The table no time for its existentialism and absurd chair leaning against the table’s futile stance. I’m a pragmatic man so I have no use for knowing myself. The table studies its own nature by looking at its askew shade. Chair, somberly contemplating suicide because it wants to remove its painfully ingrown nails. Paradoxically they keep it alive, in form, in function. I have only one reality and the clarity of purpose. My furniture’s introspection is a trifling problem in my busy condition. The table has begun questioning things. It likes it when I leave Camus on its surface. I hear the creaky whisper, quoting: ‘the
humanwooden heart has a tiresome tendency to label as fate only what crushes it.’ Absurdly, the chair stares at the modernity of my modus operandi. I cannot be stopped to wonder. Progress is my mission. The table is a stranger to itself. The chair competes for my attention. I have appetites that the world cannot satisfy. Table is dissatisfied with its lucidity, through logic the chair has arrived at the conclusion that knowledge is a form of chaos. I’m a man of the world in spite of everything. In spite of poverty, war, injustice or my furniture’s uncertainty and their long episodes of incoherent silence.
Some people think this thing will burn their eyes.
So brave they stare at the thinghood of the thing.
They say this stuff is a knife of pain and a cutting flame.
So brave they stare at the sharpness of its shape.
Some people think this object will blister their skin.
So brave they touch the surface of the structure.
They say this stuff is a sun of swelling suffering and a sea seething with steam.
So brave they touch the furnace of its frenzy.
Some people think this entity will poison their tongue.
So brave they taste the entirety of the whole.
They say this stuff is a gulp of gunpowder and a drop of death.
So brave they taste the viscosity of its violence.
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,
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
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.
Who chases the myth while drenched in the blood of the primordial hunt? Who has placed a hyphen between Sky and I to sense the aura of a blue atmosphere as a newer skin? Who will concentrate all language into one singular word that falls heavy as a meteorite into the sands of nocturnal desert? Who will endlessly double the depth of one earth suspended in the night? Who will reduce consciousness to a milligram of image? Who has made a door from odor through which memory walks out into open land? Who will unearth mankind and root childhood back in the curl of a cloud? Who will find this poem hidden from the glare of knowledge waiting in the shadows of their touch?
I have never tasted the world.
With skin, I cannot live as a man
in a city simulation.
Before it rains the landscape
sober despite action.
I did not walk across
the surface of awareness
. Pure angst that it is.
Imagine happiness like held thunder.
When something is new
its artificial language displaces the
characteristics of the innovation.
But I’ve prayed for the earth
to dissolve as a drug on
my tongue. And extend
a bridge between truth
and this movement.
The blood stands in the way
like a mural of total redness.
I’ve never tasted the world.
With this skin that can only mirror susurrations.
I dreamt last night that god had reincarnated into a stone.
How it happened is hard to explain
but it was in the US, of all places!
Then I started scratching off the light.
There was nothing left except the immoral space of neutrality
and I began to move amongst cocks
and paradise raw.
I began writing a poem, in the dream
every last stanza
rhyming with the word
I hardly ever rhyme my verse.
It was strange.
That god would have chosen
the US, of all places.
But I can’t seem to let it go.
The poem, with 4 or 5 stanzas.
Alliteration aligned cosmically.
Even with shadows circling
a verb. I woke up at noon, processing
the real. Honestly, I did not want to wake
up chained to daylight.
But now I’m at
Leigh Ledare’s exhibition
trying to recall
what kind of poem could I
have written amongst cocks
and paradise raw.
The self is a function of life.
of life as experienced
by so-called man
is within the realm
of nature, the universe,
totality. Nothing is
belongs to something
other than itself.
Life is a manifestation (
for lack of a better
) of what nature
is not independent
to the field
of nature, it does not
confront or exchange
with any external.
All my memories, actions,
do not belong to
They are all part
of that function
through a living organism.
of being-hood is a sort of modulation of life itself.
There is no center or
self that engages with life.
Rather life is engaged with nature.
In other words,
I’ve never experienced
One could say,
I am the illusion
of being a drop of water
inside a totality
that is itself all water.
The IT has been doing ITSELF.
Nothing belongs to me per se.
Even this instant,
these words, these attempts
to define what’s happening
are not me nor belonging to me,
but aspects of what life
or, sub specie aeternitatis,
what nature does.
Life is, a Spinozan could say,
a mode in nature. I’m inclined to say
there is no one
perceiving this, life itself
is busying itself with life-stuff,
society-stuff, and so on.
There is no me
in all of this.
There is only a recurring
sensation that life – the
experiences that compose our definition of life –
belong to me.
But that sensation
is itself an impression like any other.
Can death be overcome?
Only a thought
that suggests that “I will die” exists,
but not the actual death of the self
– because there is no self.
To be absurd from feeling to toe,
I’d punch the snow to disfigure
the torso of beauty
to join the mad soliloquists
the drunks and hopeless angels
with whales swimming in
their eyes of quivers.
Rapidly the curves of snowfall
impact the distant slums and they are
carrying pain too beautiful that we
stare and suffer. I cannot add a because,
a therefore, a necessity.
The event has sweetness
that only forgetfulness with relish.
I am too vague a vacuity too vain a villain,
being an absurd contemplator
the suspense of my erosion
is my only occupation.
and yeah, the feat of beauty
on daylight’s squirm.
By understanding the fundamentals of ambiguity the technologist of the obscure harnesses the power to create suitable artifacts (not to be confused with anti-facts) that encrypt the purity of communication into a meshwork of impenetrable significations. This technology, having being exploited by philosophers for ages, has surreptitiously leaked out and fallen into the hands of the architects, engineers and builders of unearthly images and unintelligible utterances, a group of formidable sophists that work relentlessly in the advancement of their art. Commonly grouped together under the heading of ‘Poets’, these deserters of lucidity utilize a wide array of techniques to camouflage their superficiality and produce, to all appearances, objects of intelligence. Their methods include the avoidance of the vernacular, the exploitation of the thesaurus, and the occasional usage of logatomes. This alchemy of language can reach such degree of high abstraction that the reader can momentarily forget the existence of the earth. Such manipulation of perception, while not yet proven to be lethal, can lead to a long-lasting veneration for the incomprehensible. While there might be some value in fiddling with obscurity, it is highly unlikely that straightforward communication will ever be supplanted by the monstrous impenetrability of the ambiguous.