poet

against the city

against the city

when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows

when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf

when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause

when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.

…

This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.

Nihilistic 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

the currency of uncertainty

copenhagen stock exchange sky

I have one penny of certainty,
to buy a glimpse of sky.
Then hunger and reckless
vortex of night.

Mankind is as sweet
as a machine’s ambition.
I am the bitter cog.

But allow something like a flower
to grow from this
stump of philosophy.
A fragrance or hope,
a whiff of purpose.

To suffer is a fortune,
and pleasure a Pyrrhic victory.

When I lay paint
on the canvas, I press
hard all the colors
towards a grey pact.

There was once
bright red love,
cold blue thought,
intense yellow joy,
dark green solitude.

Today the mess
is grey and this totality
cannot be undone.

I carry this enterprise
of chaos towards a prism;
perhaps if reflected
far beyond the senses,
this senselessness,
will make sense.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

Soon the path is fog

While these hands

have broken bread,

caressed drooling

lips of pleasure,

while grey wax streams

down these cheeks

for soon the path is fog,

a dotted line of street lamps,

lumps of light

doses of darkness,

nothing but cold in the event

silence in the hour;

a particle swinging between cars

and the busy lives of chimeras

this shadow amongst transparencies

this elevation without certainties

I navigate like lost wind

through edifices and glow

seeking a new contradiction

a newer totality

or the last

dust of god.

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

quotidian epic

Timeless apple

Hinted
then ripple
of white gasp
the entire orb
of inspiration

then the clouds
the sun hiding
in total light

the task is to use a daub of paint
to depict a mistake
or a river of thought
or pain eating the soul
as if it were soft bread

I sense a feeling
empty of emptiness
it is full of invisibility

the irony is
the instant is like blood
never seen but intimately wrapped
a cut an explosion a gash perhaps
and the world is all red without words

like an apple
timeless
on the table.

 

 

 

 

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG

How would any sensitive soul react to this Fate?

I could
have      loved
the fire
and hummingbird
little winters
stacked and trembling

my hand
wild and rodent
treading the
earth

but looks like
young time
nothing is nothing

my prayer being
when death comes:

may this consciousness
be that of a stone
stripped of its rock

NIHILISTIC POETRY BLOG

dead meat

Ethereal barabingbaraboom
I scream out joyfully for
not having aged a day
this awareness-of-time
of mine
I am the existence of the memory
and if eternity is the hunter
I’ve been deadmeat
forever.

 

 

 

 

NIHILISTIC POETRY BLOG

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

The ant feeling

I have the hands of a dictator.
Thoughts of a circle
and a pretty bloated lower lip.
I wake up some days thinking
how many galaxies are needed
for this life to be indubitably
insignificant.
I look at the mirror,
those eyes like clouded enigmas.
And then come the words,
like heavy storms of smoke.
If the sky were glass to break;
but I settle for grunge.
While to most life is a gulf,
to me
the world is a knife
two parallel lines
that meet at the horizon
to stab me right
in the middle
of my unseen heart.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry