Horribly dreamt
I have a street
its conceptual secrets
like invisible rage
I pertain to abandonment
it hurts to disappear
wakefully vanishing
in the gaseous actuality
I roam like invisible pain
hidden behind monstrous eyes
eavesdropping, like sun of insects
interminably the hour and a smile
release… release my skin
hurdled over blank shrub
my feet slither pass the common earth
alive with some deadly truth
I run
and shattered are
the windows of lies.
I observe myself moving
rather consistently and sensibly
riding my bike in accordance to
god-knows-what prospect
going up steps dandily
sipping tea effortlessly
simultaneously
throbbing anguish
a howl permanently
outstretched, a gash
of purulent sound
like the grumbling
of a terribly cynical
mind
therefore
I am
nonplussed by
so innocent normality
I pretend to embody
while the hostility of the unknown
goddamned world
corners me to the tiniest
spot inside the human soul
almost immobile
condemned to see life as a
glassed-in fish
while in fact
I’m the last conscious thread
dangling atop the
immense abyss
of noise, shape and paradox
unquestionably a plaything
of innumerable forces and trickery;
bearing the high formulations of daily destiny
with a stupid smile and
hardwired etiquette –
all the while
expecting the towering walls
of reality
to finally to collapse
and bury me
in their
filthy falsity
A man
Leaves a voice
On brume
That is of paper
To a solitary
Event or thing
He points
As a despondent relic
That must be remembered
Faintly
His hand
The veins asunder
The terror of leaving beauty
Lost in the madness
That collects
Arrant forgetfulness
A man lifts his voice
Clashing with the impossible
His thoughts already of cinder
Mist and silence
A poem remains
Obscurely reposing in the cupped
Hands of the transitory
One of many inanities of inspiration
At moments gaining strength
But ultimately to rest alongside the expended
There with the elapsing sum of experience
While the fragment is our fruit
the mild mind of the cloud
in the fields, the influence of greens
encapsulated by vast sense of earth,
all intermediary fog
my retreat
into the silent bowl
of the countryside.
A wild band of maniacs
command me
I am hostage
given the liberty
to think
but not to feel
they feed me futures
the bones of tasks
I am hunted
with a shield of invisible ideas
I am naked to the truth
hurting by the clouded horizon
I poeticize my hypocrisy
I am of thieves
after masks I’d like to kiss
I’m heading towards madness
together with my wild pack of beasts
a found a mystic’s cloud
today
strange stream surfacing
motion maneuvering mirthfully
a found the tree under the shadow
objects reposing, the light untouched
today was so short
a flicker
as a beautiful face
turning the corner
never to be seen again
empty sand
in my hand
again
but at least
these shoes of ache
brushed by
the mystic’s lake
today.
There are years
that have made touch
sediment
on our skins
we are still waiting
for childhood
one that makes toys of truth
vast rivers of ignorance
bird of drunk chance
in the azure of unknown
we are now rock hard dead lives
from our cavernous eyes:
outside the fleeting world of fantasy
perplexing games naturally there –
we, nevertheless, have chosen dripstone repose
a slow stagnation
the light disappears
and I sense
we were shadows in the sun.
Born
as
limb
annexed
to
p r o c e s s
my life
a finger
fiddling with
crystals of perception
the experience
alone
a purposeless
flight
truth… ?
simple,
the unwritten
manifesto
of the sky
death comes
I am one more wave crashing
swelling and then
absorbed back
into
formless
immanence
disappearing once more
into fire.
I envy the rock
I want eyes as deep
protruding shadows
hair as wise tilting winds
combing the grasslands of my thoughts,
I envy the nose rising into the perfume of sky,
the mouth savoring the elusive spring snow,
I need the sleep of a mountain
to command my skin to roll down stones
as dreams down a fatal abyss;
at the bottom touching rivers of intricate twine
my feet would play with the fish and the shimmers –
but my illusion is not merely physical,
I need a religion of transformation
similar to all these millennia of erosion
and above all,
to participate imperceptibly
as a column that touches a heart
like the summit of mineral
descending to the center of the earth,
I need to intertwine with rock, mountain, pinnacle –
something of the power that
envelops me.
I have,
somber,
taken the
age
by its feathers
flapping heedlessly
towards
the wasteful
the glass
is clear
with signs
of sorrow;
how to blame
the cathedral
for having
gold angels
in its marble
cross
for
the touch
is not random
but decoding
the material
language,
translating it
to pure
essence
I have,
somberly,
taken the
task
of discovering
the fatal
mistake
of our
lives.
Beyond Language 
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