darkness

The choice

Nihilism Poetry

I have chosen darkness
in it
poetry swells,
literature breeds
dark and oppressive
I breathe in an atmosphere of coal
black ash swarms in metaphors and
contradictions
beating heart that’s become
sullen with life
I choose obscurity
like the ambiguous rose
within an unmovable abyss
I choose the ungraspable void
where borders and objects
interfuse with phantasmagorical thoughts
leaving no content, awaiting an obscure name –
in this dark dream
the Mysterious
is like wine
flowing through the veins
of whatever I am.

nihilistic poetry

nowhere to be found

Nowhere Lost

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.

Nihilistic Poetry

thus we die

Grow because

death is a plant

these errors are twigs

more regrets

furthering rooting

if it is too late

wreck beyond repair

souls, human or other

desire demise

no help

is available for them

for us?

we wait it out

thus we die in resignation

thus we die.

Nihilistic Poetry

Once written on 8.13.09

A night becomes clouded
as we sometimes say
‘things happen’
abstractly, indifferently
that it is suddenly August
2009
a veil of intellectualism
is lifted
a human face looks up
mine, yours, whatever
there are clouds, ideas, philosophies
up there
we look down, you, me, whatever
barren reality
wooden window frames
dusty desks, unsharpened pencils
feeble light, organic darkness
you see the dark
it doesn’t have a name
then there is real silence
scattered coins
uncharged cell phones
a sleeping wife
that it hits you, me, what you will
it is August 13th
2009
what a feeling.

Nihilistic Poetry

true living

What I call true living

is found at the periphery of all modality

after a week of uninspiring tragedies

petty, yes

small unrecognizable anxieties

a tiny indulgence

like a return to a temporary home

that is true living, to say

“I am a great sufferer”

and drink the bottle

to curse the others

after a nagging narcissism

pretends to obliterate a reason

to go on breathing.

That is true living

to hold tight to the street

wayfaring, intoxication

denial

a great wide hole

alive alas

at the bottom of any common asphyxia

true living

is the edge

the final wound.

Nihilistic Poetry

The Gap

I couldn’t lie

or distort the truth

when I tell you that seven seagulls

– not six or eight – I counted,

took flight in the direction of the moon

and that the water was slightly offering an insult

with its restlessness and simple undulations

I suddenly felt as at the bottom of a gap

a precipice that links two different lands

behind me everything that is

before me everything that could be

I was inside the great hole that separates the two

and it didn’t seem fair to build a bridge

sauntering from fact to possibility;

to cross this gap

I felt

requires the courage of a climb –

to create a new fact

demands a start from the lowest point

to climb up again in rags

to emerge from the deep

after the torture of darkness has engaged with us…

only then can the gap be closed!

Smooth sounding rain

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves.

Silence within the great symphony of rain.

Silence whilst listening to a thousand voices of cold tropical drops smashing into leaves and edges.

Silence that is grey;
profoundly incomprehensible.

And a voice that wraps things full of wonder with words full of emptiness.

A sight that dwells endlessly on a dream planet, a dream life.

A layer of skin that pierces darkness and absorbs the world into a

nugget of perception.

To breathe in awe of all surrounding perplexing forms, a close connection with improbability.

Then it stops, the ever-changing new turns old and rigid. Common, ordinary minutes.

Then again and again there is a plan, a prospect. The vertigo of wonder disappears…

routine conquers anew.

Echoing thunder is heard… far beyond the touchable.

