I peek inside and sound;
with a world outside
pursuing the task
of something beyond
here.
I at length delving
being every thought
a lake
rippling with illusion.
existential poetry
the origin of birth
If you tell a kid
that can’t remember being born,
you were born of your mother,
from your father’s seed
you come from a line of lovers
that started way back
before the instrument of love
when there was only form
forming flux and
the structure of diamonds
everywhere protruding
from the mystery
of dark pulsation.
Contemporary Poetry
any wall
I am a man
that learnt
at an early age
that I cannot
hold in my hands
the entire world
like a little lovely thing.
I could have had that thought
anywhere in the world,
but it came to me
while I stand here against
a random wall in Berlin,
any wall.
I am a man
that not long ago
considered Thales
the first theoretician,
but fundamentally
wrong as I saw
everything behaving
as smoke.
After a while
things seem sad
fading like a cloud
the world is like a ghost covered in mud
and all our words are pointing at it
like guns
and we’re watching
waiting
for the ethereal blood.
against the intellect
In the pissoir I am a man.
(look above)
some sort of distant collision,
where totalities remain crumbs
see those tiny galaxies
crushing their bones
without emotion in a faraway
dissolution of waves.
I am a man leaving the certainty
of proud world.
I thought I knew the world
when shapes were its body
and chaos its breath.
But even that is a view.
The violence of the mass exists
like pink throbbing in the
dynamite of perception.
I leave the toilet and confront
a scroll of measures and a bunch
of mirrors masking the smoke –
at the core nothing is known.
The sky – like a word –
turns black.
And there’s silence,
like a shadow,
following me home.
Contemporary Poetry
my eyes and shiver
There will be no more.
I will close my eyes
and shiver
as a wriggle in timelessness.
No tomorrow.
From the table
we put in our mouths
the last lesson of the bread,
we close the door
and the familiar unknown
disappears together with the
city noise.
There was no explanation
for this history of glimmers.
There will be no more:
injustice – no more form
and ideas will be lost
against the sounds of the bells.
The eyes will become simple silences,
clouded by the color of the music.
Everything will be resting
at last
under the warmth
& patience of the shadows.
Contemporary Poetry
eleven short cantos
I
Around my neck who knows how history made a voice out of silhouette.
From my lips a hand tore
away in tragedy
the chord
that screamed for more.
II
Time was a pebble I threw into the bucket of space.
III
Today the pond was patient.
Swallowing from the hot dust
the stupidity of the shadows.
IV
The light was hanging from a branch,
bending space like the surface of
a habitual dewdrop.
V
The mirror is red with rage.
VI
The world is still glowing, next
to an enormous fire.
I picked up a shadow that was untouched.
VII
I was just waking from the misery of being born in a place so big, I’d never see it all.
VIII
The streetlight turned red.
Grass burning
through the wings
under the sight of the moon.
IX
No one dead has come back
to tell us
anything.
It’s nearly midnight,
there’s no exception
to that.
X
How decisive is the blindness
of the storm
& the twigs are still shivering
in memory.
Xi
When murmur is no longer a labyrinth,
when I see the teeth biting the dark
and how the depths of earth
have been waiting for me
behind a cluster of
soft sorrows.
Contemporary Poetry
first time
Remember the beginning
when even purity was a hot coal
in our hands.
The waves of genesis
and we built a clock, a molecule at a time.
We followed the river and
craved of its skin like white fur and foam
to be annihilated as beams and ripples in the sea.
Society was a coffin where we learned a dialogue of echoes.
But now this ear of mine hears the throat of time gutter
so timeless motion of reiteration
its old blossoms of fine appearance.
Now the distance is glazed with my breath.
The elements are trapped in the hard wombs of words
but everything else crumbles as shadows being
faceless in the ash.
Memory, remember when memory was a fruit we had only
tasted once?
I’m frightened because the sky is immense
and I am naked in its clouds
like a prostitute in the
wind.
Contemporary Poetry
thin vicissitude
I bumped into the city, the bastard.
Looking around the snow – remembering
my tongue melting as ice in Lascaux and fossilized
toothpicks near the ancient campfire.
I was in Iceland and got drunk,
looking at the cloudless that would die
before the sky reached Sweden.
I have been on the toilet all day,
working, theorizing, and it came
out looking like Nobel’s head,
one day
I will sit beneath a giant tree and forget
my existence as grass never did.
I see why the intellectuals
are enchanted by doom.
But why worship definition as
a totem almighty menacing godly cult.
I see why the poets cancel death
and write lyrics for the music
of meaningless wind.
I observe the visionaries
about to detonate with their unclean secret
like a grenade in their chests . But they can’t,
never finding sunshine in communication,
sadness has overwhelmed language
leaving behind a thin vicissitude
of smoke.
Contemporary Poetry
the end
Sorry,
I can’t tell you here
what value, how important,
where everlasting.
Haven’t found it, every bit
is rising like a moon
no matter if it’s a thing
or a thought it disappears
somewhere.
I feel human, literally
a heart pumping veins
in rings of muscle. And
also empty space between
all of you and this isolation of brain,
language, dark brown eyes,
I let you walk pass me
passersby. If I touch
you by chance by accident by love by desire
by dinnertime by church by antiquity by destiny
by skin by Friday by crying by leaving
it will be my memory moaning for
togetherness again with the ebb and flow
of zeroes echoing in the silence.
I do not claim
my isolation is unique,
my brain bottled in language
looking out into the world
through dark brown eyes.
But I cannot touch you
when you are a tricklebird
dripping from the skyline.
Sorry,
our days are numbered and
we must face the tough blue earth
as if it were the end–
Contemporary Poetry
sugar of lung
I’ve translated the sugar
of lung and by mist
the meaning of language
is a family of pauses
appearances that crawl
like incense between crevices
of hard barrier,
but then there is truth
which as a fence
we jump to land
on barbarous scenes of fading,
where we hang the moon
in our hollow cavity
and there walk in thick groups
of solitary breaths,
aiming to cut the tragedy
in two great halves
with the rim of suffer.
You must be logged in to post a comment.