existential poetry

I must be mad

Everything you do
begins with a silence

you can traverse
the distances
that keep you away
from the divine
but you look back
and the starting point
is blurred
I have been pilgrimage
traveled far,
but
in relation to what?

all is opinion
the poet is a collector
of fragments
the pieces of modernity
scattered mercilessly
over the ruins of decay

the theory emerges
the broken data
a human heart
halfway down the
spear
I threw to infinity

an attempt to coexist
with the rational
and the irrational

landscapes of words
not yet
conceived

I give you the stars
for the constellations
you’ll hang
over the lake
of your
core.

 

 

nihilistic poetry

Prosopopoeia

My creator
has abandoned me
the hands that spun these
verses
are now caressing
night axioms and
mysticisms,
the poet left
me
a poem
sunken
somewhere lost
in the motions
of the automatic world,
I am the victim
a spirit
that occupies briefly
whatever soul
treads these words
but, alas
ultimately doomed
to perish
as your
eyes
approach
my final
sigh.

nihilistic poetry

somewhere in the noise

there is a sound
that covers
less regions of
being
a frail ash
unique as the light
on a speck of illusion
it is the faithful motion
of a fingertip
softly caressing
like a pendulum
the lips of energy
intensely receptive
to every hair
brushing against the onrush
of time –
a pause
awaiting the decisive note
of a cycle
that starts here
and ends
in music.
 
 

(dedicated to Arvo Pärt)

21st Century Poetry

counting the ideals

Sleep Modern Poetry

Now that I have
a can of soup
I have been guaranteed
a few more lingering hours
perhaps days

 

my ambition is to do nothing
because everything is worthless
and by knowing this
I can stay peacefully alone in
the alcove of anonymity

 

my ideals
were a roll of bills
I accidentally found
on my way to sleep
unmarked and eager
to be poured into
the greedy hands of the city

 

I have spent them all
while meticulously counting
the days to my impending
poverty

 

now I have a can
of soup
and all the time in the world
to be
sound asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

contemporary poetry

the 21st century

21st century poetry

the city
is
sun-spotted
the whale’s
eye
is full of sadness
brings to mind
the friend
inside the mirror
we only go to
the rooms
dense with smoke
I don’t wish
to bring this word
to the fore
but it seems
like we are
chasing obliteration
touching the chords
that sound of
rebellion
one though
that has given up
on plans
a seated moon
on three stars
a revolver with six
bullets
but no
trigger.

contemporary poetry

flakes of self

thousand_self_poem

this life
is a flight
that with increasing
accuracy I’ve been able
to determine
is nothing but a free fall
and the sensation of flying
is produced by the lucky fortuity
that there is nothing to crash into
in this way, we drift down
spiraling through fields
of emptiness
and nobody knows
when it will end
or if it should end at all
so I’ve started to snap off
little pieces of myself
and blow them into the dark
till one day
there will be thousands of flakes
erratically swaying
in an atmosphere
devoid of destiny 
 
 
 

contemporary poetry

gutter thoughts

The
voluntary dissipation of time
eventless and motionless
decomposing
aging with the night
the loud blah of history
no goodie-goodie stuff
at the end of this line
the long fucking wait
the fucking article
‘the’
the real drunkard doesn’t have
words left to spill
slime, dust and comatose sleep
down
against any attempt
why try, answered the void
truth in a glass
and another glass
and another
another shortcut
to death.
 
 
 

nihilistic poetry

no more poetry

divine_forgetfulness_poem

Twilight and the window
the chair and the wait
I need a drink
before I compose a poem
from these worthless apparitions
that invade my private
inconsequential abode
I remember thinking
life had a veiled multicolored beauty
a raison d’être for the monochromatic
soul
now I drink
think less
but perceive more
like that twinkling
drop
over there
at the brim of a whiskey glass
preparing for the plunge
one fatal splash
into a lake of ennui
that turns all
into whirl
and divine forgetfulness.

nihilistic poetry

observations

winter contemporary poetry

Far
again living
awake
aware
standing on cobblestone
streets
where the grey amnesia of the sky
meets the wet mirror of the street
the snow rests nested
in the tucked arms of branches
imperceptibly rocked into a dreamless winter
voices, alien and desperate
emerge and then disappear
in accidental alternation
like those winds that visit trees
and the zoom out of sight
into a hemisphere of silence
the youth, the drunk and the dying
calling out: it’s too late
adding to the noise
that slowly lulls
the entire earth
to sleep.

contemporary poetry