nihilistic poetry

Stop

Stop.

 

Please stop.

 

Leave whatever you are doing right now,

 

and do me a favor.

 

Look out outside your window

 

(I truly hope you have a window)

 

to some small gilded leaf in the sun.

 

Stare at it,

 

there’s nothing romantic,

 

poetic or beautiful

 

about that leaf.

It is just there

 

motionless or

 

swinging with the wind

 

it is just there

 

almost too fragile

 

almost too irrelevant

 

but it is there.

 

It is drunk with something

 

it has something we don’t.

 

It is not brighter or duller than us

 

but it has more depth

 

than our little lives.

Nihilistic Poetry

Trapped in today

 

Since these are all eyes pouncing upon their own light

      since these words are still in the air we breathe

nobody has yet seen the cruelty of today

                 nobody has measured the necessity of crying

to be sick and living 

       asphyxiated with desires, unclothed by opinion

the taste is in my mouth:

      progress has vomited a sickly herd.

Newfound

I, the dream of a god,

      an outcome of invisible hands

            at once performance and spectator

this precise instant

         this internal precipice

a newfound religion

      whose scriptures are written 

              in every one thing

where the god and the dream are the same

                  the cloud and the rock are inseparable

the sweet motion of transience

        coursing over the stream of eternal action

I, alone and united,

               one more spoke of divinity 

                  one more billow of infinity.

 

 

 

 

More Useless Poetry ?

Infinity

There is no place to start
 

     a beginning point

an igniting flame.

There is a Rorschach blot  

             a streaming dream of structure

a finite accomplishment; 

          surrounded by infinite reach. 

 If you start from this,

      then anything is possible.

My chest can suddenly burst open, 

       and twigs may grow.

Impossibility is an illusion.

              A repeated illustration

of what’s real;
  

         keeps infinity from shining forth.

 

 

 

Useless Poetry

A nameless world

 

 

At the start of a new poem

 the world is born again

as if I have never written a word about it

    and was experiencing it for the first time

these trees are not trees

   this sky is no sky

I still don’t have a name;

    I see a spark

and try to name it,

    then it’s gone

and all I have left

   is a bunch of useless words.

 

 

 

Useless Poetry

tear of nothingness

This a breeze

a puff of blur

a word too fragile

another troubling gasp

 

outside, the tender world

a tissue I would caress

but this fear of breaking

what is ready to crumble

stops me, so I climb

the tallest dumpster

and watch these children despair

 

Every man is an ant

or a walking trapezoid

I can’t keep quiet

the medicine of sound

it comes now as prophesizing twilights

 

I admit, that licking a wound

is another form of poem

and to walk is to flee a little

and to be alone is to create a river

 

I don’t write a single word to convince

         but to cry

            a tear of nothingness

a too-late warning

 

that we are slowly disappearing

and we never knew why

1

With a simple line

I have to start somewhere 

   with a simple line, a simple word

with a message parallel to

                         despair.

From what premise should we start ?

         That the world is seriously important

or that it is unimportantly foolish.

              Take your stand,

there is no final stance

          a long-winded illusion

appearing and disappearing

         at times irrefutably real

other hours, come as falling dream’s ash.

       I have to end somewhere

with a simple line, a final sigh.

Nihilistic Poetry

The lost dreams of a lost man…

painting_pablo_saborio_dreams_lost_

 

Abandon, ever so vague

a name entirely unpronounceable

a thought, utterly worthless

      then a feeling without  face

 a touch without my skin

              I’m too old to restart this engine

I must move on, abandon

       what once was light now is shadow

           what was once purpose is now fiction

there is a pure moment

        (nothing else)

                no matter what I think

it’s not my call to make

               there is only a pure moment

(nothing else)

              I might pretend to stir this vessel

but it’s really not my doing

there is apparently something ancient

               something beyond measure

I don’t sense it, life is cold as cement

The waves are coming down on me

        I can only laugh

 sometimes I feel like expanding indefinitely

           but a cage made of ribs

keeps my insides in their place

The next step is here… it’s too late

     to look back.

 

 

 

 

 

Modern Poetry

The realization of the ineffable

We are some sort of subject: irrelevant

  we are some sort of electro-chemical

                      matter: unnecessary

We are eagerly afraid

         the final gasps of death

fear is the last ally

   the last lost courage

to throw away

    the cloudy misty life

               of human superfluity

panic: a mouth-full of despair,

           feed us more!

The colossal strength to sustain

      those pillars of petty humanity

and vanquish utterly

       vanish totally

in the final realization

–         the ineffability –

 the unspeakable death of language

for the beginning

   the return

        to an untold world

More Modern Poetry ?