projections

Modern Abstract Art

what kind of poems
will I write
when I’m fifty
and have outgrown
this adolescent existential
playground
 
 
 
what insect
will I become
that creeps through
the routines of madmen
and slithers past
the bars
wistful
of the first
days
when all was violence
and hunt
 
 
 
what kind
of
outpouring
will my language
pretend
when all it has done
is clothe
the only sacred
but forgotten
word
 
 
 
what hour
marks the descent
not unlike this
slow motion snow
that takes me
down with it
till I’m all
bliss and abyss.

 

 

contemporary poetry

 

 

possessions

What do I have

What do I have
a book
and no convictions
perhaps
all I have is
this:
exiting a subway station
going up the steps
squeezed between
too many pedestrians
I hear every shoe
scrape against the cement
and stare at the spit
of punkasses
frozen at -13 Celsius
a night that howls
like a monster
but does not eat me
steps
aimless steps
driven mad
like the man
without a thought
that laughs
at the joke
of
eternity.
 

 

nihilistic poetry

down south

Nihilism Poetry

I’ll erase the ifs
on a one-way street
to perdition
till there is no more
ground to roam
crossing the enigmatic landscapes
whose symbols
remain incomprehensible
while the incandescent journey
coils spirals south
towards the dead-end;
then – a look back to
the effluvia of decisions
an impressionism of the past
of equal value
to the hallucinations of dreams
I remain dumbstruck
such as the puppet
performing an unlikely role
before the theater
of the night.

contemporary poetry

the here

contemporary_poetry_of_nihilism


The drops have gathered
on a window pane
the cactus has a plethora
of thorns
we’re basked in rays
of murky light
geometry used to be here
the man
naked
used to be sitting there
I saw the fractions
together with the entireties
the floor is cold
and we’ll never get
what we want,
and he’ll walk
over his doubts
like the last train
to disappear in the fog
with the centuries beginning
to smell of poetry
in bed
with the unbearable
possibility
of another day
to descend upon
him
and smother
the fragments
of the mind.

contemporary nihilistic poetry

en la profundidad

Una ave blanca

pura como el vuelo

se convirtió

en fondo negro

y alzó sus alas

dentro de mí

en un cataclismo ligero

suspendido casi

sobre la eternidad vacía

del alma olvidada

la dignidad

Poesia Nihilista Existencialista Contemporánea

empecé a subir escalón
tras escalón
un fuerte viento
en columna
desciende sobre mi
un mundo oscuro
infinitamente opaco
surge a mi vista
en movimiento ausente
lo repaso de izquierda a
derecha
y una vez en la superficie
eché a caminar
con el sentimiento
de que la razón es insuficiente
y con un razonamiento
declarando todo sentimiento
incapaz de definición;
eché a caminar
por los senderos hechos de asfalto
y en esta vida hecha de noche
no le eché la culpa
a nada ni nadie
por mi condición
de forastero
perdido
entre las mareas
de gris ciudad.

the final hours

Bare
on the floor
bare
with our heads
facing
the final precipice
of tomorrow
words coming
like agonies
born from the regret
of the entire universe
our eyes
etceteras of tears
unable to listen
the ticks of the clock
in the morning
light,
inebriated with
the perspective of escape
bare and obliterated
on the top floor
of a building
alongside
oblivion.
 
 
 

(a true story)
contemporary poetry

the tunnel

Tunnel_nothingness_Nihilism_Poetry

pain rains
on me
like sleet
shaken off
the grey clouds
by a bored god
careless
in his steps
a punishment that
comes to me
for being a murderer
of silence,
interrogating
the rows
of bartenders
pleading them
to help me set up
a light
at the end of
the dark tunnel
of time
a beacon
so the alienated crowd
could finally
stop the frenzy
when they
see
it’s only a tunnel
and nothingness
at the end.

 

                          contemporary poetry

Inventado una mañana

Contemporary_Art_Acrylic_Abstract_P

La sombra
cubre cada movimiento
llueve
pero no hay
gotas
nadie
sale por las calles
por miedo de morir
de tanta luz
fue lógico
entonces
identificarse con
las sombras
con lo que sucede
pero no se percibe
fue natural
vivir
porque
no queda otra;
nos acostamos
no para la orgía
sino para sentir
el manto
intangible de oscuridad
sobre nuestros pechos
desnudos,
sepultados
a la espera
del noticiero matutino
que nos revelaría
alguna razón para vivir.

.

.

.

poesía contemporánea

a chinese dream

It’s 3:10
AM
I’m sober
reading Bukowski
still recovering
from my 48 hour
birthday binge,
the universe is still
a made-up word
for this bathroom
and the filling air,
yet I wish
I’d be reading
the great Chinese
poets
soaring over improbable
landscapes
lifting my veil of ignorance
seeing through the deceits of
Maya
untroubled by the vicissitudes
of time
at one with the universe
which is to say
inseparably and eternally here
with this white-tiled bathroom
and the air
that encircles me,
in drowning
invisible
swirls.

 

nihilistic poetry