The night sat on my face
like the smelly old ass
of a rotten moon
just on the day
I’ve been fired from life
wandering off on the cliffs
of who knows what conundrum
and joyfully composing the silly
gooey poetics of a drunken soul
I recall writing something about
the foulness of philosophical systems
or the moans of relic religions;
whatever it was,
the night and its greasy weight
sat on my face
like the spits of moonshine
that drunks burp out
on the face of a
lonesome hour.
More Poetic Scenery: Nihilistic Poetry
It was the simple joy
that comes
when struck for the first
time by the world
the world and my ideas!
the world and my expectations!
the world and my darkly routes!
it was the joy of stepping out
on the limb of the 21st century
underneath the lamppost
and shivering in the cold air
altogether free and set loose
with the world
as my own personal halo
the world and my inconsequential philosophies!
the world and my dreamlike body!
the world and my lyrical noise!
– the joy that comes
from an unexpected encounter…
It felt like an absence
because I found myself
naked and in darkness
the wood on which I sat
the timid air
the swollen imagination
could I repeat
my lucky survival once again ?
together, wed-locked
to the void that excites
me, to the nothingness
that caresses me, to the silence
that disintegrates me
I would remain
somewhere, somehow
giving names to unknown
aspects of reality
imagining myself naked
or aroused
or isolated
or none of these
just then,
nowhere to be
found.
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.
This is the quest
ink and blood
searching for the sacred language
a series of words
somewhere buried
Am I the apparition
between this thought
and you, the thing-
in-itself coming through
the flooded veins of my perceiving
with this thing there
constituting my content
while I compose its name
we are united in the poetic theme
of the present moment –
and that thing
is no other than my fragmented self
losing the virginity of conception
the birth of the concept
allowing life, my life
merge with the myriad voices of yours
closely knitted with the linen of a dreamt world
as closely as two poets speak
from unreachable regions of being
hills of this journey
how to be human
when
I decided to live on a fifth floor
because I enjoy viewing things from
afar
most afternoons
I watch down
on the swaying of the city
the moody strangers
the angry cars
a fifth floor is a nest
seated on the branch
of a decaying tree
sunsets are my favorite
when the ooze of night
drips over the frightened lampposts
quickly the children of the day
retreat to their smaller caves
on a fifth floor
there is not much to do
but watch the ambiguous expressions
of pedestrians
and listen to the tired screams
of ambulances
while the cool autumn air
sinks
between the concrete-walled
canyon
I moved to a fifth floor
so I could have thoughts
like these
and to never
become
one of them.
it goes beyond saying
lonely friend
you and I are strangers
afraid of each other
we may frown
as if we were advancing
with some sort of serious purpose
we may drag along, with tattoos and beer
as if we were sure of our cause
I comb my hair to look decent to you
you smile when we say goodbye to be proper
still we move in circles… wide empty circles
the wine soothes
our sleep pardons
suddenly you awake from elliptical wanderings
you are at a park interrupting your routine
brutally condemning our ongoing lies
the denial of loneliness and panic
can we stand another day of hypocrisy?
No, no, let’s not make questions
there are no real reasons
a chaos we organize in years
an avalanche we interpret as experience
though words may be wide as universes
my lonely estranged friend
we are bereft of all true meaning.
Since these are all eyes pouncing upon their own light
since these words are still in the air we breathe
nobody has yet seen the cruelty of today
nobody has measured the necessity of crying
to be sick and living
asphyxiated with desires, unclothed by opinion
the taste is in my mouth:
progress has vomited a sickly herd.
Beyond Language 
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