intonations of the bizarre

 

presence.

the cliff of a perfume
without warning
shattering my glass of mindlessness
awake at a bridge

caterpillar of eyes in a crowd
dragging the body of time to nowhere

the grass grows like punks from the cathedral

the tattoo was arrested
from the cadence of her breasts

the oblique sunlight was lighting up
his face like a field of camels
a wealth of lifelong wayfaring

the extinct tribes are hidden in Berlin
where a sprinkle of immesurabilitttty
is part of any local

perfume.

the inner life of the newer man

Key to Wisdom

It keeps me warm
threads and threads
a wonderful composition
to keep me warm;
I bought it and now it keeps me warm
it has fortified my skin,
I am a modern bear.

I walk with my coat
the streets are windy
but the coat hangs on
it falls naturally on my shoulders,
I am its underlying foundation,
therefore I must exist under it.

I am hungry
contractions and blurring agonies,
I am okay
but I must touch food soon,
then swallow it
and then it becomes me
I become it:
we must both exist at some point.

The bicycle has wheels
they roll on a surface,
a hard one,
I am fast; to be fast
there is weight, force
I am a force in motion.

I see the bakery
full of smells and heat
many folk are in there
bread is being sold,
I have some money:
I must be at the right place.

I park my bicycle,
rationally, I am locking it
removing the key from the lock
the bike sways and wants to fall,
I catch it because it should not fall;
they are not supposed to fall –
a car glides behind me –
why would we let bikes fall to the ground,
what would happen, who would I become
if I had permitted this bike to fall;
what kind of man would I have become.

Mouth is watery
mushy croissant in my savory mouth
this pulp goes down my throat,
it falls,
this is allowed fall.

I leave the bike –
cannot deal with questions right now –
walking is natural, effortless
step, step, step, step, step, step
kind of percussion,
I must be an artist.

I went astray,
is this the north of the south
or the west of the east,
this place is relative to something
I know that much.

They are talking about shoes
shoes are valuable
they are like hard feet for hard surfaces,
these girls use their hands when they speak:
hands must also be part of language.

I must return, somehow
because if I remain lost too long
I might not be me anymore;
with so many new sights
I might disappear in these perceptions.

TO DOWNTOWN,
there it is, an arrow
pointing to my universe;
back there I can be caressed again
by the same old things I know:
we exist side by side.

Step, step, step, step
this is my home, my street, my block
my mailbox has a name
the floors have numbers
the door has a lock and I possess its key
and I pretty certain that I keep track
of who I really am.

Self-knowledge

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

Machines

 

 

And to know and see and reassert that we ARE machines, we are machines made out of flesh, proteins, water, enzymes and coded molecules; that we understand the word “machine” but cannot grasp the consequences of this mysterious arrangement:

             Living, breathing, suffering machines…

Underground Paralysis

I might be mistaken, but I believe there is much to fear in the course of our lives. It is a fear that wine, parties and television might distract from our attention but they will never annihilate it. Most philosophies of despair tend to denounce the ABSURD as an inexorable quality of our advancing lives. It is, in fact, this irrepressible motion forward though cycles of interminable triviality that the despairing existentialist complains about, and makes a living by declaring the banality of earthly life.  It is fascinating to think that in recent times the attitude of wailing has been adopted by many clever writers, and we, as audience, enjoy reading about our impotence and frailty.
Anyway, the fear I mentioned does not arise from the intellectual awareness that the things we do in life have no permanent meaning or from the existenliast´s lack of trust in the frenetic impetus of time. It is a feeling only describable in metaphor, it is only visualized in representations of the deepest horror:
 
You are not moving
not advancing
but the color changes
grey to black
the purest black
the deepest deep
each tick of the heart
marks a step further
into a maze of incomprehensibility
like an universe empty
no stars or galaxies
only a demonic silence
a cognitive paralysis
an underground turbulence
 
You reach out for help
piercing the dark horror
trying to hold on to something
your hand blindly advances
at the end of your fingers
 a river of pain…
having crossed your multi-layered mind
and light-years of voidness:
 
two options,
if you scream you drown
asphyxiated by the thick weariness,
or
you marry silence
isolated indefinitely
in the cruel awareness
of your inexplicable
existence.