so damned
brimming
so eventfully charged
with life
my darkest pleasure
to live on and on
with the callous madness
of loving
words.
21st century poetry
a stroll
.
I walked alone b/c
the streets were attempting
to be white
I’m all sorts of blues
so what a contrast that was,
when I found the open boulevard
imitating a mouth or lights
exactly like my sparkling daze-hood,
the shadows were falling everywhere
like broken pieces of love,
I could hear cars, reminding me
that I’m nothing but a drive;
I was hoping for a journey but found
myself crushing little roads of silence
blinking sadly,
remonstrating:
am i the only poet out here
tonight?
poetry blog
The fallacy of existing
something set me loose
abrupt and cryptic
sailing in a medium
that infuriates me
headway headway
progress is like a precipice
i knew about the rocks
long before my pessimism
took over
corroding the oars
my bores
counted like stars
yawning as naturally as breathing
boat body bodhisattva
drowning in the air
sinking in the blood
world me (mindless) me world
nothing is so big and cavernous
so ingrained
in occult emptiness
within the rising steam
of hot silence
the anchor
the destiny
simultaneously my hunger
the greasy milk of the sea
fattening the grand course of solitude
scraping against the seabed
slowing the haste
the waste
a motion brave and stupid
pushing me like a vessel
of filament
farther further away
from the goal of existence:
stillness
Existential Poems
abandon poetry
I have to get away
from poetry
need to stop
focusing on the
details and the needlework
of perception
need to live the gross
average
collision course life
of the
rest
need to rediscover
minutes
as meaningless
traps
need to make routine
again an instinctive
straightjacket
need to somehow
buy a house
and stock it up
with liquor
need to begin
worrying
about that silly
little race
that goes by
the name
of
happiness.
nihilism poems
elevate I to end
age
a film of thaw
rosy tender flesh
your perfect target
agonic wine deadly aim
by the non-appearance closer
logical surrender instance of essence
point drop angular arpeggio by the moon
eye eye
oh
human
form around the cellar
by side raised younger
lost in the sympathy of quivers
tingling by the mindwake of emptiness.
Nihilistic Poetry Blog
ex nihilo
I’ve come close
to developing incurable nausea
biting the world so often
it’s starting to swarm like primordial chaos’s pulp
lingering in my mouth
it proliferates in my stomach
constant genesis out my ass
yet
the feeling is still there
I’ve had too much of it
I need a new distraction
perhaps
ex nihilo
I can invent a death
so pristine
it returns to life
its facet of dream.
Nihilistic Poetry Blog
something of night
Stepping-stones on an open fall
my limbs remind me of crying cataracts
the fall is unique
relative to some approaching infinity
all my thoughts are grounded solely on the black stream
an overarching view of decay
some inexplicable love wraps the beauty of my despair
trust? there is an absolute leap of faith
relying less on the Goodness of this destruction
more on the emptiness of my command
whatever remains. An option to abort
a compulsory surrender
that carries this night
as a flavor to life.
Nihilistic Poetry
more heavens
It dreams, sounds, quivers like a barrage
drenched in nostalgia these figuratively unknown
release the hungry words to pillage the earth out of its meaning
left with the questions that have already been answered by
above-the-clouds, silences-drawn-by-the-desert, light-colliding-water;
a definition that can be caressed and departed from
words that came so close to smelling of life
puny insignificancies that were almost a secret under the skin
my hand, these verbs and the kill
pogroms and a consequent silence
I surrender
due to bluest aim
as a truth that defeats
a heaven in me
old reverberations
my task is very
simple
observation
untroubled
the battle for
satisfaction
is over
I’m resting my head on phenomena
like on the exposed
breast of my lover
open eyes
breathing
allowing the world
to play with itself
I move cloudlike
I think rocklike
keeping record of things
for this lost history of the soul
Modern Poetry
idealism
I’ve had the world
spinning on an idea
yet I never became
Schopenhauer
I never saw it good
or bad or evil
it was simply there
as a mystery
wordless play
and the more I look at it
the more it became
an idle dream. . .
Beyond Language 
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