from above

poetry_of_future

They found a bulge
between Amaliegade
and Esplanaden
and it was in the news

and the hearts
shook with dread

a long sack of skin.like flesh
growing from a thin string
into an enormous
bulk

a man stood drinking the ship
in a circle of dizziness

the lights of police
and the endless of an image

no one could understand the revolution
and beauty of the bulge

it was hauled off the street
like a rainbow
as a miracle of the flame
as heresy from our pedestrian slopes

factories puffing shades
roaring with flags and chords
of iron ringing
in the suburbs

it is pronounced that this age
will collide with the pillar
stumps of science

and melancholy is a growth
like tumor
in the heads of those
that gaze             with wonder
from above.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

the way of the poet

21st Century Poetry

I call this
my turning hour
the imperceptible motion
from a fifty-nine
to a double-zero
I live this instant
in the streets
the cold cave of Europe
here, I wander aimlessly
I wonder incessantly
my stomach is turning too
hungry and drunk
let’s rock and roll
in the zeitgeist
that no history
will ever
record.

 


21st Century Poetry

indefinable being

 

 

The last remnants of this bitterly afraid body, this ambiguous mind, this capsule in which the entire universe seems to exist – and outside, beyond the surface of this inexplicable skin, a blank void, a dark emptiness, a vicious silence. What in the end is the point of this unending preoccupation to make sense of what is finally unspeakable, to exist in a vast and profound space with miraculous shapes and forms, to breathe and beat a heart relentlessly while the plot of an unwritten play unravels — before these eyes full of wonder? However vainly the hours may pass, oblivious of the impending death of my surroundings, the death that will also come to this entity that strangely calls itself “I”; vain attempts to forget the inevitable, to resist the irrevocable. Had this self been able to escape permanently from the entanglements of disaster, had this ego renounced a borrowed language and survived brutally naked without philosophy, without history, without tales, without spoken love. Somewhere within the entrails of this phantasmagorical reality lies a reflection, a foundation upon which all things past, present and future are sustained, nurtured and consumed; it is a realm powerfully un-human, destitute of qualities and because of its effortless existence it remains sovereign above all things that strive. And maybe it is a joke, to conceive or imagine some sort of reality that will remain after all of us are gone, some sort of metaphysical ground by which our passing away seems less painful, less tragic. There might not be any foundation for the fear, the awe and the effort; every act, every thought, every failure is essentially groundless, and we are and will always be an unnamable race, an indefinable being.

 

 

Beyond Language

Smooth sounding rain

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

.

 

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

.

 

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves.

Silence within the great symphony of rain.

 

    Silence whilst listening to a thousand voices of cold tropical drops smashing into leaves and edges.

Silence that is grey;
      
profoundly incomprehensible.

And a voice that wraps things full of wonder with words full of emptiness. 

 

   A sight that dwells endlessly on a dream planet, a dream life.

 

A layer of skin that pierces darkness and absorbs the world into a

       nugget of perception.

To breathe in awe of all surrounding perplexing forms, a close connection with improbability.

 

Then it stops, the ever-changing new turns old and rigid. Common, ordinary minutes.

Then again and again there is a plan, a prospect.  The vertigo of wonder disappears

routine conquers anew.

 

Echoing thunder is heard far beyond the touchable. 

             

 

                    To be one with what has been,

    

what is

 

what will be

Children of nowhere

Those rotten truths and the atrophy of written words

life is outside the inferno of cadaverous literature

the ever-increasing waste of past thoughts

attempting impossible resurrections

                            free the world from fossilization

allow it to burn and dismiss its ashes

our best experiences are never contained

            they roam beyond the frontiers of definition

close those covers of inky nothingness

            step into the bare unadulterated flux

                             mend with the unknown

Flee from cages of routine and metropolitan nonsense

recognize the hollow of every day

            reject the veil of prospects and careers:

                              usurpers of wonder and transformation

children of nowhere

            creators of ambiguity

exorcise the daemons of logic

                             celebrate your insanity!

 

 

 

Go back to Beyond Language

Timelessness

Unable to escape this vast dawn

hanging upon me like an atmosphere of chemicals

a mechanical tingling from ages’ past

I’ve collected the motionless quantum of floating seeds
constantly mirroring the pinpoints of valleys

as seen from peaks of departure

I’ve spoken with the dark red shade of tomorrow
perhaps seducing despair to taste my blood

her choice fluttered like a hummingbird’s thought

I’ve fallen in those perimeters of wonder
unfelt timelessness

incapable of resisting the language of rising steam

The old skins of trees invade the territory of sense
while curves vague as clouds

              embroil this journey’s end.

 

 

 

 

Go back to Beyond Language

Corner’s spiral

 

 

Come trace each spiral’s end

the emptiness of every word

fullness of rippling chords

wondering, strange wondering

                      those that once were

where has the smoke of their pipes

          traveled?

To them we were distant dream’s child

a rising vapor over their colossal deaths—

serene nocturnal sounds

Gathering ink droplets

      over prayer’s whisper

and the fall, rushing leap

bottom deep darkness into

deep immensity’s embrace

Violin growth of love

the stream naturally light

flight upon mountainous sleep

crossing threads of cycles and returning

Entering moment’s origin

returning every minute

                       arriving over and over again.