I was divagating in a fluidity of language
collecting in the subjective aroma of an objective pinpoint
a star deriving its presence by its undulating waste of light.
I contained the arching earth and the moon
pretended to shift through the clouds of a mind
like an unconscious mirror spinning.
The arrow of the sensation was pointed
towards a nectarous instant of sound
a long necklace of harmonies.
My hour is traveling through imaginary pleasing effects
the seconds are my mistresses in red corduroy –
the age – a vague perfume of disparate dimensions.
The curtain gilded by hidden source everything is wrestling in a futile battle for birth it is underground miasma where my eyes fall upon like castles of music; barely touched barely a cusp from the fountain of indifferent distribution the memory of existing essentially empty of existence colorless fraction of silence floating in the stream that roams through the anfractuosity of the event;
my toy car mother eyes love
o
the fuel of phenomena
distant but within sight asunder the constellation of the hunt
blue impermanent struggle words as the indeterminate quarks of reason
my folded heart tucked in the plenitude of the unknown.
It is there
a taste of machine
in my earth-rooted tongue
that although I am drenched
in phantasmagoria
my center is solid like
the bolt of physical law
it is there
a host of onerous mechanisms
LURKING
behind the quiet gleam
of motion
that in the splintered sky
of the treetops
a fabulous realm of myth, sleep
and transience is reposing
like the heavy fingers of god
but today
rocks are in my lungs
being ground for
the castles of math
and strategy
a player taken out
of the bench of chimera
to supply the field
with an extra glove of fact
today the world is no longer my metaphor
but the unalienable stage for
man’s work.
To depart from equilibrium
incomprehensible
roads to destinations blackened
ideas of Hell, saints, criminals
suffering, redemption, death, exits,
they are daily bread for the hungry wreck;
is this still a world
I cannot speak of it
the internal voice is secret or alien
this flesh of unknown vapor
and desire guided by
intangible forces;
the cloud of life
is now dark and sorrowful,
the guilt of a single droplet
drowns entirely this mad domain,
in the soul the criminality of existing
is being laundered –
the quake !
unjust formulations of goodness
this rag of mind
dragged by hands fortuitous!
are these numbers and hours death
is it failure or a form of dream
my limbs are dying
the cascade of energy
expiring in the toilsome rage!
I desist the womb
and the world is a womb!
suffering of many lights
ache of myriad eyes
roped by nameless maledictions
there must be a drop
a fall
the divine grace and grave
of silence
but instead of divinity
suffusing this space eternal
pray for an open gross void
and salvation
the courage
to plunge into its
horror –
a soundless exit.
Of the living
clod of reality,
the bladed streams
of circumstance,
in the incinerated rush
of experience;
miracle of memories,
the enigmatic ordeal
of existing –
postponed,
quietly repressed
in the lethargic hum
of your
original routine!
By government of limbs empty networks of rules my lost skull finding fragments of hope in books and lasting gulps
I remember the bishop Berkeley, first time I read his lucid portrayal of idealism I saw myself as pigment in god’s mind
there was Rimbaud the seer a daemon of callous dreams beckoning the loving beasts of my heart to get drunk and fornicate with the chaos outside
vagueness is ubiquitous when Cioran excommunicated truth from reality I leapt from definition to obscurity like a child in mud fields turning invisible by the camouflage of dirt
alea jacta est poetry was born playthings of appearances and the images started to gather like a book of things that never existed behind the universe
there was still coffee – regret – futility and then Pessoa opened up the only truth I ever believed in, he unwrapped it with casual numbness, as mechanically as you take off a shoe: life is a superfluous waiting for death with no definite aim it definitely kills us and whatever we say or don’t say will never change a thing
so I write in the penumbra of absurdity as divertissement between sleeps, all the same in the involuntary currents of nothingness drunk with the illusion of sensation, I feign a soul in laughter and despair because of that obscene longing of being poet & chasm.
Beyond Language 
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