contemporary poetry
the swamp of volition
There must be
a method
to turn off freedom.
To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
as cascade.
To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any bullshit.
To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.
To chew the furniture of words.
To fall into the sound of water.
The idea of thought
would be framed
in museums
and memorial sites.
Like an ancient artifact of struggle.
All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;
without choice
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux
and language moss at the rim of our lips.
Contemporary Poetry
migrations
How they got into thought
– the swans –
nobody knew
how they would echo through logic
like a kite in the wind
and
like little girls
they would comb their feathers
with infinite time on their hands
– these swans–
had a sense of mission
but they are complex
creatures with sin as a stain
on their coats of snow,
who knows if they’ll go back
to the nervous quivers of the pond;
for now, they’re stuck
like a satellite
to the cusp of an hour
and I’m embarrassed
to admit
that I stare at them
all the time
as they sleep between
the chunks of words.
Contemporary Poetry
black curve and edge
At that bar
Sadness
Was there.
Like smoke this night
as opulent
as a disguise of pure
phantom with the smell
of that guy
that was weird and touching
women.
I went out
part of things
and little
essence
drank
like a puppet
a whole morsel
of crumbs in
a pocket
an idiot
with ideas
and I was
thinking how
much I paid
for that drink
seriously
a long pause
quote “ death is not, to be considered a transition to a state completely new and foreign to us, but rather a return to one originally our own from which life has been only a brief absence. ‘”
basically he
smelled like
burnt almonds
and somewhat scared
and sacred
the air like petal was woman
in my arms
the love
of invisible.
Contemporary Poetry
and the emptiness of
A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock
after death
love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand
every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol
of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic
mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes
love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand
those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;
the forgotten
labyrinth of him.
Contemporary Poetry
rockn’roll
I paid
and he asks
how I’ve been
he left a shapeless mass of laughter
in the air
I’ve had a hangover for days
he says: rockn’roll
yeah it hurts
and the hard Furies strangle
each idea with a whip of flame
and in that throb
one must find a quartz
of moonlight under a window
and breathe in an avalanche
and heed the noise
dripping from the tiny tick
of the heart
sharply
the eyes begin
by the sway
of a moon drawn by wings
to sleep
and here
skirting a crater
at the roof of a boundary
I am
washed by a beam of music
pocketing the fog
and perfuming the worn rags of clouds
like in fable
or inside a final
visit.
Contemporary Poetry
Tripartite
Hello.
Anybody here?
Heylooo?
A priest
and a prostitute
enter a bar.
They come up to the counter.
The bartender: what canna getcha?
The hooker smiles,
same as yesterday, Sam.
The priest, swollen
and sweating smiles,
I’ll have a dark century, Sam.
The clouds moved through
my notebook, anxious
as snails along rugged time.
Someone?
Anybody?
The prostitute shows
the sweetness of her blackberry nipples.
$15 a boob job.
Alfred white as a number says, OK.
I drew a whole city in my notebook
and
in one corner
I built a home
yellow with a mountain of beauty
inside the living room.
Knock, knock.
Alfred was gratified, the stars
trembling in his dark glassy pupils.
That’s $15, she said.
Half the pages are torn out,
theoretical mistakes I say;
but the bulk of my notebook
has black markings
like the shadows of birds
in a mile of snow.
Contemporary Poetry
from above
They found a bulge
between Amaliegade
and Esplanaden
and it was in the news
and the hearts
shook with dread
a long sack of skin.like flesh
growing from a thin string
into an enormous
bulk
a man stood drinking the ship
in a circle of dizziness
the lights of police
and the endless of an image
no one could understand the revolution
and beauty of the bulge
it was hauled off the street
like a rainbow
as a miracle of the flame
as heresy from our pedestrian slopes
factories puffing shades
roaring with flags and chords
of iron ringing
in the suburbs
it is pronounced that this age
will collide with the pillar
stumps of science
and melancholy is a growth
like tumor
in the heads of those
that gaze with wonder
from above.
Contemporary Poetry
us
They told me to squeeze
structure
into home
and open windows
to air out essence
see I have been obedient
shedding coats of laughter
like films of light over
a miracle of corner,
and this thing
consciousness is hanging
like dust
in the atmosphere
but we’ve
made arrangements
and passion is hard
like furniture,
mahogany and steel
like dream and real
together bound
in braid
somewhere near
the end of this
and the world
tiny pretty thing
climbs into the air
like a moth
to disappear
over the object
and become invisible
like the rest of
us.
Contemporary Poetry
Memory has become an uncomfortable lump in my consciousness.
It quivers
constantly and endlessly
ripens into new peculiar
shapes.
Needless to say
it increases weight
every minute,
often requiring immense
exertion to fit it in a corner
so it does not overshadow
the timid appearance of
the present.
It branches out
like a gluttonous tree
in all directions,
wavering disparate aspects
of itself without logic
or internal organization.
A primeval adolescent kiss,
a manure fight in the fields,
a quote from Montaigne
the location of masking tape
in a storage room, all mingle
shamelessly like an orgy
of bacteria in the Petri dish
of my mind.
Language is forced to perform
extreme feats of lucidity
to convey the peculiar manifestations
with which memory
fuddles the intellect.
I imagine a day
when consciousness of the present
will be completely drowned
by the swelling tsunami of memory,
leaving the brittle instant of now
floating like débris
on a flood of lifelong reminiscence.
Beyond Language 
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