nihilism poems

my eyes and shiver

poetry_of_Shadows

There will be no more.
I will close my eyes
and shiver
as a wriggle in timelessness.

No tomorrow.

From the table
we put in our mouths
the last lesson of the bread,
we close the door
and the familiar unknown
disappears together with the
city noise.

There was no explanation
for this history of glimmers.

There will be no more:
injustice – no more form
and ideas will be lost
against the sounds of the bells.

The eyes will become simple silences,
clouded by the color of the music.

Everything will be resting
at last
under the warmth
& patience of the shadows.

 

 

Contemporary 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.

a posteriori

I left
in the middle
of a cloudless night
as a thief
to snatch one orphan
ray of moonshine
I was drunk
between cathedrals and labyrinths
looking for the crackling
sound of a tiny star
I wandered along this
heaven of dirt
peeking under every shadow
for a trace the hidden
mass of an eclipse
over bridges and blackouts
I followed the scent
of a spiraling infinity
never reaching its end

I awoke
with a black
layer of eternity
as a rag
over my sore
and swollen skin.

Nihilistic Poetry

another day being something else

subjective poet 2012Half
the sky
in my laugh
shattered
into myriad
flakes
of clustering
snow

the white
concentrations
like palpitations
of the cloud
coming from
a vaguely symphonic
summit

where they touch
and perish
my drops
of comic
hours

I am a cosmic
view
behind the windows
longing
the cold
touch of something
external

 

 

 

nihilistic poetry

of the miniscule

Eternal doubt

take some

seed

of

the

noise

steal a

sky

from the

clouded            silence

trace

the

color

of this         fictitious

            birth

engrave

the

nail of death

in the blood

                                                  of fear

collect

the

 honey

like a

bee of

       queenless nights

measure

the eye

and taste the

tongue

of the eternal

nectarous

  DOUBT.

Nihilistic Poetry

the Human

There was never a door
much less an keyhole
no answers to the secret of life

the prophets of despair
proclaimed total obscurity in life
at death everything muddled
forever

the Human
not much more than a succession of acts
performed for an audience of blind eternities

mere rustling of leaves
from the tree of desolation
no trunk to hold on to
no root to call god

so it is to be a function
consciousness
a fluke of evolution
a secondary property of the body
aiding its inconsequential survival

so it is to exist in the universe
that does not exist for the Human
an arbitrary dream with an irrational plot

in the cold ache of waiting
engulfed in lurid perceptions
awaiting the sudden “Cut –
it’s a wrap” of time

merely life… I say
                            merely life

 

Merely Poems

abandon poetry

Former Poet Eye

I have to get away
from poetry

need to stop
focusing on the
details and the needlework
of perception

need to live the gross
average
collision course life
of the
rest

need to rediscover
minutes
as meaningless
traps

need to make routine
again an instinctive
straightjacket

need to somehow
buy a house
and stock it up
with liquor

need to begin
worrying
about that silly
little race
that goes by
the name
of
happiness.

 

 

nihilism poems

to my brothers

Finger on Flame

you should have seen
when I put my fingers
over the flame
they smelt of Kerosene
a very obscene
scene
the piano lid shut
I could have composed
a sad sonata
for all the future drunks
that will die hung-over
without ever writing a poem
you should have seen
the coarse roar of my spleen
gave everyone a start
heavy heaving
I should have been
a line of serpentine smoke
rising from the hands
of a drunk
that will die
hung-over
never knowing
why he was
so
mean.

 


nihilistic poetry

the thought of us together

Life of the Modern Poet

Name me
the pits of existence
the minor spots
where it is safe to stop
stop and write a poem
I can’t wait till I die
so I can write about it
in the last scribble of consciousness
I will be there narrating:
               light, angels, war, sex, infinity lied
I am waiting to hear
your confession
all progress – vain
stop…
join me
in the cracks, corners, alleyways
the gutters, the nooks, the black holes
take the next exit
let’s rest near a perception
write a verse or none
we’ll sit and gaze
stargaze the stampede
the whole tumultuous downfall of the manned-world
                                  as distant as galaxies
just you and me… preserved
                as a poem.

contemporary poetry

the way of the poet

21st Century Poetry

I call this
my turning hour
the imperceptible motion
from a fifty-nine
to a double-zero
I live this instant
in the streets
the cold cave of Europe
here, I wander aimlessly
I wonder incessantly
my stomach is turning too
hungry and drunk
let’s rock and roll
in the zeitgeist
that no history
will ever
record.

 


21st Century Poetry