prophecy

Poetry of the future

 

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, they 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.

ultimate questions

Child_Destiny
and so
my unsystematic leisure
by better name
idleness
take a bottle of wine
to the dilettantish midnight
a solitude so drunk
it spirals like an epiphany
I am hugged by prophesy
consensually the two
hemispheres of my brain
tend to disagree
all I need
is an intermediary,
to borrow a medium
like your saliva
carries voice
place my cadmium red
on your activity
like a pollock
dripping from the sky
the question tonight
really was
why act
when it is still
unsettled
whether
action is deliverance
eh, prisoner?

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

manifesto

shit manifesto

what a load of narrow bullshit. yes, you are right for the great mayority of drunks but for the conscious anarchist-skeptic new-order-boredom-activists, godless yet spiritually-revolutionary, existential philosophical apostles of nothingness. Yes, the absurdist theorists in the field of elementary positivism and groundless rationalism. That is I, I the drunk, ready to abolish street names and currency values, but infinitely afraid of the content of canned beer to be disposed of, in toilets, I must, we must, drink those brewed liquids meant to appease the lower levels of the civilized brain. Shit, this has already made evident the wilderness of my thought, that is, the irregular paths of my thinking, which may, to the ordinary mind, border on insanity. But I must submit to any, and all, greater forces, for I already know and organically feel the power of that physics that controls my biology and the course of my thinking and action. I am the Wall Street of passion that will scorch the planet in a memory of profit. Or is that the nightmare that we call routine and career? Whatever the verdict, why not stare at the night?