absurd poetry

thin vicissitude

absurd_poetry_blog

I bumped into the city, the bastard.
Looking around the snow – remembering
my tongue melting as ice in Lascaux and fossilized
toothpicks near the ancient campfire.
I was in Iceland and got drunk,
looking at the cloudless that would die
before the sky reached Sweden.
I have been on the toilet all day,
working, theorizing, and it came
out looking like Nobel’s head,
one day
I will sit beneath a giant tree and forget
my existence as grass never did.
I see why the intellectuals
are enchanted by doom.
But why worship definition as
a totem almighty menacing godly cult.
I see why the poets cancel death
and write lyrics for the music
of meaningless wind.
I observe the visionaries
about to detonate with their unclean secret
like a grenade in their chests . But they can’t,
never finding sunshine in communication,
sadness has overwhelmed language
leaving behind a thin vicissitude
of smoke.

 

Contemporary Poetry

the art of definition 

the art of definition

There is no method for definition: to learn how to define. Definition is a consequence of imitation, its foundation so deeply grounded in our perceptual models of reality that any reform would only be an aberration of the original fortuity. We learnt to use a system of language through imitation and even the precision of mathematics remains illusory as a result of being an imposed code of rules embedded in the ambiguous amalgam of imitative language.

I would live,
dedicate my entire life
to defining a single word
properly – justly. 
That word would be:
	melancholy
I do have other candidates,
perhaps I would define another
still stranger word: mysterious.

What is mysterious?

That which cannot be grasped intellectually.
That which is still unknown, unexplained,
perhaps the truly mysterious is
that which can never be explained by thought,
that which is intrinsically unknowable. 

Here I am defining a word with other words. 
But I would not stop there. 
I would access zones of intuition,
a series of instruments predating language,
like an amulet that contains an entire cosmology
or a monolith that served as genesis to historical memory.
I would anchor my word to other unreliable words,
vague words that by their very nature would
serve as examples of the intangibility 
of my definition for mysterious.  

I would, for example, make mysterious 
synonymous with Life, Happiness, Nirvana, etc 

ect.

Contemporary Poetry

sugar of lung

suffer

I’ve translated the sugar
of lung and by mist
the meaning of language
is a family of pauses
appearances that crawl
like incense between crevices
of hard barrier,
but then there is truth
which as a fence
we jump to land
on barbarous scenes of fading,
where we hang the moon
in our hollow cavity
and there walk in thick groups
of solitary breaths,
aiming to cut the tragedy
in two great halves
with the rim of suffer.

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

adagio in thirst

hungry_animal

At the piano
I sat and it went
tiriti gruween
brung.

Got up
like a maniac,
picked up
Vallejo

his stubborn
ache voluptuously
around his human fingers

I dropped the book,
the invisible rain
outside was falling
like stones

and I could have
slammed down a
shot of whiskey

but bottle was empty

scratching the olive
skin into red patches
of hurt

and decided everything
was a circumnavigation
‘round nothing

that I had to kick
language out my house
like a dirty old dog

these things like winds are words

and I wanted hard life
tonight, like fury
dripping from my cheeks

and it was raining
ridiculous worms
writhing in eight ecstasies

it was the night

to leave in flight
like a rapacious animal
to dark and faithless
jungles

at the very least,

a night
without ideas

and again to the piano,
I sat and made clouds of sound,

dirilin dorem, silafu.

 

AntiPoetry

outta here

beyond_language_poem

Let’s be tired of words.
Of how we started endless
galaxies from an eye that is smaller
than the grain of infinity.
Of sadness that is a mess
nailed to the CORNER of
LIFe.
Let’s be weary
of how eyes open
and close into new
continents of light
and junk like hung
in memory’s mausoleum.
Let’s put a Beard on Happiness
and let it sail without rum
into the range
of yellow.
L’et s be tired of language,
‘tis
but a mayor reason
to abandon reason,
look how wide
the measurements of our bodies
have curled like hair around
the concept of love.
Let’s be grotesque
born figments fancying
fragments of fire
making fury like florid
petals atop the function
of the facts.
Let’s sing silences.
In vaults of fine emptiness.
Let’s abandon
the distance that is mirrored
in the instance,
faintly so feebly fleeting
into utterance.
Let’s be flying error
that spat onto text
like orgasm.

AntiPoetry

A man walks into the store

pack_of_smokes

A man walks into the store and buys a pack of smokes.
You see him leave and get into his car. Drives home and smokes one.

You’ll never see the man ever again. That’s how it goes.

But the next day you realize;

He was a man that once had a cat.

He had a theory about the universe,

and a tear that sat like an effigy
in the cubicle of his sad brown eye.

Contemporary Poetry

another age

happy_ash

The dichotomy of any echo,
and the complementary laughter
that stings the heaps of sad
like a muted ray of moonlight.
In the lungs an aurora fills,
nails the stars and releases a joy
that I feel breathing for labyrinth
& the sun has a vein
with the footpaths of June.
If all these years the veil
or unbinding a wall brick by brick
allowing essence to flower like a spiral,
I’ve been telling a tumbling few
of the essence tucked in the
foliage of the song, but who
waits with me for morning
for a Cluster of Sails to Seville,
for two centuries of warm
illiterate frenzy;
for nothing left, and
come back another age
to tell the world that its angry jaw
cannot transfigure our pile
of happy ash.

Contemporary Poetry

no memory of shine

touching_light

I must convince
you of the truth
that I often
see soften
the beam of light
that unites the things
of thought.

I must have
you agree with reality
which evaporates
desire on skin’s petal.

I ask you to slough
opinion – nakedness in
the water and nebulae,
all after these
layers of years and
emptiness then.

All is firm glimmer
in loud ambiguity
this instant is cold
shredding the world
in absence
to the strangeness of the gods.

All is there to see,
I’ve added nothing new to this
box of history and often speak
as a flattened mirror
carving the light in no memory of shine.

I must convince you
of boundless disappearance
and this awakening toward
death has the taste of liquor
in the mouth of a man
that knows he’s
alone.

 

Contemporary Poetry

An enormous bridge to illumination

fragments_of_Reality

One day you will be in bed, tangled in images, withdrawn from the magic and measurement of the senses. Open hands to drop dewdrops like specks of speculation, falling to fade as fumes beyond fugacious annual fall. All will be idea, analysis of life, as light entering ice. Hours’ vessel without oars, after certain centuries: fire made voice vaulted as fern clung like veins in all directions of silence. What knowledge smelting edges and walls wide as eyes. An act without flesh, only theory inventing thirst for pure blue breath, beauty bordering fragment and firmament broadening blood. Raise fogs with pulleys and lower dawn from a chain. The fabric of façades is yours. Abandon the boundaries of body and dip densely into the center depth. Everything waits for your there.

Contemporary Poetry