To be one with what has been,

what is

what will be…

Awe and confusion swirled together

pain

Pain by Hands of Crimson (deviantart)

We fling ourselves out into the depths of this tumultuous motion (there is always an implicit decision to stay alive) – we are agonizing in the effusion of forms, attitudes and energies of this world, we succumb to the simultaneity of all events, approaching a boiling point which will end in a devastating orgasm. This life that with relentless power can lift you to regions of unshakable astonishment will drop you with equal force into the pits of boredom and suicidal retreat. It becomes an experience so intense that all those wonderful insights attained by your constant awareness to the profundity of existing forms can be, and will be, torn apart by the abysmal fissure that comes in between reality and our conceptions. Our epoch has demystified the themes of history, art, philosophy, science – any study that pierces Being and divests it from the shallowness of routine – themes we are engaged in by our simple breathing and acting in a world that is constantly being measured, recorded, discussed and because of these, it is being doubted more than ever.

Out of the circumstance of standing on the axis of what is to come and while repeating beyond illusion the experience, over and over again, of existing as part and parcel of this monstrous universe – out of all these circumstances there arises a sentiment which remains for the most part unspoken yet when united to the urgency of our desires it wishes to break through as a divine voice, a repercussion that will echo through the immensity of space and time, an outpouring of this vital disbelief that defines our existence; in short, an eternal statement understood and recognized by everyone:

Can all this be real?

Exactly because the world’s diversity can only be matched by its incomprehensibility the human being, passenger in life, is unable to remain in the state of absolute veneration (the all-too-common fear of the unknown) and must distract himself with whatever nuisance is thrown in his way. Fortunately, there is excitement in monotony; there is pleasure in painful depressions.

We are obeying something vastly superior, something that always exceeds our two modern poisons: reason and technology. We aspired to imitate nature with those silly contrivances. We, subjects to our bodies, to history and the course of the planet, we return to bed every night insulted simply because we cannot deceive ourselves much longer: the world we have come out of has created itself and us without the tool of reason; and in that inexplicable unreasonableness it has fashioned machines infinitely superior to our latest technologies – we see it all around us, the biological world, a miraculous product abandoned by the silent God of Purposelessness.

After we finish with this continuous enigma, we open our eyes to challenge again the naked world, to tease it with our actions and desires….

“oh what a world” we say,

and reenter the game once again.

Go back to Beyond Language

Trapped in nothingness

It seems to be I am locked inside this excessive silence. That while I look up into the hazy azure of the sky or into the windy skies of night I discover an impenetrable void, a silence that cannot be breached, a solitude that is here to stay. My arms plead with desperation for a sign, my ears are on a pilgrimage in search of a sacred word – a confirmation that life can be trusted. A revelation or miracle that can transform these wild gyrations of nonsense into a lively and trustworthy universe. Long tunnels of agony and atrophy seem to be the destiny of those that aspire to awaken and revive human life from its muddled lethargy. But being trapped inside an inescapable chasm, I have only the ignoble expanse of space to address and all of creation turns its back on me and answers back in SILENCE. I am not insightful enough to interpret my own frustrations, I cannot tell if it is a general trend in this new age or if I stand alone in this inexplicable confusion. Furthermore, the only remedy comes in strings of lyrical eruptions that at first sight seem vague and meaningless, but are in fact projections of the real ambiguity and hollowness that resides deep within. It is unnecessary to find coherence when one is no longer servant to the tyrant of reason, it is superfluous to propound theories when the intellect is too weak to grasp reality. So, the image is inevitable: floating in cold nothingness, silent solitude. A journey through emptiness, a constant motion through space finding every now and then a naked planet, an aura of beauty and patiently collecting the dust of time in expectation of a glorious sun – surrendering to the all-powerful ground of being.

Corner’s spiral

Come trace each spiral’s end

the emptiness of every word

fullness of rippling chords

wondering, strange wondering

those that once were

where has the smoke of their pipes

traveled?

To them we were distant dream’s child

a rising vapor over their colossal deaths—

serene nocturnal sounds

Gathering ink droplets

over prayer’s whisper

and the fall, rushing leap

bottom deep darkness into

deep immensity’s embrace

Violin growth of love

the stream naturally light

flight upon mountainous sleep

crossing threads of cycles and returning

Entering moment’s origin

returning every minute

arriving over and over again.