philosophy
From Kierkegaard’s hand (photography)
What no one will remember
(Part LX3)
Either you love him or you don’t. Sept 3, 2013.
Contemporary Photography
oblivion obliged
When Midas asked Silenus what fate is best for a man, Silenus answered: “Pitiful race of a day, children of accidents and sorrow, why do you force me to say what were better left unheard! The best of all is unobtainable—not to be born, to be nothing. The second best is to die early.”
– Will Durant (The Story of Philosophy)
Whose torn bolt
was released
on the curvature of time,
who left this mass
of obscurity as a stone
in the sky,
have I begun
to carve enough
misery
from this chunk of night,
or designed
a chorus of smoke.
Its slanting invasion
made us embrace
like twins of twilight
and the irony
of it all
we are abundance
in its thirst,
dancing like swirls
of sweetness in its mouth.
To be happy mud
smeared
on your breasts, I said.
But I could hear
you muttering
the wisdom of Silenus.
Unable to rephrase
the meaning of silence
we laid still
like two
immobile spots
of darkness.
Contemporary Poetry
home and eternity
We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness
When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.
And so philosophy ends.
Contemporary Poetry
nihil
I fear the same stone of light that you fear. I am the bone and you are the sky. We are earth hidden within the mines of space. Darkness – like a baby – hangs from our necks. If there were knowledge there’d be no action. Pure restless surrender. I fear the pause, the allotted time. It sinks, truthfully. I know we cherish the denial of our times. Like young nihilists. I dug for truth, through turd and stink. The gold of meaning, the diamond of certainty. Years have not been wasted – we see our excavations. Emptiness. Holes. Awakening. There is nothing. We’ve dug holes, nothing more; philosophical pits. The cradles of our deaths. They are beautiful, waiting, obvious. The discovery of nothing: the day everything changed. What do you seek? What value? What supreme encounter? Now, it’s too late. Death is not speculation but the premise. All postulates inevitably incomplete. I fear that same conclusion. But it is here. Like a spark, like lightning. Like love and ephemeral.
Nothing.
Nihilistic PoEtry
pensile monument
of all the wonders
of the world
to marvel at
I stand staggering
drunk
looking at my own
dangling ogre
itself staring down
a white well
shooting a yellow tongue
furthermore
a spiral of energy
swallowing
its urgent kiss
till I stand empty
of purpose
and Heraclitus’
bare truth
before my
dripping sex.
Nihilistic Poetry
total truth
The greatest liberation
came when I dropped
the pretension to happiness.
It was freedom from category,
from hope, from knowledge,
from purpose.
I immediately recognized
that reality has no meaning,
no destination, no description.
All happiness seemed trivial in its
relation to one condition or circumstance.
I preferred truth.
I did not find it in the philosophies, religions
and sciences.
The dawn of despair set in,
total and unequivocal,
but despite the existential ache that ensued,
it brought with its gloomy light the necessary
vision to initiate in truth:
the denial of all former values.
If existence was factually beyond
the reach of words,
it could not be grasped in recorded knowledge;
it could not be explained by the logical sequence
of premises and postulates;
if it had a truth, it needed to be
immediate and self-evident.
Truth cannot be imposed onto reality,
it would distort it otherwise.
Reality is the only truth –
and to discover what it is
I had to drop all attempts to define it…
merely become aware of it
and allow its transmutations
to speak its truth.
.
Nihilistic Poetry Blog
the sensation of knowing has faded
the sensation of knowing
has faded
the congealing cement
our last coverture
ugly, reeking
and already alone
with a bullet of important birth
have the notes in the eyes
a melody of face and terror
the philosophers
have turned to the poetic
in depiction
the overt sorrow
of crocodile skins
this task of surveying
bland vast infinite
words not even mountains
to rest the moon
on their slopes
death and terror
sustained by repetitious
creation, a blind fountain
speaking for the absence
I
supplant
meaning
to extinguish
consolation
representation having failed
we rely on the cruel instant
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Nihilism Poetry
sketches of quintessential
if
some
fundamental
level
of reality
the blurry steps
of the passage of time
limbs moving, solitary breath
dying streams of flesh
darkness with short
explosions of light
everything is metamorphosis
formlessly attached
to the mind
the visible is unexplored
nobody sees the becoming
was
the world
collapsing
into my soul?
the greatest adventure
to have all the
planets in view
to be a leaf
and die like a
son
Nihilistic Poetry
from the bottom up
my mistake was
to make a philosophy
out of the gurgling sound
when hope
sank to the bottom
of the pond
I invested too much in clouds
they can hardly break
the rapid fall of my words
as they crash into
solid stupidity
I have to return
to the meaning
of stone
I have to tip over
my dreams
as boulders on summits
that wreck
below
could hurt like
a sudden
birth.
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