Of the corn
that makes residence
in the wrapping shadow
of time along the bark
of a tree
in the proximity
of approximation
the figure of life
is guesswork
the natural ponds
of objects
resonate as if
driven by the longevity
of clouds
the hand
inventing surface
from the ghosts
of light and edge
in observation
the bread of process
dissipating like smoke
inside the throat
of ravenous eyes.
Is there a possibility
of ache and wonder
some knowledge
of cave and cadence
has man
any recognition
of the dream
in the edifice
of infinity
the sun
is drowning
in red essence
everything
sleeps
like a butterfly
in flight
lucid
shapeless
earth.
By government of limbs
empty networks of rules
my lost skull
finding fragments of hope
in books and lasting gulps
I remember the bishop
Berkeley, first time I read
his lucid portrayal of idealism
I saw myself as pigment
in god’s mind
there was Rimbaud
the seer
a daemon of callous dreams
beckoning the loving beasts
of my heart to get drunk
and fornicate with the chaos
outside
vagueness is ubiquitous
when Cioran excommunicated
truth from reality
I leapt from definition to obscurity
like a child in mud fields
turning invisible by the camouflage of
dirt
alea jacta est
poetry was born
playthings of appearances
and the images started to gather
like a book of things that never
existed behind the universe
there was still coffee – regret –
futility and then Pessoa opened up the only truth
I ever believed in, he unwrapped it with casual
numbness, as mechanically as you take off a shoe:
life is a superfluous waiting for death
with no definite aim it definitely kills us
and whatever we say or don’t say
will never change a thing
so I write
in the penumbra of absurdity
as divertissement between sleeps,
all the same
in the involuntary currents of nothingness
drunk with the illusion of sensation,
I feign a soul
in laughter and despair
because of that obscene longing
of being
poet & chasm.
I’m a starry sky
staring down a urinal
yellow piss
but isn’t it cute enough
to be a golden stream of light?
I have a nose, mirror!
it’s sticking out my fucking face
I’m ruined
the candle is going out
and there is so much more drink
to saturate the clouds of my eyes
I’m at a part
ending this exercise
of absolution
chirp, chirp
a tongue on the roofs,
I have a fantasy
you see,
wet, damp like the grass
or the epiphany of flight
my lungs are tired
a mouthful of beer
to exist
and in some room,
to sleep.
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.
Horribly dreamt
I have a street
its conceptual secrets
like invisible rage
I pertain to abandonment
it hurts to disappear
wakefully vanishing
in the gaseous actuality
I roam like invisible pain
hidden behind monstrous eyes
eavesdropping, like sun of insects
interminably the hour and a smile
release… release my skin
hurdled over blank shrub
my feet slither pass the common earth
alive with some deadly truth
I run
and shattered are
the windows of lies.
Of rude weight
intoxicated iron
the pressing steel of %
by the shelter of glass
my petty personality
like molecules and wisps
emptying
anomalously
the flame of the wax
streets of melted passion
sad sunken vein of alcohol
morose atom
finally
roaming the expanse of society
and nothing remains
of pure
flashback.
this raw piece of paper
in this nostalgia
I place existence
entirely as a dream
as the fragile body of
a newborn
reposing on the page
it is unique and vast
like plain confession of passion
this piece of paper is all
I have this very moment
a solitude of twilight
in the horizon manifest pain
I touch life
and the memory of it
escapes
like the smoke
of this flaming
piece of paper. . .
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 trees
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
The rain has made
senseless x’s on the pane
beyond it
the turbulent clouds
initiate the horror
and a short trance,
my madness
no symbol
is free
to speak of mundane
matters
is now unacceptable
the world
useless as thing
but the most terrible
warning
an opening in the clouds
supine
on the ground
a yellow blindness
through eyes surrendering
I sense
blood fencing the sky
inside
an egg
of impatient
globular substance
a sufferer’s music.
Beyond Language 
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