of becoming

Becoming mist

The possession of my self
in the refraction lonely
something sees as I
the trembling skin
of bright tomato
and someone desires
to lay bare on its surface
light like reflection
of a lamp
the map of understanding
may be indifferent
to axis of human
thinking
nothing belongs to earth
and the real
billows
on the dream
of matter.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

soldier of ruin

Nihilistic Poetry

The sadness of the suit –
hung

the window shop
like a memory
carrying the scent
of an effete cosmos,
the wrinkles engraved
as snakes on a dead desert
of polyester,
the trapezoids existing
shadows in the skin
of the pattern,
and the sadness of the suit
saturated with the rust
of a regret, the shoes
of temple sacrifice-
the suit gray and occidental
ail and sober
standing brave
as the soldier of ruin.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

of illusion

Red eyes

Of the corn
that makes residence
in the wrapping shadow
of time along the bark
of a tree

in the proximity
of approximation
the figure of life
is guesswork

the natural ponds
of objects
resonate as if
driven by the longevity
of clouds

the hand
inventing surface
from the ghosts
of light and edge

in observation
the bread of process
dissipating like smoke
inside the throat
of ravenous eyes.

Poetry 2011

above distinction

Above earth view

Is there a possibility
of ache and wonder

some knowledge
of cave and cadence

has man
any recognition
of the dream
in the edifice
of infinity

the sun
is drowning
in red essence

everything
sleeps
like a butterfly
in flight

lucid
shapeless
earth.

my education

Books and education, poetry

By government of limbs
empty networks of rules
my lost skull
finding fragments of hope
in books and lasting gulps

I remember the bishop
Berkeley, first time I read
his lucid portrayal of idealism
I saw myself as pigment
in god’s mind

there was Rimbaud
the seer
a daemon of callous dreams
beckoning the loving beasts
of my heart to get drunk
and fornicate with the chaos
outside

vagueness is ubiquitous
when Cioran excommunicated
truth from reality
I leapt from definition to obscurity
like a child in mud fields
turning invisible by the camouflage of
dirt

alea jacta est
poetry was born
playthings of appearances
and the images started to gather
like a book of things that never
existed behind the universe

there was still coffee – regret –
futility and then Pessoa opened up the only truth
I ever believed in, he unwrapped it with casual
numbness, as mechanically as you take off a shoe:
life is a superfluous waiting for death
with no definite aim it definitely kills us
and whatever we say or don’t say
will never change a thing

so I write
in the penumbra of absurdity
as divertissement between sleeps,
all the same
in the involuntary currents of nothingness
drunk with the illusion of sensation,
I feign a soul
in laughter and despair
because of that obscene longing
of being
poet & chasm.

21st century Poetry