short poetry

of the living

Routine streets

Of the living
clod of reality,
the bladed streams
of circumstance,
in the incinerated rush
of experience;
miracle of memories,
the enigmatic ordeal
of existing –
postponed,
quietly repressed
in the lethargic hum
of your
original routine!

 

21st century Poetry

pablo unbound

Pablo unbound

Horribly dreamt
I have a street
its conceptual secrets
like invisible rage
I pertain to abandonment
it hurts to disappear
wakefully vanishing
in the gaseous actuality
I roam like invisible pain
hidden behind monstrous eyes
eavesdropping, like sun of insects
interminably the hour and a smile
release… release my skin
hurdled over blank shrub
my feet slither pass the common earth
alive with some deadly truth
I run
and shattered are
the windows of lies.

Existential Poetry

of summer nights and toasts

Of rude weight
intoxicated iron
the pressing steel of %
by the shelter of glass
my petty personality
like molecules and wisps
emptying
anomalously
the flame of the wax
streets of melted passion
sad sunken vein of alcohol
morose atom
finally
roaming the expanse of society
and nothing remains
of pure
flashback.

Existential Poetry

untitled (short poem)

The view
 from here
                is horrifying

I cannot
say
                  anything

                   nothing to add
                   to worthless
                                    phenomena

                   there’s
          nothing to be saved

in all this death-bound

                        totality.

Nihilistic Poetry

fire of the unborn

Poetry Blog

Born

as
limb

annexed

to
p   r    o    c      e      s        s

my life
a finger

fiddling with
crystals of perception

the experience
alone

a purposeless
flight

truth… ?

simple,
the unwritten
manifesto
of the sky

death comes

I am one more wave crashing
swelling and then
absorbed back

into
formless
immanence

disappearing once more
into fire.

Nihilistic Poetry

there will be poetry

There will be poetry
as long as the world
swirls in mad convulsion

there will be poetry
as long as the world
is hidden truth with
dreary eyes

there will be poetry
as long as the world
is a road to the dead
silence

there will be poetry
as long as the world
covers us with the cold
skin of bitter mystery

there will be poetry
at 5am with glass o’
whiskey till the horizon
blends in with the empty sleep.

 

 

More Poems

from the bottom up

Poem on clouds

my mistake was
to make a philosophy
out of the gurgling sound
when hope
sank to the bottom
of the pond

I invested too much in clouds
they can hardly break
the rapid fall of my words
as they crash into
solid stupidity

I have to return
to the meaning
of stone

I have to tip over
my dreams
as boulders on summits

that wreck
below
could hurt like
a sudden
birth.

 

 

nihilistic poetry