I drag
the whole compass
with its north and whereabouts
to the lyrical center called
I
I cannot praise beauty
only the mysterious
I summon the elements
of my destitute body
I speak to this world only
– my own
who else stands here
– a dead poet or a mystic perhaps –
I am the masturbation of my own language
these are no longer words
they become
the flesh of
this Being.
This is the quest
ink and blood
searching for the sacred language
a series of words
somewhere buried
Remember
when we met
by that corner of a disguise
talking with the stillness
that is common to oil
it was an early October blizzard
that trapped us before
we’ve identified our inertia
locked in that cold
with a bottle of vodka and
letters from Rilke
we drank the last drop
of our nihilism
ready to die there
or live on perpetually
with no sense at all.
Am I the apparition
between this thought
and you, the thing-
in-itself coming through
the flooded veins of my perceiving
with this thing there
constituting my content
while I compose its name
we are united in the poetic theme
of the present moment –
and that thing
is no other than my fragmented self
losing the virginity of conception
the birth of the concept
allowing life, my life
merge with the myriad voices of yours
closely knitted with the linen of a dreamt world
as closely as two poets speak
from unreachable regions of being
hills of this journey
how to be human
when
Burn to crumbs
to infernal to love to
agony to evaporation
to rebirth to a thousand human
screams to another
to another vision
to another of all possible worlds
burn with anger
dare to bring collapse
collective shield of cowardice
be alone to be silent
to restart to reformulate
to negate all to remake all
from alas to alas
perish world by world
planet after planet
sun to sun
ignite! ignite!
ignoble race, ignite!
to hate to love again
to die to be reborn
ignite immortal missioners
to purge heights and abysses
unite in the fire
ignite in invisible apotheosis
from plight to undreamt of
life… begin!
What kind of mothers are
these mothers
dint on ferules falling spaces
tremble firmly against the black dot
agonize done
pay dearly for attention
dearly attention for paid mothers
pay attention dear mother
self-service yellow dreaming
towards the upmost gynecology
female daemon inside
torture as crouching logic
gone done gone
blindness in color red
muscles faking florescence
sit down and read
the last vocals of your soul
the language, mother, the tongue
inherited sounding cataclysm
these words… these words!
freedom when church and apologies
death become
tuning chaotic speech
more ther e
I’ll take a knife
you’ll bring the blender
let’s create – erase opaque reasons
grand origins of eruptions
pale, yesterday, paling yesterday
surrounded growth
no, no, no, no
who knows .
I decided to live on a fifth floor
because I enjoy viewing things from
afar
most afternoons
I watch down
on the swaying of the city
the moody strangers
the angry cars
a fifth floor is a nest
seated on the branch
of a decaying tree
sunsets are my favorite
when the ooze of night
drips over the frightened lampposts
quickly the children of the day
retreat to their smaller caves
on a fifth floor
there is not much to do
but watch the ambiguous expressions
of pedestrians
and listen to the tired screams
of ambulances
while the cool autumn air
sinks
between the concrete-walled
canyon
I moved to a fifth floor
so I could have thoughts
like these
and to never
become
one of them.
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.
Madness is the
irrevocable
like the powerful sun
shining waste
strings that form a braid
braids stitch on us
thirsty loneliness
a mile machines
cannot reach
find me a gulp
of eternity, an inch
of Godhead
I’ll stop the soft drugs
coffee, sugar, TV
if you promise twenty
forty years ahead
I will encounter timelessness
madness is the irrevocable
a table
with all the books of genius
to sleep!
where my wakeful hallucination
finds its soul mate: dreams
madness the
irrevocable
two hours before two
more hours
I shit and eat
and fathom the origins
of the universe
tears come because I am
trapped between
centuries
amongst idiots
reaping nothingness
I cry because
madness consumed
all intelligence and determination –
the endless parade of perception
of one day
exchanged for 24 hours
60 minutes
seconds of oblivion
and eternity
that never kills but
transforms
madness is the
irrevocable
a hopeless trap
within the miracle
Grow because
death is a plant
these errors are twigs
more regrets
furthering rooting
if it is too late
wreck beyond repair
souls, human or other
desire demise
no help
is available for them
for us?
we wait it out
thus we die in resignation
thus we die.
Beyond Language 
You must be logged in to post a comment.