metaphor

19A

Avant-garde-poetry

A saint is a stain on white monotony
aloud he thinks: I
am a strange dot among the government of lines;
a mystic is a calm slip into abyss
all joking aside he says:
above the city leaps into tower;
a shaman is a subject under the tyranny of wholeness
aware of segments he asserts:
a fraction is mind lost in the order of totality;
alone in the world every man wonders:
afraid like a leaf in autumn my life
amidst the rain;
a poet is an absolute ark of air
abstruse and above all
a little puddle of reflection
at the end he writes:

a full world and its aura
asleep inside a shoebox
an allegory for barefoot monks.

 

Contemporary Poetry

Per aspera ad astra

ad astra

 

I – waiting
in an unknown corner –
will have a shepherd’s role.
Heartlessly shall I pick up
an empty bucket and bang
it with drops of dew.
Flocks of words that have
broken skin will gather
around me like tiny shadows
of morning or soul.
If a window opens then
temples grateful with dust
from beginning to despair.
I will love the gaps in sound
when every word, world
after world, tightens into
a raceme and leaves its scent
plummet as – tar of transcendence,
foam of formlessness, empire of
impermanence, depth of delusion –
to the ground.
I intend, through endless pages
of misery and category,
to leave a trail for posterity
to meander through the truth
of resemblance in a metaphor.

Contemporary Poetry

about a poem

noticed how
a poem
stirs the dead
of objects
to flap
like vital wings

how it
splits
the feeling
to a pair
of mirrors

wonder
how the metaphor
is an empty cup
we fill with
suffering & immensity

observe
in a fleeting liaison
the sun waiting in the dark
the dream burning the skin
the blue tasting as salt

have you shattered
a poem
to bathe below
the surface of the flown?

Nihilistic Poetry

poetical investigations

Visualize

the first act

of violence

that gave meaning

to the word

‘violence’

the first dog

that symbolized the

genus of all dogs –

the moment

when abstract

was no longer

a word

but the whole history

of the world

Imagine

the timeless

before we gave

it a name

or happiness

before it

became a goal

or truth

when consciousness

was still ineffable

and nesting

Suppose

meaning

was the hardest

bone

and eternity

a living

cloud

Conceive

matter as the

drying spirit

or spirit

as the sleep

of atoms

Assume

if only once

that essence

is the entire

instant of life –

and death

is the entire

essence of poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry

outlandish

 

I envy the rock
I want eyes as deep
protruding shadows
hair as wise tilting winds
combing the grasslands of my thoughts,
I envy the nose rising into the perfume of sky,
the mouth savoring the elusive spring snow,
I need the sleep of a mountain
to command my skin to roll down stones
as dreams down a fatal abyss;
at the bottom touching rivers of intricate twine
my feet would play with the fish and the shimmers –
but my illusion is not merely physical,
I need a religion of transformation
similar to all these millennia of erosion
and above all,
to participate imperceptibly
as a column that touches a heart
like the summit of mineral
descending to the center of the earth,
I need to intertwine with rock, mountain, pinnacle –
something of the power that
envelops me.

 

 

More Poems

a brief view on my own life

21st century poet

I wear thirteen-year-old T-shirts
but I spray them with the most expensive colognes around
I don’t buy them, only use the testers
I’m socially awkward so I might come close
to touch your hair without asking for your permission
you’d probably punch me
but I’ll say that I’m weird and sorry
I’ve never punched anybody in my life, please don’t hurt me
I’m not afraid to write a poem
when something beautiful touches me inside
I see my drunkenness as a preface to wisdom
when I drink a poem I become a mystic
when I peruse your vodka I become a breathing metaphor
I use my sadness as a dictionary
to decipher the language of modern civilization
I do not wish to bore you with my autobiography
when you are done, burn up this poem and use the flame
to warm up your soul.

 

modern poetry

pop song

Guitar poetry

If time had a sound
it would be the dark
arpeggio of a rusty guitar
and I’m unsure
why I chose a metaphor
for time
or why that image
should enter this poem
but I’ve been sitting here
not expecting anything
not certain of what to look forward to
all along
kinda swaying with
the wasting of every minute
almost audibly humming
to the repetitive chords
of this imaginary guitar
that someone could’ve picked up
along the way
to fill in the gap
the silent void
that sweeps through
the years.

nihilistic poetry

The choice

Nihilism Poetry

I have chosen darkness
in it
poetry swells,
literature breeds
dark and oppressive
I breathe in an atmosphere of coal
black ash swarms in metaphors and
contradictions
beating heart that’s become
sullen with life
I choose obscurity
like the ambiguous rose
within an unmovable abyss
I choose the ungraspable void
where borders and objects
interfuse with phantasmagorical thoughts
leaving no content, awaiting an obscure name –
in this dark dream
the Mysterious
is like wine
flowing through the veins
of whatever I am.

nihilistic poetry

Natural Law

Suddenly, dawn
succinctly brightening
      the paradox of your eyes
my finger measuring
      the metaphor of your lips
my breath all over
      the aphorism of your neck
slow, as years
my hand goes further down
to caress timidly
      the analogy of your breasts
carefully, I excite your heartbeat
as the mischievous palm enters
      the axiom of your venter
inevitably, I draw a line south
to reach tenderly
      the plethora of your vagina
but I do not stop there
for my next desire is
      the doctrine of your legs
and further yet
between sunrise and noon
I reverently kiss
      the premise of your feet.

Contemporary Poetry

(dedicated to M. R.)
 

Hope on my hair

Hope slithered down the wall to my left,

she had two long antennae and whoosh

she jumped on me or so it seemed

at first I couldn’t tell exactly where she landed

my left thigh was my first guess, but looking closely

she was not there.  Finally, I saw her

not on me, but at the base of my office chair

playing, gliding from one side to another,

I raised my sight to keep writing this, now

I look down again, Hope is gone.

I look around, she moves swiftly and likes to fly

she is green and fragile like a crystal, so I am wary

my clumsy feet could crush her to death; at length

I see something move, far off near the window… but

no, it’s just a fly preying on an old leftover.

So, I stand up with hands on my hips,

I look up, down, to the side, my back, my feet,

she is nowhere to be found.

I come back, write a few more lines and I spot her

next to my ear – she sits at the chair’s top,

she’s playful and hops on me

she is walking all over me, it tickles.

After a while she seems to settle on my mess of a hair

I can feel individual fibers twitch at each of her steps

where will she go, I imagine you asking,

into my ear, into my skull?

I’m going leave her alone, playing, wandering atop

my jungle hair.

I will probably slowly forget her, get accustomed to her

pranks and romp. One day, tomorrow perhaps,

a gushing wind will break my gloomy meditations

and I will, in shock, gently touch my hair

to find Hope,

still sitting there.