if
some
fundamental
level
of reality
the blurry steps
of the passage of time
limbs moving, solitary breath
dying streams of flesh
darkness with short
explosions of light
everything is metamorphosis
formlessly attached
to the mind
the visible is unexplored
nobody sees the becoming
was
the world
collapsing
into my soul?
the greatest adventure
to have all the
planets in view
to be a leaf
and die like a
son
I gasped
and was
a child
so it is a lost
saddened
reality
who made it?
I was breathlessly
spellbound
the name of it
is there
but the maker
is long dead
to be drunk
awake
with the uninhabited
world below my knees
the eager moon
hungry for my course
I designate the sadness
at the street
death
the watch has said
death
tea
is in my mouth
morbid
florid pain
I’m watching
and nothing
effortlessly
febrile
useless personality
I am nothing more
silver meaning
rotten sound
kill me sage
here
There were so many things
left to do
the city had abrupt faces, ideals
our hands were eager with schemes
so full of intent and consequence
the flavors we would discover
some of the poetry entailed
but our hands were sealed
collapsing monuments on the bed
our bodies were already heavy
with the black of time,
we decided to end our lives
as naturally as a flow of music
our destiny was a quiet ending
alone in that dualism of self and terror
we would begin to fall
now sleeping towards
the arms of a nestling hiatus,
we began our descent
down the throat of nullity
certain that this abandoned world
was only a first dream
and that reality was fully awake
at the dawning clouds of death.
The view
from here
is horrifying
I cannot
say
anything
nothing to add
to worthless
phenomena
there’s
nothing to be saved
in all this death-bound
totality.
Born
as
limb
annexed
to
p r o c e s s
my life
a finger
fiddling with
crystals of perception
the experience
alone
a purposeless
flight
truth… ?
simple,
the unwritten
manifesto
of the sky
death comes
I am one more wave crashing
swelling and then
absorbed back
into
formless
immanence
disappearing once more
into fire.
I used to suffer
you see
I see a huge ball of beauty
rolling down
the corridor of experience
amazed, initially b/c there is a ball
but later simply b/c it is beautiful!
and this ball keeps rolling
beautifully, sometimes impelling me to say
it’s all dream… it’s all dream!
and yet I used to suffer
because I was sure
the end would come
this uncanny ball would
simply vanish once experience
removes the surface for it to glide
and I was so damn sure it would be over
I suffered mortally
imagining all this thrusting beauty
wasted in an absurd instant of death
oh yes
I used to suffer
but now that suffering is gone
and I keep the reasons why
to myself.
there are attempts
at writing.
nothing more.
the combinations
are infinite.
yet I never find
any published thought
that will survive
the caprices of history
evolution and death.
I find two words
in one effort to capture
it all,
two words echoing
long after the writer
has left the earth.
two words that are as unlikely
as they are ridiculous
to have been written.
I exist…
the relationship
between
pen and poet
image and reality
truth and death
in essence
eclipse
me
these are merely
attempts
to
validate
my impotence
in matters of
ultimate reasons
the truth is soulless
the soul is decadence
decadence is poetic
beauty has to be discovered
with these lines
nothing is certain
but
after my death
they cannot
be
otherwise
an axiom that is simultaneously
a preposition
as an aspect of infinite action
all poetry is excerpts
prismatic layers
of the unknown mind
mysterious voices
crucified on paper
in
awe
I’ve come close
to developing incurable nausea
biting the world so often
it’s starting to swarm like primordial chaos’s pulp
lingering in my mouth
it proliferates in my stomach
constant genesis out my ass
yet
the feeling is still there
I’ve had too much of it
I need a new distraction
perhaps
ex nihilo
I can invent a death
so pristine
it returns to life
its facet of dream.
I am so far away,
the moment
is a scorching taste of whiskey
in my half-agape mouth
my hand curling
the hair of
chance
nonchalance
alas is for me a word
signifying wings
history is in my sensations
to end this night
in the consolation of death
being as gentle as
sleep
far away from what is believed,
towards the prismatic dispersal
of becoming again
transitory
so far away
aging with the journey
of name
Nihilistic Poetry Blog
Beyond Language 
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