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postmodern_poetry_blog

why don’t

YOU
walk down history
as through a great avenue
to deliver the good news
to a decaying world

why don’t

YOU
speak a language
whose every word
is a cup filled
with beatific light

why don’t

YOU
become
the blossoming bud
of fire that will consume
the wasteland of the earth

why don’t

YOU
release mankind
from its immemorial shackles
and carry the heavy light of truth
to the eyes of every man, woman
and child

why don’t

YOU
reveal the gates of salvation,
or the ultimate purpose
of our petty lives

why don’t

YOU
add up all divinities
and multiply them
into one enormous entity

why don’t

YOU
unite all opposites
sensual and ideal
material spiritual
past future
life death
into a totality of all
totalities

why don’t

YOU
wrestle from the grip
of science and religion
the meaning of all
being

why don’t

YOU
lift the veil of illusion
and disclose the essence
behind this all-
embracing chaos

then, only then

I will follow you.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

thin vicissitude

absurd_poetry_blog

I bumped into the city, the bastard.
Looking around the snow – remembering
my tongue melting as ice in Lascaux and fossilized
toothpicks near the ancient campfire.
I was in Iceland and got drunk,
looking at the cloudless that would die
before the sky reached Sweden.
I have been on the toilet all day,
working, theorizing, and it came
out looking like Nobel’s head,
one day
I will sit beneath a giant tree and forget
my existence as grass never did.
I see why the intellectuals
are enchanted by doom.
But why worship definition as
a totem almighty menacing godly cult.
I see why the poets cancel death
and write lyrics for the music
of meaningless wind.
I observe the visionaries
about to detonate with their unclean secret
like a grenade in their chests . But they can’t,
never finding sunshine in communication,
sadness has overwhelmed language
leaving behind a thin vicissitude
of smoke.

 

Contemporary Poetry

Flash Fiction: the blue nuggets

flashfiction

 

 

– Ok. Here’s what we have. A ladder, a pair of shears, bandage, alcohol and a megaphone.
– What are we supposed to do with all that?
– They told me we need to sterilize the sky.
– Say what?!
– You know, remove its testes.
– You gotta be kiddin’ me. How the hell are we going to emasculate the sky?
– Well, we gotta get up there and figure it out.
– Are you serious? Get up where?
– There, between the sack and the butthole.
– Come on now, are you delirious?
– I’m just trying to figure out what the megaphone is for.
– Listen to me, there must be a mistake. It’s ludicrous, how are they asking us to…
– Ah! I get it, it’s to warn the people below when the nutsack is about to fall.
– Are you really buying into this? It must be a joke!
– Yeah, there’s not enough bandage in case we get massive hemorrhage.
– Here comes the manager. Let me have a word with him.
– Gentlemen, something preventing you from working?
– Listen, my buddy here says we have to castrate the sky. I believe there is some kind of mistake.
– Yes, there’s not enough bandage there in case you get massive…
– No wait, sir! That’s not my point. Could you be so kind as to indicate where does the sky keep its private parts?
– Mr. Kobket, I don’t have time to lecture you on the anatomy of the heavens. I am certain it was a requirement in your studies to read Copernicus’ work on the heavenly spheres.
– Unfortunately I have not, but it’s plain common sense that the sky lacks sexual organs. Am I missing out on something?

At this point the conversation enters anomalous levels of absurdity. We will not make preposterous demands on the credibility of the reader. Any educated person will recognize that Mr. Kobket was the only sane, one could as well say, grounded person of the pack. No one has ever observed, much less imagined, the sky swinging two gigantic azure balls over the horizon as it makes its way from daylight to twilight. No one has ever seen a rugged celestial bulge shrinking in timidity when exposed to the chilly currents of a winter gale. No one has ever seen two brilliant disks twitching as the sky ejaculates lightning and moans in thunder. No one has ever smelled the musk and sweat of glands rubbing day and night against the thighs of clouds. No airplane has ever become entangled in a web of ethereal filaments proceeding from the pubescence of the firmament. Not one, not in a thousand years, not in a thousand years.

Contemporary Fiction

Agony and Angst (abstract photography)

What no one will remember

(Part xL6)

 

division
descent
diffusion
deformed
dissolving
diastole
disembodied
deranged
dearth
desuetude
dwindling
debacle

Somewhere shortly before July 11, 2013.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

idiomas de nacer

nacer_de_luz

Debo nacer antes con ayer alto
de mujer.

Y hombre tal vez era elegir nombre
de esperar.

Campo lento quizá vida ilumina
ancla moviéndose.

Anticipar necesaria piel abrazar fe
durmiéndose.

Debo aclarar después brazo de luz
en la cama.

Y humedecer vasta sensación con propósito
acabándose.

Ley desde silencio con vehículo
atento en ala.

Aparezco soñándome viviendo inmensa exactitud
imaginada.

Debo nacer pronto con mañana puesto el nadir
en músculo vertical dilatándose.

Poesía Contemporánea

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

una sola flor

una_sola_flor

los pájaros mueven sus alas
como lenguas entre la niebla
allá afuera

la mujer se hace campana
y el hombre aeronata en el agua
gira detrás de una sola flor

apaguen las luces
que la tierra hierve como fruta
sin perfumar su memoria,

alguien acaba de morir

el silencio avanza
intruso en el destino
humano

 

Poesía Contemporánea

the art of definition 

the art of definition

There is no method for definition: to learn how to define. Definition is a consequence of imitation, its foundation so deeply grounded in our perceptual models of reality that any reform would only be an aberration of the original fortuity. We learnt to use a system of language through imitation and even the precision of mathematics remains illusory as a result of being an imposed code of rules embedded in the ambiguous amalgam of imitative language.

I would live,
dedicate my entire life
to defining a single word
properly – justly. 
That word would be:
	melancholy
I do have other candidates,
perhaps I would define another
still stranger word: mysterious.

What is mysterious?

That which cannot be grasped intellectually.
That which is still unknown, unexplained,
perhaps the truly mysterious is
that which can never be explained by thought,
that which is intrinsically unknowable. 

Here I am defining a word with other words. 
But I would not stop there. 
I would access zones of intuition,
a series of instruments predating language,
like an amulet that contains an entire cosmology
or a monolith that served as genesis to historical memory.
I would anchor my word to other unreliable words,
vague words that by their very nature would
serve as examples of the intangibility 
of my definition for mysterious.  

I would, for example, make mysterious 
synonymous with Life, Happiness, Nirvana, etc 

ect.

Contemporary Poetry