nihilistic poetry

the sanctuary of breathlessness

I lift one eye
above the rim of shadow
but retreat as a coward
the clouds of amnesia
still billow above
this younger year

I’m lying under the sanctuary
of breathlessness
the moon crosses the sky
like the dew
of a forgotten dawn

that night
was a reign of
untamable fragments

the air steers
its somber fumes
it is still
night out there
where the world
is a collision
of consequences

to brood
is to invent the
shape of expired time

I am hinged
to the pleasure
of forgetting,
my mouth is the grave
where I buried
mystery.

Nihilistic Poetry

somewhere out there

Somewhere out there one may find a horizon. But I do not talk about edges or inventing balconies to oblivion. I drink wine and swallow sensation indefinitely. I believe to be one whirl of smoke that spins upon the axis of habit. Sometimes I peek through windows, as if they were encyclopedias of the beyond. I am a romantic. I go outside and say: I see a single star reflected inside the thick glass of my endless wine. A slow logic eventually wears down the brilliance of the sky; and for nights I camp under a starless proof. But today a pound of purple strikes my tongue. The thickness of a dream goes down my throat. I begin to feel like an atmosphere of veins. Like a slab of fiction that crumbles to illusion.

Nihilistic Poetry

to hide the earth

hide the earth

I shove this earth
into a labyrinth
of song

as a poor
anchorite
sewing mountains
to his thoughts

as a forest
measuring
the future
with the footsteps
of an ant

I blink
two white
sails when
light is a
black wind

as lips
that find
the spiral
of a whisper

as a cloud
the stranger
mistakes
for a weeping
galaxy

I pretend
to hide the earth
behind
the cathedral
of each sound

Beyond Language Poetry

tiny light

buddhism in poetry

find
the springing
color

the neutral
infant that
rests weightless
as light on the
palm

emerge
and glimpse
the impact
between
breakthroughs

ascend
like sexual smoke
into the notion
of emptiness

leap into
an aura of feathers
when the thought
departs

sit between
two naked fires

neither assume
the primitive illusion
of a total universe
nor entertain
the harmony
of its idea

listen for the echo
of the beginning

and the drunken
river of time
that travels
the ancient wrinkle
of being

may shrivel
into a single
drop of stillness.

Nihilistic Poetry

of an unknown origin

A loosely transcribed prose poem based on my Spanish poem earlier tonight.

There, something like a stain, was once a sky. Some aberration of smoke and light, of cloud and fire; a threshold. Was it even my decision to intertwine or to blend with destiny? I am governed by the first desire that slithers between two hesitations. I disown the vehicle of my body, the possibility of choice. I raise a hand like another Pessoa to hint a goodbye, but to what? The cloud? The sun that I never knew except for its light?

There was a man that could not continue today, he stood in front of a horizon.

He said: goodbye.

He said: I return to the unknown.

against the city

when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows

when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf

when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause

when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.

…

This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.

Nihilistic Poetry

before wisdom

An animal without thinking of hands opens a cave of innocence. It sleeps without the weight of tomorrow, like a burning match. The other animals are heavy with knowledge, spinning like kaleidoscopes of fat. My ideal self is a plant, surrounded on every side by invisible expanses of solitude. Sometimes it could think, but always to negate. It will say: these petals have not changed the world. And it will sway and tremble in a monotonous wind. If the world is a vessel sinking irrevocably into forgetfulness, there is no real distinction of types. These beings we see, or imagine and sometimes become have no name. Like thistles with nameless thorns. Like music with blind hours. Like blood without the river of taste. I see the fur and claws submerging; the animal does not struggle. It drowns like a bean in water. But I still don’t know if in a glass, an ocean or in eternity.

PoEtry

an erection (an absurd poem)

While the cloud
held silence like
a baby in mother’s arm
this vain head
swirled like vane
to the roar
of the orphan night,
the cataract of minutes
and other entities,
but at the other
end love coruscating
lonely through black
echoes of memories,
on the white pale
body of the earth
having the only
organ capable of
perpetuating some fabled race
pointed at the moon – a spear
to break the firmament
and bury this iota of being
under the shattering flood
of entropy

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

Soon the path is fog

While these hands

have broken bread,

caressed drooling

lips of pleasure,

while grey wax streams

down these cheeks

for soon the path is fog,

a dotted line of street lamps,

lumps of light

doses of darkness,

nothing but cold in the event

silence in the hour;

a particle swinging between cars

and the busy lives of chimeras

this shadow amongst transparencies

this elevation without certainties

I navigate like lost wind

through edifices and glow

seeking a new contradiction

a newer totality

or the last

dust of god.

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

quotidian epic

Timeless apple

Hinted
then ripple
of white gasp
the entire orb
of inspiration

then the clouds
the sun hiding
in total light

the task is to use a daub of paint
to depict a mistake
or a river of thought
or pain eating the soul
as if it were soft bread

I sense a feeling
empty of emptiness
it is full of invisibility

the irony is
the instant is like blood
never seen but intimately wrapped
a cut an explosion a gash perhaps
and the world is all red without words

like an apple
timeless
on the table.

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG