the generation that lost
the classics are long past
erudite talking too
jumps in the primordial soup
and their embellished unadorned
then came a new way of fighting
of beating lines of pox
piles of rocks
open roads in enclosed streets
elites of masters
all is past
they all lost their vibe
the last of which
against present vibrations.
now facts not feelings
post facts not facts
feelings and nothing more
Lenore and other angels
remember without thinking
or think to think of deeds.
a sour land loved
voices from every corner
each a wanderer.
a lost generation
with or without nation
breaking grounds anew
already old marked
coming out of the ground
and retreating with
A man and a man in a room with a name unknown.
Some people call it a house of terror, some
they say it’s a place of fun, of drug and liquor,
of smoke and needle. Then he’s come, alone,
from far away to feel the frenzy. – What?
– Away! Away!
– May I help you, sir?
He asked while opening the door – he had no right
to ask, the Smurfs this time were close to get him.
– I thought there was a bar, here around.
Dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo duh
– There’s none. Now come. You’re mine. – he shut the door.
– Come out! – We know you’re there! – Show yourself!
– I do not wish to come.
– I don’t wish to come!
– Come out! – We know you’re there! – Free him!
Unharmed a man and a man from a room unknown
came out. Unknown what might have happened inside.
The side of right, the side of wrong, unknown
to all involved.
The situation resolved
in nothing still, still in nothingness,
uneducated paths of fullness.
A format mistake
opens to etymologies new and false.
This is no matter of State,
the state of things being matter,
peoples and nations.
Combinations of figures,
in deeper imaginations.
Be it Mont Blanc, Plato’s cave,
a haunted house or an armchair,
these lines project shadows, thin air,
cautious delineations of uncomplete projects.
Images on images, not yet imagined,
not fully consciously integrated,
form not forms, not shapes, but lines,
thoroughly forming nations.
a word that reekly strikes admits no nay
it touches every bundle in the wood
the cortex of life the core text of man
coral is far more red than her lips’ red
it vexes t’wards th’aporia block in stock
contiguous entities share no unity
but that exposed forbidden liaison
of form reformed from frames unfreed
unmasking the danger betwixt the metaphor
which seems the only figure on the ground
elevating but for saliences but for silences
of an underscored aphasia
quoth the peremptory adventurer!
whom did you see did you enjoy whom?
what is missing now what is lacking
in the time you think you need a blast
come again my gentle folk sing
about the myths in ancient greece
I forgot I forgot forgotten
lines of black cars darkened men
aligned by them light and vanished by time
forgot I, I, I guess I
forgot also procedural understandings
of how this alienated language works
never have I ever understood
never have I ever truly dreamed
to understand or even thought of mastering
belief drags me always on
certainty that all these maddened bloody corpses
unbodied by coarse actions engendered now
on virgin sheets on feeble stains on
and away, on on the lawn of today
lulled in an awe i feel
an unsubstantiated presence
i recollect myself and recollect
the point of referentiality
triggering unordinary calmness.
wishing the Wished
wished the Wishing
augury of bonds so distant from
that can be produced.
this lull remains
and there it stays
retrieved by unretrievable unfactual
by Nils Mollenhauer
where night the waning day doth fight
loud lights the dreary darkness bite
where waves on small-grained sand collide
there shall my broken heart reside
where life from death was truly sundered
ere moon and sun together wandered
where She the winged creature rides
the tempest of my love subsides
by Nils Mollenhauer
you should know that I
like flowers bees the sky
like wind and stormy weather
like holly hope and heather
like ivy lilac moss and grain
like albion zambia and spain
like love and pain and death
belong to this world
as could you