today

nothingness

Today, I’m convinced
that the hard edge
of matter
is nothing but a
soft pillow
of cloud,

that I’ve never seen the earth

because I’ve made nothing
but sculptures of smoke
with the shadows of
the mind.

Today, I might shrink
to a piece of petal
and wait for a flood of light
to drag my sight toward perfume
and thaw my flesh
to dew.

I’ve never visited the world,
standing drunk here between
two columns of dream.

Today, I could have erased
memory with its tail of tale,
today I see there’s nothing
in space

not even the pulse
of silence’s throbbing slumber.

 

Contemporary Poetry

art and nothingness

What no one will remember

in 10,000  years or so

(Part iV)

To work and create ‘for nothing’, to sculpture in clay, to know that one’s creation has no future, to see one’s work destroyed in a day while being aware that, fundamentally, this has no more importance than building for centuries – this is the difficult wisdom that absurd thought sanctions.  The Myth of Sisyphus (Albert Camus)

Photographs taken in Statens Museum for Kunst. Copenhagen, Denmark.

statens_museum_for_kunst

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

the decline and fall of Being

being_and_nothingness

 

The self is a function of life.
Every aspect
of life as experienced
by so-called man
is within the realm
of nature, the universe,
totality. Nothing is

outside it,
nothing

belongs to something
other than itself.

Life is a manifestation (
for lack of a better
word
) of what nature
is doing.

My ego
is not independent
to the field
of nature, it does not

confront or exchange

with any          external.

All my memories, actions,
thoughts, insights,
responsibilities, etcetera,

do not belong to

me.

They are all part
of that function
that life
is portraying
through a living organism.
The experience
of being-hood is a sort of modulation of life itself.

There is no center or
self that engages with life.

Rather life is engaged with nature.
In other words,
I’ve never experienced
anything.

One could say,
I am the illusion
of being a drop of water
inside a totality
that is itself all water.

The IT has been doing ITSELF.

Nothing belongs to me per se.

Even this instant,
these words, these attempts
to define what’s happening
are not me nor belonging to me,
but aspects of what life
or, sub specie aeternitatis,
what nature does.

Life is, a Spinozan could say,
a mode in nature. I’m inclined to say
there is no one
perceiving this, life itself
is busying itself with life-stuff,
nature-stuff, thought-stuff,
society-stuff, and so on.

There is no me
in all of this.
There is only a recurring
sensation that life – the
experiences that compose our definition of life –
belong to me.

But that sensation
is itself an impression like any other.

Can death be overcome?

Only a thought
that suggests that “I will die” exists,
but not the actual death of the self

– because there is no self.

Contemporary 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 being nothing

being nothing poem

there on the heavy table
i reimagine the taste
of fruit

the room is small
or the world
ignores
itself for this
instant

it doesn’t
mean much

this circumference
this small area
of being

the room to me
is like a tongue

tasting not much
more than its own
surface

somewhere
something
begins
for someone

but i believe
in the minimum

and reimagine the
sweetness
of being nothing

long before
this room
began.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

before wisdom

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.

Nihilistic PoEtry