existentialist poetry

the meaning

the meaning

and this that I
see is not a symbol
but the meaning itself

I see
the world
bloated like a vein,
pushing, thrusting
its contents forward,
violently,
towards a new woven
germination.

It does not stall
nor does it rest
at every corner or turn,
it continues like a flood,
as the blood of phenomena
surges through every vessel
of this quivering world.

There is no pause,
no break in its
wild mutations.

I cannot say that I understand
this upheaval, these eruptions
as the muscle of matter convulses
as the nerve of energy pulsates.

But I see a clump of red push,
the flare spreading from night
towards some illusive perpetuity,
the multitudes of twilights
flickering like feathers and swords
in this horrible clash of sensations.

This I see, not a representation
but bulges of smoke billowing
at the end of a sprouting disaster,
whiteness overflowing with obscurity
darkness softening into a monsoon
that shall cast billions of pearls of light.

 

 

Modern Poetry

of being nothing

there on the heavy table
i reimagine the taste
of fruit

the room is small
or the world
ignores
itself for this
instant

it doesn’t
mean much

this circumference
this small area
of being

the room to me
is like a tongue

tasting not much
more than its own
surface

somewhere
something
begins
for someone

but i believe
in the minimum

and reimagine the
sweetness
of being nothing

long before
this room
began.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

dead meat

Ethereal barabingbaraboom
I scream out joyfully for
not having aged a day
this awareness-of-time
of mine
I am the existence of the memory
and if eternity is the hunter
I’ve been deadmeat
forever.

 

 

 

 

NIHILISTIC POETRY BLOG

futile breath

yellow_fields_of_Death-1-1

They say
I should kill
myself.

I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.

But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.

. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.

I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.

They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.

I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.

I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.

I say no;                                           I’ll write poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry

a night (to arthur rimbaud)

I have dreamt of
all the empty drying hairs
of the hanging towel

and then
sat by the gloom
resting on the every sip
of an infinite bubble of beer

whatever was foreign
came inside like pain
we then embraced
as wings made of feathers

the sun has sunk into structure
like an invisible tunnel
coiling around the sound
that a pair of lips dropped

and there is the mystery
of the tint at the edge of wide
nature softening like warm snow
at the shore of a blue eye

suddenly the windows
open like a mouth
and the smell of memory
leaves the room
like rustling from the hearth

there by the color
that was so wide as morning
an absurd hand fell
perturbing the surface
of black immensity

that earth consumes motion
adopted pale mirrors of battles
so it shines like a monument
of groans and poetry

a parcel of blood
has trembled
an ocean of thought
has become short as grass

somehow light
escaped as a carefree crystal
by evening a kiss
has woven a vowel of skin

there
the glaciers of feelings
have a glow and a vision
nearly as beautiful as a face

awake
by the rivers of factories
a century of quantity
because the comedy
transcends the dome

cities, reasons, gulfs
clusters sojourning
in the young greenery
of the storm

soon the saint
will hunt a harmony
the criminal
a wooden blue

I have a sin
a confession as hard as tooth
the shoulders carry
the burden of meaning

an immediate august tear
as calm as knowledge
sunburnt women
naked as cherry trees

somehow we sleep
the branches at an angle
mixing with the mute heroism
of a dancing future

all is ending
when all history is drifting
a virgin parabola
turns into gold

be what it is
the night of god
a tree of nothing
all imageless damage

heaven obscured the woman
that laughed in my hidden eternity
the drunken driftwood
has floated into seasons

when the wall is wet
and the sky feels like a bed
a nostril or a breast of love
our struggle ends in a shadow

a new temple

Modern Poetry

Meet
me

ageless

in
the
streets

we’ll
be bums
smoking
and
in flux

I don’t care
what the
price is
to
be

pure

as a
cigarette butt
burning out
in your
primordial
fingers

meet
me

to
announce a new
temple
for the
boundless:

a park bench
and empty beer
cans
at our
feet.

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry

of whatness

piece of truth

what
was
it

this
fable
of deformities

life

when all
thought
is of the size
of a grain
of rice

and you shave
to feel the snow
on your cheeks

clueless

of how you
indefatigably
will love
the next
occurrence

in this
fable
of ideal
encounters
with something
real.

 

 

 

NIHILISTIC Poetry

of becoming

of_becoming_poetry_21st_century

The possession of my self
in the refraction lonely
something sees as I
the trembling skin
of bright tomato
and someone desires
to lay bare on its surface
light like reflection
of a lamp
the map of understanding
may be indifferent
to axis of human
thinking
nothing belongs to earth
and the real
billows
on the dream
of matter.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

the pus

Sacred pus
azure tear of honey
illusion final and deathly
broken ache of eternal fragment
mind hidden as noise – butter twilight
brick dishonestly masking the painful
I glimpse and all else is rain and light
sometimes pause, the dark name of time
find me aging in the salt of the vein
thirsty with the mountainous experience
of sex and surface, the glass of self vs. ideal
contact or the collapse of the soft spots of obelisks
dents of fossils because the mother cries of purpose
skeleton breasts and her milk of the loving ineffability
the drug of understanding, my knowledge of futility
your awry focus on the skin, the nostalgia of eye
love in the bite of flesh and smell of age
more is forthcoming involuntarily
by an intelligence of blindness
the sky and its language
in your mouth
the pus
of
me.

 

 

 

Existential Poetry