absurd poetry

the sanctuary of breathlessness

I lift one eye
above the rim of shadow
but retreat as a coward
the clouds of amnesia
still billow above
this younger year

I’m lying under the sanctuary
of breathlessness
the moon crosses the sky
like the dew
of a forgotten dawn

that night
was a reign of
untamable fragments

the air steers
its somber fumes
it is still
night out there
where the world
is a collision
of consequences

to brood
is to invent the
shape of expired time

I am hinged
to the pleasure
of forgetting,
my mouth is the grave
where I buried
mystery.

Nihilistic Poetry

the

dirty silence

the
yes the
tongue
of night

there
pushing
descending like pulp
crushing like permanence
like, like muscle
totally arriving
like totality
over the pain of
self

ah crushed
so many interactions
blending like the consumptions
of a hungry light

many will disbelieve
and doubt
and question
and reject
and deny

but
yes
the
…
the
night
has a tongue
as long as
eternity

made hungry as
the frail fragile foolish
expanse

isn’t everything like light
sinking to the skin like a
single song

yes begin
swallowing me up
you dirty
silence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

tiny light

buddhism in poetry

find
the springing
color

the neutral
infant that
rests weightless
as light on the
palm

emerge
and glimpse
the impact
between
breakthroughs

ascend
like sexual smoke
into the notion
of emptiness

leap into
an aura of feathers
when the thought
departs

sit between
two naked fires

neither assume
the primitive illusion
of a total universe
nor entertain
the harmony
of its idea

listen for the echo
of the beginning

and the drunken
river of time
that travels
the ancient wrinkle
of being

may shrivel
into a single
drop of stillness.

 

 

Nihilistic 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

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 the unborn

You who are born from the edge,
gleaming,
you who will taste the lines
of the streams of light
reflected on your tongue.

You whose sigh will
feel like home
because the mouth is
an exhausted chimney.

You who will not yet understand
an erotic moon on gray waters,
you whose body is as warm
as the concept of sleep.

You who will soon scratch the air
with savage fingers.
And I don’t know why.

I can only leave you
a beautiful ambiguity,
a map to the beginning.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

of perception

brown wood floor

The raw brown
of this wood
the brown seed
of the book
the brown organ
of the smoke
I move like yellow
tint of dust
around the room
by balconies of thought
swift tactless morsel
of some body
I came to this room
I saw the wood
I conquered none
and half a pulse
traverses
without a crown
of ideas
without laurel
or course
I feel the brown
seeping into
whatever the room hides
I concentrate movement
towards a loud buzz
I call this circumstance home
and beyond it
an abyss
without a window.

Poetry 2012

the currency of uncertainty

copenhagen stock exchange sky

I have one penny of certainty,
to buy a glimpse of sky.
Then hunger and reckless
vortex of night.

Mankind is as sweet
as a machine’s ambition.
I am the bitter cog.

But allow something like a flower
to grow from this
stump of philosophy.
A fragrance or hope,
a whiff of purpose.

To suffer is a fortune,
and pleasure a Pyrrhic victory.

When I lay paint
on the canvas, I press
hard all the colors
towards a grey pact.

There was once
bright red love,
cold blue thought,
intense yellow joy,
dark green solitude.

Today the mess
is grey and this totality
cannot be undone.

I carry this enterprise
of chaos towards a prism;
perhaps if reflected
far beyond the senses,
this senselessness,
will make sense.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

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

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