What no one will remember
(Part LXx1)
a
journey
in flux. Oct 5th,
2013.
journey
a stroll
.
I walked alone b/c
the streets were attempting
to be white
I’m all sorts of blues
so what a contrast that was,
when I found the open boulevard
imitating a mouth or lights
exactly like my sparkling daze-hood,
the shadows were falling everywhere
like broken pieces of love,
I could hear cars, reminding me
that I’m nothing but a drive;
I was hoping for a journey but found
myself crushing little roads of silence
blinking sadly,
remonstrating:
am i the only poet out here
tonight?
poetry blog
on a camel
On a camel
deeper Morocco
sunset soon
near Sahara
there I started
to feel again,
the beautiful earth
turning in the dream of night;
the stars sailing my mind
all the stars
stars.
staring at the opposite end
of time
in a tent
Berber land
sun gone
near the mighty Sahara.
Modern Poetry
far away
I am so far away,
the moment
is a scorching taste of whiskey
in my half-agape mouth
my hand curling
the hair of
chance
nonchalance
alas is for me a word
signifying wings
history is in my sensations
to end this night
in the consolation of death
being as gentle as
sleep
far away from what is believed,
towards the prismatic dispersal
of becoming again
transitory
so far away
aging with the journey
of name
Nihilistic Poetry Blog
for lack of definition
I have enough fall
to crack open
my soul
the yolk of essence
oozing through my
ribs
I keep evaporating
but the clouds
won’t integrate my
formless mass
my thoughts taste
of cinnamon and world war
and yet they failed
at school
it’s time to saw off
my hands
and let poetry
be made
with
unlicked journey.
motions
the walk
curled smoke
released
like a hallelujah
a modicum of light
on her eye
that stares infernally
at you
curled smoke
released
like a hallelujah
a modicum of light
on her eye
that stares infernally
at you
aging with the pulp
a journey whose
voice praying on ash
gains no wisdom
a journey whose
voice praying on ash
gains no wisdom
the want
disseminating doubts
that coil around the flesh
but no soul
disseminating doubts
that coil around the flesh
but no soul
the last moment of the day
a cello
in the air
charged
with collapse
a cello
in the air
charged
with collapse
ambulant timekeeping
wayfaring in delirium
still listening to
the living
clouds.
wayfaring in delirium
still listening to
the living
clouds.
down south
I’ll erase the ifs
on a one-way street
to perdition
till there is no more
ground to roam
crossing the enigmatic landscapes
whose symbols
remain incomprehensible
while the incandescent journey
coils spirals south
towards the dead-end;
then – a look back to
the effluvia of decisions
an impressionism of the past
of equal value
to the hallucinations of dreams
I remain dumbstruck
such as the puppet
performing an unlikely role
before the theater
of the night.
on a one-way street
to perdition
till there is no more
ground to roam
crossing the enigmatic landscapes
whose symbols
remain incomprehensible
while the incandescent journey
coils spirals south
towards the dead-end;
then – a look back to
the effluvia of decisions
an impressionism of the past
of equal value
to the hallucinations of dreams
I remain dumbstruck
such as the puppet
performing an unlikely role
before the theater
of the night.
in an abandoned city
This is the first step
into a wide open world
the toes stepping on frosty ledges
in an abandoned city
with closed eyes everything is ownerless
then the wispy breeze
then the last leaf of the last tree
then your hand in your inside pocket
hopelessly seeking the tobacco pipe
and the curled tobacco tatters
that will accompany you through
the long twisted journey of smoke and ash;
and while this can be a dream
another broken dimension of subjectivity
you can still feel the rubber of the shoe
stepping on the frigid pavement without cars
the shadows of street signs
wrapping around angles and grayness
as the horizon grows dim with sudden silence
the eyes watery, glorious, unbelieving
of the eternity of being lost and free
in an abandoned city
hidden somehow
in a wide open world.
Timelessness
Unable to escape this vast dawn
hanging upon me like an atmosphere of chemicals
a mechanical tingling from ages’ past
I’ve collected the motionless quantum of floating seeds
constantly mirroring the pinpoints of valleys
as seen from peaks of departure
I’ve spoken with the dark red shade of tomorrow
perhaps seducing despair to taste my blood
her choice fluttered like a hummingbird’s thought
I’ve fallen in those perimeters of wonder
unfelt timelessness
incapable of resisting the language of rising steam
The old skins of trees invade the territory of sense
while curves vague as clouds
embroil this journey’s end.
A Modern Hero
A modern hero
We can watch him quietly chewing his dinner. His gaze is imperturbable and his thoughts invariably these:
The nothingness that exists in all forms, and the nothingness that is yet to be born.
The modern hero awaits (and this waiting period is interminable) for a fatal threat. This threat is anticipated throughout the cycles of the clock. It is always approaching, never disappearing.
What can he do?
Nothing. Resisting the menace of existence is a futile and wearisome illusion. He will initially find himself in hypertension, guarded against an invisible enemy. Since there is no defence against his opponent, rebellion would represent a defeating madness. Acceptance must be learned and practiced. However, salvation is not achieved solely by the acceptance of one’s own precarious situation. He has no escape, he must sacrifice a distracted and unexamined life in order to become bearer of a strange suffering. He will be the hated antagonist of any unfounded human optimism.
For what?
To cure himself of a malady that is not only his own but also a dormant illness that all conscious beings carry within.
What relieves him?
From the perspective of the world he has secluded himself in an abstract and spurious discourse; from the perspective of his own condition he has renounced his faith in a world of form and substance, he has lost trust in the socially approved states of consciousness. He lives in a mythological world, albeit, his myth has not yet been written nor can it be. He is dispersed in a flux of perception that not necessarily implies an objective external world. His experience cannot be communicated, it does not have the logical structure of a normal human situation.
Is there a light at the end of his tunnel?
From the standpoint of the all-too-human, suicide may appear as the last desperate, but effective, act of liberation, but this won’t be his course. He has selected an ambitious journey: The transmutation of consciousness. An intuition convinces him that the reality we live in is only one of many possible creations; and in the sober creation of less restricted states of consciousness he will achieve his ultimate objective: inner peace.
