postmodern poetry

Per aspera ad astra

ad astra

 

I – waiting
in an unknown corner –
will have a shepherd’s role.
Heartlessly shall I pick up
an empty bucket and bang
it with drops of dew.
Flocks of words that have
broken skin will gather
around me like tiny shadows
of morning or soul.
If a window opens then
temples grateful with dust
from beginning to despair.
I will love the gaps in sound
when every word, world
after world, tightens into
a raceme and leaves its scent
plummet as – tar of transcendence,
foam of formlessness, empire of
impermanence, depth of delusion –
to the ground.
I intend, through endless pages
of misery and category,
to leave a trail for posterity
to meander through the truth
of resemblance in a metaphor.

Contemporary Poetry

an ode to whatever is represented

disparate_dimensions_21st_century_poem

I was divagating in a fluidity of language
collecting in the subjective aroma of an objective pinpoint
a star deriving its presence by its undulating waste of light.

I contained the arching earth and the moon
pretended to shift through the clouds of a mind
like an unconscious mirror spinning.

The arrow of the sensation was pointed
towards a nectarous instant of sound
a long necklace of harmonies.

My hour is traveling through imaginary pleasing effects
the seconds are my mistresses in red corduroy –
the age – a vague perfume of disparate dimensions.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

an attempt to understand

Russian_orthodox_inside_church

Motion of orange limb
cloudlike epicenter
in the mindful gap
of my vision –
motion
bulging multitudes
of dismay
faraway kaleidoscope
in the origin of the mind,
of dense, opulent
location – married to
chance and improbability,
the bread of destiny
in the ruthless jaw of divine
novelistic forces –
a day here
and a bulge of eternal
there,
two
spiraling towards each other
like the allegories
of the eternal return
and the empty
nirvana.

 

Poetry 2011

signify if not the fear

Poetry blog

Poem of dew legs
towards the heavy
impulse of bottom breath
the eyes turn road to exile
laughing culmination of clouds

poem of bitter it
ourselves tapping one universe
adhered living blindness
the motion of emptiness
the physics higher and unbroken

poem of tide or meaning
wrestling rustle of weight
hands dancing communication
the voice of whole suffering fingers
back and forth in speeding wounds

poem of cigarettes
transformation the blurry face
a voice of fatal fury
the organ of trembling gray
to smoke the blue song

a chasm of notes
eternally
behind the thistle
of your victim
eyes.

 

 

Poetry 2011

the day we died

             There were so many things
left to do
the city had abrupt faces, ideals
our hands were eager with schemes
so full of intent and consequence
the flavors we would discover
some of the poetry entailed
but our hands were sealed
collapsing monuments on the bed
our bodies were already heavy
with the black of time,
we decided to end our lives
as naturally as a flow of music
our destiny was a quiet ending
alone in that dualism of self and terror
we would begin to fall
now sleeping towards
the arms of a nestling hiatus,
we began our descent
down the throat of nullity
certain that this abandoned world
was only a first dream
and that reality was fully awake
at the dawning clouds of death.

Nihilistic Poetry

ex nihilo

Ex Nihilo Poetry
I’ve come close
to developing incurable nausea
biting the world so often
it’s starting to swarm like primordial chaos’s pulp
lingering in my mouth
it proliferates in my stomach
constant genesis out my ass
yet
the feeling is still there
I’ve had too much of it
I need a new distraction
perhaps
ex nihilo
I can invent a death
  so pristine
it returns to life
    its facet of dream.

 

Nihilistic Poetry     Blog

out comes

puking poetry

By time
I was aware
the puke was everywhere spreading
like the universe
I could see traces
of yellow
and acid
pain spiraled in
this was suffering
but I
emptied
free of content
overtook space
as a substitute
to
existence.  

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

a brief view on my own life

21st century poet

I wear thirteen-year-old T-shirts
but I spray them with the most expensive colognes around
I don’t buy them, only use the testers
I’m socially awkward so I might come close
to touch your hair without asking for your permission
you’d probably punch me
but I’ll say that I’m weird and sorry
I’ve never punched anybody in my life, please don’t hurt me
I’m not afraid to write a poem
when something beautiful touches me inside
I see my drunkenness as a preface to wisdom
when I drink a poem I become a mystic
when I peruse your vodka I become a breathing metaphor
I use my sadness as a dictionary
to decipher the language of modern civilization
I do not wish to bore you with my autobiography
when you are done, burn up this poem and use the flame
to warm up your soul.

 

modern poetry