The table no time for its existentialism and absurd chair leaning against the table’s futile stance. I’m a pragmatic man so I have no use for knowing myself. The table studies its own nature by looking at its askew shade. Chair, somberly contemplating suicide because it wants to remove its painfully ingrown nails. Paradoxically they keep it alive, in form, in function. I have only one reality and the clarity of purpose. My furniture’s introspection is a trifling problem in my busy condition. The table has begun questioning things. It likes it when I leave Camus on its surface. I hear the creaky whisper, quoting: ‘the
humanwooden heart has a tiresome tendency to label as fate only what crushes it.’ Absurdly, the chair stares at the modernity of my modus operandi. I cannot be stopped to wonder. Progress is my mission. The table is a stranger to itself. The chair competes for my attention. I have appetites that the world cannot satisfy. Table is dissatisfied with its lucidity, through logic the chair has arrived at the conclusion that knowledge is a form of chaos. I’m a man of the world in spite of everything. In spite of poverty, war, injustice or my furniture’s uncertainty and their long episodes of incoherent silence.
existentialism
the existence
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
Lilililililililiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiili
if nothing had been
taught
green dirt pillow sun hidden source
I die
my love
my element
.
the taste of
reason
return as the red
towards the tasteless earth
how long can
the long understanding
last?
I die in 7 minutes
or 7 decades
for how long must I
invent the existence?
I must cry
because of all
these layers
of years
all these skins
that died
to become
thoughts.
Nihilistic Poetry
of the city
the horizon swells with rawness
a white cumulous beehive,
my thoughts circle the distance
like black heavy flies,
the hairs of time
stroking my mind
like the drunken summer of an engine;
the horizon swells with pink oil
all the trees are horses
with green galloping flowers as their
heads,
my joy is the shy protruding
obnubilation
frozen in the sky like a gray cusp of moon
–
I am the city
with the touch as long as the empty
avenues;
my eyes strange
as the streetlight’s gloom.
Nihilistic Poetry
the nascent act
it is the air expanding
leaning invisibly
on the things
that lie awake
in the oblivion of
our acts
it’s in the hair
how it flees
description
under a delirium
of nods
it is your hand playing
with the light and motion
of a naïve hour
a choice
forever collapsing
in the past
it is melancholy
beading slowly
these pearls of remembrance
in the wasteful hand
of a poet.
Poems
sui generis
A portrait of nothingness –
the tininess in between the worlds
the invisible underlying cup
a blank canvas for the painted universe
absent undisturbed gulf
the sleep that dreams me
while I play hardball
with the junkies of pursuits.
Nihilistic Poetry
the final hours
Bare
on the floor
bare
with our heads
facing
the final precipice
of tomorrow
words coming
like agonies
born from the regret
of the entire universe
our eyes
etceteras of tears
unable to listen
the ticks of the clock
in the morning
light,
inebriated with
the perspective of escape
bare and obliterated
on the top floor
of a building
alongside
oblivion.
on the floor
bare
with our heads
facing
the final precipice
of tomorrow
words coming
like agonies
born from the regret
of the entire universe
our eyes
etceteras of tears
unable to listen
the ticks of the clock
in the morning
light,
inebriated with
the perspective of escape
bare and obliterated
on the top floor
of a building
alongside
oblivion.
(a true story)
contemporary poetry
A modern crisis
We were born after a whole deal of postures and attitudes had been tried and dismissed. It seemed to me that this was the first time in human history when life was unbearable even while we have all the basic conditions for survival and a surplus of commodities. We live in the absence of a raison d’être and our very lives could actually be defined as the search for that sacred reason. We would and probably will travel around the globe and consume every possible experience in search of that elusive understanding that could justify and make sense of all the seemingly senseless gyrations between birth and death, hunting for that catharsis that would erase our feelings of inadequacy and insufficiency.
If I am allowed to make a stand on the current emptiness that governs the modern rebel (and I must state that this rebel is even reluctant to assume this label), I could place him or her within a crisis of value. Let’s formulate this crisis. The ‘fortunate’ human being that is born in a middle-class or higher family is bestowed an excess of leisure, which is occupied with an endless parade of distractions, vague and short-lived entertainments that do not provide deep-rooted satisfaction. This repetition of material hedonism is deceiving and can engage the individual in a merry-go-round of renewable pleasures that are futile in their long-term effects. What an overwhelmingly urban and global society presents as the content and purpose of leisure is more often than not a distraction, a veiling of our impoverished consciousness. The value crisis in which we are situated stimulates thus, within the rebel, a sort of antagonisms against life in general and humanity in particular. Is this a wise human race encumbered by trivial pursuits?
