arterial aerial

modern_poetry_blog_21st_Century

Cleave to that place

arterial

the vessel no the aerial

where fading flight merges

with being and life

is no longer

an only particular

thing

but interior of great

continuity

of circulation density

dripping

in center toward

multiplicity

and radiates back

into blood

the skin, your eyes, your hands

the fur of the world

at your fingertips.

Contemporary Poetry

the act

the_act

A common blink. The human
act. It’s 3.50 am and I am
a swirl of smoke with swing
in the bar but no cigarette.
I dance alone, snapping
fingers, closing eyes
fun against the circumference.
I drop a sigh and it tumbles
down the ankles and hits
the bubbles of the dirty
dance floor. I think,
I’ve been once
a fetus. An ounce.
A particle of blood.
Now, I blink and participate
in the trigonometry
of the complex. The act.
This is a vein of music.
I dangle and dance.
Brushing against the
solitary totality.
I’m blinking without a
cigarette. Squashing
the disease of saliva,
the last residue below
my feet.
Singling out the lonesome
route of the human
noise. Arms casually
spiraling toward the touch
of fat air. The fat noise.
I blink and light
is splattered onto conscious.
I dance. 3. 59 am and I barely am.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

the decline and fall of Being

being_and_nothingness

 

The self is a function of life.
Every aspect
of life as experienced
by so-called man
is within the realm
of nature, the universe,
totality. Nothing is

outside it,
nothing

belongs to something
other than itself.

Life is a manifestation (
for lack of a better
word
) of what nature
is doing.

My ego
is not independent
to the field
of nature, it does not

confront or exchange

with any          external.

All my memories, actions,
thoughts, insights,
responsibilities, etcetera,

do not belong to

me.

They are all part
of that function
that life
is portraying
through a living organism.
The experience
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
anything.

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,
nature-stuff, thought-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.

Contemporary Poetry

an erection (an absurd poem)

entropy painting

While the cloud
held silence like
a baby in mother’s arm
this vain head
swirled like vane
to the roar
of the orphan night,
the cataract of minutes
and other entities,
but at the other
end love coruscating
lonely through black
echoes of memories,
on the white pale
body of the earth
having the only
organ capable of
perpetuating some fabled race
pointed at the moon – a spear
to break the firmament
and bury this iota of being
under the shattering flood
of entropy

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

pieces and failures

Irrational Tree Sky Poetry

Call me the hunted man
I’m the stranger in your claws
the convict in your laws
I drink the poison of your bars
but I’m not the drunk as this life
inebriated with pursuits
I toast to immensity and curiosity
my life phenomenon strangest consciousness
painted beauty on the orbits of seconds
ideas that have misspelled their democracy
dreams that disinherited their syntax
love for your lost eyes
too shy to reach the earth
I’m the Nostradamus of the irrational
unable to predict the literature of the collective desire
in the mouth of September twenty ten
we will drown in the saliva of tedium
then, BANG!
in the glory of being
a tsunami of heartthrobs will flood us
our voices in unison
     my lord the white blue green yellow of joy
     has painted the flag of my new devotion
     let all creation be the mathematics of ecstasy
I’m the comedian of impossible utopias
jokes for the philosophers of tears.

modern poetry

the placenta of being

Sacrament_of_poetry

My mind
is the drug
that hallucinates reality
uncoated veins and nerves
in contact with the truth
of a madman
I take a few steps
towards the keyhole of introspection
I inspect the pores of my otherness
thin pale hairs
creating a landscape of
solitary figures
in the grey white froth of subjectivity
out there, the sky
trembling and resigned
wringing out cotton static
purifying the streets
with afterlife and Aum
poetry is the sacrament
morphine for the cancerous
the unhatched gelatin lump
in the placenta of being.
 

contemporary poet

the solace of being nothing

solace of being nothing

The afternoon came as an uninvited guest

in the midst of my being nothing,

the amputated pieces of sky I could see

together with the regret of two trees

     beyond the damp window

seemed like the tortured bell of noon

breaking the spell of a sleeping happiness

in the midst of my being nothing,

the possibility of daylight and tepid airs

of a world altogether alien and outside

marred the fictions of my desires:

      the slow inactivity of self

irrelevantly smiling to the amusements of time

but this light catalyzing the contours of weak objects

like a cold wave reaching the feet of my dream

in the midst of my being nothing,

the noise of what is external!

to exist no longer as a particle in the stream

but as an invisible swirl in the drift

       layers of inaudible music

as the touch of night

in the midst of my being nothing,

rooftops like the written words

        of forgotten minutes

outside, alike, trembling

in the midst of my being nothing.
 
 

 

A word with myself

Being Poem

I drag
the whole compass
with its north and whereabouts
to the lyrical center called
           I
I cannot praise beauty
      only the mysterious
I summon the elements
         of my destitute body
I speak to this world only
               – my own
who else stands here
             – a dead poet or a mystic perhaps –
I am the masturbation of my own language
these are no longer words
they become
     the flesh of
 this Being.

Nihilistic Poetry