against the poets


It is a sad thing to be a poet.
Pick out a few strands of impermanence.
Sit and write in fever and sweat
on how the ash is sweet and immense.

But it is in vain
I tell you.
Nothing will remain
beyond the faded terrain.

For art’s sake. Can there be anything more pathetic?
All we do is lace pigment on fragments.
All this perversion of language, an erratic
falsification of meanings and judgments.

I am being honest finally.
I tell you.
Don’t even care how this ends really
because I’ve started to drink myself silly.

prelude to a philosophy of meaninglessness


I want to write
clear and distinct ideas
expressing how life
is a short sojourn
in an unclear and
indistinct domain

that my philosophy
become the instant
when words ricochet off
the build of reality

to expose the futility
of the understanding
and dilate the aperture
through which silence

I want to make sure
that the veracity
of my principles
is unverifiable

that the meaning
of my verse
emerges as
a blur of music

I want to leave
the cloud of phenomena
to become a single
dab of mist
throbbing in the
chaotic extent.



Contemporary Poetry


globe poetry

the hurried streak of beauty
to walk chaotically
on open midnights
hurl hums to cosmos
like a muddled beethoven
ahhhh the freedom of finitude
to live and die instantly
within this globe of atom –
I see you
vast manifold energy
spiraling around this
meaningless soul!




Nihilistic Poetry

The ant feeling

World Knife Poet


I have the hands of a dictator.
Thoughts of a circle
and a pretty bloated lower lip.
I wake up some days thinking
how many galaxies are needed
for this life to be indubitably
I look at the mirror,
those eyes like clouded enigmas.
And then come the words,
like heavy storms of smoke.
If the sky were glass to break;
but I settle for grunge.
While to most life is a gulf,
to me
the world is a knife
two parallel lines
that meet at the horizon
to stab me right
in the middle
of my unseen heart.


Nihilistic Poetry



lift up the glass
don’t drink
be one with the drop
under the glass
a miniature sky
swipe it with the hairs
of your arm
nostalgia from your mouth
honey on an elegant moustache
don’t laugh
your head is a surreal
boulder suspended atop a blade
be gone
stand under an oblique shadow
like a marble torso
pierced in agony
lift your fingers
five candles burning
with the oil of touch
you’ve been sleeping
while the days melt
into grotesque dozens
collect yourself
look around you
the invisible raw overtones
the cones elongated masks
perspectives as wide as yellow
despite its meaningless emptiness
I’m sure this is beauty
stagnant between two words
as it happened
sometime now
eventually never.



Absurd Modern Poetry


unknown sky

Reality too sad
to be entrusted to the permanence of oblivion.

a young syllable
could escape

and make
a sun
within its
hermetic shadows.

I will remember the meaninglessness
how everything became
justified in its destruction,
a collapse so universal, it happens in an instant.

I dream about nothing and nothingness dreams about me.

Like two lovers morning and evening
rip off their names
and lie naked in the pure event.

I remember the laughter of the mystic,
his eyes flapping like wings in the open sky.

The mist of words
dissolving like incense
into the unknown.








soldier of ruin

Nihilistic Poetry

The sadness of the suit –

the window shop
like a memory
carrying the scent
of an effete cosmos,
the wrinkles engraved
as snakes on a dead desert
of polyester,
the trapezoids existing
shadows in the skin
of the pattern,
and the sadness of the suit
saturated with the rust
of a regret, the shoes
of temple sacrifice-
the suit gray and occidental
ail and sober
standing brave
as the soldier of ruin.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog