contemporary poetry

the Human

There was never a door
much less an keyhole
no answers to the secret of life

the prophets of despair
proclaimed total obscurity in life
at death everything muddled
forever

the Human
not much more than a succession of acts
performed for an audience of blind eternities

mere rustling of leaves
from the tree of desolation
no trunk to hold on to
no root to call god

so it is to be a function
consciousness
a fluke of evolution
a secondary property of the body
aiding its inconsequential survival

so it is to exist in the universe
that does not exist for the Human
an arbitrary dream with an irrational plot

in the cold ache of waiting
engulfed in lurid perceptions
awaiting the sudden “Cut –
it’s a wrap” of time

merely life… I say
                            merely life

 

Merely Poems

matters of why

I once had a rock
whose dream bordered on nuclei
mountain under incisive noise;
the mechanism of logic
all tender and imprecise –
the causal tornado of action
reward and dissatisfaction –

the rock
broke
in two

there was no more
rock inside the rock

there was emptiness
free unbounded liberty
vast heroic essence
uninterrupted by the nuisance
of knowledge

rolling rocks crumbs
down the precipice
of reality

free at last.

Poems

To the history of the human spirit

Human Spirit Painting
a furious dream of the human
spirit bourgeoning out of control
we are of dew ephemeral
blades of song touching oblivion of grass
textures of meaning
in a masquerade of folly
wistfully crowing the surface
little drops of being
little shrouded animals
of extinction and myth
            nothing
            becoming
            nothing
            above
            nothing
            inside
            nothing
            for
            nothing

 

nihilistic poetry

world and nothingness


I once knew
a thing
called
the world,
it used to follow me
as intimately
as my shadow,
it would never
leave my side.


It would stand
tall and intimidating
behind my back,
often murmuring
its evil plans.


I gathered the nerve
one day
to look back at it,
in a quick swoosh
I turned with a
loud
AHHHHHH!


the poor thing
ran away in fright
leaving behind
a dizzying
blur.


That was the day
I got rid of the world,
only to find nothingness
quickly picking up
my trail.
 
I can hear it gorging
the vast prairies of infinitude
that were left exposed
after the bulky world
was cut away.


No need to run.
For you see,
in this state of freedom,
here is there
there is here.

As for nothingness,
I can’t wait
to kick its
universal ass.

 

nihilistic poetry

two words

i_exist_poem


there are attempts
at writing.


nothing more.


the combinations
are infinite.


yet I never find
any published thought
that will survive
the caprices of history
evolution and death.


I find two words
in one effort to capture
it all,
two words echoing
long after the writer
has left the earth.


two words that are as unlikely
as they are ridiculous
to have been written.


they are all
that needs to be said
by a poet…
 

 

 

 

  I exist…

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry

anxiety

abrupt
racing uphill
heart pumping
squirting out shells
and crusts
and monolithic diagrams
my breath is silver lining
in the outer whorl of moonlight
corridors immense
goddess growing in brain
sloughing the filament of skull
my face in hunt of tobacco
screaming, drawing out
like echoes of painful throbbing
motion for the race for the desperation
for the sharp pendulum
hovering over my neck
my traitor heart where is the end
to all this blood
carrying deadly time
in its rage

 

nihilistic poetry

man within the man

I became an observer
a type of man within the man
not in the act
rather somewhere between
the meaning and the purpose,
I see him from abroad
I am always in another land,
he often follows a plan
making haste and waste
of the hours

I don’t talk to him
he’s too busy feeling down
or doing the dishes,
I let him run
the government of duty
I see his fortress of pain
from my tiny exile

I have visions,
seeing him old
brittle like flakes of rust,
confounded
not sure of what’s to come;
I pretend
to be dreaming
and nothing more

that man
is my only friend

like a good old book
I peruse in my
wayfaring days

like a star
in the night sky
that’s been dead
for years

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry

172

Dream Poetry

There was only a narrow slit
left between these eyes,
to survive and nowhere else?
the prospect was a sort of madness
somewhere in that peninsular solitude
my lands would become addicted to dreams
with half-shut eyes, looking out
attempting
as vaguely as objects are
or the motes of continuance;
these visions were freed as wealth
in sinister currency,
the mind is sleep
these eyes drugs
hello
expanding monuments
with the last man
sober in your
granite
resembling
an arching
 thick empty
emptiness

 

 

nihilistic poetry