view as did the rotary dial.
The world of fact will flourish.
Doubt will dissipate, the psyche will be freed of contradiction.
In the future, the ex-poet will turn towards the objective.
Like a lion on a gazelle.
These are some of the last unruly poems to emerge.
The last bones to chew.
Savor them.
Brush.
Faceless driver.
I keep replaying,
the violent curve –
my unlighted bicycle.
Pump ; drugged with
adrenaline…
bone crack pain coward
agonize no thoughts. I keep
replaying the scene,
the simple magnet of events.
I keep coloring the blood
against the asphalt,
drawing the feeling of crushed bone.
No thoughts and my eyes
on charcoal night.
To have died, doesn’t
seem so tragic now.
Death – finally!
Under the numinous
full moon!
In all movement
mine – song symbol:
reality –
when the petals of the wind
become attached
to the tips of your fingers
or hitherto
forgotten expression to heaven
skin on bud of sun
nipple aroused –
in the movement
gap
nude treeness
like eternity
undressing –
meaning must
cast a shadow
the ephemeral becoming
thick as the universe
really subjective
a passage
dot to object to volume
total names
the world lashing
to and fro
as a tail
from my pen
pressed hard
and swift
against a table in
Vienna.
I’m the old
arrogant librarian
lost at sea
haven’t read a book
in seven years
since led astray
in the salty scales
of the sea,
carrying within
the eroded
treasures of antiquity
reciting to myself
Ovid and Schopenhauer
speaking, even
to the fish
like St. Anthony
about duality
and the necessity
of death
sometimes standing on
my plank
transient and ancient
while the spinal cord
of the horizon
contorts
like a living snake –
I’m certain
that I’ll salvage
the nectar of wisdom
it will redeem my sorrows
by sweeting the saline ocean
of my despair;
one day
when scorched
like an upright
brazen sword in
the surrounded waste
one day
I will let go
a single drop
of symphony
to drown in this
stubborn paradise
one day
surrendering the last
epiphany of my breath
I’ll teach humanity
that nothing
really matters.
The
light arose
as foliage
bouquets of tender dawns
resting my head
on your breasts – hard as clouds
half asleep
chasing empty horizons
for the only flower
that droops its stem
to face the total stillness
of a silent earth.
Beyond Language 
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