Poetry

against the city

against the city

when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows

when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf

when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause

when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.

…

This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.

Nihilistic Poetry

we need to talk

anti poetry

I don’t love you, poetry.
I’m filing for divorce,
don’t know what happened
we met on the streets
I could not resist her
and now I cannot come back
to you.
Her name? does it even matter?
Oh she’s commonplace, boring
in fact. But she’s straightforward,
ubiquitous, and superficial.
It’s plain reality, chewing gum,
being hungover, to laugh.
It’s paying for bus ticket,
putting on socks, turning
in bed. It’s blinking, jerking
off, bruising a finger, the
smell of burnt toast.
I’m sorry, poetry.
I loved you once,
but today I have
bad breath, indigestion
and a disheveled beard.
I just need to read about
bombs, dollar vs euro,
I need to google:
3-day weather forecast.
It’s going to be alright,
life goes on, we’ll look
back on all our bliss
with a dry smile.
Let’s not make it any harder,
I gotta go out and
buy some cheap wine,
be alone, yeah
be alone.

 

 

 

before wisdom

An animal without thinking of hands opens a cave of innocence. It sleeps without the weight of tomorrow, like a burning match. The other animals are heavy with knowledge, spinning like kaleidoscopes of fat. My ideal self is a plant, surrounded on every side by invisible expanses of solitude. Sometimes it could think, but always to negate. It will say: these petals have not changed the world. And it will sway and tremble in a monotonous wind. If the world is a vessel sinking irrevocably into forgetfulness, there is no real distinction of types. These beings we see, or imagine and sometimes become have no name. Like thistles with nameless thorns. Like music with blind hours. Like blood without the river of taste. I see the fur and claws submerging; the animal does not struggle. It drowns like a bean in water. But I still don’t know if in a glass, an ocean or in eternity.

PoEtry

an erection (an absurd poem)

While the cloud
held silence like
a baby in mother’s arm
this vain head
swirled like vane
to the roar
of the orphan night,
the cataract of minutes
and other entities,
but at the other
end love coruscating
lonely through black
echoes of memories,
on the white pale
body of the earth
having the only
organ capable of
perpetuating some fabled race
pointed at the moon – a spear
to break the firmament
and bury this iota of being
under the shattering flood
of entropy

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

strawberry joyous

Haunting
hustling hurrying harrowing hurling – hush.
John, if I knew one, would be right.
Take the marmalade
and spread
it over the bread.
Taste it as

the eyes taste light.
Yes. Simple emptiness,
delicious shine. Buddha sits

in the TV room. The rain clouds.
It is good jam.

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

greyhour

to have known the lazy mote

short quivering dust drawing

letters fruits and tongues on invisible air

when these strangers, lovers

and broken loves waiting for the

train see the speck restless,

there and then, the trance of the path

whose swirl is as elementary

ancient as the nakedness of the sky

a speck who deserves as many words

thoughts and aches

as those we touch and hurt

a mote debonair in air

finds its rest gracefully

like drop of grey symphony

at the base of our feet

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

The ant feeling

I have the hands of a dictator.
Thoughts of a circle
and a pretty bloated lower lip.
I wake up some days thinking
how many galaxies are needed
for this life to be indubitably
insignificant.
I look at the mirror,
those eyes like clouded enigmas.
And then come the words,
like heavy storms of smoke.
If the sky were glass to break;
but I settle for grunge.
While to most life is a gulf,
to me
the world is a knife
two parallel lines
that meet at the horizon
to stab me right
in the middle
of my unseen heart.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

moonlessness

There are days
man & you see
what flood of joy
a street black drenched
2 o clock moonlessness
the hairs as kind of antennae
on the blue poet’s flesh
kiosk shines in van gogh yellow
automatic sliding doors
press in pin code, say thanks
a bottle of wine in hand
slow steps on way back
this skin feels like walls of pure sensation
the eternal crack of rain
key in keyhole
you’re home
twirling in air of cogs & columns
dipping stale bread in the wine
oh this slow chamber of death
where shadows
rest of their enigmas
where, above all, a man
finds his peace.

AbSURd PoEtry

nihil

I fear the same stone of light that you fear. I am the bone and you are the sky. We are earth hidden within the mines of space. Darkness – like a baby – hangs from our necks. If there were knowledge there’d be no action. Pure restless surrender. I fear the pause, the allotted time. It sinks, truthfully. I know we cherish the denial of our times. Like young nihilists. I dug for truth, through turd and stink. The gold of meaning, the diamond of certainty. Years have not been wasted – we see our excavations. Emptiness. Holes. Awakening. There is nothing. We’ve dug holes, nothing more; philosophical pits. The cradles of our deaths. They are beautiful, waiting, obvious. The discovery of nothing: the day everything changed. What do you seek? What value? What supreme encounter? Now, it’s too late. Death is not speculation but the premise. All postulates inevitably incomplete. I fear that same conclusion. But it is here. Like a spark, like lightning. Like love and ephemeral.

Nothing.

Nihilistic PoEtry