poetry of 21st century

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

indictments

Modernity as madness

It is no accident
that we grew civilizations
like beards
on the first day
we became pubescent
instigators of chaos

the profligate erosion
sculpting heedless
landscapes on the arc
of this catastrophic planet
was not
enough for
the erotic sapiens
          complexity as fetish

how the tables have turned
dread
served in Smörgåsbord style
for queuing prole
while the offices are
pulpit for the priesthood
of the abstract totem – $

and the day comes
carcass-congested rivers
clearing the malaise of cogito
the terrible sunshine of noon
falling on the
unadulterated
                        playground of the earth.

 

 

Modern Poetry

open world

converse_world_poetry

the first
thing
to come into being
poisoned us
blinded us
ruined us
we’re under the spell
that things can be known
I declare
we still don’t know
the universe is unsolved
is it a machine
an organism
a process
a mission
an explosion
or even the dream of a sleepy god

                        I don’t know

so… I wet my feet
at the shore of the Kattegat bay
whistling like the wind
on a hot summer day

 

Modern Poetry

lights away from the field

It was in the disfigured arrangement of thoughts
that I found the elements of art
prompted by the vision
of aging cells reversing into nothingness
sparkles bones disappear
nothingness engraved in being
life feeding from that source
the beautiful ugliness of my thoughts
unfinished – poisoned
myriad of eyes, arms, despairs, trash
tending my lost confused body
on the stillness
of poetic
landscapes.

 

Nihilistic Poetry

drunk of us

drunk admiral bridge

Too many steps too drunk
an outsider
infatuated
with the outside decadence
a 30-day-old poet
taming his extinction
grasping for existence
breathing the sidewalks
as an addiction
calling street life
the pulp of everything
right here
civilization as a theory
the grid of rebellion
on this Rorschach
while the chanting epochs
intoxicate us
with their
darkness
in the streets
in the steps
of drunken
us.

Nihilistic poetry

time’s the renegade

Time_Clouds_ Modern Poetry

The century skipped a beat
you, me and them
now dance in the criminal perplexity of death
I don’t want to state the obvious
but you are so obvious
my brain feels like the word: bacteria
almost an etcetera but never like a cafeteria
time hopped onto future’s back and left me back there
with the orphan past
I said, the century missed a beat
now we sleep listening to the lullaby of underwater winds
things broke
but chaos is a wonderful planetmaid
in the last days of last decade
I held my feet up high, pretending to be a bat
that could sleep and digest while clutching the sky
she loved to watch things grow – she was a true prophet
is it a sin father to make life a pillow and all events fiction
since the century ran over us without saying goodbye
can I sleep for the rest of this
illusion?

 

nihilistic poetry

night-voiced

Sadness, Despair Drunk Poetry

The sadness of the rain
falls
over the happiness of process
we go down to the corners
and take a piss
to avoid the police
and the exuberance of being guilty
then we go back inside
where despair is dissipated
towards the music
and
the noise
makes us forget all the pain
that made us cry in the dark
of a summer night
let’s be brave
betray
so we drink, drink, drink
and then we talk
talk and talk
the flowers on the wallpaper
made with the scent
of the spring
we never had
this is the wood
the glass
the concave walls
the drunk echo
nobody will record
for the annals
of
history.


21st century poetry

the placenta of being

Sacrament_of_poetry

My mind
is the drug
that hallucinates reality
uncoated veins and nerves
in contact with the truth
of a madman
I take a few steps
towards the keyhole of introspection
I inspect the pores of my otherness
thin pale hairs
creating a landscape of
solitary figures
in the grey white froth of subjectivity
out there, the sky
trembling and resigned
wringing out cotton static
purifying the streets
with afterlife and Aum
poetry is the sacrament
morphine for the cancerous
the unhatched gelatin lump
in the placenta of being. 

contemporary poet

the way of the poet

21st Century Poetry

I call this
my turning hour
the imperceptible motion
from a fifty-nine
to a double-zero
I live this instant
in the streets
the cold cave of Europe
here, I wander aimlessly
I wonder incessantly
my stomach is turning too
hungry and drunk
let’s rock and roll
in the zeitgeist
that no history
will ever
record.

 


21st Century Poetry