home and eternity

pocket of emptiness

We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness

When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.

And so philosophy ends.

Contemporary Poetry

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

weirdo nail clipper

Weirdo Nail Clipper

I’m biting off nails
spitting out tails
wagging at the dog
to wring out the fog
my emotion a sort of doppelganger
adrenaline in my poems when anger
is fire of the beast
I’m drinking out of your breast
like sex in the hands of God
isn’t it a century too goddamn odd
when things have no set end
and we’re always mixing a blend
of the most undrinkable guesses
my guess is that we’re like cocktail dresses
ready to be taken off
and then the real fun goes on
the oblique shadow of the skyscraper
waiting for sun to guide the dance
what a waste of wastepaper
this was my chance
to be
me
eating pieces of myself
while the day annihilates itself.

the thought of us together

Life of the Modern Poet

Name me
the pits of existence
the minor spots
where it is safe to stop
stop and write a poem
I can’t wait till I die
so I can write about it
in the last scribble of consciousness
I will be there narrating:
               light, angels, war, sex, infinity lied
I am waiting to hear
your confession
all progress – vain
stop…
join me
in the cracks, corners, alleyways
the gutters, the nooks, the black holes
take the next exit
let’s rest near a perception
write a verse or none
we’ll sit and gaze
stargaze the stampede
the whole tumultuous downfall of the manned-world
                                  as distant as galaxies
just you and me… preserved
                as a poem.

contemporary poetry