In the sky
travels like a passenger
inside the cloud
I have seen it journey
across the blue
until it reaches the golden
arc of horizon
where it suffers
through a whim of fate
from pure whiteness
to the brightness
of the gold;
as a bullet
entering a vein of blood
the vehicle cloud
in the throb or throe of twilight
and whiteness dies like a sigh
in the expanding gloom
of purple tinge.
A flower is
a knot of chiaroscuro
enlightenment entangled in a coil,
finely spread seasons of spirals,
long mournful curves
chained to moment or cycles,
it is sense in a state of song,
desire dense in dew,
a phase suspended in façade
electricity distilled in feature
is essentially unknown
in petal passion perfume.
a big blot or blob or block of black
like a burning whisper
in my throat
leaves a bitter
in the melody
of the silence
the narrative of time
in the empty fire
like the echoes
in a dream
The trick is to close the eyes.
To look for the thing
crawling below the carpet of darkness of the lids.
Remain still like a hunter. Do not stir
even if a sliver of light echoes through the emptiness.
You’re looking for a boom.
It starts with a swirl of symbols
curling around each other
in wild experiments of mutation.
You’re looking for a spark, an isolated
hazardous word that will scale
up the fence of perception, to consume
the whole plantation of thoughts.
Venture into this plague of accidents,
advance as a whirlwind upon the dunes of ash.
Soon the darkness begins to burn bright,
you are a sun leaping into a single atom
witnessing a birth to the naked eye.
House, an ambulance of thorns and the chairs. The dust
a coat of ghost upon furniture, reality – the hairs
in my nostrils a trembling unto death. Laughter,
a www or another milieu ripe with decadence
and the ballet of bullets in a new nation – forever?
The moon has grown without tasting an apple and
it explodes, one day, without leaving enlightenment
arrrrrrgh. or ash
in elevator low the masterpiece of low sound
the foreseen doom of leaving veins into
narrow corridors warehouse of worms wonder
the same bullshit because they die
and become little food
for grass/trees and
there goes the waiter with a white shirt
always a man with a face and a pack
of cigarettes and always Schopenhauer
in theater thinking of Thanatos et triviality
aid to disease and milestone quintessential
orb of alleviation, my dear anxiety
where like an angel will I see the light
and fly away morose like
some morsel masticated selflessly
because this house is curtain
and the blood is shiny
like mirror a sound
tired from abyss
in my hand
This is not an experiment.
This is an animal
slowly dressing itself
with a garment of stone.
This is a shadow
shedding its bone
in a camouflage of change.
This is a sister
opening a drawer
to hide a wonderful thing.
This is antiquity
growing thick with mighty
buttresses of steel.
This is a mouth
movements of moonlight.
This is a perception
flapping in the silence
of the air.
This is a drunk
stealing a plume
from the waitress’ perfume.
But above all,
this is another hand
clinging to the edge
before the fall.
I bumped into the city, the bastard.
Looking around the snow – remembering
my tongue melting as ice in Lascaux and fossilized
toothpicks near the ancient campfire.
I was in Iceland and got drunk,
looking at the cloudless that would die
before the sky reached Sweden.
I have been on the toilet all day,
working, theorizing, and it came
out looking like Nobel’s head,
I will sit beneath a giant tree and forget
my existence as grass never did.
I see why the intellectuals
are enchanted by doom.
But why worship definition as
a totem almighty menacing godly cult.
I see why the poets cancel death
and write lyrics for the music
of meaningless wind.
I observe the visionaries
about to detonate with their unclean secret
like a grenade in their chests . But they can’t,
never finding sunshine in communication,
sadness has overwhelmed language
leaving behind a thin vicissitude