My only desire
is to see
a stream of existence
fall through azure
at contact point
the intact reserves
of the world
sprouting
like the bubbles
at the end
of your pee.
existential poetry
weirdo nail clipper
I’m biting off nails
spitting out tails
wagging at the dog
to wring out the fog
my emotion a sort of doppelganger
adrenaline in my poems when anger
is fire of the beast
I’m drinking out of your breast
like sex in the hands of God
isn’t it a century too goddamn odd
when things have no set end
and we’re always mixing a blend
of the most undrinkable guesses
my guess is that we’re like cocktail dresses
ready to be taken off
and then the real fun goes on
the oblique shadow of the skyscraper
waiting for sun to guide the dance
what a waste of wastepaper
this was my chance
to be
me
eating pieces of myself
while the day annihilates itself.
keeping track
Jet stream of time
squirting months
momentarily too late
to do anything
that will save the moment
history has me by the skin
I am all biodegradable
compost for the unknown
developing
appetite for the instant
that will last for centuries
the idiot
as I am
seeing time
as a machine
industrialized for more
there is fluidity
in this duration
that spreads like a flood
over the coastlines
of my
isolated sojourn.
Modern Poetry
A view of happiness
Happiness
is the fly
on the tip of my nose
that with the slightest
twitch
flies away
Happiness
is my beard
made of many individual
studs
always shaggy
thus never uniform
Happiness
is rebound love
a one-night stand
after I met Joy
before I knew Grace
Happiness
is my tongue
quiet and sparing
but drooling
for the divine
Happiness
is happiness
a rare antique
from my childhood’s
sleep.
Modern Poetry
an experience
That I must use language
to describe an unusual event
which was anything but words
makes my task already
futile
but I will communicate
the strange braid of emotion, perception and thought
that made that moment possible
as I was standing
at the end of a sidewalk
a piece of, what it seemed like,
a poster
was stuck to the ground
and an outreaching extremity
hanged over the miniature precipice
between the sidewalk and the gutter
this limb of paper
this appendix of matter
fluttered in the wind
and I felt as if standing above
a slice of eternal existence
flapping under my very feet
a small, oblique, strand of whatever
moving in sequences
that would make
me believe
in
beauty.
nihilistic poetry
beyond language
burnt faded fringes
encapsulating us
as an old portrait of sacrifice
who stares at us
from the other side of subjectivity
my fingers slice and rub
the plateau of your belly
but I see the Dead Sea in your eyes
I am no longer a man
you undressed every concept
shedding words like a leper
I drank your taxonomy
like a famished unabridged dictionary
you said abstraction was like a harem
of fellating paradoxes
that’ll suck me dry
I left the continent hiccupping truth
I am no longer a man
for I still love what has no name
no one can deduct
why
inside burnt faded fringes
some of us
sacrifice
the
word.
for lack of definition
I have enough fall
to crack open
my soul
the yolk of essence
oozing through my
ribs
I keep evaporating
but the clouds
won’t integrate my
formless mass
my thoughts taste
of cinnamon and world war
and yet they failed
at school
it’s time to saw off
my hands
and let poetry
be made
with
unlicked journey.
soul in it
Frenzy
shot
bullseye in the heart
of society’s prodigies:
the quitters
Wild
irrevocable
reading Cioran
blasphemously drunk
or stoned
speed techno flesh
in the early hours
of disaster
Years in despair
the world
a blank bullet
and all the
fury
ready
to shoot dead
the sad beautiful
galaxies
Who will moralize
us
you, automata politicians
pedophile religions
Wall Street noise
or 7 effective habits
for irreversible
boredom
Free
chaos as the
jury
a pack of smokes
while surveying
the world’s cancer
outgrow
our own
The wild fire
of our philosophy
supernova of exasperations
intravenous soul
into our antics
bruised forefathers
in our dreamscapes
a rebel with
metaphysical whiskey
listening to tunes
you’ll never hear
sitting at a bar
you’ll never know
waiting in a night
you’ll be as good as dead
a junkie
a messiah
an anthem
yours sincerely,
Poetry.
booze in my theology
When I wake
the day
is
a wide-open eye
I had a god
under my fingernail
but onychomycosis
got to him one day
I am a connoisseur
of nothing relevant
by night
my
vessels
are empty champagne bottles
waiting to be full
I drink red, white, pink, yellow, black, eerie
wine
still looking for a fermented god
that even a nihilist wino can love
still looking for the wretched divinity
that will close the eye
of
tomorrow.
Bar 25
I’m all black ink
an exile sketch
varicose vein in the night
scents and trends
lead me to your derelict niches
porcupines of light piercing the dance floor
a thousand shiny faces of techno
human tentacles
up in the air
exit
two stars
over my astray skull
if I could sculpt
this eccentricity
into
art.
Beyond Language 
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