the meaning

the meaning

and this that I
see is not a symbol
but the meaning itself

I see
the world
bloated like a vein,
pushing, thrusting
its contents forward,
violently,
towards a new woven
germination.

It does not stall
nor does it rest
at every corner or turn,
it continues like a flood,
as the blood of phenomena
surges through every vessel
of this quivering world.

There is no pause,
no break in its
wild mutations.

I cannot say that I understand
this upheaval, these eruptions
as the muscle of matter convulses
as the nerve of energy pulsates.

But I see a clump of red push,
the flare spreading from night
towards some illusive perpetuity,
the multitudes of twilights
flickering like feathers and swords
in this horrible clash of sensations.

This I see, not a representation
but bulges of smoke billowing
at the end of a sprouting disaster,
whiteness overflowing with obscurity
darkness softening into a monsoon
that shall cast billions of pearls of light.

 

 

Modern Poetry

the sensation of knowing has faded

Pablo Saborio Poetry

the sensation of knowing
has faded
the congealing cement
our last coverture

ugly, reeking
and already alone
with a bullet of important birth

have the notes in the eyes
a melody of face and terror

the philosophers
have turned to the poetic
in depiction
the overt sorrow
of crocodile skins

this task of surveying
bland vast infinite
words not even mountains
to rest the moon
on their slopes

death and terror
sustained by repetitious
creation, a blind fountain
speaking for the absence

I
supplant
meaning
to extinguish
consolation

representation having failed
we rely on the cruel instant
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Nihilism Poetry

To the history of the human spirit

Human Spirit Painting
a furious dream of the human
spirit bourgeoning out of control
we are of dew ephemeral
blades of song touching oblivion of grass
textures of meaning
in a masquerade of folly
wistfully crowing the surface
little drops of being
little shrouded animals
of extinction and myth
            nothing
            becoming
            nothing
            above
            nothing
            inside
            nothing
            for
            nothing

 

nihilistic poetry

man within the man

Man Within The Man Poem

I became an observer
a type of man within the man
not in the act
rather somewhere between
the meaning and the purpose,
I see him from abroad
I am always in another land,
he often follows a plan
making haste and waste
of the hours

I don’t talk to him
he’s too busy feeling down
or doing the dishes,
I let him run
the government of duty
I see his fortress of pain
from my tiny exile

I have visions,
seeing him old
brittle like flakes of rust,
confounded
not sure of what’s to come;
I pretend
to be dreaming
and nothing more

that man
is my only friend

like a good old book
I peruse in my
wayfaring days

like a star
in the night sky
that’s been dead
for years

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry

more blah

Life Ad Infinitum

add to me ad infinitum
fasten echoes around my laughter
conduct time by its vulgar silhouette
return the black that eroded your eyes
oh my what an endless effect
          the cause of your choices
an observation racing the light,
is that the bloated noise I call meaning
by the leaves that crawl as outsiders
          on the even solitude of the street
add to me more becoming
while I endure mortality as an empty receptacle
that nests these parcels of private history –
these wobbly extensions of the void,
tucked away in those gaps
that condense life into blah.

 

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry

exit to enter

Gate to heart

All that I prophesy

is the way the world
spirals unto itself

there
space and dream
hibernate into consciousness

the product of my speech
is the withdrawal of meaning
in words
from reality to possibility

multiplying the interior
by tearing asunder
every perception
into further
fragments

ultimately
I have noise
as fur over the idea
of myself

beauty
sideways to phenomena
precipitates
towards the pinpoint
of         my
    heart

 

 

Modern Poetry Blog 

second place

second place poet

learn meanings
asphyxia
coated roughness
in tender existence
panic so beautiful
you call it
god

learn the noise
behind the word
lurking behind
a search
so silent
you call it
drums

learn abyss
a fall
inevitably soft
dismemberment
asunder
you call it
peace

learn meaning
holding the concept
explosions
ready to kill
the unity of thought
you should call it
jackpot!

