spiral measures

mote_of_sound

 

I am going to die.

But there are days
when flesh titillates
and joins the circus
of the sinews

and there’s ecstasy
in the flesh
as if it were loaves
of bread soaked
in froths of bliss

and the moment’s trapeze
is a vehicle or an aspect
of levitation

and neighbors witness
a whiff of shadow
swirling in dimly lit
orbit

and forget noon
dawn or wood
head or heart

being here
in physical perpetuity
in whirlpools of hairs
and hairs and hairs
and bones

veering
towards a dizzy
orchestration

until I become
a mote of sound

that has permeated
the intermediary air.

Contemporary Poetry

mystic flowers

Mystic flower poetry

I let go of the beard
and eyelids of God.
It will rain, the eyes of the earth
will go blind, white breathless turmoil.
A boy with books and grand prophesies,
composing the sadness of the final silence.
An epoch to remember what I wanted.
The river of visions carries skin and mirror,
a noise of nowhere and nobody’s scent.
What beastly ache to be a fleeting universe
with no country except the island of thought.
I have no beard and the nausea of mountains;
I have in my mouth the salty meat of the soul.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

I have the world

aarhus giant kid -

 

I have the world
like pulp
inside my fist.

The juice that drips
like concentrates
of dream.

Wait!

I refuse to describe you.

 

World you are in my grasp,
but I refuse to recite your
casual contents.

I have eloped with silence,
my petty pet.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

from the periphery

Tree of life poetry

I’m only interested in
what happens in the periphery
the seizure of a treetop’s leaf
struck by inexplicable wind
held inexplicably by an arm of
something less than wood

The days are quite silent
mysteriously moving forward
as the untouchable clouds
that travel to untouchable
lands of rock and smoke

I sketch this madness
with ink of wine, shades
of sleep, colors of books
the perspective of lines
drawn with mad logic,
by principles of decay

I see beauty, lost
in the ubiquitous space
   of the irrelevant
I use my hand and pretend
to dig fingers as roots
in these fleeting singularities

The destiny of Man?

                     – To be swallowed
                        entirely by
                        essence.

Poetry

amidst the formless

The Poetry of Awe

The face was carved out
Of sound and motion
Vision was clay of river
Through ages and lives
His face was the platform
Of transforming secret –
I was a full body of beer
Reeking smell of hallucination
The concept of man
Was the rustling leaf beyond the window?
My friend and I
Seeping into the occult layers of perception
Like rats of laughter we followed the maze
Unabashed by the terrible condition
The flaky reality we were inventing
At 6am of a holiday retreat
As automaton, as passion
The nude words of the intoxicated
As free bullets
Hunting the lie
Of the self.

My madness began at seven
Beautiful ineluctable madness
The sun was over the horizon
In wide strokes of light
Painting my ribs: the tress
The fields were windows
Clear lucid germ of becoming
My skin was everywhere
Like an atmosphere of beams
My song was the sadness
The pain
The burden
The guilt
In that bath of purity
My mouth was full
Swelling with
The verb of awe

Nihilism Poetry

exiting self

Lonely Tracks

bon voyage
exiting self
to achieve
transcendence
from the will
acutely parted from the sky
wasting awash away
timeless
in the music
of plasma of objects
timeless drizzling self
aching in eternity
but effortlessly resonating
     –   exiting self   –
at the core
 of the
true
position

 

Modern Poetry

the future of a vibration

Twilight Church Dome

kneel and pray
humanity
sit in lotus
on the highways
fill the fields with prostrated bodies
till perception becomes only vibration
cease action
we’ll go extinct
but in exchange
we would have the supreme reality, bliss, timelessness –
these no longer words
but palpable facts,
enough calm to abolish the despair
of another millennium
of 20th centuries;
decay in silence
till there is a pure core of beauty
the entire cosmos
as the tingling of an approaching
eternal orgasm


21st century poetry

catharsis begun

Fetus Hand Poetry

The days have expired
if I was once a shadow
now I am smoke
tomorrow?
perhaps the empty pause
between two despairs
the sky is black tar
my distant vault
stained by the vapor
of every perspired minute
I made my hands cups
the recipients of beauty
but it would not rain
clear skies with
excess of stars
dizzied by this overhead
backdrop
I made up posthumous names
for my fetus hands

tomorrow?

a lie
a song
a purposeless
flight.

 


 
modern poetry

Smooth sounding rain

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

.

 

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

.

 

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves.

Silence within the great symphony of rain.

 

    Silence whilst listening to a thousand voices of cold tropical drops smashing into leaves and edges.

Silence that is grey;
      
profoundly incomprehensible.

And a voice that wraps things full of wonder with words full of emptiness. 

 

   A sight that dwells endlessly on a dream planet, a dream life.

 

A layer of skin that pierces darkness and absorbs the world into a

       nugget of perception.

To breathe in awe of all surrounding perplexing forms, a close connection with improbability.

 

Then it stops, the ever-changing new turns old and rigid. Common, ordinary minutes.

Then again and again there is a plan, a prospect.  The vertigo of wonder disappears

routine conquers anew.

 

Echoing thunder is heard far beyond the touchable. 

             

 

                    To be one with what has been,

    

what is

 

what will be