new poetry

The ant feeling

I have the hands of a dictator.
Thoughts of a circle
and a pretty bloated lower lip.
I wake up some days thinking
how many galaxies are needed
for this life to be indubitably
insignificant.
I look at the mirror,
those eyes like clouded enigmas.
And then come the words,
like heavy storms of smoke.
If the sky were glass to break;
but I settle for grunge.
While to most life is a gulf,
to me
the world is a knife
two parallel lines
that meet at the horizon
to stab me right
in the middle
of my unseen heart.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

Delicate pounds

The days pounded
upon my chest
of invisible baby held like a heart,
that was dead at birth

I see the same streets
the identical rage
the mundane purpose of the bar

But patient fish
as eyes remain cool
under the stream of time

This skin stretches
around the boundary
like water

I could watch all the movies
and talk of holy female bodies,
in a café or purgatory

That ideas are literally queens
and inherited the contemporary
love of possession

The days keep pounding,
a tick of brutal rational
abstraction and the irrational
motion of the problems
of life

The perfume of a cadaver
interred in an instant
where the universe
allows a glimpse but no more.

 

 

 

AbSURd PoEtry

alea iacta est

yeah years teeth in sun
matter

piles up

dry
out there

 

waking
which is a breath
half air
half tear

 

 

obedient bodies die
these melodies
of tragedies

nothing more
than an idea of

awareness

this geology of memory

 

experience
breaks inevitable like waves

on far distant moon

 

 

unable to alter
the course
of inane atoms

 

 

the waves keep crashing
on the thinning stone
that life
half-asleep in chance.

AbSURd PoEtry

The horizon alights like a dormant lip.

swollen_cloud_poem_21st_century_copenhagen

The horizon alights like a dormant lip.
The most important thing of the day
was not seen but felt.
Joy was not in me but around me.
Like a pool of emotion, I drift from
one spill to another. Joy. Boredom. Dread.
I’ve been wandering the whole day. Looking
at things as if they were rocks covered in moss.
The clouds were protagonists .
They are immobile, the city below balloons in ripples.
The line between the lips swallows the light,
the waves and the purpose.
A delicate gulp. Swollen with twilight.
One single nerve aches.
The one whose function
is to sense life.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

Coincidence of Opposites

to stare at her
for hours
while her shadow begins
to curl like trunks of smoke
on the wooden floor

to escape the heavy
brief pale
gaze of
strangers

to be close to her
as close tangled
irreversible
as hours are to years

to hear her voice
like the hieroglyph
of a flower
carved into the
speech of rocks

to touch her eyes
when the walls of the world
become calm timorous
mirrors

to face each other
and collide like antonyms
in the swelling unity
of love

a mystic’s bed

then I found myself
stepping on the mushy
nodes of matter
first cobblestones
then grass
finally the helical
steps of a cloud

it was no longer
vague intuition
but pure palpable
fact :

this is a dream

the arc of night
laid its arm
round my shoulder

both my eyes
puckered
to buss the black sky

there was love
dark and murmuring

my heart drunk
on the delirious flavor
of the stars

the straws of space
nested my body
and fell asleep
while the cars below
flashed in gushing fleets

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

granite sleep

Wholeness Sleep

 

unable to wake

I remained

behind the ruin of a memory

 

a Chinese serpent

swerving in the currents

of my dormant eyelids

 

nothingness was a province

where an obsidian pyramid

stood against a starless night

 

there in bed

roving like a raving raven

within the

delicate depths of darkness

 

surrounded by

a deep moat –

the dark waters

of space

swallowing any ray of light

that may cross over

to my dispossessed eyes

 

lone

existing alone

light as perishable infancy;

heavy as a bridge above years

 

a statue

untying itself

from its surface

of imitation

 

so I squandered the imported

bullion of dreams

and with quivering fascination

became empty and
bankrupt

of image

 

unable to wake

I surrendered

like

a history

written on the soft

tissue of the spirit –

never to be

read.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

 

prophecy

prophecy

 

The future does not care for poetry or ambiguity.
It thrives in pristine clear expressions of thought and action.
It despises the vagueness of unnatural associations.

The sinking sound

the crest of the red suppose

the eternal system

elected a song as carriage

of its power.

Grandiloquent expressions as the above will be ridiculed.

The concrete matter-of-fact will be the only subject of interest.

Poetry will slowly fade out of view as did the rotary dial.
The world of fact will flourish.
Doubt will dissipate, the psyche will be freed of contradiction.
In the future, the ex-poet will turn towards the objective.
Like a lion on a gazelle.

These are some of the last unruly poems to emerge.

The last bones to chew.

Savor them.

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

waiting for a young hand

am cold
cobblestoned shivers
funerary lights
begin to flicker
the day is dying
the roads clear
I’m feeling as old
as this twilight
an old harlequin
that has thrown away
his ecstasy
downtown by the fountain
youth is still pure as jagged rock
but there is still passion in me
lust for hydrants and their impassive
shadows
zest for the ripples dust engraves
in the puddle at my feet
a sort of love
for the stoic repose of third-floor
windows
that air is rich in smoke
the day is agonizing
I’m sitting on a bench
as if waiting for the miracle
of a young hand offering
me a sip of wine
perhaps then I can return
to the old delirious evenings
of unrecorded
and forgotten acts.

Nihilistic Poetry