existential poetry

the swamp of volition

strange_poetry

There must be
a method
to turn off freedom.

To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
as cascade.

To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any bullshit.

To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.

To chew the furniture of words.

To fall into the sound of water.

The idea of thought
would be framed
in museums
and memorial sites.

Like an ancient artifact of struggle.

All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;

without choice
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux

and language      moss at the rim of our lips.

Contemporary Poetry

and the emptiness of

poetry of despair 2013

A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock

after death

love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand

every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol

of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic

mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes

love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand

those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;

the forgotten
labyrinth of him.

Contemporary Poetry

rockn’roll

dream_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

sharply
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
visit.



Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			Tripartite
		

	


			

			
postmodern_poem_2013


Hello.

Anybody here?

Heylooo?


A priest

and a prostitute

enter a bar.


They come up to the counter.

The bartender: what canna getcha?


The hooker smiles,

same as yesterday, Sam.


The priest, swollen

and sweating smiles,

I’ll have a dark century, Sam.


The clouds moved through

my notebook, anxious

as snails along rugged time.


Someone?

Anybody?


The prostitute shows

the sweetness of her blackberry nipples.

$15 a boob job.


Alfred white as a number says, OK.


I drew a whole city in my notebook

and

in one corner

I built a home

yellow with a mountain of beauty

inside the living room.


Knock, knock.


Alfred was gratified, the stars

trembling in his dark glassy pupils.


That’s $15, she said.


Half the pages are torn out,

theoretical mistakes I say;

but the bulk of my notebook

has black markings


like the shadows of birds

in a mile of snow.




Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			from above
		

	


			

			
poetry_of_future


They found a bulge
 between Amaliegade
 and Esplanaden
 and it was in the news


and the hearts
 shook with dread


a long sack of skin.like flesh
 growing from a thin string
 into an enormous
 bulk


a man stood drinking the ship
 in a circle of dizziness


the lights of police
 and the endless of an image


no one could understand the revolution
 and beauty of the bulge


it was hauled off the street
 like a rainbow
 as a miracle of the flame
 as heresy from our pedestrian slopes


factories puffing shades
 roaring with flags and chords
 of iron ringing
 in the suburbs


it is pronounced that this age
 will collide with the pillar
 stumps of science


and melancholy is a growth
 like tumor
 in the heads of those
 that gaze             with wonder
 from above.


 


 


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			us
		

	


			

			
postmodern_poem


They told me to squeeze

structure

into home

and open windows

to air out essence

see I have been obedient

shedding coats of laughter

like films of light over

a miracle of corner,

and this thing

consciousness is hanging

like dust


in the atmosphere

but we’ve

made arrangements


and passion is hard

like furniture,


mahogany and steel

like dream and real


together bound

in braid


somewhere near

the end of this


and the world

tiny pretty thing


climbs into the air

like a moth


to disappear

over the object

and become invisible

like the rest of


us.




Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			arterial aerial
		

	


			

			
modern_poetry_blog_21st_Century


Cleave to that place


arterial


the vessel no the aerial


where fading flight merges


with being and life


is no longer


an only particular


thing


but interior of great


continuity


of circulation density


dripping


in center toward


multiplicity


and radiates back


into blood


the skin, your eyes, your hands


the fur of the world


at your fingertips.


Contemporary Poetry