Poetry

Delicate pounds

The days pounded
upon my chest
of invisible baby held like a heart,
that was dead at birth

I see the same streets
the identical rage
the mundane purpose of the bar

But patient fish
as eyes remain cool
under the stream of time

This skin stretches
around the boundary
like water

I could watch all the movies
and talk of holy female bodies,
in a café or purgatory

That ideas are literally queens
and inherited the contemporary
love of possession

The days keep pounding,
a tick of brutal rational
abstraction and the irrational
motion of the problems
of life

The perfume of a cadaver
interred in an instant
where the universe
allows a glimpse but no more.

 

 

 

AbSURd PoEtry

alea iacta est

yeah years teeth in sun
matter

piles up

dry
out there

 

waking
which is a breath
half air
half tear

 

 

obedient bodies die
these melodies
of tragedies

nothing more
than an idea of

awareness

this geology of memory

 

experience
breaks inevitable like waves

on far distant moon

 

 

unable to alter
the course
of inane atoms

 

 

the waves keep crashing
on the thinning stone
that life
half-asleep in chance.

AbSURd PoEtry

The horizon alights like a dormant lip.

swollen_cloud_poem_21st_century_copenhagen

The horizon alights like a dormant lip.
The most important thing of the day
was not seen but felt.
Joy was not in me but around me.
Like a pool of emotion, I drift from
one spill to another. Joy. Boredom. Dread.
I’ve been wandering the whole day. Looking
at things as if they were rocks covered in moss.
The clouds were protagonists .
They are immobile, the city below balloons in ripples.
The line between the lips swallows the light,
the waves and the purpose.
A delicate gulp. Swollen with twilight.
One single nerve aches.
The one whose function
is to sense life.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

Coincidence of Opposites

to stare at her
for hours
while her shadow begins
to curl like trunks of smoke
on the wooden floor

to escape the heavy
brief pale
gaze of
strangers

to be close to her
as close tangled
irreversible
as hours are to years

to hear her voice
like the hieroglyph
of a flower
carved into the
speech of rocks

to touch her eyes
when the walls of the world
become calm timorous
mirrors

to face each other
and collide like antonyms
in the swelling unity
of love

a mystic’s bed

then I found myself
stepping on the mushy
nodes of matter
first cobblestones
then grass
finally the helical
steps of a cloud

it was no longer
vague intuition
but pure palpable
fact :

this is a dream

the arc of night
laid its arm
round my shoulder

both my eyes
puckered
to buss the black sky

there was love
dark and murmuring

my heart drunk
on the delirious flavor
of the stars

the straws of space
nested my body
and fell asleep
while the cars below
flashed in gushing fleets

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

how old

How old
must I become
to return to the selfless
heaviness of the rock

has not the wind
that levels the tiny
sands of time
swept over
the last corner
of my life

must I continue
to stare
at the leaves
that shiver
purposelessly
on the sunlit tree

must I continue
to desist action
below the shadow
of a pigeon
that springs to flight

must the city
become soft
as the pages
of history
that I keep on
forgetting

how old must this
memory become
to fall silent at last
as the man behind
the mirror

how   old

 

 

Existential Poetry

dumb poet

It is no hard task
to sit with a book
& glass of wine
all night
waiting perchance
the end of all events;
patiently becoming
dumber by the words
and wiser by the wine;
serene and slumberous
in the certainty
that all things will perish
today, next morning
or in a thousand years.

Poetry Blog

futile breath

yellow_fields_of_Death-1-1

They say
I should kill
myself.

I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.

But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.

. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.

I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.

They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.

I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.

I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.

I say no;                                           I’ll write poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry

the idea of death

The night is dark
the soul is charred
its landscape tarred
trees bone black
black serpents paved till horizon –
the sad spectacle of thoughts
receding unhurriedly
as stars into nothing
white lions into oblivion;
I observe scattered teeth
engulfed in black blood –
that is the night sky.
Everything turns mysterious,
my hand the lonely shade
the ultimate despair;
everything
merging irrevocably
with the dead of night.

Nihilistic Poetry