I see a wall and it is a blink
between two explosions
I contain
the thick blankness of thought
as my only faith;
ergo I cry
and become
shriveled like
the dry pain that
floats like a memory;
I see silence
like a color
like a flame
like a muscle
that bends the stars,
I don’t care
being absorbed
like a wave of frequency,
I must be nothing
glancing at the faint
enormity of life.





dirty silence

yes the
of night

descending like pulp
crushing like permanence
like, like muscle
totally arriving
like totality
over the pain of

ah crushed
so many interactions
blending like the consumptions
of a hungry light

many will disbelieve
and doubt
and question
and reject
and deny


has a tongue
as long as

made hungry as
the frail fragile foolish

isn’t everything like light
sinking to the skin like a
single song

yes begin
swallowing me up
you dirty








Nihilistic Poetry

an erection (an absurd poem)

While the cloud
held silence like
a baby in mother’s arm
this vain head
swirled like vane
to the roar
of the orphan night,
the cataract of minutes
and other entities,
but at the other
end love coruscating
lonely through black
echoes of memories,
on the white pale
body of the earth
having the only
organ capable of
perpetuating some fabled race
pointed at the moon – a spear
to break the firmament
and bury this iota of being
under the shattering flood
of entropy


cave of shadows

cave of shadows

Having crossed the street
leaving behind vapor or vastness
the bulb shines on the pavement
a flat spangled instant

this road to a friend
my friend
whose skin of earth
tightens a delta by the edge of an eye
I see the determination of a tear
gliding by the cheek ,
so early a thought
before it becomes fire,
before the verb
flees as storm.

I remember everything in silence,
like flashes of a dance
inside the cave of shadows.

My friend whose skin of earth
coalesced into the Nile’s delta

we saw the tear fall to earth
like one imperfect meaning

falling into silence.



Sun image

Oh who would know
the meaning of having an eye
on every atom that springs
from no to yes
but it would not be god or opiated man in bed
it would be the distinct essence of a cloud
leaving the sky to rest like a heavy rock
at the bottom of the restless sea,
so extreme an image
that our souls will coil
around the shortest memory
to remember the first patch of light
that burnt the skin with warmth
to remember the first arrow of sound
to pierce the nimbus of silence
to remember the first and only object
that grew like wings to become a universe; –
how would anyone fail to notice the sun
is only the light on the surface
of the image?





Nihilistic Poetry

the last moment

within the
last moment

when you lift
as a weightless
fish in your hands

when the road
becomes your tail
as the endless
echo of the earth

when nothing else
shall come
and the eyes dance
as flies in the darkest air

within the last
pause of perception

the blood becomes
still as the shadow
on the ground;

a white butterfly

leaves your mouth
to be carried away
by the gale of


Nihilistic Poetry

of consciousness


peeling off the whiteness
of stream
of consciousness

washing it
with the sterile lore
of silence

preserving its restlessness
in the hermetic jar
of time

feeding it the shadow
of leaves

the crumbs of wind
that I find

warming it
with the thick songs
of essence

talking to it
with the vowels
of night and day

loving it
the shapeless ache
it leaves in my

Nihilistic Poetry


outer world


when did it begin?
reaching intelligence’s cul de sac
walking away with empty pockets
haven thrown all theories away
like burnt shreds of money
now dripping after
falling into a puddle of sensation
nothing belonging to me above or below
I foresee the outcome already –
a maddening silence
staring out the window
because the birds
are pretty.




mystic flowers

Mystic flower poetry

I let go of the beard
and eyelids of God.
It will rain, the eyes of the earth
will go blind, white breathless turmoil.
A boy with books and grand prophesies,
composing the sadness of the final silence.
An epoch to remember what I wanted.
The river of visions carries skin and mirror,
a noise of nowhere and nobody’s scent.
What beastly ache to be a fleeting universe
with no country except the island of thought.
I have no beard and the nausea of mountains;
I have in my mouth the salty meat of the soul.



Nihilistic Poetry Blog