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Channel: Nihilistic Poetry » poetry of despair
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the world has ended

I hold the final ache that fragment of ash shrouded in perception the wind passes through the world wrinkling it as a docile flag when did I cease to believe that I exist now all this movement wanders...

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strange

How a book of history and deep time carves to certainty the doom that is inches or eons away we subsist clothed & saluting as speck, blip so this is a cosmic process love and civilization the...

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Soon the path is fog

While these hands have broken bread, caressed drooling lips of pleasure, while grey wax streams down these cheeks for soon the path is fog, a dotted line of street lamps, lumps of light doses of...

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to sit

But to sit inside to mourn the faint flame of the tongue a domain bursting with curl don’t move these eyes they soon thunder behind two happy lips asleep to sit uprooted of her hairs not beatific by...

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schematization

You now must know what it is to crave a glass of water or to sip a kiss; to be so reckless as to flood the heart because it is a crater of chalk and you’re tired of its empty dusty frame. I don’t...

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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...

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through artery

To peek within, through artery, like spying through a window into a room with two armchairs and a book of chemistry. To capture within the vaulted length, the sinuosity of entrails like a mountain...

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on a white couch

  Poetry doesn’t prove a thing. It disproves the authenticity of language, the permanence of meaning and the universality of reason. Suddenly, I thought, on the couch, while reading a history of...

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my eyes and shiver

There will be no more. I will close my eyes and shiver as a wriggle in timelessness. No tomorrow. From the table we put in our mouths the last lesson of the bread, we close the door and the familiar...

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and the emptiness of

A weak wind being bent as silent structure on the margin of the hours by the beach a walk through the empire of rock after death love sits with legs cold and the storm of the sand every crash is wrath...

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