absurd poems

the swamp of volition

strange_poetry

There must be
a method
to turn off freedom.

To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
as cascade.

To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any bullshit.

To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.

To chew the furniture of words.

To fall into the sound of water.

The idea of thought
would be framed
in museums
and memorial sites.

Like an ancient artifact of struggle.

All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;

without choice
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux

and language      moss at the rim of our lips.

Contemporary Poetry

from above

poetry_of_future

They found a bulge
between Amaliegade
and Esplanaden
and it was in the news

and the hearts
shook with dread

a long sack of skin.like flesh
growing from a thin string
into an enormous
bulk

a man stood drinking the ship
in a circle of dizziness

the lights of police
and the endless of an image

no one could understand the revolution
and beauty of the bulge

it was hauled off the street
like a rainbow
as a miracle of the flame
as heresy from our pedestrian slopes

factories puffing shades
roaring with flags and chords
of iron ringing
in the suburbs

it is pronounced that this age
will collide with the pillar
stumps of science

and melancholy is a growth
like tumor
in the heads of those
that gaze             with wonder
from above.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

19A

Avant-garde-poetry

A saint is a stain on white monotony
aloud he thinks: I
am a strange dot among the government of lines;
a mystic is a calm slip into abyss
all joking aside he says:
above the city leaps into tower;
a shaman is a subject under the tyranny of wholeness
aware of segments he asserts:
a fraction is mind lost in the order of totality;
alone in the world every man wonders:
afraid like a leaf in autumn my life
amidst the rain;
a poet is an absolute ark of air
abstruse and above all
a little puddle of reflection
at the end he writes:

a full world and its aura
asleep inside a shoebox
an allegory for barefoot monks.

 

Contemporary Poetry

barely begun poem

new_poetry

I have a street and no metaphor
a layer of moonlight but
no tremulous..

This is a street and
not a metaphor
not a shivering slate of moonlight

I’ve seen my street bare without metap..

The street is cold without metaphor
drenched in the shudder of moonlight

This street is devoid of metaphor
a meaningless stretch of cold trembling
moonlight

I have a street but without metaphor
even tho I’ve left a ripple on its moonlight

A street sleeps without metaphor
moonlight awake floating away like a trembling mist

these streets are meaningless without metaphor
the light of the moon is afraid but isn’t visibly shaking

A street has no meaning and cannot be a metaphor
because it’s drowning in the yellow of its moonlight

I walk upon a street and find no metaphor
half of its moonlight has been wasted on rats

This street has an absence of metaphor
because moonlight is nothing but the light of the moon

Upon a street I walk without a metaphor
all the while thinking that the moonlight
is the simile of a smile

The street is empty; empty of metaphor
only a light is seen and it’s not from the moon

A street is a place where nobody cares for metaphors
and the moonlight is a spot you leap over

Somehow this street lost its metaphor
but I found the moonlight tattooed on my skin

A street is no metaphor
and a poem is not moonlight

 

 

21st century Poetry

a thing imagined

new_poetry_2013

Preferably soft,
jelly-like
but resilient to heat
and the precarious nuisances of the jungle
tender but defiant
able to camouflage among
stones and clouds alike
its softness must be delicate
but decisive not necessarily static
as it can be allowed rigidity at times
equivalent to that of taut velvet
not too colorful nor flaunting
the impenetrability of black or white
capable of evaporating without dispersing
(i.e. losing its cohesion without sacrificing its wholeness)
different from the rest of its kind
without becoming an example of freak
it should waver at twilight at the risk
of turning ambiguous but never incomprehensible
its upper part magnificent
and evasive like the current of time in a dream
its lower part glorious and ubiquitous
like dawn in a desert’s sky
preferably sophisticated without being pompous
straightforward without being wholly divested of enigma
and existing mainly between
the eternal and the transient.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

any wall

berlin_poetry

I am a man
that learnt
at an early age
that I cannot
hold in my hands
the entire world
like a little lovely thing.

I could have had that thought
anywhere in the world,
but it came to me
while I stand here against
a random wall in Berlin,
any wall.

I am a man
that not long ago
considered Thales
the first theoretician,
but fundamentally
wrong as I saw
everything behaving
as smoke.

After a while
things seem sad
fading like a cloud
the world is like a ghost covered in mud
and all our words are pointing at it
like guns
and we’re watching
waiting
for the ethereal blood.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

Thanatos

thanatos_poem

House, an ambulance of thorns and the chairs. The dust
a coat of ghost upon furniture, reality – the hairs
in my nostrils a trembling unto death. Laughter,
a www or another milieu ripe with decadence
and the ballet of bullets in a new nation – forever?
The moon has grown without tasting an apple and
it explodes, one day, without leaving enlightenment
arrrrrrgh. or ash
in elevator low the masterpiece of low sound
the foreseen doom of leaving veins into
narrow corridors warehouse of worms wonder
the same bullshit because they die
and become little food
for grass/trees and
there goes the waiter with a white shirt
always a man with a face and a pack
of cigarettes and always Schopenhauer
in theater thinking of Thanatos et triviality
aid to disease and milestone quintessential
orb of alleviation, my dear anxiety
where like an angel will I see the light
and fly away morose like
some morsel masticated selflessly
because this house is curtain
and the blood is shiny
like mirror a sound
tired from abyss
in my hand
and tiny
thing
or
soul.

Contemporary Poetry

for voyages

wounds_as_vehicules

Descend aloud
into the art
of the thing,
before words with
enormous arms
bind us to awful
regions of totality

be unique
alone afraid
as the shiver of
twig, partly
shaded by
the inexact locus
of the clouds

rest in the dominion
of a figure,
aslant and radiant
like a candle
in its own silent
culture

adduce nothing
and the inner light
makes a thorn
to thunder upon
the dark innocence
of sensation

look below
as the summits
know little of
our wounds we
use as vehicles
for voyages that take
place behind
the language of order.

 

Contemporary Poetry