Burning—the stars are burning.
Rows and rows of flame where we row
arrows were descending like hot petals of fire.
A muscle swells and the voice
speaks between curtains of blaze. The fire is in the world and every instant is its fuel.
Staring, standing, seeking
with star-studded pupils
one word is spoken: fire
fire that burns all the pinnacles,
the sacrifice, the holocaust of sacrificing
love, the historicity of the encounter.
Escape woman, hold on to my wings
as embers consumed in this climate
The stars — are burning.
Like everything else
we’ve touched, sensed
and desired in the charred medium.
Even the lines of our silhouettes
are wriggling as coils of screeching oils.
Your lips will say it,
when a starving spark devours
those tiny lengths of brief candlewick,
your lips will say it
over and over again
until I will think of nothing else:
The greatest liberation
came when I dropped
the pretension to happiness.
It was freedom from category,
from hope, from knowledge,
I immediately recognized
that reality has no meaning,
no destination, no description.
All happiness seemed trivial in its
relation to one condition or circumstance.
I preferred truth.
I did not find it in the philosophies, religions
The dawn of despair set in,
total and unequivocal,
but despite the existential ache that ensued,
it brought with its gloomy light the necessary
vision to initiate in truth:
the denial of all former values.
If existence was factually beyond
the reach of words,
it could not be grasped in recorded knowledge;
it could not be explained by the logical sequence
of premises and postulates;
if it had a truth, it needed to be
immediate and self-evident.
Truth cannot be imposed onto reality,
it would distort it otherwise.
Reality is the only truth –
and to discover what it is
I had to drop all attempts to define it…
merely become aware of it
and allow its transmutations
to speak its truth.
I am an egoist the tides of the galaxies are for my amusement alone the backdrop of the world is the stage for the drama of my sadness I have eternity as my own reality-show the concatenation of events stroll before me as a parade offered to a king… but as a king I still yearn for more I look for the edge of existence looking, as it were, for something else something not yet invented lurking behind the world of things, perhaps a mist belonging to another reality untouched by this world;
Too many steps too drunk
with the outside decadence
a 30-day-old poet
taming his extinction
grasping for existence
breathing the sidewalks
as an addiction
calling street life
the pulp of everything
civilization as a theory
the grid of rebellion
on this Rorschach
while the chanting epochs
in the streets
in the steps
The sky: my desperate dispersion an expansion creeping slowly in the autumn fields of my lost war manifest the gesture that condemns me to seek lavishly the sighs of unnamed saints and mystics heavy with the saddle of onrushing years seeping the dripping paint like the dance of mechanical yesterdays the grave of my birth and burying thus a multitude of poems – astray halfway detached from the events of time isolated in the nirvana of untouched perception sky, fragment of other lives or why November and dying that last sullen word behind chaos a return a miniature spot whose own language cannot participate in its description thus the sky and the lesser me thus a slow sleep in an immense unuttered world.