the invisible oar
of a metaphor
stirring the air
like the slightest hair
as the subtle gust
of a floating mote of dust
if this a dream
that our eyes stream
and the knowledge of the dream
but an echo of the passing gleam
may it flicker passingly on the wall
that nothingness has placed over all
Our current knowledge
will be clear
to be no more
than a droplet
within an immeasurable
ocean of unknowingness –
we pretend on this earth
to know more than we
know not
we dispel mystery
because we have
a few theories
and laws of Nature
as a poet I seek
that vaster sphere
of Nature Unknown
I do not call it
divine
but because of its
opulent mystery,
I deem it
sacred.
I lift
the stone
and find
red
the sky
is the outer
shell of mother’s
breast
they kissed
to imitate
a sleeping
sound
I allow
the species of rock
to define
my heart
so many
drunks
surround me
like a fence
I collect
our sighs
like crumbs
of drying wax
if shop windows
were mirrors
we would buy
ourselves
I pick up
a wet piece of paper
on the other side
said: impossible
I return
to the stone
lift and find:
archers with ash bows
my vision
turns red
and partly
unborn
I listen
to wisdom
and remember
its broken wings
I sit inside
a library
because there is
nowhere else to go.
It was not yet summer
when the light dissolved
absolutely over my tongue
I had to return to the past
as if digging
a ruthless hole in my skin
my veins my bones my sky
will the black worm
eat consume digest
reinvent me?
death is the smoke
we breathe in
to unfold like a cluster
of manifestation
passively
the dream
reposes inside the
shell of reality
in one drop
of philosophy
the solitude
is assuaged
but the aperture
the encounter
the expanse
available only
through the pristine
ache of mystery
and its pilgrimage
found in an alighting
morsel of
beauty.
The standstill motion
of the substance
around us
in a flicker
the wood is a infant body
laying on the arm
of a ray of sun
the hourglass has
a plan to move
the shadows
the incense is dead
reeking like a
flame of pus
the instant sails
through all the events
carried by the wind of memory
with a transparent dress
a ghostly rain
is expected to sweep
up the remains
the fragments
in an untitled and random quest
Life will destroy you
and there won’t be any more words
to describe our love for
that which never came
into existence
imagine a bud
leaves in slow bloom
ages upon minutes
minutiae upon epochs
for a product
that never is finished
but goes on
from seed to form
back to dust and roam
life is strange
with surges of anxiety
I contemplate
its rather statuesque secrets
there will be no more words
or feelings or understanding
when the cerulean mouth of death
takes us in its mouth
under its pulpy tongue
and down the
infinite hole
of silence
I have swallowed
all the colors of hope
and in my thirst
I still despair
like a black figure
set against the white emptiness
I’ve peeled off
the last sounds
from the mirror of music
still to be deaf
in the dead opaque dawn
while all the textures
and elements of the planet
offer me a cocoon
of velvet sensation
like a colorless rag
I still fall towards the night
of crude silence
I have thought out
all the possibilities
but the environment
of the heart is
still raw and incomprehensible
so touch the lips
of rain
or draw the
direction of
love
I owe none
I owe none.
Life is too much
Not in the sensation
nor in any substance
I found the budding smoke
against the bitter pulp of your tongue
- an escapade -
stranger
in three seconds
you seemed like a new hero
unlikely to be born
but already running from death
with long undulating hair and cigarette smoke
as the aura of your magical feats of scorn ; -
I followed your pace briefly
soon losing sight of your epic trivialities.
I am intent of becoming hiccups
your dirty nails or the drunken laugh
with which all serious things
are consumed .
Where does your unguided purpose
take you now?
Who cares. Matters little.
I was simply eager
to be abducted
by some viscous phantom
a passing nondescript
taking me suddenly out
of my routine,
to exist carelessly
in the passive ruin and
ordinary acts
of someone else.
