touchable

Touchable

What I ask of you
is to invent a reason
something of a shade
like a morsel of labyrinth,
to shed a tear
like a long branch of truth,
a solitude that has the figure
of a stranger followed by smoke,
something that I need is so elemental
like the way you tear away the wings
faithless in the heights,
what I ask is for you to turn around
bright, tangible and ancient
peeling naked our sense,
it is not hope that I seek
but in infallible squalor
to touch your name.

 

 

Nihilis
tic Poe
try

Underground Paralysis

I might be mistaken, but I believe there is much to fear in the course of our lives. It is a fear that wine, parties and television might distract from our attention but they will never annihilate it. Most philosophies of despair tend to denounce the ABSURD as an inexorable quality of our advancing lives. It is, in fact, this irrepressible motion forward though cycles of interminable triviality that the despairing existentialist complains about, and makes a living by declaring the banality of earthly life.  It is fascinating to think that in recent times the attitude of wailing has been adopted by many clever writers, and we, as audience, enjoy reading about our impotence and frailty.
Anyway, the fear I mentioned does not arise from the intellectual awareness that the things we do in life have no permanent meaning or from the existenliast´s lack of trust in the frenetic impetus of time. It is a feeling only describable in metaphor, it is only visualized in representations of the deepest horror:
 
You are not moving
not advancing
but the color changes
grey to black
the purest black
the deepest deep
each tick of the heart
marks a step further
into a maze of incomprehensibility
like an universe empty
no stars or galaxies
only a demonic silence
a cognitive paralysis
an underground turbulence
 
You reach out for help
piercing the dark horror
trying to hold on to something
your hand blindly advances
at the end of your fingers
 a river of pain…
having crossed your multi-layered mind
and light-years of voidness:
 
two options,
if you scream you drown
asphyxiated by the thick weariness,
or
you marry silence
isolated indefinitely
in the cruel awareness
of your inexplicable
existence.

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?