we still cling to noise

absurd_short_poem

 

Some people think this thing will burn their eyes.
So brave they stare at the thinghood of the thing.
They say this stuff is a knife of pain and a cutting flame.
So brave they stare at the sharpness of its shape.

Some people think this object will blister their skin.
So brave they touch the surface of the structure.
They say this stuff is a sun of swelling suffering and a sea seething with steam.
So brave they touch the furnace of its frenzy.

Some people think this entity will poison their tongue.
So brave they taste the entirety of the whole.
They say this stuff is a gulp of gunpowder and a drop of death.
So brave they taste the viscosity of its violence.

 

 

 

AbSURd PoEtry

Thanatos

thanatos_poem

House, an ambulance of thorns and the chairs. The dust
a coat of ghost upon furniture, reality – the hairs
in my nostrils a trembling unto death. Laughter,
a www or another milieu ripe with decadence
and the ballet of bullets in a new nation – forever?
The moon has grown without tasting an apple and
it explodes, one day, without leaving enlightenment
arrrrrrgh. or ash
in elevator low the masterpiece of low sound
the foreseen doom of leaving veins into
narrow corridors warehouse of worms wonder
the same bullshit because they die
and become little food
for grass/trees and
there goes the waiter with a white shirt
always a man with a face and a pack
of cigarettes and always Schopenhauer
in theater thinking of Thanatos et triviality
aid to disease and milestone quintessential
orb of alleviation, my dear anxiety
where like an angel will I see the light
and fly away morose like
some morsel masticated selflessly
because this house is curtain
and the blood is shiny
like mirror a sound
tired from abyss
in my hand
and tiny
thing
or
soul.

Contemporary Poetry

never mind

Never Mind Mask

there are rare days
that begin
with orchestras crying my eyes
colors dripping memories
city strolls in mammoth steps
I carry pocket-sized chaos
on my shoulder, pretending to be a pirate
on the sea of modernity,
off we sail
into the wind
as plastic wrap
buoyant on meaninglessness

there are rare days
that begin
with suspension points
calmly insinuating that
life is passing by

there are rare days
that begin
with tiny airplanes tied to the tips
of my fingers
seems like I’m about to take off
but then I remember
the anchors tied to my toes
that sink me
into
never mind.

 

Modern Poetry Blog 

meaning of this

Poetry of Meaninglessness

I was walking down
the streets
trying to perfect
my pronunciation
of the word
meaninglessness
I repeated it
frequently aloud
meaninglessness
   meanínglessness
     meaningléssness
   meaninglessnéss
for a while I stopped
to look up at the
starry night
standing on bridges
and stare at the
water below
skim through neighborhoods
in dim artificial twilight
but then
I continued
meaninglessness
  meaninglessness
like a meaningless
obsession had taken
hold of me
   meaninglessness
meaninglessness
till suddenly
it was no longer a word
but absolute noise

 

I carried on
that night
in that meaningful chaos
that laid before me.

layman’s philosophy

layman philosopher

SENSE
that perhaps
our senses
make no
SENSE

 

REASON
gave me
too many reasons
to quit
REASON

 

MIND
said
would you mind
being out of your
MIND

 

WILL
I ever
free
my free
WILL

 

 

modern 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

gutter thoughts

Drunken Poetry

The
voluntary dissipation of time
eventless and motionless
decomposing
aging with the night
the loud blah of history
no goodie-goodie stuff
at the end of this line
the long fucking wait
the fucking article
‘the’
the real drunkard doesn’t have
words left to spill
slime, dust and comatose sleep
down
against any attempt
why try, answered the void
truth in a glass
and another glass
and another
another shortcut
to death.
 
 
 

nihilistic poetry