the world has ended

illusion of water

I hold
the final ache
that fragment of ash
shrouded in perception

the wind passes
through the world
wrinkling it
as a docile flag

when did I cease
to believe that
I exist

now all this movement
wanders ownerless
without a pivot

these loneliest eyes
still gathering
the last details
of the vanishing earth

it is so sad
to lie
and pretend this
will last

the canal’s waters
are fleeing from
the light of the sun

I hold
a flake of pain
tight within
my clenched fingers

it is not my hand
but a boat
carrying illusion
till the horizon
as its wake

Nihilistic Poetry

in red illusion

in red

in the anthropomorphism
of ginger youth

in the great convulsion of beauty
affliction mirror fountain and edge

in dense mist of light
waiting for events
to dissolve

red illusion

a hum

like hot laughter

from the frozen
fields of ego




if there were

If there were something
to unify
I’d build a bridge
between partial reality
and the wholeness of nirvana;
had there been
something to rescue
I’d make an ark
from the planks of essence,
letting in, one by one, the species
of the invisible –
if there were something
with purpose
I’d carry it on my shoulders
till I could set it free
in a new meadow of illusion; –

if only there
were there something
other than me
around here.


Nihilistic Poetry Blog


intangible cloud

Dame                                 un                      minuto

                  para                                   desvestir



de                                      su                     tangibilidad;

                  ya                                           no


                ¿qué                     es               real?



                por                                        hacer

en                                      este                        segundo

                es                                          revelar


                             lo                     irreal.




a chinese dream


It’s 3:10
I’m sober
reading Bukowski
still recovering
from my 48 hour
birthday binge,
the universe is still
a made-up word
for this bathroom
and the filling air,
yet I wish
I’d be reading
the great Chinese
soaring over improbable
lifting my veil of ignorance
seeing through the deceits of
untroubled by the vicissitudes
of time
at one with the universe
which is to say
inseparably and eternally here
with this white-tiled bathroom
and the air
that encircles me,
in drowning


nihilistic poetry