space

history of the abode

There was home.

Clay closed around
terrestrial things.

There was a time.

When we were burning,
working under the
astronomy of the leaves.

There was a tool
and we planned like kings
some horizon for our blood.

There was house.

A storm made of war
like a word made of hell.

There was a continent.
A march across a broad
month in groups of large
silver stars.

There was a trauma.
Mucous like iron
in the continuous
light of the extinct.

There was a mountain.
An absolute struggle
where almost cosmos.

There was a square.
Where mystery was
a brilliant white arc.

There was a home.

When purpose and space
were known a hundred
years ago.

There was a home.

When water was the only
line of music under
the silence

of the cloud.

Contemporary Poetry

a mystic’s bed

then I found myself
stepping on the mushy
nodes of matter
first cobblestones
then grass
finally the helical
steps of a cloud

it was no longer
vague intuition
but pure palpable
fact :

this is a dream

the arc of night
laid its arm
round my shoulder

both my eyes
puckered
to buss the black sky

there was love
dark and murmuring

my heart drunk
on the delirious flavor
of the stars

the straws of space
nested my body
and fell asleep
while the cars below
flashed in gushing fleets

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

exit to enter

Gate to heart

All that I prophesy

is the way the world
spirals unto itself

there
space and dream
hibernate into consciousness

the product of my speech
is the withdrawal of meaning
in words
from reality to possibility

multiplying the interior
by tearing asunder
every perception
into further
fragments

ultimately
I have noise
as fur over the idea
of myself

beauty
sideways to phenomena
precipitates
towards the pinpoint
of my
heart

Modern Poetry Blog

out comes

puking poetry

By time
I was aware
the puke was everywhere spreading
like the universe
I could see traces
of yellow
and acid
pain spiraled in
this was suffering
but I
emptied
free of content
overtook space
as a substitute
to
existence.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

Awe and confusion swirled together

pain

Pain by Hands of Crimson (deviantart)

We fling ourselves out into the depths of this tumultuous motion (there is always an implicit decision to stay alive) – we are agonizing in the effusion of forms, attitudes and energies of this world, we succumb to the simultaneity of all events, approaching a boiling point which will end in a devastating orgasm. This life that with relentless power can lift you to regions of unshakable astonishment will drop you with equal force into the pits of boredom and suicidal retreat. It becomes an experience so intense that all those wonderful insights attained by your constant awareness to the profundity of existing forms can be, and will be, torn apart by the abysmal fissure that comes in between reality and our conceptions. Our epoch has demystified the themes of history, art, philosophy, science – any study that pierces Being and divests it from the shallowness of routine – themes we are engaged in by our simple breathing and acting in a world that is constantly being measured, recorded, discussed and because of these, it is being doubted more than ever.

Out of the circumstance of standing on the axis of what is to come and while repeating beyond illusion the experience, over and over again, of existing as part and parcel of this monstrous universe – out of all these circumstances there arises a sentiment which remains for the most part unspoken yet when united to the urgency of our desires it wishes to break through as a divine voice, a repercussion that will echo through the immensity of space and time, an outpouring of this vital disbelief that defines our existence; in short, an eternal statement understood and recognized by everyone:

Can all this be real?

Exactly because the world’s diversity can only be matched by its incomprehensibility the human being, passenger in life, is unable to remain in the state of absolute veneration (the all-too-common fear of the unknown) and must distract himself with whatever nuisance is thrown in his way. Fortunately, there is excitement in monotony; there is pleasure in painful depressions.

We are obeying something vastly superior, something that always exceeds our two modern poisons: reason and technology. We aspired to imitate nature with those silly contrivances. We, subjects to our bodies, to history and the course of the planet, we return to bed every night insulted simply because we cannot deceive ourselves much longer: the world we have come out of has created itself and us without the tool of reason; and in that inexplicable unreasonableness it has fashioned machines infinitely superior to our latest technologies – we see it all around us, the biological world, a miraculous product abandoned by the silent God of Purposelessness.

After we finish with this continuous enigma, we open our eyes to challenge again the naked world, to tease it with our actions and desires….

“oh what a world” we say,

and reenter the game once again.