The rebel stands in an existential agnosticism. What can replace the insipid routines, what solution can one offer to resolve the dilemma of human baseness? If leisure represents the time humans can delve in their purpose, our reasoning would lead us to suppose that the average human lives for unchallenging and ready-made experiences. What about the higher fields of art, music, religion, love? Have these been explored sufficiently by the modern man? Do they offer any comfort? All questions with no ready answer, the rebel is obliged to ask without answering, merely pointing to the emptiness without offering a substitute.
The rebel doesn’t conclude hastily but is eager to explore any alternative. The contemporary paradigm is of a successive development from school to career, love to family, wealth to belongings, material accumulations to distractions; yet all this is seen as a deception, a reductionism of the natural potential for a human life. The rebel is apt to adopt a cynical skepticism towards the replacement of one mode of life for another. Life becomes an experiment, a lonesome journey through the limbo of uncertainty. Could religion fill this gap, could music appease this anxiety, could art express this loneliness, could love heal this wound? The experimenter enters them all and many others with caution but will urgently surrender if any of these would deliver him from the surrounding emptiness. Yet traps abound, the guinea-pig rebel still has within the seed of conformism, soon things lose their depth and life abandons its impetus. How to keep the zest for life awake without returning to the dullness of a repetition-ridden soul?
It may seem we are doomed, that any experience by force of repetition becomes insufficiently satisfying for the abyss of hunger that grows inside.
These reflections surge from a modern crisis. A crisis from our lack of meaning, our absence of value. This, in other words, can be called a spiritual crisis. But the themes of this crisis are not god or original sin, it rather belongs to practical ontology, that is to say, a transforming of the quality of being, producing a reality that becomes not only bearable but powerful enough to sweep away the myopic awareness of normal human life. A new understanding might be wanting, a new wisdom of what we understand human life to be, what we do and what we aspire to; a journey that requires a mixture between philosophy and adventure, a compendium of revolt, daring and openness.
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thus we die
Grow because
death is a plant
these errors are twigs
more regrets
furthering rooting
if it is too late
wreck beyond repair
souls, human or other
desire demise
no help
is available for them
for us?
we wait it out
thus we die in resignation
thus we die.
indefinable being
The last remnants of this bitterly afraid body, this ambiguous mind, this capsule in which the entire universe seems to exist – and outside, beyond the surface of this inexplicable skin, a blank void, a dark emptiness, a vicious silence. What in the end is the point of this unending preoccupation to make sense of what is finally unspeakable, to exist in a vast and profound space with miraculous shapes and forms, to breathe and beat a heart relentlessly while the plot of an unwritten play unravels — before these eyes full of wonder? However vainly the hours may pass, oblivious of the impending death of my surroundings, the death that will also come to this entity that strangely calls itself “I”; vain attempts to forget the inevitable, to resist the irrevocable. Had this self been able to escape permanently from the entanglements of disaster, had this ego renounced a borrowed language and survived brutally naked without philosophy, without history, without tales, without spoken love. Somewhere within the entrails of this phantasmagorical reality lies a reflection, a foundation upon which all things past, present and future are sustained, nurtured and consumed; it is a realm powerfully un-human, destitute of qualities and because of its effortless existence it remains sovereign above all things that strive. And maybe it is a joke, to conceive or imagine some sort of reality that will remain after all of us are gone, some sort of metaphysical ground by which our passing away seems less painful, less tragic. There might not be any foundation for the fear, the awe and the effort; every act, every thought, every failure is essentially groundless, and we are and will always be an unnamable race, an indefinable being.
Nightmare’s Pendulum
I am constantly disappearing…
echoing faint voices, distant howls
together with dust
together with silence’s gaze
watching the black oblivion hanging
like a nightmare’s pendulum
on these modern walls
ask yourself now
should we celebrate our meaninglessness
or despair from our short-lived sojourn
Are these darkest skies, games to play
the cries of hunger and misery – unreal songs
spoken winds from distant tribesmen
light, weightless
as unchanging light-bulbs circled by ghostly moths
humans are mist
shallow shadows built to dream
and float about unending abysses
so close to the edge of madness – mothers reply
hold my hand, while we both come undone
consumed by the selfless void, our friend eternally:
wasteland of forms
Beyond Language 
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