poetic nihilism

possessions

What do I have

What do I have
a book
and no convictions
perhaps
all I have is
this:
exiting a subway station
going up the steps
squeezed between
too many pedestrians
I hear every shoe
scrape against the cement
and stare at the spit
of punkasses
frozen at -13 Celsius
a night that howls
like a monster
but does not eat me
steps
aimless steps
driven mad
like the man
without a thought
that laughs
at the joke
of
eternity.
 

 

nihilistic poetry

in the fog

Inaccessible trees
stand in the fog
as the limits to my world,
a fog dense and metaphysical
trees alien as my cavernous thoughts
a few brave lifeless sticks emerge from the snow
the milky wind brushing
whitening them slowly
with the impassible oblivion
that has set in,
an ivory spell
led astray into this cold nook
of washed away eternity,
while I’m encapsulated
in the immobility
of this white extraneous soul
a pleasing despair
that is felt
after each
footstep in the ice.

Nihilistic Poetry

Braver men…

That I must
never
be read
will be clear
from the vacuous
vocabulary
I must borrow from
and still
there are memories
or phantoms
of an uncertain past
the magic bricks
I thought I could
move with one
finger
the trees that watched
my infant
nothingness
I must never be read
my life is already
buried by dust
there are braver men
out there…

with fear
the embodiment
of disaster
that I call
“breathing”
is not
of any use…

there will be
peaceful silence
when this and other
poems
are no more…

they can’t surface
but sink
drop,
deeply,
disappear.

Stop

Stop.

 

Please stop.

 

Leave whatever you are doing right now,

 

and do me a favor.

 

Look out outside your window

 

(I truly hope you have a window)

 

to some small gilded leaf in the sun.

 

Stare at it,

 

there’s nothing romantic,

 

poetic or beautiful

 

about that leaf.

It is just there

 

motionless or

 

swinging with the wind

 

it is just there

 

almost too fragile

 

almost too irrelevant

 

but it is there.

 

It is drunk with something

 

it has something we don’t.

 

It is not brighter or duller than us

 

but it has more depth

 

than our little lives.

Nihilistic Poetry

More or Less

Twilight and morning are now irresistible  

    they hang above like motherless children 

there is no reason to believe in one or the other 

           all the insects swarm this local abyss 

fortunate, for us, all minutes randomly orbit an hour 

    anywhere is home, or else, unfettered lives would not be possible 

  reentering again a field of silences 

          morning or night or true or false 

were all excluded 

             an intimate void 

more or less… yours.

Coherence

It is impossible to remain coherent. It is an effort beyond human ability – and wonderfully convenient, it is only humans that desire coherence. Life, if you allow it to be, is too intense; and if you look for the words to describe or preserve it, then this intensity travels from wonder to monotony. There is not one single day that is ordinary – only because we are so intimidated by existence that we willingly enter that repulsive state of awareness called “normality”, which is to say, a trivial encounter with known and familiar objects. So, hours may seem like pleasant arenas, where nothing may occur too unexpectedly; but certainly the night comes, or leisure, or what bothers us immensely: waiting comes and hours turn into monsters, ordinary things into blasphemies. We then need to escape, leave this desolate stability; we need chaos, disorder, frenzy! Why? Because all along we’ve faked our pretty little ordered world. We did not want to see things too deeply, we ignored them so we could continue our 9-to-5 placid existence. So, when our hypocrisy is too heavy to bear, we desire madly to return to the world we ignored – we want to embrace the enigmatic, to unite with what is becoming and does not yet bear a name. So we rush away from ourselves only to wake up the next day sick with regret, as if we betrayed ourselves by indulging too much in the irrational. We bounce from one end to the other, grasping for complete coherence on the one hand and on the other, we strip ourselves naked for our plunge into unadulterated confusion. We are unable to leave permanently the false illusion we’ve created, but we fear to stay too long at the other shore, where laws, customs, languages, thoughts and egos break down.

Beyond Language Blog

Indulgence: our common road

Materiality is the common road. We tread its trail; we pursue the scent of rock. We are — these two words so inappropriate — herders of demise, we are bearers of disease. For what delicious goal we repeat the nausea of our desire, for what exhausted orgasm we repeat expectations for the future. We are really bound to this world of rock and air, we are truly sterile penises focused on ejaculation, while knowingly incapable of delivering results. And however putrid the atmosphere of habits may be, we continue in them, we wallow in boredom – because someday, we like to imagine, our collected decay will metamorphose into beautiful bliss. That day will come, we say hollowly to ourselves, when the sacrifice of wasting time will pay off and we can excuse ourselves by declaring: I had no choice but to wait.

So, what are we waiting for? We are – again these silly words – nagging children passively waiting for chance or fate to transform, deliver, or elevate this all-too-familiar playground into something we are not ashamed of, something that is more dignified than us. This is clearly shown by the regret and emptiness felt after festive events, after the euphoria of drinking and eating, after the ecstasy of sex, after the pleasure of spending – what’s left is only a longing that comes from a weakened being, somehow mutilated by its indulgence in these material things. And this road that we’ve fashioned for our descendants is barely challenged; we dare not look straight into the eye of our times and threaten these irrational and immeasurable cravings. We will always find alibis to justify our lack of concern, we will be too distracted, too immerse in this playground of pleasure to be blamed for our negligence. Yes, we care for matter too deeply, we’ve placed it at the center of our consciousness…

and we will burn for this……….

Modern Disgust

indefinable being

indefinable_being_21st_century_poetry

The last remnants of this bitterly afraid body, this ambiguous mind, this capsule in which the entire universe seems to exist – and outside, beyond the surface of this inexplicable skin, a blank void, a dark emptiness, a vicious silence. What in the end is the point of this unending preoccupation to make sense of what is finally unspeakable, to exist in a vast and profound space with miraculous shapes and forms, to breathe and beat a heart relentlessly while the plot of an unwritten play unravels — before these eyes full of wonder? However vainly the hours may pass, oblivious of the impending death of my surroundings, the death that will also come to this entity that strangely calls itself “I”; vain attempts to forget the inevitable, to resist the irrevocable. Had this self been able to escape permanently from the entanglements of disaster, had this ego renounced a borrowed language and survived brutally naked without philosophy, without history, without tales, without spoken love. Somewhere within the entrails of this phantasmagorical reality lies a reflection, a foundation upon which all things past, present and future are sustained, nurtured and consumed; it is a realm powerfully un-human, destitute of qualities and because of its effortless existence it remains sovereign above all things that strive. And maybe it is a joke, to conceive or imagine some sort of reality that will remain after all of us are gone, some sort of metaphysical ground by which our passing away seems less painful, less tragic. There might not be any foundation for the fear, the awe and the effort; every act, every thought, every failure is essentially groundless, and we are and will always be an unnamable race, an indefinable being.

Beyond Language