Go back to Beyond Language

Trapped in nothingness

It seems to be I am locked inside this excessive silence. That while I look up into the hazy azure of the sky or into the windy skies of night I discover an impenetrable void, a silence that cannot be breached, a solitude that is here to stay. My arms plead with desperation for a sign, my ears are on a pilgrimage in search of a sacred word – a confirmation that life can be trusted. A revelation or miracle that can transform these wild gyrations of nonsense into a lively and trustworthy universe. Long tunnels of agony and atrophy seem to be the destiny of those that aspire to awaken and revive human life from its muddled lethargy. But being trapped inside an inescapable chasm, I have only the ignoble expanse of space to address and all of creation turns its back on me and answers back in SILENCE. I am not insightful enough to interpret my own frustrations, I cannot tell if it is a general trend in this new age or if I stand alone in this inexplicable confusion. Furthermore, the only remedy comes in strings of lyrical eruptions that at first sight seem vague and meaningless, but are in fact projections of the real ambiguity and hollowness that resides deep within. It is unnecessary to find coherence when one is no longer servant to the tyrant of reason, it is superfluous to propound theories when the intellect is too weak to grasp reality. So, the image is inevitable: floating in cold nothingness, silent solitude. A journey through emptiness, a constant motion through space finding every now and then a naked planet, an aura of beauty and patiently collecting the dust of time in expectation of a glorious sun – surrendering to the all-powerful ground of being.

Turbulent Purple

The fiery afternoon had transformed itself into a turbulent purple. How else could I describe it? It had no other name than Turbulent Purple. I am by blind necessity bound to call it by that denomination, I am a slave to that ambiguous name. Leaping in and out the oblivious space of mind, short and poetically vague sensations occupied most of my purposeless time. Without explanation or warning I could read in the papyrus of thoughts scriptures such as these:

Centuries of dancing shadows

Has the strong wind of fate

Extinguished Man´s recurrent dream?

Ah! From where do all these voices arise but from the nocturnal?

How senseless it is to reveal in words the impenetrable mystery of the mind, how lame an attempt to reproduce the wilderness of wonder. The afternoon had turned into a Turbulent Purple and I became sure the existence of written language had no purpose but to express the shock of our encounter with reality — it could never explain a thing. So, without regret I had survived numberless fears of imminent death so I could experience once more the unnatural beauty of nature.

Ha! So many years organizing my thoughts so that in my final despair I found every cell in my body to have a life of its own and my thoughts faithful pilgrims in the inhospitable lands of paradox. Therefore I studied my body with care as if it were an extraterrestrial lump of matter and completely gave up the hope of a systematical account of human experience. Then I focused again on the sky and the world was still a turbulent purple. It was not long after this that for the first time I started doubting of the ancient and perennial pillars of art. It seemed to me that if all things go wrong the last desperate redemption would come through art — art had a special bond with the essence of all experience, it embraces the whole multitude of feeling and all genre of action and yet it transcends them all — or so I thought.

“Life and death for art” would have been my motto two years ago. But in my rebellion against all dogma the mutiny of doubts turned against my ideals and the sky of my convictions became turbulent — perhaps purple to a spectator of my consciousness. If myths, religions, wars, slavery, races, countries, continents, suns, and galaxies all have an allotted time, art surely is as ephemeral as the rest. Alone and destitute I stood while the echo of a turbulent purple sunset reverberated in the coffins of memory. At last I got rid off the most obdurate preoccupation, second only to death — namely, life no longer lived for art, love, money, fame, joy or by instinct alone; it seems likely to be here for no reason in particular. One last thing remains certain:

Returning from the underground

Reflections in echoes

From the pit of despair

The fountain of wonder

The irony of this paradox

From the art of Nature

Conceived the death of Art

A dying fire. . .

Turbulent Purple

turbulent purple

Immensity

Feel free to venture into it,
Those lands of lucid revelations
Upon the contemplation
                        of a tree
                            or an ant
The formation of a cloud
                        or the wind in skies
Submerging into the intimate universe
While our sight becomes a tongue
in warm moist contact
With the immensity that surrounds us

Oppose it no more,
Engulfed in the tenderness of the night
Surveying the voids of the galaxies
Stand maskless on the precipice of every moment
In a frightful convulsion of disbelief
Powerless: halfway between wonder and adoration