Kisses from the Apocalypse (And Other Small Things) E-Book

Dan Corjescu

• Herausgeber: ibidem
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 51

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Love, sex, death, God, and nature are just some of the hot, fervent kisses that you'll find in this collection of contemporary, perplexed poetry. It draws its inspiration from the works of Bukowski, Poe, Baudelaire, Ungaretti, Neruda, and the Bible, among others. It reflects the unease, anger, doubts, and rage of our present situation while lyrically transporting us towards possible solutions. For all those concerned about our future this is beautiful intriguing poetry from the Threshold of The End of Days but, hopefully, not the End of Love.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Verlag

Title Page

La raíz de todas las pasiones es el amor. De él nace la tristeza, el gozo, la alegría y la desesperación. Lope de Vega

Part I Kisses from the Apocalypse

Pity

Section 5

Part II Earlier Poems

I

Section 8

Part III Environmental Ethics

Environmental Ethics

Part IV Medea in Hell

Medea in Hell (A Short Philosophical One-Act Play) The Place: Hades (World of Shadows)

Part V Final Kiss

Eternal Kiss

Section 15

ibidem Press, Stuttgart

La raíz de todas las pasiones es el amor. De él nace la tristeza, el gozo, la alegría y la desesperación.Lope de Vega

Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.Pablo Neruda

Part IKisses from the Apocalypse

Pity

I feel very sorry for those

Who are able to read

My poetry right

For they are in hell

And every word

Will fall on them

Like a boulder

Like a curse

The Owls of Minerva

This life

Was a set up

To be fire

To be flood

To be warning

And at the very end

Crazy dark owls

Burst out of my chest

Laughing

Two Hearts

The cunt

Cut my heart

In two

It was a clean cut

Not much blood

Anyway

Now I've got two hearts

One that feeds

And

One that starves

The blood

Craft Crazy

I try to leave the

Similes and Metaphors

Behind me

Like dark senseless animals

I'm a butcher

And my poetry is meat

I hack at it

Like life at me

I shred my lines like dirty snow

I gnaw dead sonnets

I growl at my images

I put my face in a bowl

And mash it up with bloodied rhyme

I look for the cleaver that gleams

And stretch out my neck

Like a finger that bleeds

Liberty

The Statue of Liberty

Is a crazy old slut

Promising you the greatest

Fuck

If you'd only feed your guts

Into her green torch

Of trumped up Liberty

If you'd only give her

Your mind

Burnt on the speed

Of Atomic Promises

If you'd only disembark

Into her deep cunt

Of filthy money

"C'mon you poor bastard!"

She says

"Shut up and kneel--the gods are waiting"

Fuck You

My favorite poem is called:

"Fuck You"

I like to start my day with it

And end my nights with it

I like to recite it

To all those

Waiting to eat me

Waiting to fuck me

With their very own

Special poetry

Blood Red Moon

There's a blood red moon tonightBlood red

Blood red

Blood red

Like the blood in my veins

I stare

helplesslyAt the celestial blood spot

And think:

Circulation

Don't Force It

Don't force it

Turning plants to steam

Rivers into hydraulic forces

The wind into horses

Don't force it

Knowledge

Is the burnt Face of the World

By your side

That I cannot be by your side

While the world dies

Is a gratuitous affliction

That I cannot caress you

While the winds subside

And the ocean swells retire

Is a blue pulse of painful resignation

That we cannot make love

While the stars occult

And the Earth hides

Before the final order of execution

That All is Death girding

My lush sentiment

For Eros born too late

In the Winter of Desperate Excuses

And suddenly

Your hair catches fire

Your eyes burst into flame

Your body is a furnace

The glowering heat of this Last Love

Is my Testament to All that Might Have Been

Perfect

Perfect are you to me

In my willful stubbornness

Against all imperfection

I will not see

The cage that you offer me

The blood pact

That holds me

I knowingly love in crime

And my passion is sacrilege

But as we all fall down

And are vanquished

My trembling hands fashion

A Weak Altar

From which I drink my own body's wine

Ever hoping for the copious blood

Of The World

To quench this burning thirst

For the Divine

Madman

I am a madman

searching for God

I search for him in my sleep

I search for him in the junkyards

I search for him when I'm drunk

I search for him amidst the cries of the weak

I search for him in missile silos

I search for him in the lost eyes of Junkies

I search for him in Nuclear Power Plants

I search for him when I make love (especially then)

I search for him in the strange silence of plants

I search for him when the sea is angry

I search for him in the cruelest betrayal

I search for him in the graveyards

I search for him

For I am a madman

Oblivious to history

Deaf to Philosophy

Blind to Religion

I see worlds rising

I will meet him at the other side of the last dawn

Morning Poems

I'm up in the morning

reading poems

The sunlight bends in my hands

I see birds

who remind me of irrepressible lightness

I am forgetful

for a moment

of who I am

and I am thankful

for this

I am reading

poems in the morning

And I feel

just for a moment

the furthest arc of bliss

Out of my skin

How can I walk out of my skin

gently?

Walk deeply down ephemeral

paths

Find questions that

release me

Will anyone give me a hand?

I think not

For we are imminently 

singular

Born to whimper

alone

All else is the illusion

of unity

I can only transcend

my own eyes

I'd like to borrow God's

of course

But I can't

But right now

I'm busy making myself

porous

slowly emptying out into the universe

seeking the improbable

holiness

of disembodied grace

Time weaves

Time weaves

and we are 

condemned

to pick 

out

And live

all the strands

from

blood red

to

darkest black

Eyes

We have betrayed

the eyes of children

A vast skein

of lies betrayals murders

is the real playground of their vision

Better to have been born

blind

to a world so achingly

ugly

But

However

We wait

For at least one child

to raise a fistful

of hot sand

to sear

the world

to cauterize

its agony

to bring the Argus-storm

of new Being

Great River

I should not think about you

If you were not

The Great River of Being

In your sunlight

I will not

I wish not

To stoop

In your Gardens