poet

moonlessness

There are days
man & you see
what flood of joy
a street black drenched
2 o clock moonlessness
the hairs as kind of antennae
on the blue poet’s flesh
kiosk shines in van gogh yellow
automatic sliding doors
press in pin code, say thanks
a bottle of wine in hand
slow steps on way back
this skin feels like walls of pure sensation
the eternal crack of rain
key in keyhole
you’re home
twirling in air of cogs & columns
dipping stale bread in the wine
oh this slow chamber of death
where shadows
rest of their enigmas
where, above all, a man
finds his peace.

AbSURd PoEtry

a mystic’s bed

then I found myself
stepping on the mushy
nodes of matter
first cobblestones
then grass
finally the helical
steps of a cloud

it was no longer
vague intuition
but pure palpable
fact :

this is a dream

the arc of night
laid its arm
round my shoulder

both my eyes
puckered
to buss the black sky

there was love
dark and murmuring

my heart drunk
on the delirious flavor
of the stars

the straws of space
nested my body
and fell asleep
while the cars below
flashed in gushing fleets

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

the poet

the_poet_pablo_Saborio

The poet does not stand
atop of creation,
the world’s veins
drip their silent desire
over the poet’s thoughts.
The poet struggles,
upstream the imaginary,
irremediably crushed by emotion
that has the absurd behavior
of a happy ant.
The poet does not hold reality
but rehearses the repetition
of genesis and the dangerous
length of decay.
A recluse whose language
is tired of the simpler flowers.
The poet knows why
cannot be unearthed from his tongue.
Two or three words
have the function of
weightless evenings.
There is some truth
in the smells that drove
him to mindless ecstasy.
There must be falsehood
when he attempts to season
the Silence with adjectives.
The poet recalls
feelings as the leaves
of the tree of life.
The poet hums
on the road to another delusion;
and uncertain of the meaning
of anything, smiles at the stones
that he dreams under his feet.

 

 

 

Absurd Poetry

prophecy

prophecy

 

The future does not care for poetry or ambiguity.
It thrives in pristine clear expressions of thought and action.
It despises the vagueness of unnatural associations.

The sinking sound

the crest of the red suppose

the eternal system

elected a song as carriage

of its power.

Grandiloquent expressions as the above will be ridiculed.

The concrete matter-of-fact will be the only subject of interest.

Poetry will slowly fade out of view as did the rotary dial.
The world of fact will flourish.
Doubt will dissipate, the psyche will be freed of contradiction.
In the future, the ex-poet will turn towards the objective.
Like a lion on a gazelle.

These are some of the last unruly poems to emerge.

The last bones to chew.

Savor them.

day #9 (from el camino)

Still mountain

I begin to salivate
with the thought of dedicating
an entire life to poetry,
a voracious appetite to eat
the great voids of nature and spirit;
that while indigent
I can still satiate mi hunger
with the stillness of the mountains
and the spring of the sky
that runs sweet
night and day.

 

 

poetry blog

untouched


From the phantom tables
and vanished walls
a cloud of light
and thunder of shadow
the foundation is lost .
I still glimpse an inkling of
cold geometry and
wooden truth;
but the glue of substance
drips like echoes of brevity. . .
I witness
and no longer
participate.

 

 

Absurd Poetry

of salvation

To depart from equilibrium
incomprehensible
roads to destinations blackened
ideas of Hell, saints, criminals
suffering, redemption, death, exits,
they are daily bread for the hungry wreck;
is this still a world
I cannot speak of it
the internal voice is secret or alien
this flesh of unknown vapor
and desire guided by
intangible forces;
the cloud of life
is now dark and sorrowful,
the guilt of a single droplet
drowns entirely this mad domain,
in the soul the criminality of existing
is being laundered –
the quake !
unjust formulations of goodness
this rag of mind
dragged by hands fortuitous!
are these numbers and hours death
is it failure or a form of dream
my limbs are dying
the cascade of energy
expiring in the toilsome rage!
I desist the womb
and the world is a womb!
suffering of many lights
ache of myriad eyes
roped by nameless maledictions
there must be a drop
a fall
the divine grace and grave
of silence
but instead of divinity
suffusing this space eternal
pray for an open gross void
and salvation
the courage
to plunge into its
horror –
a soundless exit.

 

 

 

of the living

Routine streets

Of the living
clod of reality,
the bladed streams
of circumstance,
in the incinerated rush
of experience;
miracle of memories,
the enigmatic ordeal
of existing –
postponed,
quietly repressed
in the lethargic hum
of your
original routine!

 

21st century Poetry

sketches of quintessential

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

The fallacy of existing

Existence Poetry

something set me         loose

abrupt and cryptic

sailing in a       medium

that infuriates me

                   headway headway

progress is like a precipice

i knew about the          rocks

long before my pessimism

took over

corroding the oars

                        my bores

counted like stars

yawning as naturally as breathing

boat body bodhisattva

drowning in the air

sinking in the blood

world   me                        (mindless)            me          world

nothing is so big and cavernous

so         ingrained

in occult emptiness

within the rising steam

of hot silence

            the anchor

the destiny

simultaneously my hunger

the greasy milk of the sea

fattening the grand course of solitude

scraping against the seabed

slowing the haste

            the waste

a motion brave and stupid

pushing me like a vessel

of filament

            farther              further             away

from the goal of existence:

 

stillness

 

 

 

 

Existential Poems