words

escapades

Bricks_Berlin_Germany

I sneak out
in the middle of the day
as a fugitive of conformity
I look around
searching for those
that wander solitarily
those poor souls
all alone
against the oppressive machine
of existence
then I separate myself
follow streets no one
follows
I look for long walls
like those of cemeteries
or abandoned factories
I tread their outer boundaries
bricks to infinity
protecting a mystery
that I must never invade
I return to words
the insufficient medium
life has me by my neck,
I am drunk with life
perceptibly drowning
in its fuel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

21st century poetry

 

gutter thoughts

The
voluntary dissipation of time
eventless and motionless
decomposing
aging with the night
the loud blah of history
no goodie-goodie stuff
at the end of this line
the long fucking wait
the fucking article
‘the’
the real drunkard doesn’t have
words left to spill
slime, dust and comatose sleep
down
against any attempt
why try, answered the void
truth in a glass
and another glass
and another
another shortcut
to death.
 
 
 

nihilistic poetry

and the bone and the flesh and the

‘flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh’

 

the stoic
had spoken
or written these words
which is never the same
thing

 

he could have been
an Epicurean
but was too
libidinal
to fit the term

 

pleasure, yes
but excess?

 

but I’m not
here to
judge
or compare

 

simply to
repeat
on my twenty-
eighth
finished year:

 

‘flesh covers the bone and flesh searches for more than flesh’


wouldn’t that make
a great
bedtime story?

my philosophy

I am no longer immersed
somewhat buried or submerged
but closely tied or floating
with those immediate things we call by words
I am that I am
my most irrelevant philosophy
closest to the light bulb
the breath on my nostril
to the plan and the hope
I am abstractedly here
together with the contents of plain reality
since I have nothing to say
I stare directly at the center of objects
yes, they are there
and I haven’t yet said anything in particular,
however close I feel
to the intellectual assumption
we like to nickname
the world
my words seem abandoned
like the stone someone else
kicked aside
down the thorny bushes
of something else.

Nihilistic Poetry

A word with myself

Being Poem

I drag
the whole compass
with its north and whereabouts
to the lyrical center called
           I
I cannot praise beauty
      only the mysterious
I summon the elements
         of my destitute body
I speak to this world only
               – my own
who else stands here
             – a dead poet or a mystic perhaps –
I am the masturbation of my own language
these are no longer words
they become
     the flesh of
 this Being.

Nihilistic Poetry

more ther e

What kind of mothers are

these mothers

dint on ferules falling spaces

tremble firmly against the black dot

agonize done

pay dearly for attention

dearly attention for paid mothers

pay attention dear mother

self-service yellow dreaming

towards the upmost gynecology

female daemon inside

torture as crouching logic

gone done gone

blindness in color red

muscles faking florescence

sit down and read

the last vocals of  your soul

the language, mother, the tongue

inherited sounding cataclysm

        these words… these words!

freedom when church and apologies

death become

tuning chaotic speech

more ther                                                    e

I’ll take a knife

you’ll bring the blender

let’s create – erase opaque reasons

grand origins of eruptions

pale, yesterday, paling yesterday

surrounded growth

no, no, no, no

who knows .

 Nihilistic Poetry

Trapped in today

 

Since these are all eyes pouncing upon their own light

      since these words are still in the air we breathe

nobody has yet seen the cruelty of today

                 nobody has measured the necessity of crying

to be sick and living 

       asphyxiated with desires, unclothed by opinion

the taste is in my mouth:

      progress has vomited a sickly herd.

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!

 

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Tinges of blue

 

 

I left the office shy of two o’clock

gaining inside a shudder that could reach

just beyond the boundary of solitude.

              I raised this old neck of mine

                           the sky was me.

Belonging to dreams we no longer dare to glimpse

               futures too powerful too bear

fears that out of plain habit

covered me like husks of wisdom.

So eternally blue – with the intensity of an S

similar to the smell of dawn, depths of now

                                      bright as selflessness

        blue as sky.

A kind of rejoicing, a mystic’s forgotten book

                                       and the glory of erased words!

TO return, live a thousand sleeps

                       one more lonely death

varying degrees of godless hours

                                  those dissipated moments

hungry of freedom, so easily obscured.

               Bury me in lands of mute plants.

Blind pasts, unimportant futures.

                 The sky was me, I turned

I had gone away… hands overflowing possibility.

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