the world of men

World of men

I cannot wait
to be in your teeth
ripped apart
in black disguise
by your plotted fangs
and crushing grand schemes
I can’t wait
to be flotsam
that nobody finds
in your sea of control
rotten planks
sinking into an insignificant
quiet disappearance
I cannot wait
a minute longer
to be fake rice
in your fields of expansion
never becoming
more than a spot
of white nothingness
amidst your supreme
everything .

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

The realization of the ineffable

We are some sort of subject: irrelevant

  we are some sort of electro-chemical

                      matter: unnecessary

We are eagerly afraid

         the final gasps of death

fear is the last ally

   the last lost courage

to throw away

    the cloudy misty life

               of human superfluity

panic: a mouth-full of despair,

           feed us more!

The colossal strength to sustain

      those pillars of petty humanity

and vanquish utterly

       vanish totally

in the final realization

–         the ineffability –

 the unspeakable death of language

for the beginning

   the return

        to an untold world

 

 

 

More Modern Poetry ?

They were there…

There they were, shattered

      sidewalks murderous sidewalks

frozen in their disorder, fractured by black color

     and had to reach down

        and pain their unfeeling scars

but this is not about sidewalks,

               it resembles that primordial awe

or the seven cold nights of tribesmen

         it intimates with old necessity

and the heavy mist that kills without moving

   because further down by the hollow blackness

            of cracked sidewalks and rapid decay

desasosiego, was called once in Spanish

           spontaneous hymns of indigent earth

shadowless religions with no clouds on their backs

       noiseless disaster tamed by echoed habits

stepping beyond – further into hopeless air

                 and with it, the truth concealed

hidden encounters with the ultimate Inexplicable

        certainly having probed the depths of terror

the animosity of rebellion and the flakes of solitude

      in what seems like ages of torment and desasosiego

         by the unknown light of trembling – hardened

frozen and broken like irrelevant sidewalks

           forgiving the ancient errors of willing blindness

alone, amongst these detached blocks of cold cement

           my finger slithered their gaps,

and call me mad, lost and nocturnal – again,

           I was nowhere, in calm beauty:

my irrelevant isolation.