Soon the path is fog

While these hands

have broken bread,

caressed drooling

lips of pleasure,

while grey wax streams

down these cheeks

for soon the path is fog,

a dotted line of street lamps,

lumps of light

doses of darkness,

nothing but cold in the event

silence in the hour;

a particle swinging between cars

and the busy lives of chimeras

this shadow amongst transparencies

this elevation without certainties

I navigate like lost wind

through edifices and glow

seeking a new contradiction

a newer totality

or the last

dust of god.



deep time poetry

How a book
of history and deep time
carves to certainty
the doom
that is inches or eons away

we subsist
clothed & saluting
as speck, blip
so this is a cosmic process

love and civilization
the means to forget
the end

I think of sex
and a daub of paint
on loose sandstone

I wonder,
the pride of grass?

as mankind climbs
like vine
weather slackens
the skeleton merely
scars the brick

my words,
how strange they hunt
the vanishing core
of things

these temperamental chords
that tremble momentarily
and regress
to sole silence







AbSURd PoEtry

the world has ended

illusion of water

I hold
the final ache
that fragment of ash
shrouded in perception

the wind passes
through the world
wrinkling it
as a docile flag

when did I cease
to believe that
I exist

now all this movement
wanders ownerless
without a pivot

these loneliest eyes
still gathering
the last details
of the vanishing earth

it is so sad
to lie
and pretend this
will last

the canal’s waters
are fleeing from
the light of the sun

I hold
a flake of pain
tight within
my clenched fingers

it is not my hand
but a boat
carrying illusion
till the horizon
as its wake

Nihilistic Poetry

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;
merging irrevocably
with the dead of night.



Nihilistic Poetry

all day inside

nihilistic art

All day
within blank

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

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
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




Nihilistic Poetry Blog

soldier of ruin

Nihilistic Poetry

The sadness of the suit –

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