purl –
all being
swollen
in niches .
scattered salt
on the bare table
as solitudes of rock
an image of a cloud
like an errant soul .
red paint –
the smell of transmutation
a simple
color serving as garment
for the brief
invisible visit
of purpose.
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.
Follow the designs
of the fruit fly course
and swallow the silver abyss
of the month, like a pocket of lungs
in the tissue of paperwork,
the wrong eschatology
roaming freely in the
painless nurture
of nature – there
flapping endlessly
in a wind of glimpse.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The face was carved out
Of sound and motion
Vision was clay of river
Through ages and lives
His face was the platform
Of transforming secret –
I was a full body of beer
Reeking smell of hallucination
The concept of man
Was the rustling leaf beyond the window?
My friend and I
Seeping into the occult layers of perception
Like rats of laughter we followed the maze
Unabashed by the terrible condition
The flaky reality we were inventing
At 6am of a holiday retreat
As automaton, as passion
The nude words of the intoxicated
As free bullets
Hunting the lie
Of the self.
My madness began at seven
Beautiful ineluctable madness
The sun was over the horizon
In wide strokes of light
Painting my ribs: the tress
The fields were windows
Clear lucid germ of becoming
My skin was everywhere
Like an atmosphere of beams
My song was the sadness
The pain
The burden
The guilt
In that bath of purity
My mouth was full
Swelling with
The verb of awe
The rain has made
senseless x’s on the pane
beyond it
the turbulent clouds
initiate the horror
and a short trance,
my madness
no symbol
is free
to speak of mundane
matters
is now unacceptable
the world
useless as thing
but the most terrible
warning
an opening in the clouds
supine
on the ground
a yellow blindness
through eyes surrendering
I sense
blood fencing the sky
inside
an egg
of impatient
globular substance
a sufferer’s music.
There are years
that have made touch
sediment
on our skins
we are still waiting
for childhood
one that makes toys of truth
vast rivers of ignorance
bird of drunk chance
in the azure of unknown
we are now rock hard dead lives
from our cavernous eyes:
outside the fleeting world of fantasy
perplexing games naturally there –
we, nevertheless, have chosen dripstone repose
a slow stagnation
the light disappears
and I sense
we were shadows in the sun.
Beyond Language 
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