absurd poetry

from the periphery

I’m only interested in
what happens in the periphery
the seizure of a treetop’s leaf
struck by inexplicable wind
held inexplicably by an arm of
something less than wood

The days are quite silent
mysteriously moving forward
as the untouchable clouds
that travel to untouchable
lands of rock and smoke

I sketch this madness
with ink of wine, shades
of sleep, colors of books
the perspective of lines
drawn with mad logic,
by principles of decay

I see beauty, lost
in the ubiquitous space
   of the irrelevant
I use my hand and pretend
to dig fingers as roots
in these fleeting singularities

The destiny of Man?

                     – To be swallowed
                        entirely by
                        essence.

Poetry

of summer nights and toasts

Of rude weight
intoxicated iron
the pressing steel of %
by the shelter of glass
my petty personality
like molecules and wisps
emptying
anomalously
the flame of the wax
streets of melted passion
sad sunken vein of alcohol
morose atom
finally
roaming the expanse of society
and nothing remains
of pure
flashback.

Existential Poetry

the pretension of analgesia

I observe myself moving
rather consistently and sensibly
riding my bike in accordance to
god-knows-what prospect
going up steps dandily
sipping tea effortlessly

simultaneously

throbbing anguish
a howl permanently
outstretched, a gash
of purulent sound
like the grumbling
of a terribly cynical
mind

therefore
I am
nonplussed by

so innocent normality
I pretend to embody

while the hostility of the unknown
goddamned world
corners me to the tiniest
spot inside the human soul
almost immobile
condemned to see life as a
glassed-in fish

while in fact

I’m the last conscious thread
dangling atop the
immense abyss
of noise, shape and paradox
unquestionably a plaything
of innumerable forces and trickery;
bearing the high formulations of daily destiny
with a stupid smile and
hardwired etiquette –
all the while
expecting the towering walls
of reality
to finally to collapse
and bury me
in their
filthy falsity

Poetry

the course

I gasped
and was
a child

so it is a lost
saddened
reality

who made it?

I was breathlessly
spellbound

the name of it
is there
but the maker
is long dead

to be drunk

awake

with the uninhabited
world below my knees

the eager moon
hungry for my course
I designate the sadness
at the street

death
the watch has said
death

tea
is in my mouth
morbid

florid pain

I’m watching
and nothing

effortlessly
febrile

useless personality
I am nothing more

silver meaning
rotten sound

kill me sage
here

mysterium tremendum et fascinosum

mysterium tremendum et fascinosum

I have chosen an exit
my finger is already in the sky
drawing up the clouds
they are dead with time
my music is blood running wild
I transient leap back and forth
the speed of pregnant vision
why is now a candied sound in my mouth
dissolving as a tongue of vapor
I laughed and cried
the tears come from above
they will plunge hard into the soil
                                                of my mad domain.

Nihilistic Poetry

to the end of days

end of days poem

careless evenings
youth, dream, iron
with a fossilized joy in my face
I put on the chains
to await bitter destiny

it is freedom
far beyond art
it is an activity with no ideal
that I pretend to know

one day the hand that writes
transforms into rock
rock turns into sand
and that sand prolapses
into nothing

and a silent
gaze
is vestige
of vacuous past

in that haste
of a gamble
I fooled around with desire
noise and love,
reckless towards
the assemblage
of oblivion

 

Nihilis
tic Poe
try

of fields

I shall be of slavery
sobbing in the night
when the moon is hidden
behind a fantastic mountain

I shall be of anger
heat upon heat
glowing insanely white
alone in the dawning desert

I shall be of lies
blood gurgling above
as the stars drown
in its sea of disease

I shall be of number
when the bronze prophecy
casts the skeleton of the fields
where children remember nothing

I shall be of incense
a sound perfuming clouds
or a string wringing time
leaving the last drop to dry

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

smoke feels like brain

awareness_by_window

smoke touches brain
neurosis and all
have you seen it curl
like neurons thinking of clouds –
yes clouds are always in my mind
life is so barren of poetry
that the only word
that saves me is
CLOUD
a single
puff of shredded tobacco
cold in the lungs
a wild uproar of vapor
in the skyline of
awareness

 

nihilistic poetry

172

Dream Poetry

There was only a narrow slit
left between these eyes,
to survive and nowhere else?
the prospect was a sort of madness
somewhere in that peninsular solitude
my lands would become addicted to dreams
with half-shut eyes, looking out
attempting
as vaguely as objects are
or the motes of continuance;
these visions were freed as wealth
in sinister currency,
the mind is sleep
these eyes drugs
hello
expanding monuments
with the last man
sober in your
granite
resembling
an arching
 thick empty
emptiness

 

 

nihilistic poetry