contemporary poetry

the end

this_is_the_end

Sorry,
I can’t tell you here
what value, how important,
where everlasting.
Haven’t found it, every bit
is rising like a moon
no matter if it’s a thing
or a thought it disappears
somewhere.
I feel human, literally
a heart pumping veins
in rings of muscle. And
also empty space between
all of you and this isolation of brain,
language, dark brown eyes,
I let you walk pass me
passersby. If I touch
you by chance by accident by love by desire
by dinnertime by church by antiquity by destiny
by skin by Friday by crying by leaving
it will be my memory moaning for
togetherness again with the ebb and flow
of zeroes echoing in the silence.
I do not claim
my isolation is unique,
my brain bottled in language
looking out into the world
through dark brown eyes.
But I cannot touch you
when you are a tricklebird
dripping from the skyline.
Sorry,
our days are numbered and
we must face the tough blue earth
as if it were the end–

 

Contemporary Poetry

mortal questions

mortal_questions

Who chases the myth
while drenched
in the blood
of the primordial hunt?

Who has placed a hyphen
between Sky and I
to sense the aura
of a blue atmosphere
as a newer skin?

Who will concentrate
all language
into one singular word
that falls heavy
             as a meteorite
into the sands
of nocturnal desert?

Who will endlessly
double the depth
of one earth suspended
in the night?

Who will reduce
consciousness
to a milligram
of image?

Who has made
a door from odor
through which memory
walks out
into open land?

Who will unearth
mankind and root
childhood back
in the curl
    of a cloud?

Who will find
this poem hidden
from the glare of knowledge
waiting in the shadows
of their touch?

Contemporary Poetry

sugar of lung

suffer

I’ve translated the sugar
of lung and by mist
the meaning of language
is a family of pauses
appearances that crawl
like incense between crevices
of hard barrier,
but then there is truth
which as a fence
we jump to land
on barbarous scenes of fading,
where we hang the moon
in our hollow cavity
and there walk in thick groups
of solitary breaths,
aiming to cut the tragedy
in two great halves
with the rim of suffer.

Contemporary Poetry

across a boundless place

boundless_place

One day I took a look and there was a place. In that black density a lace began to arrange memory like a bow around every name that I remember, back then, throwing outside, out there, like small smooth stones. I craved to eat the clouds in the mud of my imagination; I was a child in rags (how many clouds had transpired) before I learnt a world was a word capable of eclipsing all the things of the world. So I craved to forget every flavor of sound to rediscover suddenly the purple of music under the noon of my eye. (Always I’ve been making things so real and why is there only an ugly street, this very instant). I remember softening the sky and making a drum in unison with horizon. I won’t claim here that I’ve invented the universe just because I’ve made giant centuries sleep in my mad silence. I’ve only borrowed infant atoms of late. Perhaps I’ve always been alone preexisting like a submarine below the surface of time. I’ve been waiting like a peculiar magnet unnoticed in the abyss. Perhaps this here is not an ugly street but a vein carrying the fatality of the dream to a new pulsation. Perhaps this reverie is not a quick line scrawled on another page of earth. I see now that the poet has started to unearth his own visions beneath the thirst of trees. I see him proudly unintelligible against all the violence of thought. I see now that the poet still craves the flesh of the clouds and has made brightness a bridge across a boundless place.

Contemporary Poetry

for voyages

wounds_as_vehicules

Descend aloud
into the art
of the thing,
before words with
enormous arms
bind us to awful
regions of totality

be unique
alone afraid
as the shiver of
twig, partly
shaded by
the inexact locus
of the clouds

rest in the dominion
of a figure,
aslant and radiant
like a candle
in its own silent
culture

adduce nothing
and the inner light
makes a thorn
to thunder upon
the dark innocence
of sensation

look below
as the summits
know little of
our wounds we
use as vehicles
for voyages that take
place behind
the language of order.

 

Contemporary Poetry

allness

allness

Here in my face
I feel gravity
when light and darkness
are only found in
two eyes that brush
with memory the
portrait of movement

what am I to do
when language’s gone
astray
smashing against
a window like a dumb
bird

we discovered
that the only thing
in heaven are rocks
and columns of gas
that the soul is
an inaudible whisper
returning to nameless,
to a wind to a wave

little man, I hear the elements say:
logic swallowed the world
and reason spat out an abstraction
so, little man, let’s start over
with a new skin around language
caressing the river of change
as only the surface of infinite

dip before death your body
in emptiness
O manifold, never compare
abandon the mistake of identifying
body with body and mind with mind
rather cling to miracle as petals
do to their perfume
and drop judgment like a stone
thru the air and little man
open the mouth the eye and your
bouquet of fingers in the madness
that moves worlds as auras
around the light of stars

fast, construct a minute that is
young fountain and invent a word
that will finally deflower infinity

little man – I hear a voice from all
elements strangling me with all
greenness that is a red orchestra
conducting as a blue cloud
the dance of the night around itself
allness allness

I have a face and it is a seed
at the threshold about to cleave root
in the manifestation of music
so profound
that it enters an orbit
around the love of everything

Contemporary Poetry

almost

concept

I’m tired of the world
Listening almost analytical,
Blinking and blinking,
Yawning.

And telling stories.

I want to turn off the world,
like a light bulb.

I want darkness to be orthodox.
Like a blanket I
fold into heretic squares of vision.

I’m tired and about
to doubt.

And the sun
Is a big smile
I cannot fuck

I want to smile.

But the dumb
lung is coughing
the truth
away in dirty
streams of saliva.

Fences were beautiful
concepts of once.

Only one time.

To be, shortly.

I almost cried.

Contemporary Poetry

adagio in thirst

hungry_animal

At the piano
I sat and it went
tiriti gruween
brung.

Got up
like a maniac,
picked up
Vallejo

his stubborn
ache voluptuously
around his human fingers

I dropped the book,
the invisible rain
outside was falling
like stones

and I could have
slammed down a
shot of whiskey

but bottle was empty

scratching the olive
skin into red patches
of hurt

and decided everything
was a circumnavigation
‘round nothing

that I had to kick
language out my house
like a dirty old dog

these things like winds are words

and I wanted hard life
tonight, like fury
dripping from my cheeks

and it was raining
ridiculous worms
writhing in eight ecstasies

it was the night

to leave in flight
like a rapacious animal
to dark and faithless
jungles

at the very least,

a night
without ideas

and again to the piano,
I sat and made clouds of sound,

dirilin dorem, silafu.

 

AntiPoetry

outta here

beyond_language_poem

Let’s be tired of words.
Of how we started endless
galaxies from an eye that is smaller
than the grain of infinity.
Of sadness that is a mess
nailed to the CORNER of
LIFe.
Let’s be weary
of how eyes open
and close into new
continents of light
and junk like hung
in memory’s mausoleum.
Let’s put a Beard on Happiness
and let it sail without rum
into the range
of yellow.
L’et s be tired of language,
‘tis
but a mayor reason
to abandon reason,
look how wide
the measurements of our bodies
have curled like hair around
the concept of love.
Let’s be grotesque
born figments fancying
fragments of fire
making fury like florid
petals atop the function
of the facts.
Let’s sing silences.
In vaults of fine emptiness.
Let’s abandon
the distance that is mirrored
in the instance,
faintly so feebly fleeting
into utterance.
Let’s be flying error
that spat onto text
like orgasm.

AntiPoetry