in this stone
not one two sounds
rain neither in the air
or light giving echo in its shores
and very slow
in this blue-ceiling stone
there was no yesterday it was beautiful
without clothes and open nudity
dripping between the legs
of day and night of glass
without stars or questions
asleep with names
like shadows in the
shell here of time.
(a translation of http://nihilisticpoetry.com/2013/09/29/aqui-del-tiempo/)
What happens at city
when blank is a building
and the corner is brutish
and the road ahead pale
like something at the end of time
see nihilism is a tentative position
an aggressive form of modesty
because below the blue sky
a head is incapable of understanding
the many things that are absurdly naked
in the world;
of all words
we select a crown
to place that holy concept
over our heads like laurel
to impress the wavering leaves of trees
see nihilism is nothing about thought
but about feeling what thought cannot attain
at the light you stop and feel the beast
the wise thunder of blood
and what happens when city
is trembling and being chased
by whiteness or a hot drunkenness
you pick a word
and make claim that it will save you
under the streetlamp
like a natural haze
at that common street
you remember like an ascetic
that this flesh will be forgotten
There like a bolt
like a stone amidst
a dust beyond
deep in shine
a pocket w/noon
and no shadow
a golden fury
into rivulets a feather
possibility’s a stream
he types ‘whiteness
merge with tear
and this earth
trickled like spark
the wind has a mouth
and the same questions
I peek inside and sound;
with a world outside
pursuing the task
of something beyond
I at length delving
being every thought
rippling with illusion.
Around my neck who knows how history made a voice out of silhouette.
From my lips a hand tore
away in tragedy
that screamed for more.
Time was a pebble I threw into the bucket of space.
Today the pond was patient.
Swallowing from the hot dust
the stupidity of the shadows.
The light was hanging from a branch,
bending space like the surface of
a habitual dewdrop.
The mirror is red with rage.
The world is still glowing, next
to an enormous fire.
I picked up a shadow that was untouched.
I was just waking from the misery of being born in a place so big, I’d never see it all.
The streetlight turned red.
through the wings
under the sight of the moon.
No one dead has come back
to tell us
It’s nearly midnight,
there’s no exception
How decisive is the blindness
of the storm
& the twigs are still shivering
When murmur is no longer a labyrinth,
when I see the teeth biting the dark
and how the depths of earth
have been waiting for me
behind a cluster of
The trick is to close the eyes.
To look for the thing
crawling below the carpet of darkness of the lids.
Remain still like a hunter. Do not stir
even if a sliver of light echoes through the emptiness.
You’re looking for a boom.
It starts with a swirl of symbols
curling around each other
in wild experiments of mutation.
You’re looking for a spark, an isolated
hazardous word that will scale
up the fence of perception, to consume
the whole plantation of thoughts.
Venture into this plague of accidents,
advance as a whirlwind upon the dunes of ash.
Soon the darkness begins to burn bright,
you are a sun leaping into a single atom
witnessing a birth to the naked eye.
Sed is Spanish for thirst. Cyrano de Bergerac sat one day to write his tragedy, La Mort d’ Agrippine, for reasons no one will ever know or understand. He wrote, perhaps before midnight:
Ces beaux riens qu’on adore et sans savoir pourquoi….
Beautiful nothings that we adore without knowing why. He was referring to the gods. So there is thirst for absolutes, some people sense it and yet die athirst. For centuries mankind has looked for this totality through a window they’ve called the soul, which is rather unfortunate that today it has been reduced to myth. Not because the soul is an actuality, but because we need the image of the cosmic window. Alma is soul in Spanish. But I don’t want to say, tengo sed de alma (I am thirsty of soul). It is peculiar that in Spanish “to be thirsty” is expressed literally “to have thirst”, as if thirst were a possession, an accretion to one’s being. For this reason I prefer to express myself in a double language: I am sed of soul. That is to say that I AM the thirst of soul, I am the empty dark room desirous of an aperture, of the link between my personal darkness and total illumination; I am the emptiness craving a flood of light that will inundate the cavity of my cavernous being.
In the same play, Cyrano wrote:
Une heure après la mort, notre âme évanouie sera ce qu’elle était une heure avant la vie.
One hour after death our vanished soul will be that which it was an hour before life.
That is to say, the window will soon be shattered.
So quick, let’s raise the curtains of alma.
This is not an experiment.
This is an animal
slowly dressing itself
with a garment of stone.
This is a shadow
shedding its bone
in a camouflage of change.
This is a sister
opening a drawer
to hide a wonderful thing.
This is antiquity
growing thick with mighty
buttresses of steel.
This is a mouth
movements of moonlight.
This is a perception
flapping in the silence
of the air.
This is a drunk
stealing a plume
from the waitress’ perfume.
But above all,
this is another hand
clinging to the edge
before the fall.
I bumped into the city, the bastard.
Looking around the snow – remembering
my tongue melting as ice in Lascaux and fossilized
toothpicks near the ancient campfire.
I was in Iceland and got drunk,
looking at the cloudless that would die
before the sky reached Sweden.
I have been on the toilet all day,
working, theorizing, and it came
out looking like Nobel’s head,
I will sit beneath a giant tree and forget
my existence as grass never did.
I see why the intellectuals
are enchanted by doom.
But why worship definition as
a totem almighty menacing godly cult.
I see why the poets cancel death
and write lyrics for the music
of meaningless wind.
I observe the visionaries
about to detonate with their unclean secret
like a grenade in their chests . But they can’t,
never finding sunshine in communication,
sadness has overwhelmed language
leaving behind a thin vicissitude
I can’t tell you here
what value, how important,
Haven’t found it, every bit
is rising like a moon
no matter if it’s a thing
or a thought it disappears
I feel human, literally
a heart pumping veins
in rings of muscle. And
also empty space between
all of you and this isolation of brain,
language, dark brown eyes,
I let you walk pass me
passersby. If I touch
you by chance by accident by love by desire
by dinnertime by church by antiquity by destiny
by skin by Friday by crying by leaving
it will be my memory moaning for
togetherness again with the ebb and flow
of zeroes echoing in the silence.
I do not claim
my isolation is unique,
my brain bottled in language
looking out into the world
through dark brown eyes.
But I cannot touch you
when you are a tricklebird
dripping from the skyline.
our days are numbered and
we must face the tough blue earth
as if it were the end–