An enormous bridge to illumination

fragments_of_Reality

One day you will be in bed, tangled in images, withdrawn from the magic and measurement of the senses. Open hands to drop dewdrops like specks of speculation, falling to fade as fumes beyond fugacious annual fall. All will be idea, analysis of life, as light entering ice. Hours’ vessel without oars, after certain centuries: fire made voice vaulted as fern clung like veins in all directions of silence. What knowledge smelting edges and walls wide as eyes. An act without flesh, only theory inventing thirst for pure blue breath, beauty bordering fragment and firmament broadening blood. Raise fogs with pulleys and lower dawn from a chain. The fabric of façades is yours. Abandon the boundaries of body and dip densely into the center depth. Everything waits for your there.

Contemporary Poetry

spiral measures

mote_of_sound

 

I am going to die.

But there are days
when flesh titillates
and joins the circus
of the sinews

and there’s ecstasy
in the flesh
as if it were loaves
of bread soaked
in froths of bliss

and the moment’s trapeze
is a vehicle or an aspect
of levitation

and neighbors witness
a whiff of shadow
swirling in dimly lit
orbit

and forget noon
dawn or wood
head or heart

being here
in physical perpetuity
in whirlpools of hairs
and hairs and hairs
and bones

veering
towards a dizzy
orchestration

until I become
a mote of sound

that has permeated
the intermediary air.

Contemporary Poetry

mammal joy

mammal_joy

how can I evaporate
the pearl of clitoris
these hands that are fat
clusters of touch
and render shine
like a drop of moon
my crash that rubs against torment
strung and the column’s
fresh pound
strikes upon the amalgam
of velvet
I have forgotten where
this clump of noises
originates
the moan scrapes morning
and the last mammal joy
escapes from
this splatter of skin.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

to hide the earth

hide the earth

I shove this earth
into a labyrinth
of song

as a poor
anchorite
sewing mountains
to his thoughts

as a forest
measuring
the future
with the footsteps
of an ant

I blink
two white
sails when
light is a
black wind

as lips
that find
the spiral
of a whisper

as a cloud
the stranger
mistakes
for a weeping
galaxy

I pretend
to hide the earth
behind
the cathedral
of each sound

Beyond Language Poetry

to sit

poetry of despair

But to sit
inside to mourn
the faint flame of the tongue
a domain bursting with curl
don’t move these eyes
they soon thunder
behind two happy lips

asleep

to sit uprooted
of her hairs not beatific
by the window
to mourn, winter, the weight
sentenced to be borne
by a few final thoughts
they encircle waves around

minutes

to sit certain
of a scene, dream, or green unhappiness
I could roar like a hallucination
inside the tiny mount of my sleep
but to mourn
in the morning
without a second chance to

kiss

to sit
and the heart
shivers like a wet bird
to mourn
unblinkingly
like twigs of rain
towards soon of old

tomorrow

Nihilistic Poetry

against the city

against the city

when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows

when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf

when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause

when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.

This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.

Nihilistic Poetry

a stroll

brevity of life

I observe man
as an attempt
as pantomime
as desperate confabulation
to be what it knows
it cannot be

a perfectly trimmed
beard
a perfectly shaved
pussy

a chameleon’s last
color to camouflage
its lust
and most importantly,
its fear

I conceive mankind
as if it were the most
embellished monument

and while I walk
under its cool shadow
I reflect:

its brevity compels
me to hate it

its meaninglessness compels
me to love it.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

awakening

awakening

I wake like a slab, like a musical note covered in rain, almost aware that the pause is a chair where I sit and imagine being other than a man. I cannot escort any more sighs, they glide alone, solitary, rootless, like planets around a distant star. But it is day, and I drink its cave. I sit staring at the wall and feeling like leaping into a pure confident fire. But time is a rock and I cannot conceive its opposite. Should I return to the mad pillow, to the deaf simplicity of sleep? The anticipation of more tomorrows, of new memories opening up like meadows, is not enough. I am fragile, perishable, disconnected like the multitude of particles that make up smoke. I need to disperse slyly as a faint perfume, to be carried away by the slightest wind. I dream and rest from meaning. The earth recedes, and I return to the lucid extinction of sleep.

Nihilistic Poetry

to the unborn

child poem

You who are born from the edge,
gleaming,
you that will taste the lines
of the streams of light
reflected on your tongue.

You whose sigh will
feel like home
because the mouth is
an exhausted chimney.

You who will not yet understand
an erotic moon on gray waters,
you whose body is as warm
as the concept of sleep.

You who will soon scratch the air
with savage fingers.
And I don’t know why.

I can only leave you
a beautiful ambiguity,
a map to the beginning.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

the breadth of a breath

death poetry

it is in that last
place
where life is surrendered
and in one flicker
we must die
absolutely

forgiving
beauty
for having existed
and now
been taken away
in one last
absurd breath

every moment
revolves around
that final moment

and if there is any meaning
it is this

the immeasurably short present
being swallowed by nothingness

all details
consumed and
blurred

it is this
single and
isolated tick
of time

where we live
and
unendingly

shiver.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry