Poetry

browmorn

There by
Brown morning
Lorid feel
Gallop coal
Hi organ john
Feather good finger
My lung jubilates in bass
Long like the tower of gun
Linger year
Trembling young hunt
Kino deutsche
Now
Or
Never
Hungry for eternal
Laugh,
My dandy father
The moon born like years of oops
Holy joke
Goodie smell
Casi casi
Exiting smoke
Towards the hole
Umbrella ill
Rear fear wonder
Pop
Jolly spell like mystery
In schedule
Swallowed and filled
Volume
Of portrait
So heart
Is speaking
In long jingles.

casualidad

rise ash

El roce
del pescuezo
cósmico

son
plumas

que frotan
contra
tu nuca
de nuez

ay roto
minuto

sin sal
cae la
materia
en esta sopa
tibia

la verdad
es tan febril
como esa
loca
sonrisa

ay borracho
soy como un piano
de notas
y no
y si
y mucho
tal vez.

untitled

Have you
visited
the colossal
room
the sand in
song
the destination
of the rock?
have you
tested the
drug of desire
you drunk
merciless hunter
have you waved
the stars goodbye
you idol
of expanses
euphoric
and final
like sensation
empty of words .

I

 

I’ve tried to kill myself
in many furies and ranges
to drown infinitesimally
in the tiniest contemplation
somewhere finding the courage
to disappear without justifying
the senseless life I’ve led;
I’ve searched for death, afraid still
of void and thunder,
my hand – sometimes –
caresses the skin, outline, source
of an object’s beauty,
trembling uncertain
of its reality.

Sanity is a gift.

I only have the
penance of existing
in the passivity of fated
annihilation, wording
the symbol of illusion,
symbols
and nothing more.

forms of reaction

 

Why are there so many triangles in my fear?
Some oval fish ate my joy,
only a box left empty
but for its red swollen soul;
how did you get that chain reaction lodged in your face,
god what handwork in that knitted viel
the wool has the age of a spiral
and the shine of measurements –
parallel to the material of gasps,
little tales of windows
peering into the empty
square of a life

you as landscape

You, flesh and bone,
gas and scars
of phenomena.

My hand slides down your ranges
into the pockets of pleasure,
the possibility of birth and gargantuan
orgasm.

The winding road of decisions
and the soporiferous wind blowing
of distant causes.

The trees have danced,
reenacting the groove of colliding
cosmic bulges in the rhythm
of passing gusts.

We do the same?
In silent gaze, creating
the torture of possibility
with endless and mapping thoughts?

You and winged beasts
from dawn. Red and innocent –
open mouth and chants
from the sky… where
we belong as tinges
of intangible.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

to do (today)

To do today

— Sell beer at Sacré Coeur
— Read Durant
— Visualize dramatic death
inside metro station
— Slander humanity (inside my head)
— R econcile myself with humanity on
the pretext that nothing really matters,
not even my disdain for
today’s banality.
— Buy “What’s on man’s mind-Sigmund Freud”
T-shirt
— Booze – some football
— write an avant-garde poem
— pack
— fuck
–theorize and wine
–juggle with the playthings
of soul, destiny and love
— sleep
—
Nihilistic Poetry

an ode to whatever is represented

disparate_dimensions_21st_century_poem

I was divagating in a fluidity of language
collecting in the subjective aroma of an objective pinpoint
a star deriving its presence by its undulating waste of light.

I contained the arching earth and the moon
pretended to shift through the clouds of a mind
like an unconscious mirror spinning.

The arrow of the sensation was pointed
towards a nectarous instant of sound
a long necklace of harmonies.

My hour is traveling through imaginary pleasing effects
the seconds are my mistresses in red corduroy –
the age – a vague perfume of disparate dimensions.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog