21st century poetry

somewhere out there

Somewhere out there one may find a horizon. But I do not talk about edges or inventing balconies to oblivion. I drink wine and swallow sensation indefinitely. I believe to be one whirl of smoke that spins upon the axis of habit. Sometimes I peek through windows, as if they were encyclopedias of the beyond. I am a romantic. I go outside and say: I see a single star reflected inside the thick glass of my endless wine. A slow logic eventually wears down the brilliance of the sky; and for nights I camp under a starless proof. But today a pound of purple strikes my tongue. The thickness of a dream goes down my throat. I begin to feel like an atmosphere of veins. Like a slab of fiction that crumbles to illusion.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

my ear

ear as journey poem
here is my ear
curled up
like a journey

it is still
like a window
a vehicle
to a blind
landscape

some birds
come by
to peck on
my blindness

I hear a
cacophony
of impossible
counsels

whorled noise
that I accept
as the shade
of sound

here is my ear
hidden within
the source
of silence.

 

21st century Poetry

structures

I wait
for structure
unguided orbit
‘round pitch black
eclipsed
purpose

I wait
for algorithm
gate through organism
a master-slave
relationship
between weightlessness
and me

I act
while belonging
to a higher order
of improbability –
fixed to the pillory
of a future

watch me
bicycle below
a clouded sky
unaware of the
the zoology
of experience

look
how a baby
embraces
a flock of details
but I still
lean against
a solidified flux

yes I
wait
for a self
to chain itself
to this body

like a saint
anchored
to
a pool
of feathers

Nihilistic Poetry

to sit

But to sit
inside to mourn
the faint flame of the tongue
a domain bursting with curl
don’t move these eyes
they soon thunder
behind two happy lips

asleep

to sit uprooted
of her hairs not beatific
by the window
to mourn, winter, the weight
sentenced to be borne
by a few final thoughts
they encircle waves around

minutes

to sit certain
of a scene, dream, or green unhappiness
I could roar like a hallucination
inside the tiny mount of my sleep
but to mourn
in the morning
without a second chance to

kiss

to sit
and the heart
shivers like a wet bird
to mourn
unblinkingly
like twigs of rain
towards soon of old

tomorrow

Nihilistic Poetry

of an unknown origin

A loosely transcribed prose poem based on my Spanish poem earlier tonight.

There, something like a stain, was once a sky. Some aberration of smoke and light, of cloud and fire; a threshold. Was it even my decision to intertwine or to blend with destiny? I am governed by the first desire that slithers between two hesitations. I disown the vehicle of my body, the possibility of choice. I raise a hand like another Pessoa to hint a goodbye, but to what? The cloud? The sun that I never knew except for its light?

There was a man that could not continue today, he stood in front of a horizon.

He said: goodbye.

He said: I return to the unknown.

 

 

a stroll

brevity of life

I observe man
as an attempt
as pantomime
as desperate confabulation
to be what it knows
it cannot be

a perfectly trimmed
beard
a perfectly shaved
pussy

a chameleon’s last
color to camouflage
its lust
and most importantly,
its fear

I conceive mankind
as if it were the most
embellished monument

and while I walk
under its cool shadow
I reflect:

its brevity compels
me to hate it

its meaninglessness compels
me to love it.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

awakening

I wake like a slab, like a musical note covered in rain, almost aware that the pause is a chair where I sit and imagine being other than a man. I cannot escort any more sighs, they glide alone, solitary, rootless, like planets around a distant star. But it is day, and I drink its cave. I sit staring at the wall and feeling like leaping into a pure confident fire. But time is a rock and I cannot conceive its opposite. Should I return to the mad pillow, to the deaf simplicity of sleep? The anticipation of more tomorrows, of new memories opening up like meadows, is not enough. I am fragile, perishable, disconnected like the multitude of particles that make up smoke. I need to disperse slyly as a faint perfume, to be carried away by the slightest wind. I dream and rest from meaning. The earth recedes, and I return to the lucid extinction of sleep.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

before wisdom

An animal without thinking of hands opens a cave of innocence. It sleeps without the weight of tomorrow, like a burning match. The other animals are heavy with knowledge, spinning like kaleidoscopes of fat. My ideal self is a plant, surrounded on every side by invisible expanses of solitude. Sometimes it could think, but always to negate. It will say: these petals have not changed the world. And it will sway and tremble in a monotonous wind. If the world is a vessel sinking irrevocably into forgetfulness, there is no real distinction of types. These beings we see, or imagine and sometimes become have no name. Like thistles with nameless thorns. Like music with blind hours. Like blood without the river of taste. I see the fur and claws submerging; the animal does not struggle. It drowns like a bean in water. But I still don’t know if in a glass, an ocean or in eternity.

PoEtry

quotidian epic

Timeless apple

Hinted
then ripple
of white gasp
the entire orb
of inspiration

then the clouds
the sun hiding
in total light

the task is to use a daub of paint
to depict a mistake
or a river of thought
or pain eating the soul
as if it were soft bread

I sense a feeling
empty of emptiness
it is full of invisibility

the irony is
the instant is like blood
never seen but intimately wrapped
a cut an explosion a gash perhaps
and the world is all red without words

like an apple
timeless
on the table.

 

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

withdrawal

raw fields of bliss

If a closed
pair of eyes where
I could crowd
the effusiveness of 16
hours spent in doubt
and awe,
if I could stitch the
wonderful cloud
of perception behind
the dark mirror
of sleep,
if a coarse
hum of cars could
kindle the low brass
handsome innocence
of the thunder,
if the cocks collide
at hilarious dawns
in darkness the pupils
empty of light
to be cups brimming
with the honey of sense,
if the boulders of the eyes
spewed by the dreamer
land far away
in raw fields of
bliss

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG