poems

through artery

deeper_soul

To peek within,
through artery,
like spying through
a window into a room
with two armchairs
and a book of chemistry.

To capture within
the vaulted length,
the sinuosity of entrails
like a mountain range
that forces trees up toward the sky
with perched birds inside them
looking down toward the earth
for the head of a worm.

To glance within
through dilated ache,
while standing outside a café
in front of a mob that clothe
with invisible meaning
the earth and pretend its
burning bone will survive
the excitement of light
as crystal memory
in the pockets of their hearts.

To visualize within,
through hot telescope,
the distance of our truths,
like studying the clusters
of emptiness inside
an amoeba of hope.

To see within,
through the gate of the mouth,
a deeper hole that is glutted with silence,
like a threshold that opens up
not to soul
but to something even more
lost.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

beer and smoke

beer_and_smoke

The carvings in the wood. Steps up, turn right, unzip, let it rip.

There is some necessity for being unconscious of the process.
Of the origin. Of the consequence and significance.
There is some necessity to intonate without ideal,
to fling actions all of the sudden
as dice without any odds of winning.

Fix hair. Zip, down the steps. Smoke fury of flurry. Beer; what’s the score?

The second, while being a vehicle of careless novelty, is actually
heavy, almost pregnant with the expression of expired millennia.
Seamless actions operate unconscious of the thrust of heavy history.

Running out of beer. Was it 25? Come one Jones, put it in the box!

Poetry is an exercise in distillation. An appropriation of the
universal, namely, to compress the universe into the right word.
It is mutiny against language, a futile revolution against excess.

For fuck’s sake, that’s it. What a poor effort. Let’s grab a bite.

There is nonetheless an element of arbitrariness in all postures.
The only sin is definition, that is to say, narrowing the flux
to one single image, fluid as this representation may be,
that will necessarily congeal the real nature of impermanence.

The clouds are suspended as the self. Return my symbol; I’m under the influence of the absolute.

This is not the language of the everyman. But the poetic is an
elevation of ordinary life, a dissection of the vital rhythms
that run through the flesh of form and the bone of force.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

I have discovered nothing

the_outsider

I have discovered nothing

no potent spasm in truth’s tinge
no certain depth in writhing divinity

I have no enlightenment

no broad scar laid on the slope of thought
no electrifying branch igniting the empty length

I have not discovered any principle

no sinking song hardening the stone
no plaited temple wall where war reclines exhausted

I have no message

no filament of yarn towards Ariadne’s love
no hidden sarcophagus where suffering lies embalmed

I have discovered no primeval essence

no visiting visage vanishing vastly
no substitute for this sum of smoke

Contemporary Poetry

to be absurd

daylight_squirm

To be absurd from feeling to toe,
I’d punch the snow to disfigure
the torso of beauty
to join the mad soliloquists
the drunks and hopeless angels
with whales swimming in
their eyes of quivers.
Rapidly the curves of snowfall
impact the distant slums and they are
carrying pain too beautiful that we
stare and suffer. I cannot add a because,
a therefore, a necessity.
The event has sweetness
that only forgetfulness with relish.
I am too vague a vacuity too vain a villain,
being an absurd contemplator
the suspense of my erosion
is my only occupation.

and yeah, the feat of beauty
on daylight’s squirm.

 

Contemporary Poetry

about a poem

noticed how
a poem
stirs the dead
of objects
to flap
like vital wings

how it
splits
the feeling
to a pair
of mirrors

wonder
how the metaphor
is an empty cup
we fill with
suffering & immensity

observe
in a fleeting liaison
the sun waiting in the dark
the dream burning the skin
the blue tasting as salt

have you shattered
a poem
to bathe below
the surface of the flown?

Nihilistic Poetry

my ear

ear as journey poem
here is my ear
curled up
like a journey

it is still
like a window
a vehicle
to a blind
landscape

some birds
come by
to peck on
my blindness

I hear a
cacophony
of impossible
counsels

whorled noise
that I accept
as the shade
of sound

here is my ear
hidden within
the source
of silence.

 

21st century Poetry

a stroll

brevity of life

I observe man
as an attempt
as pantomime
as desperate confabulation
to be what it knows
it cannot be

a perfectly trimmed
beard
a perfectly shaved
pussy

a chameleon’s last
color to camouflage
its lust
and most importantly,
its fear

I conceive mankind
as if it were the most
embellished monument

and while I walk
under its cool shadow
I reflect:

its brevity compels
me to hate it

its meaninglessness compels
me to love it.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

to the unborn

You who are born from the edge,
gleaming,
you who will taste the lines
of the streams of light
reflected on your tongue.

You whose sigh will
feel like home
because the mouth is
an exhausted chimney.

You who will not yet understand
an erotic moon on gray waters,
you whose body is as warm
as the concept of sleep.

You who will soon scratch the air
with savage fingers.
And I don’t know why.

I can only leave you
a beautiful ambiguity,
a map to the beginning.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

cave of shadows

cave of shadows

Having crossed the street
leaving behind vapor or vastness
the bulb shines on the pavement
a flat spangled instant

this road to a friend
my friend
whose skin of earth
tightens a delta by the edge of an eye
I see the determination of a tear
gliding by the cheek ,
so early a thought
before it becomes fire,
before the verb
flees as storm.

I remember everything in silence,
like flashes of a dance
inside the cave of shadows.

My friend whose skin of earth
coalesced into the Nile’s delta

we saw the tear fall to earth
like one imperfect meaning

falling into silence.

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

withdrawal

raw fields of bliss

If a closed
pair of eyes where
I could crowd
the effusiveness of 16
hours spent in doubt
and awe,
if I could stitch the
wonderful cloud
of perception behind
the dark mirror
of sleep,
if a coarse
hum of cars could
kindle the low brass
handsome innocence
of the thunder,
if the cocks collide
at hilarious dawns
in darkness the pupils
empty of light
to be cups brimming
with the honey of sense,
if the boulders of the eyes
spewed by the dreamer
land far away
in raw fields of
bliss

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG