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
burnt faded fringes
as an old portrait of sacrifice
who stares at us
from the other side of subjectivity
my fingers slice and rub
the plateau of your belly
but I see the Dead Sea in your eyes
I am no longer a man
you undressed every concept
shedding words like a leper
I drank your taxonomy
like a famished unabridged dictionary
you said abstraction was like a harem
of fellating paradoxes
that’ll suck me dry
I left the continent hiccupping truth
I am no longer a man
for I still love what has no name
no one can deduct
inside burnt faded fringes
some of us
is the drug
that hallucinates reality
uncoated veins and nerves
in contact with the truth
of a madman
I take a few steps
towards the keyhole of introspection
I inspect the pores of my otherness
thin pale hairs
creating a landscape of
in the grey white froth of subjectivity
out there, the sky
trembling and resigned
wringing out cotton static
purifying the streets
with afterlife and Aum
poetry is the sacrament
morphine for the cancerous
the unhatched gelatin lump
in the placenta of being.
What is there in this cave
a view to open lands
an earth, deranged and full
but an earth nonetheless
where nothing belongs,
above the expanse
full too of this emptiness
a quiet eternity
lost of words
almost a loose world
the mote of dust
under the murky ray of a sun
unreachable by time,
as the white untrammeled snow
over the excerpts of reality
with its history
of the purest subjectivity,
with its wishes
of weightless dreams,
in this cave
on human thoughts
with an excess of time
and the open lands to forever
More Poetic Scenery: Nihilistic Poetry
This is the first step
into a wide open world
the toes stepping on frosty ledges
in an abandoned city
with closed eyes everything is ownerless
then the wispy breeze
then the last leaf of the last tree
then your hand in your inside pocket
hopelessly seeking the tobacco pipe
and the curled tobacco tatters
that will accompany you through
the long twisted journey of smoke and ash;
and while this can be a dream
another broken dimension of subjectivity
you can still feel the rubber of the shoe
stepping on the frigid pavement without cars
the shadows of street signs
wrapping around angles and grayness
as the horizon grows dim with sudden silence
the eyes watery, glorious, unbelieving
of the eternity of being lost and free
in an abandoned city
in a wide open world.
A modern hero
We can watch him quietly chewing his dinner. His gaze is imperturbable and his thoughts invariably these:
The nothingness that exists in all forms, and the nothingness that is yet to be born.
The modern hero awaits (and this waiting period is interminable) for a fatal threat. This threat is anticipated throughout the cycles of the clock. It is always approaching, never disappearing.
What can he do?
Nothing. Resisting the menace of existence is a futile and wearisome illusion. He will initially find himself in hypertension, guarded against an invisible enemy. Since there is no defence against his opponent, rebellion would represent a defeating madness. Acceptance must be learned and practiced. However, salvation is not achieved solely by the acceptance of one’s own precarious situation. He has no escape, he must sacrifice a distracted and unexamined life in order to become bearer of a strange suffering. He will be the hated antagonist of any unfounded human optimism.
To cure himself of a malady that is not only his own but also a dormant illness that all conscious beings carry within.
What relieves him?
From the perspective of the world he has secluded himself in an abstract and spurious discourse; from the perspective of his own condition he has renounced his faith in a world of form and substance, he has lost trust in the socially approved states of consciousness. He lives in a mythological world, albeit, his myth has not yet been written nor can it be. He is dispersed in a flux of perception that not necessarily implies an objective external world. His experience cannot be communicated, it does not have the logical structure of a normal human situation.
Is there a light at the end of his tunnel?
From the standpoint of the all-too-human, suicide may appear as the last desperate, but effective, act of liberation, but this won’t be his course. He has selected an ambitious journey: The transmutation of consciousness. An intuition convinces him that the reality we live in is only one of many possible creations; and in the sober creation of less restricted states of consciousness he will achieve his ultimate objective: inner peace.
Our Age is too near to get sight of its boundaries, it is too early to understand its misconceptions. We are too dogmatic in our denial of dogma, absolutely certain in the impossibility of absolute truth. We refuse categorization, even the relativistic classification nauseates us with its blatant inaccuracy. We have exhausted the map of the expected, we have sailed off the edge of objectivity. Is there enough courage at last to tear open the last unexamined convictions?
Science has detonated such a bright flash in the sky of our conceptions, it left us bleakly trembling under the paleness of the explainable. Our lust craves for some personal knowledge beyond the downpour of communication. Yet, we are still too philosophical in the claim that philosophy is futile and irrelevant, too logical while we humiliate the world into meaninglessness.
Every man has always been in error. We scrutinize the lack of breadth in antiquity, humans living under the conditions of necessity. But has the wealth of leisure begotten any real savory experience of the magnitude of the universe? Do we not still live under the dining lamp, stuff our heads with hamburgers and neglect the vastness of space and time only to idle hours of curiosity?
Do we prefer to stand still in opposition to progress or move frantically to and fro in opposition to linearity? Is there much to gain in opposing the current of history? Does the weight of our question collapse under our temptation to doubt?
Why do we seek definition? How can we induce our subjective universe to submit to our words before we have been able to glance it all? Existence is too chaotic to wear the stale garment of adjectives and deductions. Whatever we seek – if we seek anything at all – lies beyond the fortress of definition.
Let the living eyes of the future bury us with their dead words,
for we will be by then … dead things.