House, an ambulance of thorns and the chairs. The dust
a coat of ghost upon furniture, reality – the hairs
in my nostrils a trembling unto death. Laughter,
a www or another milieu ripe with decadence
and the ballet of bullets in a new nation – forever?
The moon has grown without tasting an apple and
it explodes, one day, without leaving enlightenment
arrrrrrgh. or ash
in elevator low the masterpiece of low sound
the foreseen doom of leaving veins into
narrow corridors warehouse of worms wonder
the same bullshit because they die
and become little food
for grass/trees and
there goes the waiter with a white shirt
always a man with a face and a pack
of cigarettes and always Schopenhauer
in theater thinking of Thanatos et triviality
aid to disease and milestone quintessential
orb of alleviation, my dear anxiety
where like an angel will I see the light
and fly away morose like
some morsel masticated selflessly
because this house is curtain
and the blood is shiny
like mirror a sound
tired from abyss
in my hand
and tiny

Contemporary Poetry

I have discovered nothing


I have discovered nothing

no potent spasm in truth’s tinge
no certain depth in writhing divinity

I have no enlightenment

no broad scar laid on the slope of thought
no electrifying branch igniting the empty length

I have not discovered any principle

no sinking song hardening the stone
no plaited temple wall where war reclines exhausted

I have no message

no filament of yarn towards Ariadne’s love
no hidden sarcophagus where suffering lies embalmed

I have discovered no primeval essence

no visiting visage vanishing vastly
no substitute for this sum of smoke

Contemporary Poetry