the swamp of volition

strange_poetry

There must be
a method
to turn off freedom.

To waste motion in a curve
and glide down the city
as cascade.

To be sunk in the fumes
of machines or dance
in front of a choir
without any bullshit.

To undress in the cold
sensations of the crowd.

To chew the furniture of words.

To fall into the sound of water.

The idea of thought
would be framed
in museums
and memorial sites.

Like an ancient artifact of struggle.

All the small things will float in the air
and we’d decorate the problem of life
with the husks of memory;

without choice
life would be a nail
deep in the crust of flux

and language      moss at the rim of our lips.

Contemporary Poetry

Façade (or the ontology of walls)

ontology of walls

the walls have existed
alone before I was born
in spirit molding matter
a presence alighting on our fields
against nothingness, they have existed
floating above the secret –
the walls, the reticent walls
sustaining their own weight
sustaining pale coats of paint
alone before I was born
alone after we all die
the walls of buildings
where to keep my shadows
a sojourn a refuge
a stairway into the basement – more than that
a sorrowful edge
the walls stand sloughing the horizon
the walls stand seeping the miracle
they have existed
long before I had set my eyes
on their silent countenance
long before their bricks
congealed into purposeless
limbo

Modern Poetry

fragrance of appearance

Appearance poetry

there you are
blue body of snake

there
beneath the breath
behind the burden
of the senses

I am flight
a descent
a morsel of dirt
cocooned in ideas

the world
is reaching its
final beginning

it goes no further
does not reach
the entrance
of an effect

there you are
solace
of abandon

there you are
partial savoring
of a totality
devoid of purpose

I found you
Today
in heavy shadows
that the clouds drag like
hazy tits over the massive buildings

I felt like a child
draped in perception

between two fingers
grabbing every thought
like a tiny flake of ash

there you are
in my palate
rosy and peppery
as the fragrance of appearance

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

no sediment

light
breathable
settling in ever
heavier expanses
like millions of years of glaciers
shifting the crude element of skin
a ray in the spiral of a silent mood
fling the head like a child
oblivious of sight
of experience zooming out the pond into the sky
rocking up and down like a bird placing the sun
as an echo on the miraculous tree
away from the blue waters an afterimage
in the mouth of a fish
suspended
like minor fruit
in this vein of flight
glimpse
into the organs of thought
the measure and intelligence of an irrational kiss
repose
like a cluster of grapes
leaning their shadow
on anything but a memory.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

against the world

Against the world

I’m at war
with the world
its shapeless thrust
its violent repose
mutiny
against the world
a disfiguring cause
tingling morphing touch
a vengeance
a lone modicum of timelessness
fueled by: laughter
for all that exists
within and without
carried by an ant
on a sole journey of gust
rising lighter holier
this is war
against the irreconcilable meaning
against the backside of the world
against the frailty of a second
against the ineffable fringe
against the possibility
against the echoing madness
I’m all fury and decay
bringing down the world
from the heights of its
assumption.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

now that the earth

Dripping paint

Now that the entire world
has retreated to a thaw
now that from a rooftop
I see a raw galaxy dangling
from the beak of a bird
now that the earth
is a great rippling mantle
like a set of loose hair in a golden head
now that the entire world
as soft and pliable as moist leaf of tobacco
now that the planet is flotsam
drifting in the viscous current of sensation

now
we can sleep
in its academy of colors
now
we immerse our heads
in the surrounding cradling
dream

Nihilistic Poetry

finality

Finality Poetry

 finality
run by a strength
gathering in every bouquet of fire
that my lungs take in
in the crushed earth of my heart
with the noisy smoke of the blood
running stronger still
digesting the night as the sweetest charcoal
drunk with fire, hot demise
swimming in the lurid steam of desire
making love under the encroaching moon of suffering
the hand sloughing the disease of touch
the temptation to feel,
my goodness,
the strength that has gathered
spewing boulders as wild bullets of despair
impossible to even begin telling
about the layers and the failed anchors,
such force
is a miracle of the body
an outcome of the rocks and veins
a mistake of the mind;

finally
nothing can be revoked

 

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