the care of the self

care_of_self

When I awoke today
I looked at my exhausted limbs
and there – THERE was a wave of tremendum
shafts of wild fascination
hanging from every bit of skin
as by whim, as by holy pendulum
I’d like to judge and proclaim
the final voice is nothing but noise
I rage.
I remain.
Hidden in a territory that history does not interrupt.
A soft sinuous sense like solitude or silencing.
Oh man, how’ve danced and surrendered,
circling the city as a mote swerving around the shafts
of light in this barren room. Alive and extensions
of some unknown cause. Fluttering like a scream
in the barbarity of ignorance. I am proud, a huge
pound of ignorance. A huge pyramid of bliss.
I was a dream. A mirrored mirage.
But now, full of fascinatum
I have the holy stream of eternity
wasted as a shadow
below my feet.
I’ve spilled the moonshine over my bare breasts
in the agony of madness.

Contemporary Poetry

against the world

Against the world

I’m at war
with the world
its shapeless thrust
its violent repose
mutiny
against the world
a disfiguring cause
tingling morphing touch
a vengeance
a lone modicum of timelessness
fueled by: laughter
for all that exists
within and without
carried by an ant
on a sole journey of gust
rising lighter holier
this is war
against the irreconcilable meaning
against the backside of the world
against the frailty of a second
against the ineffable fringe
against the possibility
against the echoing madness
I’m all fury and decay
bringing down the world
from the heights of its
assumption.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

from man to page

Poetry yellow page

A man
Leaves a voice
On brume
That is of paper

To a solitary
Event or thing
He points
As a despondent relic
That must be remembered
Faintly

His hand
The veins asunder
The terror of leaving beauty
Lost in the madness
That collects
Arrant forgetfulness

A man lifts his voice
Clashing with the impossible
His thoughts already of cinder
Mist and silence

A poem remains
Obscurely reposing in the cupped
Hands of the transitory
One of many inanities of inspiration
At moments gaining strength
But ultimately to rest alongside the expended

There with the elapsing sum of experience

Nihilistic Poetry

in the span of 20 minutes

Sufferer's cloud

The rain has made
senseless x’s on the pane
beyond it
the turbulent clouds
initiate the horror
and a short trance,
my madness

no symbol
is free

to speak of mundane
matters
is now unacceptable

the world
useless as thing
but the most terrible
warning

an opening in the clouds

supine
on the ground
a yellow blindness
through eyes surrendering
I sense
blood fencing the sky

inside
an egg
of impatient
globular substance

a sufferer’s music.

Nihilism Poetry

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

172

Dream Poetry

There was only a narrow slit
left between these eyes,
to survive and nowhere else?
the prospect was a sort of madness
somewhere in that peninsular solitude
my lands would become addicted to dreams
with half-shut eyes, looking out
attempting
as vaguely as objects are
or the motes of continuance;
these visions were freed as wealth
in sinister currency,
the mind is sleep
these eyes drugs
hello
expanding monuments
with the last man
sober in your
granite
resembling
an arching
 thick empty
emptiness

 

 

nihilistic poetry

smallness

small poetry

by then
i had crossed
the reason

language was tender
naive and insipid

i was beginning to write
verse
with motion
perspective
a salving madness

i began asking
for the drop
to steal
heaven

a spark in the horizon
a mission
a long-drawn laughter
after the joke of life
had been exposed

it was with all the things
we came to know
that i crossed
the sadness

at last
alone

by the emptiness
of the road.

 

 

 

POEMS

indictments

Modernity as madness

It is no accident
that we grew civilizations
like beards
on the first day
we became pubescent
instigators of chaos

the profligate erosion
sculpting heedless
landscapes on the arc
of this catastrophic planet
was not
enough for
the erotic sapiens
          complexity as fetish

how the tables have turned
dread
served in Smörgåsbord style
for queuing prole
while the offices are
pulpit for the priesthood
of the abstract totem – $

and the day comes
carcass-congested rivers
clearing the malaise of cogito
the terrible sunshine of noon
falling on the
unadulterated
                        playground of the earth.

 

 

Modern Poetry

deepest

snowy streets

I release a deep breath
unawares of anything
I’ve been away
weaving dreams
like a curing madness
the petty circumference of my desire
impels me to
move
not one finger
an inertia comparable
to an everlasting god
that has lived a thousand infinities,
in the deepest streets
in the coldest thoughts
I am a reckless survivor
dreaming in poetry
as a small pebble
tucked away
under the entire
weight
of the universe.

 

 

I turn my head
finally
after days:
the streets are covered with snow.

 

 

I’ve been unaware
like the boy
quietly placing a dot
after every sentence
of lyrical self-absorption:
the consequence
of being
irrelevant.

 

 

nihilistic poetry