on work

Working place earth

It is there
a taste of machine
in my earth-rooted tongue
that although I am drenched
in phantasmagoria
my center is solid like
the bolt of physical law

it is there
a host of onerous mechanisms
LURKING
behind the quiet gleam
of motion

that in the splintered sky
of the treetops
a fabulous realm of myth, sleep
and transience is reposing
like the heavy fingers of god

but today
rocks are in my lungs
being grinded for
the castles of math
and strategy

a player taken out
of the bench of chimera
to supply the field
with an extra glove of fact

today the world is no longer my metaphor
but the unalienable stage for
man’s work.

 

 

Poetry 2011

in your hands

Decadent poetry

the machines  +
    he echoes 

and to live
     dangerously
with this slow beard
amidst hallucinations of normality

the decadence of my
      Nietzschean years
no role model:
      Kurt is long gone
dead by angst
           we still live on 

the poet of opium
    in a brothel
licking her sweetness
beauty the contradiction
   of his verse 

the poet needs his decadence
     refutal of his commitment
the lie
        the mistake
               the disaster
mistrust of the divine
          impotence of sublimity

my life is decay
       in your hands.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

the great civilization

The Great Civilization

where’s the off switch
for all
endeavors

the icicle of reason
has melted
leaving a small puddle
of fictions
at my feet

and we will build
and build
assemble great systems
to the outer edge of the milky way
and back

the civilizations, the civilizations
with its civilians hooraying
     their democracies pushing
the sciences inventing
         the artworks embellishing
the museums and the highways accelerating
     the capital erecting
              the monuments
of the great laughter of achievement

while the black smoke of reality
swirls
into nothingness dreamt.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

playthings

oh in what manner
I touch
these playthings of the
soul
sculpting in torn blindness
the mode of the self
eliciting shapes
like a damp cloud
over the empire of uncertainty
am i this wisp
of creation
twisting and turning
emerging
painfully philosophically inadvertently
from the wreckage
of my
sadness?

 

 

Prosopopoeia

Poetry_of_Nihilism

My creator
has abandoned me
the hands that spun these
verses
are now caressing
night axioms and
mysticisms,
the poet left
me
a poem
sunken
somewhere lost
in the motions
of the automatic world,
I am the victim
a spirit
that occupies briefly
whatever soul
treads these words
but, alas
ultimately doomed
to perish
as your
eyes
approach
my final
sigh.

nihilistic poetry

true living

What I call true living

is found at the periphery of all modality

after a week of uninspiring tragedies

petty, yes

small unrecognizable anxieties

a tiny indulgence

like a return to a temporary home

that is true living, to say

“I am a great sufferer”

and drink the bottle

to curse the others

after a nagging narcissism

pretends to obliterate a reason

to go on breathing. 

 

That is true living

to hold tight to the street

wayfaring, intoxication

denial

a great wide hole

alive alas

at the bottom of any common asphyxia

true living

is the edge

  the final wound.

Nihilistic Poetry

on magic

By the proximity

      of endless spirals

spiraling dimensions

firmly situated in front

of the faces and worries

as if by magic

but magic so fiercely unwanted

    it is looked upon as

            ordinary occurrences

so without objection

the red flame of wine

sinks and stays at the bottom

encapsulated by the glass

yet its fire is irrepressible

too powerful minuteness

seeded in all things that

          transform us

magic, unheeded magic

magical cores burdened – with reality

together with the ungraspable circumstance 

           of happiness

containing not identifiable things

rather emerging like a gigantic bubble

at the center of a monotonous lake

more and more is given

more and more resides

I extend my grasp to any one spiral

      to the suddenness of it all

there are magical births here

          trembling with infinite abundance.

Nihilistic Poetry