I’m not a nihilist

Nihilist_poet

What happens at city
when blank is a building
and the corner is brutish
and the road ahead pale
like something at the end of time
see nihilism is a tentative position
an aggressive form of modesty
because below the blue sky
a head is incapable of understanding
the many things that are absurdly naked
in the world;
of all words
we select a crown
to place that holy concept
over our heads like laurel
to impress the wavering leaves of trees
see nihilism is nothing about thought
but about feeling what thought cannot attain
at the light you stop and feel the beast
the wise thunder of blood
and what happens when city
is trembling and being chased
by whiteness or a hot drunkenness
you pick a word
and make claim that it will save you
under the streetlamp
like a natural haze
at that common street
you remember like an ascetic
that this flesh will be forgotten

 

Contemporary Poetry

against the poets

Image

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.

somewhere out there

horizon poem

 

Somewhere out there one may find a horizon. But I do not talk about edges or inventing balconies to oblivion. I drink wine and swallow sensation indefinitely. I believe to be one whirl of smoke that spins upon the axis of habit. Sometimes I peek through windows, as if they were encyclopedias of the beyond. I am a romantic. I go outside and say: I see a single star reflected inside the thick glass of my endless wine. A slow logic eventually wears down the brilliance of the sky; and for nights I camp under a starless proof. But today a pound of purple strikes my tongue. The thickness of a dream goes down my throat. I begin to feel like an atmosphere of veins. Like a slab of fiction that crumbles to illusion.

Nihilistic Poetry

town drunk

Artist beer drinking

It feels good
not being an artist
no language to impress
philosophical thoughts on cheese
a bit guilty of the next beer
depleting bank account

it feels good
to walk on snow
so crisp and pure
drinking the next beer
getting drunk
and all the rest

it feels good
to see the snow
fall
my cold breath
dunking beers
and all the rest

if feels good
to have left Berlin
now just a town drunk
not even a
punk

 

 

 

poems

a brief view on my own life

21st century poet

I wear thirteen-year-old T-shirts
but I spray them with the most expensive colognes around
I don’t buy them, only use the testers
I’m socially awkward so I might come close
to touch your hair without asking for your permission
you’d probably punch me
but I’ll say that I’m weird and sorry
I’ve never punched anybody in my life, please don’t hurt me
I’m not afraid to write a poem
when something beautiful touches me inside
I see my drunkenness as a preface to wisdom
when I drink a poem I become a mystic
when I peruse your vodka I become a breathing metaphor
I use my sadness as a dictionary
to decipher the language of modern civilization
I do not wish to bore you with my autobiography
when you are done, burn up this poem and use the flame
to warm up your soul.

 

modern poetry