meaninglessness

by the wish

I don’t talk much
what’s going to happen
probably doesn’t

that my silence
travels here
nowhere else

unshuffled words
my ideas circle
like moths
about a light
inconsequence

too bad
I aborted eternity
for
this spurious
paradox
of
life.

 

Nihilistic Poetry

meaning of this

meaninglessness_poetry

I was walking down
the streets
trying to perfect
my pronunciation
of the word
meaninglessness
I repeated it
frequently aloud
meaninglessness
meanínglessness
meaningléssness
meaninglessnéss
for a while I stopped
to look up at the
starry night
standing on bridges
and stare at the
water below
skim through neighborhoods
in dim artificial twilight
but then
I continued
meaninglessness
meaninglessness
like a meaningless
obsession had taken
hold of me
meaninglessness
meaninglessness
till suddenly
it was no longer a word
but absolute noise

 

I carried on
that night
in that meaningful chaos
that laid before me.

gutter thoughts

The
voluntary dissipation of time
eventless and motionless
decomposing
aging with the night
the loud blah of history
no goodie-goodie stuff
at the end of this line
the long fucking wait
the fucking article
‘the’
the real drunkard doesn’t have
words left to spill
slime, dust and comatose sleep
down
against any attempt
why try, answered the void
truth in a glass
and another glass
and another
another shortcut
to death.
 
 
 

nihilistic poetry

no more poetry

divine_forgetfulness_poem

Twilight and the window
the chair and the wait
I need a drink
before I compose a poem
from these worthless apparitions
that invade my private
inconsequential abode
I remember thinking
life had a veiled multicolored beauty
a raison d’être for the monochromatic
soul
now I drink
think less
but perceive more
like that twinkling
drop
over there
at the brim of a whiskey glass
preparing for the plunge
one fatal splash
into a lake of ennui
that turns all
into whirl
and divine forgetfulness.

nihilistic poetry

the last drop

Remember

when we met

by that corner of a disguise

talking with the stillness

   that is common to oil

it was an early October blizzard

that trapped us before

we’ve identified our inertia

locked in that cold

with a bottle of vodka and

        letters from Rilke

we drank the last drop

     of our nihilism

ready to die there

    or live on perpetually

with no sense at all.

Nihilist Poet

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.
 
 
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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

Wrong gone

Come

swing like a pendulum

then fall

squash me like an ant

dead, beat, microorganism

could all the volumes of metaphysics

misconstrue this fact?

let it out

you are the entire nothingness

that ever was

you are everything… that’s gone

wrong.

Nightmare’s Pendulum

I am constantly disappearing…

   echoing faint voices, distant howls

together with dust

       together with silence’s gaze

watching the black oblivion hanging

                       like a nightmare’s pendulum

on these modern walls

 

            ask yourself now

should we celebrate our meaninglessness

             or despair from our short-lived sojourn
Are these darkest skies, games to play

 

        the cries of hunger and misery – unreal songs

spoken winds from distant tribesmen

       

               light, weightless
as unchanging light-bulbs circled by ghostly moths

 

         humans are mist

shallow shadows built to dream

                   and float about unending abysses
 

 

 

so close to the edge of madness – mothers reply

      hold my hand, while we both come undone

consumed by the selfless void, our friend eternally:
 

 

 

                         wasteland of forms

Children of nowhere

Those rotten truths and the atrophy of written words

life is outside the inferno of cadaverous literature

the ever-increasing waste of past thoughts

attempting impossible resurrections

                            free the world from fossilization

allow it to burn and dismiss its ashes

our best experiences are never contained

            they roam beyond the frontiers of definition

close those covers of inky nothingness

            step into the bare unadulterated flux

                             mend with the unknown

Flee from cages of routine and metropolitan nonsense

recognize the hollow of every day

            reject the veil of prospects and careers:

                              usurpers of wonder and transformation

children of nowhere

            creators of ambiguity

exorcise the daemons of logic

                             celebrate your insanity!

 

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