Automata
eject the unconscious
under the wild smear
of the event
anger
a coil
like a spin
on the axis
of regret
together
like the skies
change as the seasons
of our fears
waiting
while creating
the future
that entertains us
like a drug
in the mouth
of time
Modern Poetry Blog
oh in what manner
I touch
these playthings of the
soul
sculpting in torn blindness
the mode of the self
eliciting shapes
like a damp cloud
over the empire of uncertainty
am i this wisp
of creation
twisting and turning
emerging
painfully philosophically inadvertently
from the wreckage
of my
sadness?
It is no accident
that we grew civilizations
like beards
on the first day
we became pubescent
instigators of chaos
the profligate erosion
sculpting heedless
landscapes on the arc
of this catastrophic planet
was not
enough for
the erotic sapiens
complexity as fetish
how the tables have turned
dread
served in Smörgåsbord style
for queuing prole
while the offices are
pulpit for the priesthood
of the abstract totem – $
and the day comes
carcass-congested rivers
clearing the malaise of cogito
the terrible sunshine of noon
falling on the
unadulterated
playground of the earth.
the first
thing
to come into being
poisoned us
blinded us
ruined us
we’re under the spell
that things can be known
I declare
we still don’t know
the universe is unsolved
is it a machine
an organism
a process
a mission
an explosion
or even the dream of a sleepy god
I don’t know
so… I wet my feet
at the shore of the Kattegat bay
whistling like the wind
on a hot summer day
I am drenched in words
like skin that covers my intellect
while sitting here
I do not feel like any word
neither floating nor sinking
in between two nondescript states
perhaps more
plucking my names
human, animal, person, soul, pablo
petals – I exist or I exist not
an empty receptacle
in my hand
or a savory thought
or gone with the wind.
It was in the disfigured arrangement of thoughts
that I found the elements of art
prompted by the vision
of aging cells reversing into nothingness
sparkles bones disappear
nothingness engraved in being
life feeding from that source
the beautiful ugliness of my thoughts
unfinished – poisoned
myriad of eyes, arms, despairs, trash
tending my lost confused body
on the stillness
of poetic
landscapes.
This hand full of fire from banana field
sliding down your waistline sliding
touching like a hungry hermaphrodite
asking asking is there anyone down there
by the knee or the thigh or the swollen clit
sliding down with chords playing from rooftops
sliding down like a sunset high on trumpet
groping grabbing pinching scarring
this hand full of fire
reversing the course of utopia
this hand so strong irreversible
coming down on you
like freedom rain at 2am
this hand robbing you
taking away your last cents and songs
this hand aching for love that is not red
this hand losing one finger at a time
aging like the smoke at the end of tobacco curls
this hand empty
still touching and sad
this hand going down
holding your navel as burning bullet
this hand a tool
the tool
this hand
the last possession
a hand surface
sliding down to the earth
no contact yet
this baneful hand
raw, skinless
no glove
covering this
hand
no course handling
this hand
that came, saw and conquered
the mighty land
Failure
was the ace up my sleeve
my get out of jail free card
my existential loophole
having failed
I was out of the race
competing only with the skies
my midget adversary – ambition
too afraid to follow me into the wilderness of the wild
I am free
to make any nook on this earth a cumulous heaven
make a straw bed for my sleep-drunken poems
on any day of my open-ended agenda
to make a living on the question:
is this all real?
Jet stream of time
squirting months
momentarily too late
to do anything
that will save the moment
history has me by the skin
I am all biodegradable
compost for the unknown
developing
appetite for the instant
that will last for centuries
the idiot
as I am
seeing time
as a machine
industrialized for more
there is fluidity
in this duration
that spreads like a flood
over the coastlines
of my
isolated sojourn.
and so
my unsystematic leisure
by better name
idleness
take a bottle of wine
to the dilettantish midnight
a solitude so drunk
it spirals like an epiphany
I am hugged by prophesy
consensually the two
hemispheres of my brain
tend to disagree
all I need
is an intermediary,
to borrow a medium
like your saliva
carries voice
place my cadmium red
on your activity
like a pollock
dripping from the sky
the question tonight
really was
why act
when it is still
unsettled
whether
action is deliverance
eh, prisoner?
Beyond Language 
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