the fucking truth

the truth poemA wild band of maniacs
command me

I am hostage
given the liberty
to think
but not to feel

they feed me futures
the bones of tasks

I am hunted
with a shield of invisible ideas
I am naked to the truth

hurting by the clouded horizon
I poeticize my hypocrisy

I am of thieves
after masks I’d like to kiss

I’m heading towards madness
together with my wild pack of beasts

Nihilistic Poetry

killing time

Killing Time

 
 
 

 

Feel the beating of the prison heart? Time deals the future as cheap junk. I’m an addict just like you. No need to run, there’s no escaping. It’s useless to be optimistic or pessimistic about it. Everybody wants to change it, but who’s ever watching it? It is a remarkable thing to be a body. A body of evidence, who knows how many millions of years of evidence. The evidence points to mediocrity. If you have ever witnessed a murder, then you must know how I feel when I witness human nature. It’s atrocious. Everything is tangled up inside, confused by language, made insipid with repetitive thoughts and drives, full of sadness if you want to hear the truth. The valiant acts of art? Muddled self-pity, if you ask me. Art is a sweet kind of poison, but it is still toxic. Life, culture, art, all of it once made me sick to the bone. I am learning to deal with it now. A feeling of disgust is merely a form of disguised utopian mentality. If existence is unbearable, we are assuming or hoping for some kind of alternative worthier reality that is being spoiled by the current state of affairs. But there isn’t any and if there is, what makes us suppose we will be the ones to solve the conundrum when so many others have failed in the course of history. We wait for our time to pass, often fixated with a future state of well-being. It’s a compulsion but it does the job. It kills time. There is just too much of it and we’re running out of ideas. Take this loathsome piece of prose or art or self-pity; whatever you call it. I’m just killing time.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

time’s the renegade

Time_Clouds_ Modern Poetry

The century skipped a beat
you, me and them
now dance in the criminal perplexity of death
I don’t want to state the obvious
but you are so obvious
my brain feels like the word: bacteria
almost an etcetera but never like a cafeteria
time hopped onto future’s back and left me back there
with the orphan past
I said, the century missed a beat
now we sleep listening to the lullaby of underwater winds
things broke
but chaos is a wonderful planetmaid
in the last days of last decade
I held my feet up high, pretending to be a bat
that could sleep and digest while clutching the sky
she loved to watch things grow – she was a true prophet
is it a sin father to make life a pillow and all events fiction
since the century ran over us without saying goodbye
can I sleep for the rest of this
illusion?

 

nihilistic poetry

Supine bewilderment

bedroom shadow poetry


What muscle can I use
to lift despair
despair that’s agape and out of words
hope-coated despair
that keeps us waiting for a train
that was never built;
while the body of the universe
convolutes in acrobats and yogas
I feel like a cramp
at its heel
what is my next move –
let the future be?
but this future
is a dividing wall
between us and our _____
                   (enter your raison d’être here)
I have a sledgehammer
but only atrophied muscles
to do the job.

nihilistic poetry

Tinges of blue

 

 

I left the office shy of two o’clock

gaining inside a shudder that could reach

just beyond the boundary of solitude.

              I raised this old neck of mine

                           the sky was me.

Belonging to dreams we no longer dare to glimpse

               futures too powerful too bear

fears that out of plain habit

covered me like husks of wisdom.

So eternally blue – with the intensity of an S

similar to the smell of dawn, depths of now

                                      bright as selflessness

        blue as sky.

A kind of rejoicing, a mystic’s forgotten book

                                       and the glory of erased words!

TO return, live a thousand sleeps

                       one more lonely death

varying degrees of godless hours

                                  those dissipated moments

hungry of freedom, so easily obscured.

               Bury me in lands of mute plants.

Blind pasts, unimportant futures.

                 The sky was me, I turned

I had gone away… hands overflowing possibility.

Go back to Beyond Language

Hopeless eyes

 

From this region here to that other geography
From this sober dream to that brittle philosophy 

From this silly present to that uncertain future
From this strange human to that evolving creature 

From this labyrinth life to that simple death
From this fleeting day to that final breath 

What consoles my hopeless eyes?

The riddle of death

Stand, paralyzed
Under midnight’s neon
The wind is cold
Your lungs filled-with fear

The voices of the city silent
But yours angry and desperate
                             Then you say:
I was not meant to live
For I know not how to die

Silly mortal questions
Burdensome and disquieting
Aching uncertainties
Interrupting your sleep

How serious can it be
To die and nevermore be
Have we trembled for naught?
Expecting a snake
               Which was only a rope

Sleep has come, today is born
Lost in duties, whatever follies
Unaware of future’s scheme
Nothing matters but this instant