pessimistic poetry

futile breath

yellow_fields_of_Death-1-1

They say
I should kill
myself.

I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.

But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.

. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.

I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.

They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.

I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.

I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.

I say no;                                           I’ll write poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry

of the circle

A moments
core wandering
many hands invented
touching me – us
moment + the inner uncertainty
touched by silhouettes
possibly a mother
whose age is light and clarity
in a moment
the thought of progress dies
a face remembers the rock
of the bone

a circle around the things
we know

beyond it
the heart of the things
we cannot love.

Nihilistic Poetry

the pretension of analgesia

I observe myself moving
rather consistently and sensibly
riding my bike in accordance to
god-knows-what prospect
going up steps dandily
sipping tea effortlessly

simultaneously

throbbing anguish
a howl permanently
outstretched, a gash
of purulent sound
like the grumbling
of a terribly cynical
mind

therefore
I am
nonplussed by

so innocent normality
I pretend to embody

while the hostility of the unknown
goddamned world
corners me to the tiniest
spot inside the human soul
almost immobile
condemned to see life as a
glassed-in fish

while in fact

I’m the last conscious thread
dangling atop the
immense abyss
of noise, shape and paradox
unquestionably a plaything
of innumerable forces and trickery;
bearing the high formulations of daily destiny
with a stupid smile and
hardwired etiquette –
all the while
expecting the towering walls
of reality
to finally to collapse
and bury me
in their
filthy falsity

Poetry

from man to page

Poetry_page_blog

A man
Leaves a voice
On brume
That is of paper

To a solitary
Event or thing
He points
As a despondent relic
That must be remembered
Faintly

His hand
The veins asunder
The terror of leaving beauty
Lost in the madness
That collects
Arrant forgetfulness

A man lifts his voice
Clashing with the impossible
His thoughts already of cinder
Mist and silence

A poem remains
Obscurely reposing in the cupped
Hands of the transitory
One of many inanities of inspiration
At moments gaining strength
But ultimately to rest alongside the expended

There with the elapsing sum of experience

Nihilistic Poetry