at risk

Drunk Nihilistic Poet

I had to be prepared for anything,
I knew well my predicament
of being the embodiment of some rebellion
without a cause, or possibly,
a very vague one,
I was set to play this role
till the curtain of my life
would set and finally be able to rest
from such a demanding performance;
nonetheless, I had to be prepared for anything
this urgency to be sporadic, risky and insane
would take me tonight into another dark alley
another hidden hour in the middle of the night,
wherever I would end, I had to be ready
since I had no choice
but to follow through with the command
of fate,
even while I see the strings over my head
puppeteering me to go here or do that
I cannot resist
for the strength of the strings is greater
than my awareness of them,
so I bid farewell
I leave into the end of the night,
as you could say,
to the disfigured events of nighttime
the ghastly stars
the only witnesses
to my rampant
behavior.

 


contemporary poetry

Nothing ever happens (Part 1)

Bar_Poetry

I’m sitting alone in a bar. Again. It’s one of those nights.
Waiting for something
to happen.
Moments before
walking, beer in hand
no destination
no subject to develop
pure whim
an attempt to submit
to the greater forces
that control this life.
They never show up.
Now I sit alone,
beer in hand
waiting for something to happen.
 
 

nihilistic poetry

The night sat on my face

drunk moon

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.

nihilistic wanderings