absurd poems

carnivorous cosmology

carnivorous_cosmology

Don’t be shy
I’ve suckled that nipple
called sky

the universal figure of smoke,
whose body I call yours
and time’s standstill has been glimpsed
in the trunks of blood
that our tongues have enacted

what then is not an instant
but creation that will swell either
like an echo or a myth

don’t pretend like you
don’t understand
this carnivorous cosmology

don’t pretend like your
intelligence was flared and pure
and bubbling like open
lawns of lava

return to me tumultuous
and with gales amongst those
fluttering eyes
and and – and turn
your cold torso
towards the permanence of
the flare

don’t be shy
I’ve conquered without
logic the theory
of your lips

this is the only day left
for us —

to spill
like assassins
the bleeding cup
of night.

Contemporary Poetry

twigs of being

twigs_of_Being_poem

I would call it rain,
but it’s just a drop,
that slithers through
the contours of the
heartbeat.

I suddenly
become still,
like a branch
suddenly strapped
to a shaft of sunlight.

If I could peek
inside
to witness
a constellation of twigs,
flickering and shudders,
after each clinch,
as the hungry drop
tunnels through
the expanse of feeling.

At that moment,
language tangles up
into a yarn of illusion.

It falls still wet with joy.

I am planet
eroded by pleasure,
a hard knot of memory.

But everything is quiet,
only for a chime
every time
the drop clinks
against an organ
or a thought.

Contemporary Poetry

Per aspera ad astra

ad astra

 

I – waiting
in an unknown corner –
will have a shepherd’s role.
Heartlessly shall I pick up
an empty bucket and bang
it with drops of dew.
Flocks of words that have
broken skin will gather
around me like tiny shadows
of morning or soul.
If a window opens then
temples grateful with dust
from beginning to despair.
I will love the gaps in sound
when every word, world
after world, tightens into
a raceme and leaves its scent
plummet as – tar of transcendence,
foam of formlessness, empire of
impermanence, depth of delusion –
to the ground.
I intend, through endless pages
of misery and category,
to leave a trail for posterity
to meander through the truth
of resemblance in a metaphor.

Contemporary Poetry

schematization

You now
must know
what it is to crave a glass of water
or to sip a kiss;
to be so reckless as to flood
the heart because it is a crater of chalk
and you’re tired of its empty dusty frame.

I don’t remember what
kind of day it was.
Full of sun with
musky winds, dark with
impalpable clouds, perhaps
flat and drunk in sapphire.

I don’t care what kind of day
it was; a day to forget like all
the rest had I not begun to count
the breaths I’ve taken in despair.

I began stooping like an imbecile twig
that bends with every paddle of the wind
as if an essence had broken into milliard
tiny mirrors on the sidewalk, and I had
to count and sew them back into a remembrance.

I plead for the pallid crust of light that envelopes me
like a bulky perfume to melt into a song of shadow
or even for a single mindless mote of dust
to land catastrophically on me and pierce
this ferrous mold, I want to watch my holy skin
fall away and leave a naked and unwashed soul
standing erect like a pagan odalisque.

But don’t show her mercy, kick her out
of this world drama, let her run barefoot
back to her incomprehensible origin.

It could have been a year ago, while getting on
a bus that I conceived of grabbing silence
by its throat and squeezing out a peep;
I had been so innocently prone to believing
that the world was a gigantic bird suffocating
me with its kaleidoscopic feathers but
now I feel at home because suffering
sets as a sun behind the panorama of knowledge
and even if it is reborn every day I dream
at night of being a thin echo of fiction.

Amen.

Contemporary Poetry

about a poem

noticed how
a poem
stirs the dead
of objects
to flap
like vital wings

how it
splits
the feeling
to a pair
of mirrors

wonder
how the metaphor
is an empty cup
we fill with
suffering & immensity

observe
in a fleeting liaison
the sun waiting in the dark
the dream burning the skin
the blue tasting as salt

have you shattered
a poem
to bathe below
the surface of the flown?

Nihilistic Poetry

to hide the earth

hide the earth

I shove this earth
into a labyrinth
of song

as a poor
anchorite
sewing mountains
to his thoughts

as a forest
measuring
the future
with the footsteps
of an ant

I blink
two white
sails when
light is a
black wind

as lips
that find
the spiral
of a whisper

as a cloud
the stranger
mistakes
for a weeping
galaxy

I pretend
to hide the earth
behind
the cathedral
of each sound

Beyond Language Poetry

the existence

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
Lilililililililiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiili

if nothing had been
taught
green dirt pillow sun hidden source
I die

my love
my element

.
the taste of
reason

return as the red
towards the tasteless earth

how long can
the long understanding
last?

I die in 7 minutes
or 7 decades
for how long must I
invent the existence?

I must cry
because of all
these layers
of years

all these skins
that died
to become
thoughts.

Nihilistic Poetry

an erection (an absurd poem)

While the cloud
held silence like
a baby in mother’s arm
this vain head
swirled like vane
to the roar
of the orphan night,
the cataract of minutes
and other entities,
but at the other
end love coruscating
lonely through black
echoes of memories,
on the white pale
body of the earth
having the only
organ capable of
perpetuating some fabled race
pointed at the moon – a spear
to break the firmament
and bury this iota of being
under the shattering flood
of entropy

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

without earth

Imagine the earth
disappearing as it turns
behind the sun;
no one was on it
we were all sleeping
and dreaming various
dreams of animals
having sex without
condoms under
moonless evening.
Some next morning
that will be
when the mouth
wakes
without appetite
and the whole
village of our thoughts
has been
burnt down   black.

Absurd Poetry

alea iacta est

yeah years teeth in sun
matter

piles up

dry
out there

 

waking
which is a breath
half air
half tear

 

 

obedient bodies die
these melodies
of tragedies

nothing more
than an idea of

awareness

this geology of memory

 

experience
breaks inevitable like waves

on far distant moon

 

 

unable to alter
the course
of inane atoms

 

 

the waves keep crashing
on the thinning stone
that life
half-asleep in chance.

AbSURd PoEtry