initimations

Eternity poem 

How it happened exactly I will never know. Suddenly everything became worthless, everything human per se, that is. This veneer of generic pleasures and conventional raisons d’être became illusory, life taken at face value, submission to the established order; well, I was done with all that long ago. The magic began when my intuition fumbled upon a veritable prospect of infinity. How many different orders of life are possible, how many universes made of other realities must exist simultaneously, in such way, I began to break the biased assumption that this is the only world there is. What an experiment this life here is, to emerge from a field of interconnected activity, full of evolutionary processes. Humans begin to appear unreal and yet beautiful in their playing out the habits of their biology and history, their customs in this unique, relative mode of being we know as ‘life on earth’. From the way we speak, sleep, drink, dress – a rare collection of revocable attributes, a lonely arrangement in the infinite spectrum of eternity. I caught a glimpse only. Glimpses of just one dream unfolding in a god’s sleep; a god that never dies. That god has had an infinite number of dreams in the past and shall have an infinite number of dreams in the future, no two alike. In this ephemeral presence how can I regard anything as immutable, or ultimately, even as real? The very foundations of this world, with its geometry and physical laws, its life forms and civilizations, its space and time, are nothing more than an evanescent chapter in the phantasmagorically boundless ground of being.

So here I stand as raw nothingness, the happiest nothingness to ever breathe the cold air under a yellow winter sun, amidst the foundationless relativity of this dreamlike existence.

The rest I will never know.


 

Nihilistic Poetry

and the bone and the flesh and the

bukowski quote

‘flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh’

the stoic
had spoken
or written these words
which is never the same
thing

he could have been
an Epicurean
but was too
libidinal
to fit the term

pleasure, yes
but excess?

but I’m not
here to
judge
or compare

simply to
repeat
on my twenty-
eighth
finished year:

‘flesh covers the bone and flesh searches for more than flesh’


wouldn’t that make
a great
bedtime story?

nihilistic loves

nihilistic nihilism

Narrow
split sensuality
the arrow of an orgasm
thrusting forth through the tugged
claustrophobias of a deserted capitalist
and in the end of this unending moment
surfeit with the agony of every pleasure
the subtle residue of erroneous streets
and these nihilistic loves
cosmically lost on a sidewalk
becoming ready to cease
a Sunday lost and irrecoverable
like the black dream of tomorrow
in the wintery existence of an elliptical life
these all these fortunate routines
some of the death
that whispered in the ear
of the mute man that
no longer wanted to see.

nihilistic poems

A definition of consciousness

 

This vengeance of feeble consciousness

engulfed in the wild roar of mortality’s ocean

battling hopelessly with madmen’s zest

diseased with the poison of its own vitality

secretly conjuring fantasies for eternity

dripping down the spine of Illusion herself

drowning in pleasure and soaring in pain

nurtured by the stings of challenge

greatest when forgetful of itself

crippled by the burden of its weight –

the threshold of all realities

           and because, weak and coward,

   possesses doom in its very heart

abandoning the mellow horizon of non-existence

          captive of its deadly fear. 
 
 
 

 

I fear,
therefore, I am.
  

Return to Beyond Language

The oppression of language (two poems)

 

 

 

 

The following two poems explore the human need to express everything we experience and the impossibility of absolute correspondence between lived experience and our descriptions.  I wonder why we cannot contain the purity of experience in ourselves without exchanging it for the artificial-reality of words and symbols. Wouldn’t it be better to leave the flux to itself while we join in its silent (nonverbal) dance in an ahistorical frenzy? For what are our conversations but a miniature-history of the world and our lives? Must mankind be forever trapped in the webs of a descriptive situation? What’s the need to define place, time, mood, thoughts, hopes and expectations?

 

 

Is life too great for anyone to bear alone that we must reduce its intensity and infinity to the limited bounds and finiteness of language? 

 

If we cease to communicate (purge) life could we die from an overdose of life itself?

 

 

 

 

 

These are the dry leaves of the 21st century
Falling upon our feet that coil
A path as snakes on a dune of sand

These are the subway noises
Under the surface of our routine
Where are our shouts of ecstasy?

These are the ripples of passion
Unborn embrace of earthly bliss
We are one catastrophe away from paradise

These are the memoirs of all power-lines
Showering us with light of illusion
Approaching twilight for today’s relics 

These are the end-products of pleasure
Fascination with the wonders of plastic
And a what-for question left unanswered

 These are the dry days of the 21st century

 

 

 

 

 Fetch me nature’s product in a plastic bag
While this blue-eyed kid stares at me
As I dance to the melody of pure purposelessness 

 Talk to me about an Asian photograph
While this train takes me to your hometown
As I write lines of life’s ineffability

Promise me there is a higher plan
While I grow old with laughter
As I adjust my twisted underwear

Abandon me for taking the trivial for the profound
While the grass is still wet outside
As I swear life’s grandeur is best unexpressed

Behind the Chaos of Creation

 

 

I was dark as a gigantic shadowed mountain

I was impenetrable like a frozen ocean

I was silent like cactuses in a desert of nothingness

I was absent as the cold sleep of death

I was static like an atom between galaxies

But I was not alone, not abandoned

We were lovers, young and passionate

We made love, through and through

Our bodies flew away in the agony of pleasure

Then we both, in the horizon of thought

Disappeared like gods behind the chaos of creation.