Haunting
hustling hurrying harrowing hurling – hush.
John, if I knew one, would be right.
Take the marmalade
and spread
it over the bread.
Taste it as
the eyes taste light.
Yes. Simple emptiness,
delicious shine. Buddha sits
in the TV room. The rain clouds.
It is good jam.
abrupt
racing uphill
heart pumping
squirting out shells
and crusts
and monolithic diagrams
my breath is silver lining
in the outer whorl of moonlight
corridors immense
goddess growing in brain
sloughing the filament of skull
my face in hunt of tobacco
screaming, drawing out
like echoes of painful throbbing
motion for the race for the desperation
for the sharp pendulum
hovering over my neck
my traitor heart where is the end
to all this blood
carrying deadly time
in its rage
it was history
excoriating those
words
their skin of wood and soft metal
it is war
that has arrested the direction
of the winds
it began when red mouths
served as riverbed
to a stone law
it was in a dark month
that a saint
stretched the shadow of the spirit
it is your strange voice
that coils an audible mystery
round all the things
that are yet to come.
All that I prophesy
is the way the world
spirals unto itself
there
space and dream
hibernate into consciousness
the product of my speech
is the withdrawal of meaning
in words
from reality to possibility
multiplying the interior
by tearing asunder
every perception
into further
fragments
ultimately
I have noise
as fur over the idea
of myself
beauty
sideways to phenomena
precipitates
towards the pinpoint
of my
heart
Modern Poetry Blog
perhaps waiting for
that god to return and play
me like a
machine
who can I address
they all still believe in something
and I have this runaway course
poetry is my SOS cry!
I am not creating a worldview
I have an assembly line of doubts
working day and night
in the sweatshop of my
irrelevance
if you see me one day
half-dazed under an adjacent
shadow
compare the intangibility
between that shadow and me
compared our borrowed existence
the shadow merely the absence of light
on an extraneous surface, I an absence of essence
for a superficial world
if you see me one day
near the docks
you’ll see that my dreams
are not voyagers
they are seagulls
suspended in dead
air
nihilistic poetry
So this is my
bloodless combat
a fight to death
when I have no flag
behind me to endorse
to glorify
I can sneak up behind time
strangle her
only later to be
grieving that nothing ever happens
I may surround all of matter
near midnight
obliterate it in one bright flash of idealism
only later to regret
that the mind is equally senseless
and then all the personal things
work grudges, love fractures, intoxication cravings, unspoken family sorrows
all those tanks, Morse codes, handheld grenades, isolated trenches
that I must overcome, decipher, throw away, endure
when I still don’t have a flag of purpose
to endorse
to glorify
should the inconceivable happen:
victory
to what homeland should I return
if this war
suddenly comes to an end?
One more
Wednesday
I see trees
growing out of the soil
from what foundation,
i pondered
do these events stem from
later, in the day
almost midnight in fact
blues and poetry
in the streets of Klostergade
he read out loud
don’t quote me
“everybody doing nothing
for him that observes everything”
there’s so much space
for me to sing
for me to cry
in the streets
with the plaintive winds
as my unlikely saxophone melodies
of this melancholic night
that has a plain ending
some minute —-
soon.
The wind
brush
over my internal vacuity
my eyes
two stellar regions
by the naked dark
the atom in relation to all
my heart in proportion to nothing
the wind
many times
a close brush
with
the imperishable
the blacker self
convoluting
within the wandering
poet.
I’m biting off nails
spitting out tails
wagging at the dog
to wring out the fog
my emotion a sort of doppelganger
adrenaline in my poems when anger
is fire of the beast
I’m drinking out of your breast
like sex in the hands of God
isn’t it a century too goddamn odd
when things have no set end
and we’re always mixing a blend
of the most undrinkable guesses
my guess is that we’re like cocktail dresses
ready to be taken off
and then the real fun goes on
the oblique shadow of the skyscraper
waiting for sun to guide the dance
what a waste of wastepaper
this was my chance
to be
me
eating pieces of myself
while the day annihilates itself.
Too many steps too drunk
an outsider
infatuated
with the outside decadence
a 30-day-old poet
taming his extinction
grasping for existence
breathing the sidewalks
as an addiction
calling street life
the pulp of everything
right here
civilization as a theory
the grid of rebellion
on this Rorschach
while the chanting epochs
intoxicate us
with their
darkness
in the streets
in the steps
of drunken
us.
Beyond Language 
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