oblivion obliged

When Midas asked Silenus what fate is best for a man, Silenus answered: “Pitiful race of a day, children of accidents and sorrow, why do you force me to say what were better left unheard! The best of all is unobtainable—not to be born, to be nothing. The second best is to die early.”
– Will Durant (The Story of Philosophy)

oblivion_obliged

Whose torn bolt
was released
on the curvature of time,
who left this mass
of obscurity as a stone
in the sky,

have I begun
to carve enough
misery

from this chunk of night,
or designed
a chorus of smoke.

Its slanting invasion
made us embrace
like twins of twilight
and the irony

of it all
we are abundance
in its thirst,
dancing like swirls
of sweetness in its mouth.

To be happy mud
smeared
on your breasts, I said.

But I could hear
you muttering
the wisdom of Silenus.

Unable to rephrase
the meaning of silence

we laid still
like two
immobile spots
of darkness.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

home and eternity

pocket of emptiness

We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness

When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.

And so philosophy ends.

Contemporary Poetry

nihil

nihil poetry

I fear the same stone of light that you fear. I am the bone and you are the sky. We are earth hidden within the mines of space. Darkness – like a baby – hangs from our necks. If there were knowledge there’d be no action. Pure restless surrender. I fear the pause, the allotted time. It sinks, truthfully. I know we cherish the denial of our times. Like young nihilists. I dug for truth, through turd and stink. The gold of meaning, the diamond of certainty. Years have not been wasted – we see our excavations. Emptiness. Holes. Awakening. There is nothing. We’ve dug holes, nothing more; philosophical pits. The cradles of our deaths. They are beautiful, waiting, obvious. The discovery of nothing: the day everything changed. What do you seek? What value? What supreme encounter? Now, it’s too late. Death is not speculation but the premise. All postulates inevitably incomplete. I fear that same conclusion. But it is here. Like a spark, like lightning. Like love and ephemeral.

Nothing.

Nihilistic PoEtry

total truth

The greatest liberation
came when I dropped
the pretension to happiness.
It was freedom from category,
from hope, from knowledge,
from purpose.
I immediately recognized
that reality has no meaning,
no destination, no description.
All happiness seemed trivial in its
relation to one condition or circumstance.
I preferred truth.
I did not find it in the philosophies, religions
and sciences.
The dawn of despair set in,
total and unequivocal,
but despite the existential ache that ensued,
it brought with its gloomy light the necessary
vision to initiate in truth:
the denial of all former values.
If existence was factually beyond
the reach of words,
it could not be grasped in recorded knowledge;
it could not be explained by the logical sequence
of premises and postulates;
if it had a truth, it needed to be
immediate and self-evident.
Truth cannot be imposed onto reality,
it would distort it otherwise.
Reality is the only truth –
and to discover what it is
I had to drop all attempts to define it…

merely become aware of it
and allow its transmutations
to speak its truth.

.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

the sensation of knowing has faded

Pablo Saborio Poetry

the sensation of knowing
has faded
the congealing cement
our last coverture

ugly, reeking
and already alone
with a bullet of important birth

have the notes in the eyes
a melody of face and terror

the philosophers
have turned to the poetic
in depiction
the overt sorrow
of crocodile skins

this task of surveying
bland vast infinite
words not even mountains
to rest the moon
on their slopes

death and terror
sustained by repetitious
creation, a blind fountain
speaking for the absence

I
supplant
meaning
to extinguish
consolation

representation having failed
we rely on the cruel instant
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Nihilism Poetry

sketches of quintessential

Death poetry

if
some
fundamental
level
of reality

the blurry steps
of the passage of time
limbs moving, solitary breath
dying streams of flesh

darkness with short
explosions of light

everything is metamorphosis
formlessly attached
to the mind

the visible is unexplored
nobody sees the becoming

was
the world
collapsing
into my soul?

the greatest adventure

to have all the
planets in view

to be a leaf

and die like a
son

Nihilistic Poetry

from the bottom up

Poem on clouds

my mistake was
to make a philosophy
out of the gurgling sound
when hope
sank to the bottom
of the pond

I invested too much in clouds
they can hardly break
the rapid fall of my words
as they crash into
solid stupidity

I have to return
to the meaning
of stone

I have to tip over
my dreams
as boulders on summits

that wreck
below
could hurt like
a sudden
birth.

 

 

nihilistic poetry