black curve and edge


At that bar
Was there.

Like smoke this night
as opulent
as a disguise of pure
phantom with the smell
of that guy
that was weird and touching

I went out
part of things
and little

like a puppet
a whole morsel
of crumbs in
a pocket

an idiot
with ideas
and I was
thinking how
much I paid
for that drink

a long pause

quote “ death is not, to be considered a transition to a state completely new and foreign to us, but rather a return to one originally our own from which life has been only a brief absence. ‘”

basically he
smelled like
burnt almonds

and somewhat scared
and sacred

the air like petal was woman
in my arms
the love
of invisible.

Contemporary Poetry



I paid
and he asks
how I’ve been
he left a shapeless mass of laughter
in the air
I’ve had a hangover for days
he says: rockn’roll
yeah it hurts
and the hard Furies strangle
each idea with a whip of flame
and in that throb
one must find a quartz
of moonlight under a window
and breathe in an avalanche
and heed the noise
dripping from the tiny tick
of the heart

the eyes begin
by the sway
of a moon drawn by wings
to sleep

and here
skirting a crater
at the roof of a boundary
I am
washed by a beam of music
pocketing the fog
and perfuming the worn rags of clouds
like in fable
or inside a final

Contemporary Poetry

against the poets


It is a sad thing to be a poet.
Pick out a few strands of impermanence.
Sit and write in fever and sweat
on how the ash is sweet and immense.

But it is in vain
I tell you.
Nothing will remain
beyond the faded terrain.

For art’s sake. Can there be anything more pathetic?
All we do is lace pigment on fragments.
All this perversion of language, an erratic
falsification of meanings and judgments.

I am being honest finally.
I tell you.
Don’t even care how this ends really
because I’ve started to drink myself silly.

futile breath


They say
I should kill

I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.

But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.

. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.

I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.

They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.

I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.

I speak and they say
I should kill
or be forever miserable.

I say no;                                           I’ll write poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry

a night (to arthur rimbaud)

I have dreamt of
all the empty drying hairs
of the hanging towel

and then
sat by the gloom
resting on the every sip
of an infinite bubble of beer

whatever was foreign
came inside like pain
we then embraced
as wings made of feathers

the sun has sunk into structure
like an invisible tunnel
coiling around the sound
that a pair of lips dropped

and there is the mystery
of the tint at the edge of wide
nature softening like warm snow
at the shore of a blue eye

suddenly the windows
open like a mouth
and the smell of memory
leaves the room
like rustling from the hearth

there by the color
that was so wide as morning
an absurd hand fell
perturbing the surface
of black immensity

that earth consumes motion
adopted pale mirrors of battles
so it shines like a monument
of groans and poetry

a parcel of blood
has trembled
an ocean of thought
has become short as grass

somehow light
escaped as a carefree crystal
by evening a kiss
has woven a vowel of skin

the glaciers of feelings
have a glow and a vision
nearly as beautiful as a face

by the rivers of factories
a century of quantity
because the comedy
transcends the dome

cities, reasons, gulfs
clusters sojourning
in the young greenery
of the storm

soon the saint
will hunt a harmony
the criminal
a wooden blue

I have a sin
a confession as hard as tooth
the shoulders carry
the burden of meaning

an immediate august tear
as calm as knowledge
sunburnt women
naked as cherry trees

somehow we sleep
the branches at an angle
mixing with the mute heroism
of a dancing future

all is ending
when all history is drifting
a virgin parabola
turns into gold

be what it is
the night of god
a tree of nothing
all imageless damage

heaven obscured the woman
that laughed in my hidden eternity
the drunken driftwood
has floated into seasons

when the wall is wet
and the sky feels like a bed
a nostril or a breast of love
our struggle ends in a shadow

a posteriori

I left
in the middle
of a cloudless night
as a thief
to snatch one orphan
ray of moonshine
I was drunk
between cathedrals and labyrinths
looking for the crackling
sound of a tiny star
I wandered along this
heaven of dirt
peeking under every shadow
for a trace the hidden
mass of an eclipse
over bridges and blackouts
I followed the scent
of a spiraling infinity
never reaching its end

I awoke
with a black
layer of eternity
as a rag
over my sore
and swollen skin.

Nihilistic Poetry

for the drunks

Absurd poetry

There are
when the earth
shakes likes ripples of myth

and the epic
when a fallen
brown leaf
slowly returns
to its green nascent

we leave in every nook
a morning of sighs
and the little signs
of a bygone nostalgia

because all attempts
fall into the crevice
of yesterday

and the dripping minute
serves as an eternity
for the drunks
with whom I share
my nights in delirium
within the occult temple
of a bar.



Nihilistic Poetry

of summer nights and toasts

Drunk poet

Of rude weight
intoxicated iron
the pressing steel of %
by the shelter of glass
my petty personality
like molecules and wisps
the flame of the wax
streets of melted passion
sad sunken vein of alcohol
morose atom
roaming the expanse of society
and nothing remains
of pure

Existential Poetry