the swamp of volition

strange_poetry

There must be
a method
to turn off freedom.

To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
as cascade.

To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any bullshit.

To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.

To chew the furniture of words.

To fall into the sound of water.

The idea of thought
would be framed
in museums
and memorial sites.

Like an ancient artifact of struggle.

All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;

without choice
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux

and language      moss at the rim of our lips.

Contemporary Poetry

us

postmodern_poem

They told me to squeeze
structure
into home
and open windows
to air out essence
see I have been obedient
shedding coats of laughter
like films of light over
a miracle of corner,
and this thing
consciousness is hanging
like dust

in the atmosphere
but we’ve
made arrangements

and passion is hard
like furniture,

mahogany and steel
like dream and real

together bound
in braid

somewhere near
the end of this

and the world
tiny pretty thing

climbs into the air
like a moth

to disappear
over the object
and become invisible
like the rest of

us.

Contemporary Poetry

near everything

new_poet_modern

Maybe the air is vertebra
only you walk home
bending the muscle
of time,
a drunk man leaves

on the pub’s counter
the fire of thought
nothing changes

we can amass anguish
into a dragon
and see it writhe in
its halo

find a way knower
comb a molecule at a time
to be handsome

for destiny
that now dissolves in your honey-
dripping cupped hands

perhaps we hang immense
with city at our roots
what matters to be
draped in cloud

when age has a swollen
idea buried like a spine on
the morning soft

earth
step on pure grass
who leaves this animal
to sow in structure

the dream the
struggle
the science

of being such
near everything.

Contemporary Poetry

Unlikely and nevertheless

modern_poem

A flower is
a knot of chiaroscuro
enlightenment entangled in a coil,
finely spread seasons of spirals,
long mournful curves
chained to moment or cycles,
it is sense in a state of song,
desire dense in dew,
a phase suspended in façade
electricity distilled in feature
a flower
is essentially unknown
some element
in petal passion perfume.

 

 

21st century Poetry

In this globe of mud I only found fables and seas*

metapoetry_2013

*The above expression
remains unclear to this
date. It is unknown
whether the author
intended it to be strictly
a metaphor or to be
taken literally in its
full consequences.
It has spurred a string
of speculation and debate
dividing opinions
into warring camps.
Some claim that it
was written in a state
of utter stupor and therefore
must be regarded as an aberration
of the unconscious. Others
argue that that the author
has pierced through the veil
of language and has given
us direct access to
the core of meaning.
Leading figures in the field
of semiotics have given
popularity to the notion
that the expression transcends
the use of its symbols
and signifies nothing
in itself.
Research into his biography
has only added enigmas
to the puzzle of the author’s
mysterious expression.
Until further discoveries
are made between the logical,
historical, metaphysical
and aesthetic relations
and order of the words
employed,
little guidance
can be given to the reader
as to the ultimate significance
of the author’s seemingly
unintelligible statement.

21st century Poetry

Phantasmagoria

stomach_of_the_sun_poem

He stopped the drugs
to console himself
with the open
lengths of countries
and the silver
fever of mountains
and when he left home
to return to thick everything
and books galloping shadows
fiery in the minute of knowledge,
in the day of life, through the wind
to a place where history
is built with azures
heavy in the hand
because to be born
here I am
like a quartz
inside the stomach
of the sun.

Contemporary Poetry

They

were sitting on the ledge of a building
talking about the pursuit of happiness,
how every human action is motivated
by self-love and trying to reconcile
morality with a mechanistic view
of a universe, everywhere ruled
and determined by inflexible laws
the talk went on for some time
they would interject a few modern expressions
to avoid falling into a complete anachronistic conversation
reminiscent of the 18th century philosophes
then the one on the right said,
– What if we jump?
– there’d be a fall
– yeah, and then what?
– who knows
– do you think there’s consciousness after death?
– as much as you can find in the drunk man’s sleep
– should we jump? what stops us from finding out?
– fear, our loved ones, the desire to seek new experiences and store them in the insatiable coffins of memory. But mostly fear.
– if you could have anything in the world before you die, what would it be?
– another lifetime to figure that out
– do you often think of death?
– on rare special occasions, like funerals and that kind of thing
– do you find any consolation in the thought of death?
– yeah in the thought that death dissolves all suffering with the same intensity as life withheld happiness from the individual
– I’m going to jump
– I’ll take the stairs

He did not jump but was he really considering it? They decided to go home. As they walked together over the bridge they both noticed the sea was restless that day.

 

21st_century_poetry_blog

21st century Poetry