absurd poetry

glyptotek

epicurus_Beard_poem

the feet preserve their nails
but the noses have returned
to the grind,
below the throat of dome
pencils crushed to mosaic on the floor
pensive but not counting the days left-
this endless translation
of feeling to words to image to truth to play;
I’ve got a favorite seat in a museum
greek perfumes still cling to epicurus’ beard
the marble is still cool
like the pillow of the centuries,
melpomene turns with funky mullet –
somewhere I hear a trickle
as both stone and man
wait for the last crumb
and bone to rest
far beyond the tongue
of the sun.

 

 

 

Absurd Poetry

moonlessness

There are days
man & you see
what flood of joy
a street black drenched
2 o clock moonlessness
the hairs as kind of antennae
on the blue poet’s flesh
kiosk shines in van gogh yellow
automatic sliding doors
press in pin code, say thanks
a bottle of wine in hand
slow steps on way back
this skin feels like walls of pure sensation
the eternal crack of rain
key in keyhole
you’re home
twirling in air of cogs & columns
dipping stale bread in the wine
oh this slow chamber of death
where shadows
rest of their enigmas
where, above all, a man
finds his peace.

AbSURd PoEtry

Delicate pounds

The days pounded
upon my chest
of invisible baby held like a heart,
that was dead at birth

I see the same streets
the identical rage
the mundane purpose of the bar

But patient fish
as eyes remain cool
under the stream of time

This skin stretches
around the boundary
like water

I could watch all the movies
and talk of holy female bodies,
in a café or purgatory

That ideas are literally queens
and inherited the contemporary
love of possession

The days keep pounding,
a tick of brutal rational
abstraction and the irrational
motion of the problems
of life

The perfume of a cadaver
interred in an instant
where the universe
allows a glimpse but no more.

 

 

 

AbSURd PoEtry

strange

deep time poetry

How a book
of history and deep time
carves to certainty
the doom
that is inches or eons away

we subsist
clothed & saluting
as speck, blip
so this is a cosmic process

love and civilization
the means to forget
the end

I think of sex
and a daub of paint
on loose sandstone

I wonder,
the pride of grass?

as mankind climbs
like vine
weather slackens
the skeleton merely
scars the brick

my words,
how strange they hunt
the vanishing core
of things

these temperamental chords
that tremble momentarily
and regress
to sole silence

 

 

 

 

 

 

AbSURd PoEtry

dumb poet

It is no hard task
to sit with a book
& glass of wine
all night
waiting perchance
the end of all events;
patiently becoming
dumber by the words
and wiser by the wine;
serene and slumberous
in the certainty
that all things will perish
today, next morning
or in a thousand years.

Poetry Blog

the poet

the_poet_pablo_Saborio

The poet does not stand
atop of creation,
the world’s veins
drip their silent desire
over the poet’s thoughts.
The poet struggles,
upstream the imaginary,
irremediably crushed by emotion
that has the absurd behavior
of a happy ant.
The poet does not hold reality
but rehearses the repetition
of genesis and the dangerous
length of decay.
A recluse whose language
is tired of the simpler flowers.
The poet knows why
cannot be unearthed from his tongue.
Two or three words
have the function of
weightless evenings.
There is some truth
in the smells that drove
him to mindless ecstasy.
There must be falsehood
when he attempts to season
the Silence with adjectives.
The poet recalls
feelings as the leaves
of the tree of life.
The poet hums
on the road to another delusion;
and uncertain of the meaning
of anything, smiles at the stones
that he dreams under his feet.

 

 

 

Absurd Poetry

the idea of death

The night is dark
the soul is charred
its landscape tarred
trees bone black
black serpents paved till horizon –
the sad spectacle of thoughts
receding unhurriedly
as stars into nothing
white lions into oblivion;
I observe scattered teeth
engulfed in black blood –
that is the night sky.
Everything turns mysterious,
my hand the lonely shade
the ultimate despair;
everything
merging irrevocably
with the dead of night.

Nihilistic Poetry

prophecy

prophecy

 

The future does not care for poetry or ambiguity.
It thrives in pristine clear expressions of thought and action.
It despises the vagueness of unnatural associations.

The sinking sound

the crest of the red suppose

the eternal system

elected a song as carriage

of its power.

Grandiloquent expressions as the above will be ridiculed.

The concrete matter-of-fact will be the only subject of interest.

Poetry will slowly fade out of view as did the rotary dial.
The world of fact will flourish.
Doubt will dissipate, the psyche will be freed of contradiction.
In the future, the ex-poet will turn towards the objective.
Like a lion on a gazelle.

These are some of the last unruly poems to emerge.

The last bones to chew.

Savor them.

poetical investigations

Visualize

the first act

of violence

that gave meaning

to the word

‘violence’

the first dog

that symbolized the

genus of all dogs –

the moment

when abstract

was no longer

a word

but the whole history

of the world

Imagine

the timeless

before we gave

it a name

or happiness

before it

became a goal

or truth

when consciousness

was still ineffable

and nesting

Suppose

meaning

was the hardest

bone

and eternity

a living

cloud

Conceive

matter as the

drying spirit

or spirit

as the sleep

of atoms

Assume

if only once

that essence

is the entire

instant of life –

and death

is the entire

essence of poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry