you.

truth

You.
And the world
is your shadow.
You pale like
the archeology
of a voice,
of a concept.
You.
Sleeping like
a classical representation
of philosophy.
You.
And the measurement
of the universe.
You
like a visible
collection of
fictions.
You, metaphysically
and verbally a
sign.
You the threads
of an octopus.
You.
My fundamental
posited
truth.

Contemporary Poetry

carnivorous cosmology

carnivorous_cosmology

Don’t be shy
I’ve suckled that nipple
called sky

the universal figure of smoke,
whose body I call yours
and time’s standstill has been glimpsed
in the trunks of blood
that our tongues have enacted

what then is not an instant
but creation that will swell either
like an echo or a myth

don’t pretend like you
don’t understand
this carnivorous cosmology

don’t pretend like your
intelligence was flared and pure
and bubbling like open
lawns of lava

return to me tumultuous
and with gales amongst those
fluttering eyes
and and – and turn
your cold torso
towards the permanence of
the flare

don’t be shy
I’ve conquered without
logic the theory
of your lips

this is the only day left
for us —

to spill
like assassins
the bleeding cup
of night.

Contemporary Poetry

Like everything else

stars_are_burning_poem

Burning—the stars are burning.
Rows and rows of flame where we row
arrows were descending like hot petals of fire.
A muscle swells and the voice
speaks between curtains of blaze.
The fire is in the world
and every instant is its fuel.
Staring, standing, seeking
with star-studded pupils
one word is spoken: fire
fire that burns all the pinnacles,
the sacrifice, the holocaust of sacrificing
love, the historicity of the encounter.
Escape woman, hold on to my wings
as embers consumed in this climate
of fire.
The stars — are burning.
Like everything else
we’ve touched, sensed
and desired in the charred medium.
Even the lines of our silhouettes
are wriggling as coils of screeching oils.
Your lips will say it,
when a starving spark devours
those tiny lengths of brief candlewick,
your lips will say it
over and over again
until I will think of nothing else:

Burning—the stars are burning.

Contemporary Poetry

a new language

light_as_language

now that light
rather than words
is the vehicle
of reality

now that language
has ended
its journey

now that sunlight
is pregnant
with passage

I must forfeit
the concept
and be thick
with tears

life is not
happiness
but the stage
where things erupt

love is the eye
making love
to the light

 

 

 

NIHILISTIC POETRY

of love

malene_raun_singer

i know
that your face
shining like a fog
is nothing
but emptiness

that your hand
sliding down
past my navel
grabs a cock
which is shapeless

i accept
the vows
and promises
of love
in a universe
of decay

i know
my love
you are a flutter
in the vast chain of being
and i have kissed
the fleeting
mystery of a lip

i comprehend
our nudity
as a mirage
and that words
coil around us
like fumes of legend

we
arbitrary
like a sun and fate
share a millennium
of spontaneity

i know
your face
is but a passage
an instrument
for the invisible
to be formulated

let’s rub
the falsity of our skins
against the
improbability of our bliss

infinite
you

and

delirious
me

21st century poetry

distillation

poetry distillation

the shape of your neck
wrestling with my focus

I could have smiled
and twirled a spoon
in my coffee
to taste the dimensions
of your spiraling
lips

I’ve wondered
how your body
would resist
being against a window
freezing like dew
in the dawn

all that we study
to forget
the longitude
of an instant

laughter
– yours –
dripping
from above
and there is no
sky here

let’s repose
and dissolve
like heat
ripples
from a distance

over
an unfamiliar
path.

nihilistic poetry

about a girl

About a girl

Since she had lost
all crystals and ponds in her eyes
I had reason to believe
that a furious cobweb
had adhered to her forehead
as a continent of thistle
rooted in the wasteland of her frivolous skin
and yet I’m sure that she was once radiant
as a mirror pointed to the sea,
that once her teeth were rays
piercing through her naturally bitter lips
transforming her semblance
from rock to clouds of summer –
Yes! I had good reason
to suppose that if she were a bed
her springs would pierce out from
the mattress to torture my sleep,
but being still a napkin
her asperity would crack
at the touch of
the first drop
of a kiss.

Poetry 2011