of the city

Eye motion 

the horizon swells with rawness
a white cumulous beehive,
my thoughts circle the distance
like black heavy flies,
the hairs of time
stroking my mind
like the drunken summer of an engine;
the horizon swells with pink oil
all the trees are horses
with green galloping flowers as their
heads,
my joy is the shy protruding
obnubilation
frozen in the sky like a gray cusp of moon

I am the city
with the touch as long as the empty
avenues;
my eyes strange
as the streetlight’s gloom.

Nihilistic Poetry

something near

Something Near Life

 

 

and so it was,
poetry: a deliberate madness
serene, thoughtful, full of strange distances
hanging names on the limbs of details
giving sound a place to rest
all things visited from sidelong silences
things: worshipped and often obscuring
the sudden flight of city birds
exactly because my sight was bolted
to that eerie spasm of the sky
the spaces neglected for the general purpose
of a somnolent rain
I speak: world
in order to feel: existence
the challenge of light and above all ideas
pulverized movement near disfigured events
dates as calmly as pulsations
inventing, attempting, redefining
something that enters the invaded dream
  the inundated reality that spears me.

 

 

Nihilistic 
Poetry

song over cloud

Basic Air

the air

 

suspense

 

essential passing

 

 

I sense life
as a song
surrounding
a cloud

 

soft motion

 

I hover
like a circumference
with no edge

 

the living and the dead
sleep next to me
tonight

 

broken azure
pieces of joy
clashing
in the silent pause

 

fly
in curls

 

in the air
that surrounds
the fallen
melody
of
time

Song over cloud

 

Modern Poetry Blog 

exiting self

Lonely Tracks

bon voyage
exiting self
to achieve
transcendence
from the will
acutely parted from the sky
wasting awash away
timeless
in the music
of plasma of objects
timeless drizzling self
aching in eternity
but effortlessly resonating
     –   exiting self   –
at the core
 of the
true
position

 

Modern Poetry

new lands

Sphinx in Aarhus

           There are things
best left unsaid
lest the great sphinx
of the open mystery
laughs
at my foolishness
she knows
ultimately, life
is like the open sky
and words
are clouds I hold on to
to break my
                    fall.
 

Modern Poetry