Poetry

projections

Modern Abstract Art

what kind of poems
will I write
when I’m fifty
and have outgrown
this adolescent existential
playground
 
 
 
what insect
will I become
that creeps through
the routines of madmen
and slithers past
the bars
wistful
of the first
days
when all was violence
and hunt
 
 
 
what kind
of
outpouring
will my language
pretend
when all it has done
is clothe
the only sacred
but forgotten
word
 
 
 
what hour
marks the descent
not unlike this
slow motion snow
that takes me
down with it
till I’m all
bliss and abyss.

 

 

contemporary poetry

 

 

the here

contemporary_poetry_of_nihilism


The drops have gathered
on a window pane
the cactus has a plethora
of thorns
we’re basked in rays
of murky light
geometry used to be here
the man
naked
used to be sitting there
I saw the fractions
together with the entireties
the floor is cold
and we’ll never get
what we want,
and he’ll walk
over his doubts
like the last train
to disappear in the fog
with the centuries beginning
to smell of poetry
in bed
with the unbearable
possibility
of another day
to descend upon
him
and smother
the fragments
of the mind.

contemporary nihilistic poetry

the final hours

Bare
on the floor
bare
with our heads
facing
the final precipice
of tomorrow
words coming
like agonies
born from the regret
of the entire universe
our eyes
etceteras of tears
unable to listen
the ticks of the clock
in the morning
light,
inebriated with
the perspective of escape
bare and obliterated
on the top floor
of a building
alongside
oblivion.
 
 
 

(a true story)
contemporary poetry

and the bone and the flesh and the

‘flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh’

 

the stoic
had spoken
or written these words
which is never the same
thing

 

he could have been
an Epicurean
but was too
libidinal
to fit the term

 

pleasure, yes
but excess?

 

but I’m not
here to
judge
or compare

 

simply to
repeat
on my twenty-
eighth
finished year:

 

‘flesh covers the bone and flesh searches for more than flesh’


wouldn’t that make
a great
bedtime story?

nihilistic loves

nihilistic nihilism

Narrow
split sensuality
the arrow of an orgasm
thrusting forth through the tugged
claustrophobias of a deserted capitalist
and in the end of this unending moment
surfeit with the agony of every pleasure
the subtle residue of erroneous streets
and these nihilistic loves
cosmically lost on a sidewalk
becoming ready to cease
a Sunday lost and irrecoverable
like the black dream of tomorrow
in the wintery existence of an elliptical life
these all these fortunate routines
some of the death
that whispered in the ear
of the mute man that
no longer wanted to see.

nihilistic poems

The choice

Nihilism Poetry

I have chosen darkness
in it
poetry swells,
literature breeds
dark and oppressive
I breathe in an atmosphere of coal
black ash swarms in metaphors and
contradictions
beating heart that’s become
sullen with life
I choose obscurity
like the ambiguous rose
within an unmovable abyss
I choose the ungraspable void
where borders and objects
interfuse with phantasmagorical thoughts
leaving no content, awaiting an obscure name –
in this dark dream
the Mysterious
is like wine
flowing through the veins
of whatever I am.

nihilistic poetry

A chinese poem

chinese tree poem

The street light turned red
two raindrops rest on someone’s shoulder
 

a stream of cars down the slopes of noon
I and the minutes, parts of clouds


the far-away phone rings November
these business suits still smell of rivers


shadows born from high buildings
all is peace in a busy day.

 

.

Nihilistic Poetry

my philosophy

I am no longer immersed
somewhat buried or submerged
but closely tied or floating
with those immediate things we call by words
I am that I am
my most irrelevant philosophy
closest to the light bulb
the breath on my nostril
to the plan and the hope
I am abstractedly here
together with the contents of plain reality
since I have nothing to say
I stare directly at the center of objects
yes, they are there
and I haven’t yet said anything in particular,
however close I feel
to the intellectual assumption
we like to nickname
the world
my words seem abandoned
like the stone someone else
kicked aside
down the thorny bushes
of something else.

Nihilistic Poetry

A word with myself

Being Poem

I drag
the whole compass
with its north and whereabouts
to the lyrical center called
           I
I cannot praise beauty
      only the mysterious
I summon the elements
         of my destitute body
I speak to this world only
               – my own
who else stands here
             – a dead poet or a mystic perhaps –
I am the masturbation of my own language
these are no longer words
they become
     the flesh of
 this Being.

Nihilistic Poetry