 

 

nihilistc poetry

A modern crisis

a_modern_crisis

We were born after a whole deal of postures and attitudes had been tried and dismissed. It seemed to me that this was the first time in human history when life was unbearable even while we have all the basic conditions for survival and a surplus of commodities. We live in the absence of a raison d’être and our very lives could actually be defined as the search for that sacred reason. We would and probably will travel around the globe and consume every possible experience in search of that elusive understanding that could justify and make sense of all the seemingly senseless gyrations between birth and death, hunting for that catharsis that would erase our feelings of inadequacy and insufficiency.   
If I am allowed to make a stand on the current emptiness that governs the modern rebel (and I must state that this rebel is even reluctant to assume this label), I could place him or her within a crisis of value. Let’s formulate this crisis. The ‘fortunate’ human being that is born in a middle-class or higher family is bestowed an excess of leisure, which is occupied with an endless parade of distractions, vague and short-lived entertainments that do not provide deep-rooted satisfaction. This repetition of material hedonism is deceiving and can engage the individual in a merry-go-round of renewable pleasures that are futile in their long-term effects. What an overwhelmingly urban and global society presents as the content and purpose of leisure is more often than not a distraction, a veiling of our impoverished consciousness. The value crisis in which we are situated stimulates thus, within the rebel, a sort of antagonisms against life in general and humanity in particular. Is this a wise human race encumbered by trivial pursuits?
The rebel stands in an existential agnosticism. What can replace the insipid routines, what solution can one offer to resolve the dilemma of human baseness? If leisure represents the time humans can delve in their purpose, our reasoning would lead us to suppose that the average human lives for unchallenging and ready-made experiences. What about the higher fields of art, music, religion, love? Have these been explored sufficiently by the modern man? Do they offer any comfort? All questions with no ready answer, the rebel is obliged to ask without answering, merely pointing to the emptiness without offering a substitute.
The rebel doesn’t conclude hastily but is eager to explore any alternative. The contemporary paradigm is of a successive development from school to career, love to family, wealth to belongings, material accumulations to distractions; yet all this is seen as a deception, a reductionism of the natural potential for a human life.  The rebel is apt to adopt a cynical skepticism towards the replacement of one mode of life for another. Life becomes an experiment, a lonesome journey through the limbo of uncertainty. Could religion fill this gap, could music appease this anxiety, could art express this loneliness, could love heal this wound? The experimenter enters them all and many others with caution but will urgently surrender if any of these would deliver him from the surrounding emptiness. Yet traps abound, the guinea-pig rebel still has within the seed of conformism, soon things lose their depth and life abandons its impetus. How to keep the zest for life awake without returning to the dullness of a repetition-ridden soul?
It may seem we are doomed, that any experience by force of repetition becomes insufficiently satisfying for the abyss of hunger that grows inside. 
These reflections surge from a modern crisis. A crisis from our lack of meaning, our absence of value. This, in other words, can be called a spiritual crisis. But the themes of this crisis are not god or original sin, it rather belongs to practical ontology, that is to say, a transforming of the quality of being, producing a reality that becomes not only bearable but powerful enough to sweep away the myopic awareness of normal human life. A new understanding might be wanting, a new wisdom of what we understand human life to be, what we do and what we aspire to; a journey that requires a mixture between philosophy and adventure, a compendium of revolt, daring and openness.
 
 
Return to homepage of Nihilistic Poetry

My friend

it goes beyond saying

lonely friend

you and I are strangers

afraid of each other

we may frown

as if we were advancing

with some sort of serious purpose

we may drag along, with tattoos and beer

as if we were sure of our cause

I comb my hair to look decent to you

you smile when we say goodbye to be proper

still we move in circles… wide empty circles

the wine soothes

our sleep pardons

suddenly you awake from elliptical wanderings

you are at a park interrupting your routine

brutally condemning our ongoing lies

the denial of loneliness and panic

can we stand another day of hypocrisy?

No, no, let’s not make questions

there are no real reasons

a chaos we organize in years

an avalanche we interpret as experience

though words may be wide as universes

my lonely estranged friend

we are bereft of all true meaning.

Nihilistic Poetry