in the span of 20 minutes

Sufferer's cloud

The rain has made
senseless x’s on the pane
beyond it
the turbulent clouds
initiate the horror
and a short trance,
my madness

no symbol
is free

to speak of mundane
matters
is now unacceptable

the world
useless as thing
but the most terrible
warning

an opening in the clouds

supine
on the ground
a yellow blindness
through eyes surrendering
I sense
blood fencing the sky

inside
an egg
of impatient
globular substance

a sufferer’s music.

Nihilism Poetry

Before the end…

A flag out in the open,

     a powerful symbol,

a common faith…outshining this confusion.

We were all looking around for such a thing,

     we were all calling out for one unifying gift

Where is it?

             And who’s found it?

I can’t find it… and nobody talks about it.

  A secret search; shameful, sacrilegious

If all these tall buildings were to go

        and we need no more to be free

What do we do then?

I dreamt we were all screaming out of pure ecstasy

            “we’ve found it, we’ve found it!”

people would cry…

an undreamt-of happiness

         proper of madmen

could it be true?

A paralyzed world, frozen in astonishment…

A single instant before we wake up:  and then?

Nocturnal Studies

Existence was always for me a dark place. It was not necessarily depressing or ominous; it was dark because it lacked explanation and purpose. But somehow, after years of purposelessness, I have begun to love life’s obscurity.

There’s something enchanting about the enigmatic — anything that conceals something deeper or unknown is generally very intriguing, like a mask or a symbol. Analysis is the ability to dive below the surface of a thing in order to grasp its inner structure. The purpose of writing is vague and uncertain. Entertainment? Transmission of knowledge? Spontaneous activity? All three are plausible but foremost, for me, writing has a symbolic function. It is the disguised voice of the raving lunatic we all carry inside. Most struggles in life are born from the dissension between our waking consciousness and the nocturnal beast that dwells in the swampy pit of our unconscious. If that treacherous monster had a voice, what would it say? It would probably roar…

 
If only we had the strength and perseverance to record every fleeting detail. All those frustrated desires, every old man that crossed our path, every wind that lifted a billow of dust before our eyes. What would we discover then? Do we grasp ourselves better in representations; is the mirror’s image our final wisdom?
 
Will the beast be tamed when he sees his own deformity?

The Perfect Death

 

Sleep is the perfect death
How I enjoy to fall asleep
‘Tis as-I-leap and fall
into that gentle abyss
So gentle a Death
that it does not kill me
for I still am
        yet I know not
                     where