the idea of death

night black stars

The night is dark
the soul is charred
its landscape tarred
trees bone black
black serpents paved till horizon –
the sad spectacle of thoughts
receding unhurriedly
as stars into nothing
white lions into oblivion;
I observe scattered teeth
engulfed in black blood –
that is the night sky.
Everything turns mysterious,
my hand the lonely shade
the ultimate despair;
everything
merging irrevocably
with the dead of night.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

all day inside

nihilistic art

All day
within blank

withdrawn
nothing but the hard
pillows of my thoughts

dead past
hauled by brittle filaments
of memory

the vast tomorrow
so enormous
it’s still uncertain
whether its obese fingers
can fit in my door
and carry me away
into its dark irresolute
secret

a window is opened
a whiff of essential black fate

I’ll sleep with a key over my chest
as if the heart can open its vault

to love
vis-à-vis
the engine
of the unknown

 

Nihilistic Poetry

nooks within a routine

Mad poet

What collocation of beginnings
side by side in the sky
looking through window
at a fiery gas and ox flame
woven in lurid clouds,
the unit of beginning
3 seconds of origin
awoken in the mist –
then return to the tunnel
of thought, drug and routine
as a dark spiral without
exit.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

soldier of ruin

soldier_of_ruin_nihilistic_poetry-1

The sadness of the suit –
hung

the window shop
like a memory
carrying the scent
of an effete cosmos,
the wrinkles engraved
as snakes on a dead desert
of polyester,
the trapezoids existing
shadows in the skin
of the pattern,
and the sadness of the suit
saturated with the rust
of a regret, the shoes
of temple sacrifice-
the suit gray and occidental
ail and sober
standing brave
as the soldier of ruin.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

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.

 

 

 

pablo unbound

Pablo unbound

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.

Existential Poetry

the pretension of analgesia

Pretension of analgesia

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

Poetry

this raw piece of paper

this raw piece of paper
in this nostalgia
I place existence
entirely as a dream
as the fragile body of
a newborn
reposing on the page
it is unique and vast
like plain confession of passion
this piece of paper is all
I have this very moment
a solitude of twilight
in the horizon manifest pain
I touch life
and the memory of it
escapes
like the smoke
of this flaming
piece of paper. . .

the sensation of knowing has faded

Pablo Saborio Poetry

the sensation of knowing
has faded
the congealing cement
our last coverture

ugly, reeking
and already alone
with a bullet of important birth

have the notes in the eyes
a melody of face and terror

the philosophers
have turned to the poetic
in depiction
the overt sorrow
of crocodile skins

this task of surveying
bland vast infinite
words not even mountains
to rest the moon
on their slopes

death and terror
sustained by repetitious
creation, a blind fountain
speaking for the absence

I
supplant
meaning
to extinguish
consolation

representation having failed
we rely on the cruel instant
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Nihilism Poetry