nihilistic poetry

Once written on 8.13.09 

A night becomes clouded
as we sometimes say
‘things happen’
abstractly, indifferently
that it is suddenly August
2009
a veil of intellectualism
is lifted
a human face looks up
mine, yours, whatever
there are clouds, ideas, philosophies
up there
we look down, you, me, whatever
barren reality
wooden window frames
dusty desks, unsharpened pencils
feeble light, organic darkness
you see the dark
it doesn’t have a name
then there is real silence
scattered coins
uncharged cell phones
a sleeping wife
that it hits you, me, what you will
it is August 13th
2009
what a feeling.

Nihilistic Poetry

Wrong gone

Come

swing like a pendulum

then fall

squash me like an ant

dead, beat, microorganism

could all the volumes of metaphysics

misconstrue this fact?

let it out

you are the entire nothingness

that ever was

you are everything… that’s gone

wrong.

true living

What I call true living

is found at the periphery of all modality

after a week of uninspiring tragedies

petty, yes

small unrecognizable anxieties

a tiny indulgence

like a return to a temporary home

that is true living, to say

“I am a great sufferer”

and drink the bottle

to curse the others

after a nagging narcissism

pretends to obliterate a reason

to go on breathing. 

 

That is true living

to hold tight to the street

wayfaring, intoxication

denial

a great wide hole

alive alas

at the bottom of any common asphyxia

true living

is the edge

  the final wound.

Nihilistic Poetry

My mirror

What was it that you said?

  am I still not inaccessibly alone

imagining hordes of men and women

   conjuring movements of civilizations

as the smoky characters of a dream

     as the twisted story of a hallucination

is that your echo by the candlelight?
 

   how can a voice enter this airless chamber

in the skintight solitude of my nullity

corner

    my acute angle

 a point without length, without breadth, without breath

           breathe, did you say?

where comes that voice

     the invisible companion

             hidden behind layers of insensitivity

how can something delicate survive

       near my poisonous skin…
 

am I still not alone

    dreaming worlds and stars

are you there, 

     my mirror, my love?

Nihilistic Poetry

Wordless chaos


How is incoherence

        a name

for actual – wordlessness

segments

lack of coherence

there cannot be five consecutive sentences with meaning

deserted

memory and chaos

         together

the world

   is burning

language is boiling

 the air

in which we speak

      is tired

of another

        prediction.

on magic

By the proximity

      of endless spirals

spiraling dimensions

firmly situated in front

of the faces and worries

as if by magic

but magic so fiercely unwanted

    it is looked upon as

            ordinary occurrences

so without objection

the red flame of wine

sinks and stays at the bottom

encapsulated by the glass

yet its fire is irrepressible

too powerful minuteness

seeded in all things that

          transform us

magic, unheeded magic

magical cores burdened – with reality

together with the ungraspable circumstance 

           of happiness

containing not identifiable things

rather emerging like a gigantic bubble

at the center of a monotonous lake

more and more is given

more and more resides

I extend my grasp to any one spiral

      to the suddenness of it all

there are magical births here

          trembling with infinite abundance.

Nihilistic Poetry

The beautiful irrelevance of language.

Limitations to discourse and knowledge.


The undeniable reality of language,

the sounds inside our heads,

the discourse within our skulls,

the rigorous mathematics of our technologies,

is a matter of great uncertainty.


The fact that we rely so deeply in the functions of language

seriously undermines our attempts

at concrete knowledge.

The discovery that knowledge is portrayed by language

or symbols

and that linguistic symbols are inappropriately

capable of representing perceived reality

is an astounding obstacle to our assessment

of an objective reality.
 

 

 

In more simple and human terms,

the realization that we obtain “acceptable” knowledge

in any form by its communication

either by mathematical symbol or linguistic form,

already makes it clear that we are submitting ourselves

to an established norm.
 

 

 

This norm is adopted,

valued

and protected

by the establishment,

namely,

Science,

 

but once this establishment is submitted to the scrutiny of doubt,  

we realize that Science or concrete, irrefutable knowledge  

depends, and in fact,  

survives on language and symbol,  

thus we can begin doubting the certainty  

and accuracy of its claims.

 

The first undeniable doubt is the perception

of the incapacity of language

or any symbol

of portraying reality.

Language is by its own nature, rigid, stiff and linear.

 

No matter how prodigious the scientist

or philosopher is,  

the fact that he or she describes reality  

by communicating a symbol,  

already contributes to our suspicion:

the use of a rigid tool (language) to describe  

a fluidly ungraspable perceivable reality.
 

 

 

The proof that language is inadequate to describe accurately reality  

is in no way possible of being proved by language itself.

It must be realized, perceived, experienced by the thinker.

Just as Science seems to be the absolute truth to the world today,

we must never forget that Science is not an entity by itself;

it is preached and believed by humans.
 

 

 

Any human, no matter how committed to objectivity,

will still be influenced by subjective impulses, personal past experiences

and biased ideologies.
 

 

 

Science has by this account two main weaknesses.

It utilizes linguistic symbol to portray an un-symbolic phenomenon;

and secondly, it is sustained by humans which are never unbiased.
 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

Braver men…

That I must
never
be read
will be clear
from the vacuous
vocabulary
I must borrow from
and still
there are memories
or phantoms
of an uncertain past
the magic bricks
I thought I could
move with one
finger
the trees that watched
my infant
nothingness
I must never be read
my life is already
buried by dust
there are braver men
out there…

with fear
the embodiment
of disaster
that I call
“breathing”
is not
of any use…

there will be
peaceful silence
when this and other
poems
are no more…

they can’t surface
but sink
drop,
deeply,
disappear.