It could have been an ordinary day.
Calm cadence of constant.
But the moon got in the way.
A violent thing
when you’re going up a hill
and it’s there
big orange organ of light
sharp as a knife
levitating above the curly sea.
Poetry
nocturnalist
There like a bolt
like a stone amidst
a dust beyond
deep in shine
a pocket w/noon
and no shadow
a golden fury
himself mad
speaking loudly
and evening
with lawlessness
into rivulets a feather
nobody wings
possibility’s a stream
hours whirl
he types ‘whiteness
merge with tear
and this earth
trickled like spark
upon memory’
he listens
apparently
the wind has a mouth
and the same questions
about time.
Contemporary Poetry
a thing imagined
Preferably soft,
jelly-like
but resilient to heat
and the precarious nuisances of the jungle
tender but defiant
able to camouflage among
stones and clouds alike
its softness must be delicate
but decisive not necessarily static
as it can be allowed rigidity at times
equivalent to that of taut velvet
not too colorful nor flaunting
the impenetrability of black or white
capable of evaporating without dispersing
(i.e. losing its cohesion without sacrificing its wholeness)
different from the rest of its kind
without becoming an example of freak
it should waver at twilight at the risk
of turning ambiguous but never incomprehensible
its upper part magnificent
and evasive like the current of time in a dream
its lower part glorious and ubiquitous
like dawn in a desert’s sky
preferably sophisticated without being pompous
straightforward without being wholly divested of enigma
and existing mainly between
the eternal and the transient.
Contemporary Poetry
fathom
I peek inside and sound;
with a world outside
pursuing the task
of something beyond
here.
I at length delving
being every thought
a lake
rippling with illusion.
Contemporary Poetry
toward skin
It was a simple answer
or no solution at
all
but to get rid of
perplexity
with fire
the works in a blaze
and the path
opposite the column
of smoke
into the arms of a woman
that sleeps naked
like the shore
of the sea
in my bed.
Contemporary Poetry
the origin of birth
If you tell a kid
that can’t remember being born,
you were born of your mother,
from your father’s seed
you come from a line of lovers
that started way back
before the instrument of love
when there was only form
forming flux and
the structure of diamonds
everywhere protruding
from the mystery
of dark pulsation.
Contemporary Poetry
they’ll know what to do
help
poets
my voice
a big blot or blob or block of black
terror
is stuck
like a burning whisper
in my throat
the rust
leaves a bitter
shadow
in the melody
of the silence
and sleep
the narrative of time
condensed
like magic
in the empty fire
of death
dust with
elegance
like the echoes
in a dream
any wall
I am a man
that learnt
at an early age
that I cannot
hold in my hands
the entire world
like a little lovely thing.
I could have had that thought
anywhere in the world,
but it came to me
while I stand here against
a random wall in Berlin,
any wall.
I am a man
that not long ago
considered Thales
the first theoretician,
but fundamentally
wrong as I saw
everything behaving
as smoke.
After a while
things seem sad
fading like a cloud
the world is like a ghost covered in mud
and all our words are pointing at it
like guns
and we’re watching
waiting
for the ethereal blood.
against the intellect
In the pissoir I am a man.
(look above)
some sort of distant collision,
where totalities remain crumbs
see those tiny galaxies
crushing their bones
without emotion in a faraway
dissolution of waves.
I am a man leaving the certainty
of proud world.
I thought I knew the world
when shapes were its body
and chaos its breath.
But even that is a view.
The violence of the mass exists
like pink throbbing in the
dynamite of perception.
I leave the toilet and confront
a scroll of measures and a bunch
of mirrors masking the smoke –
at the core nothing is known.
The sky – like a word –
turns black.
And there’s silence,
like a shadow,
following me home.
Contemporary Poetry
my eyes and shiver
There will be no more.
I will close my eyes
and shiver
as a wriggle in timelessness.
No tomorrow.
From the table
we put in our mouths
the last lesson of the bread,
we close the door
and the familiar unknown
disappears together with the
city noise.
There was no explanation
for this history of glimmers.
There will be no more:
injustice – no more form
and ideas will be lost
against the sounds of the bells.
The eyes will become simple silences,
clouded by the color of the music.
Everything will be resting
at last
under the warmth
& patience of the shadows.
Beyond Language 
You must be logged in to post a comment.