the care of the self

care_of_self

When I awoke today
I looked at my exhausted limbs
and there – THERE was a wave of tremendum
shafts of wild fascination
hanging from every bit of skin
as by whim, as by holy pendulum
I’d like to judge and proclaim
the final voice is nothing but noise
I rage.
I remain.
Hidden in a territory that history does not interrupt.
A soft sinuous sense like solitude or silencing.
Oh man, how’ve danced and surrendered,
circling the city as a mote swerving around the shafts
of light in this barren room. Alive and extensions
of some unknown cause. Fluttering like a scream
in the barbarity of ignorance. I am proud, a huge
pound of ignorance. A huge pyramid of bliss.
I was a dream. A mirrored mirage.
But now, full of fascinatum
I have the holy stream of eternity
wasted as a shadow
below my feet.
I’ve spilled the moonshine over my bare breasts
in the agony of madness.

Contemporary Poetry

structures

bicycle in motion

I wait
for structure
unguided orbit
‘round pitch black
eclipsed
purpose

I wait
for algorithm
gate through organism
a master-slave
relationship
between weightlessness
and me

I act
while belonging
to a higher order
of improbability –
fixed to the pillory
of a future

watch me
bicycle below
a clouded sky
unaware of the
the zoology
of experience

look
how a baby
embraces
a flock of details
but I still
lean against
a solidified flux

yes I
wait
for a self
to chain itself
to this body

like a saint
anchored
to
a pool
of feathers

Nihilistic Poetry

of unknown reverberations

Unknown tree

gray ground
nestling
the little curvaceous
seeking self

a methodical
appraisal of the
unintelligible

empty fields
arising
an axiomatic love
of chaos
and labyrinth

light never
ages
but its image
traverses time

the tree was spotted
as the period
at the end
of a graceful sentence
that spoke of
a timeless seed

the eyes that were
given to me
eloped with darkness

an affair
of unknown
qualities
and reverberations.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

if there were

If there were something
to unify
I’d build a bridge
between partial reality
and the wholeness of nirvana;
had there been
something to rescue
I’d make an ark
from the planks of essence,
letting in, one by one, the species
of the invisible –
if there were something
with purpose
I’d carry it on my shoulders
till I could set it free
in a new meadow of illusion; –

if only there
were there something
other than me
around here.

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

the pus

Sacred pus
azure tear of honey
illusion final and deathly
broken ache of eternal fragment
mind hidden as noise – butter twilight
brick dishonestly masking the painful
I glimpse and all else is rain and light
sometimes pause, the dark name of time
find me aging in the salt of the vein
thirsty with the mountainous experience
of sex and surface, the glass of self vs. ideal
contact or the collapse of the soft spots of obelisks
dents of fossils because the mother cries of purpose
skeleton breasts and her milk of the loving ineffability
the drug of understanding, my knowledge of futility
your awry focus on the skin, the nostalgia of eye
love in the bite of flesh and smell of age
more is forthcoming involuntarily
by an intelligence of blindness
the sky and its language
in your mouth
the pus
of
me.

 

 

 

Existential Poetry

amidst the formless

The Poetry of Awe

The face was carved out
Of sound and motion
Vision was clay of river
Through ages and lives
His face was the platform
Of transforming secret –
I was a full body of beer
Reeking smell of hallucination
The concept of man
Was the rustling leaf beyond the window?
My friend and I
Seeping into the occult layers of perception
Like rats of laughter we followed the maze
Unabashed by the terrible condition
The flaky reality we were inventing
At 6am of a holiday retreat
As automaton, as passion
The nude words of the intoxicated
As free bullets
Hunting the lie
Of the self.

My madness began at seven
Beautiful ineluctable madness
The sun was over the horizon
In wide strokes of light
Painting my ribs: the tress
The fields were windows
Clear lucid germ of becoming
My skin was everywhere
Like an atmosphere of beams
My song was the sadness
The pain
The burden
The guilt
In that bath of purity
My mouth was full
Swelling with
The verb of awe

Nihilism Poetry

the day we died

Clouds of Death Poetry

             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