aphorisms and instructions

Vilhelm Hammershøi, Interior, Artificial Light 1909Painting: Hammershøi, Interior, Artificial Light 1909

The realization that nothing matters, that all is in vain, is inconsequential insofar as it changes nothing. We remain living the same lives as before, if not for the exception of a newly-acquired taste for sadism that enjoys seeing everything annihilate itself.

The spider in my room continues to spin its web with precision, a meticulous mandala that is not a form of ephemeral art, but simply a skill in survival, which is in itself a form of ephemeral art.

I’ve noticed that humanity has an innate insensitivity to oblivion. It builds and labors as if there will always be human beings around to witness their own struggles and achievements. Their seriousness is a form of naïveté. No one epitomizes this naïveté better than the writer.

We can never be sure an animal acts in seriousness. It can be ferocious, alert, aggressive, intent, perseverant and devotional, but its ability to shift from intense concentration to laziness suggests that it does not really care for the outcome of its actions.

It feels me with horror and rage to hear people claim that life is profound and inexhaustible while they spend half their lives in front of a computer pretending to live life to its full potential.

If the world is unreal and the self is an illusion gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm. On the other hand, if the world is real and the self exists, gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

the existence

the existence

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
Lilililililililiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiili

if nothing had been
taught
green dirt pillow sun hidden source
I die

my love
my element

.
the taste of
reason

return as the red
towards the tasteless earth

how long can
the long understanding
last?

I die in 7 minutes
or 7 decades
for how long must I
invent the existence?

I must cry
because of all
these layers
of years

all these skins
that died
to become
thoughts.

Nihilistic Poetry

i

I’m tired
of the heights –
of all the philosophies
of stars
of all the cosmologies
of tears

my bed now
is the corner
of a passing second
I let the rain in
to drown
all the intelligent answers

I want to be
as ordinary
as a crumb of bread
on your sleeve
or as the mustache
that is shaven every day

I’m tired
of all the pompous
universes that we dream
and of the fantasy and sorcery
of constellated thoughts

my mission
now
is to dissolve as
bits of soup
in the drain
or
broken fingernails
in the dirt

the whirlpool of wisdom
comes to a halt
and I am
as cold and tame
as a shadow
lying
under a streetlamp
every minute
of every night.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

day #9 (from el camino)

Still mountain

I begin to salivate
with the thought of dedicating
an entire life to poetry,
a voracious appetite to eat
the great voids of nature and spirit;
that while indigent
I can still satiate mi hunger
with the stillness of the mountains
and the spring of the sky
that runs sweet
night and day.

 

 

poetry blog

you as landscape

Intangible tree

You, flesh and bone,
gas and scars
of phenomena.

My hand slides down your ranges
into the pockets of pleasure,
the possibility of birth and gargantuan
orgasm.

The winding road of decisions
and the soporiferous wind blowing
of distant causes.

The trees have danced,
reenacting the groove of colliding
cosmic bulges in the rhythm
of passing gusts.

We do the same?
In silent gaze, creating
the torture of possibility
with endless and mapping thoughts?

You and winged beasts
from dawn. Red and innocent –
open mouth and chants
from the sky… where
we belong as tinges
of intangible.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

this raw piece of paper

this raw piece of paper
in this nostalgia
I place existence
entirely as a dream
as the fragile body of
a newborn
reposing on the page
it is unique and vast
like plain confession of passion
this piece of paper is all
I have this very moment
a solitude of twilight
in the horizon manifest pain
I touch life
and the memory of it
escapes
like the smoke
of this flaming
piece of paper. . .

outlandish

 

I envy the rock
I want eyes as deep
protruding shadows
hair as wise tilting winds
combing the grasslands of my thoughts,
I envy the nose rising into the perfume of sky,
the mouth savoring the elusive spring snow,
I need the sleep of a mountain
to command my skin to roll down stones
as dreams down a fatal abyss;
at the bottom touching rivers of intricate twine
my feet would play with the fish and the shimmers –
but my illusion is not merely physical,
I need a religion of transformation
similar to all these millennia of erosion
and above all,
to participate imperceptibly
as a column that touches a heart
like the summit of mineral
descending to the center of the earth,
I need to intertwine with rock, mountain, pinnacle –
something of the power that
envelops me.

 

 

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