open world

converse_world_poetry

the first
thing
to come into being
poisoned us
blinded us
ruined us
we’re under the spell
that things can be known
I declare
we still don’t know
the universe is unsolved
is it a machine
an organism
a process
a mission
an explosion
or even the dream of a sleepy god

                        I don’t know

so… I wet my feet
at the shore of the Kattegat bay
whistling like the wind
on a hot summer day

 

Modern Poetry

sui generis

A portrait of nothingness –

the tininess in between the worlds

the invisible underlying cup

a blank canvas for the painted universe

absent undisturbed gulf

the sleep that dreams me

                  while I play hardball

                        with the junkies of pursuits.

 

Nihilistic Poetry

underneath

Secret of Life

I woke up today reading
the Secret of Life
the stairway was the same
but the streets, oh the streets
they were building blocks of awe
molecular lumps alive with the wind
processes in motion
          like trees in a storm
every face was a map
charting the layers of the universe
scenes changed as propelled by engines of time
orchestration by a slow chaos
everything interconnected by invisible spokes
         why o why
must days like these
come to an end
tomorrow I must wake up
and open the first pages of
the Gates of Unknowing.

 

Modern Poetry

Peregrino – Wayfarer

cuando terminé
de empacar
el universo
en mi mochila
ya había olvidado
a donde iba,
quería sentir como si
un candelabro opulento
colgara sobre
mi cabeza
iluminando con sus mil
brazos
todas las distancias
en este palacio
de tierra,
el destino
por más sinuoso que fuera
terminaría en el abismo
por eso te dije
antes antes antes
de que seamos polvo,
seamos barro unánime
en las manos
del alfarero,
un tazón
lleno de vino
para el poeta,
un seno de arcilla
en la boca del
dios que canta.

 

A translation:

 

By the time
I finished
packing
the universe
in my rucksack
I had forgotten
where I was going
I want to feel as if
an opulent chandelier
hangs over
my head
illuminating with its thousand
arms
all distances
in this palace
of earth
however sinuous
the path
it ends in abyss
so I told you
before before before
we become dust
let’s become unanimous mud
in the potter’s
hands
a cup
full of wine
for the poet
a breast of clay
at the mouth of
the god
that sings.

 

contemporary poetry

Supine bewilderment

bedroom shadow poetry


What muscle can I use
to lift despair
despair that’s agape and out of words
hope-coated despair
that keeps us waiting for a train
that was never built;
while the body of the universe
convolutes in acrobats and yogas
I feel like a cramp
at its heel
what is my next move –
let the future be?
but this future
is a dividing wall
between us and our _____
                   (enter your raison d’être here)
I have a sledgehammer
but only atrophied muscles
to do the job.

nihilistic poetry

the final hours

Bare
on the floor
bare
with our heads
facing
the final precipice
of tomorrow
words coming
like agonies
born from the regret
of the entire universe
our eyes
etceteras of tears
unable to listen
the ticks of the clock
in the morning
light,
inebriated with
the perspective of escape
bare and obliterated
on the top floor
of a building
alongside
oblivion.
 
 
 

(a true story)
contemporary poetry

a chinese dream

It’s 3:10
AM
I’m sober
reading Bukowski
still recovering
from my 48 hour
birthday binge,
the universe is still
a made-up word
for this bathroom
and the filling air,
yet I wish
I’d be reading
the great Chinese
poets
soaring over improbable
landscapes
lifting my veil of ignorance
seeing through the deceits of
Maya
untroubled by the vicissitudes
of time
at one with the universe
which is to say
inseparably and eternally here
with this white-tiled bathroom
and the air
that encircles me,
in drowning
invisible
swirls.

 

nihilistic poetry

deepest

snowy streets

I release a deep breath
unawares of anything
I’ve been away
weaving dreams
like a curing madness
the petty circumference of my desire
impels me to
move
not one finger
an inertia comparable
to an everlasting god
that has lived a thousand infinities,
in the deepest streets
in the coldest thoughts
I am a reckless survivor
dreaming in poetry
as a small pebble
tucked away
under the entire
weight
of the universe.

 

 

I turn my head
finally
after days:
the streets are covered with snow.

 

 

I’ve been unaware
like the boy
quietly placing a dot
after every sentence
of lyrical self-absorption:
the consequence
of being
irrelevant.

 

 

nihilistic poetry

madness

 

 Madness is the
irrevocable

like the powerful sun

shining waste

over 40 blocks of metal
 
 
 

 

strings that form a braid

braids stitch  on us

thirsty loneliness

a mile machines

cannot reach

 

find me a gulp

of eternity, an inch

of Godhead

I’ll stop the soft drugs

coffee, sugar, TV

if you promise twenty

forty years ahead

I will encounter timelessness 

 

madness is the irrevocable

     a table

with all the books of genius

and a noose
 
 
 

 

to sleep!

where my wakeful hallucination

finds its soul mate: dreams

 

madness the

  irrevocable

two hours before two

      more hours

 

 I shit and eat
and fathom the origins
    of the universe
tears come because I am
    trapped between
centuries
       amongst idiots
 reaping nothingness
 

I cry because

madness consumed

all intelligence and determination –

the endless parade of perception

       of one day

exchanged for 24 hours

60 minutes

seconds of oblivion

 

and eternity

that never kills but

transforms

 

madness is the

   irrevocable

a hopeless trap

within the miracle

         of existence

 

Nihilistic Poetry

 

My friend

it goes beyond saying

lonely friend

you and I are strangers

afraid of each other

we may frown

as if we were advancing

with some sort of serious purpose

we may drag along, with tattoos and beer

as if we were sure of our cause

I comb my hair to look decent to you

you smile when we say goodbye to be proper

still we move in circles… wide empty circles

the wine soothes

our sleep pardons

suddenly you awake from elliptical wanderings

you are at a park interrupting your routine

brutally condemning our ongoing lies

the denial of loneliness and panic

can we stand another day of hypocrisy?

No, no, let’s not make questions

there are no real reasons

a chaos we organize in years

an avalanche we interpret as experience

though words may be wide as universes

my lonely estranged friend

we are bereft of all true meaning.

Nihilistic Poetry