Nihilist Meme 2
SOLO EXHIBITION BY:
Miles Villanueva
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ARMBAR RENGA (A CENTO)
Tron Victoriano
Is this everything only a god’s
(burned out, streamed out, sprayed out)
Foolish thoughts, shimmering vehicles, in which
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
It melts away
full of masks and dances and swelling chants
as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
Dust of dingy atoms
Like the spirits of the dead
(Drifting in the candy-like ether)
Who knew that old truths were so easily shaken?
all bandaged up
Voices now pitched battles,
with the rough tongue
unsheathed like a holy knife
Outlaws fill the mountain caves
(Dreaming of blood and spilling wine?)
A kind of offering to the void,
Where the gloom has lain
along innocent limbs.
Happy where no man passes.
Laughing at what is forgotten
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
(And this alone is worth a hero’s choice.)
The Messenger-Spirit
dancing like someone you know
half-opens its lashes
Beneath the beam of the movie projector, some record
(From which sound a thousand louder or softer sounds proceed)
drops into the void.
The mouth tells the truth.
“Judge, stop! I want to die upon a cross!”
flame crouching
the fire brings headlong
heaven’s splendid refuse,
as handsome as a bomb.
Ravaged, upon this shore:
in a corner of the canvas.
And nothing, not even the thought
of innumerable conflicting grafts
peel your own image from the mirror
Under the malicious glints of the clouds
in streets with sonorous pavements
Science explains nothing
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,
of the macrocosm, the organism of language,
The one who has no body, of course.
(when they cure the historical hangover
The Wise Men will unlearn your name.)
You cannot be known.
Buried alive;
Inside weirdo corners
I could not cut words with meanings
Because the universe goes on expanding,
with the perpetual gnawing of desire.
The bearer of human longing, the pale image
is possessed by a wholly animal innocence;
Desire is alive, an ache in our vaporous foreheads.
the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought;
all day and all night long
We don’t believe in cabbalistic signs
severed from the mind
In several rings of smoke.
Sent by a hand unseen;
Like a compass whose point to the North is bound.
(but what the hell’s it all about!)
We live as slaves, by life consumed;
A meaning alien to the earth
Running
in our own delirium.
(With the sun.)
(or the joy of a god we will not see)
The gallows is the guillotine,
Whose slender fingers play the candid psalms.
blood the heroic battle sign
grinding you into the earth,
around a star.
It is time.
And the new lines, such clearly dictated,
scoop from the ocean just once
and drown easily.
alone in that night
with joy you realize for the first time
(After all, at some point in your life)
That work is now obsolete.
I can summon the dead.
No one rules your heart.
And for a while the feeling may remain…
Among the cosmos flowers vibrate machine guns
from our souls.
men’s eyes are blank
(In thousands break away, and sweep)
and slowly, as chance selected them, they left
The rumbling voice of violent waves and storm.
And something miraculous will come
a cautious power dwells, accidental and passing
That when brought into vision becomes an inferno.
siesta atop a mountain of ashes
and of the toppled enigma.
how do we welcome the future
And capture it in a perfect stone
only to remain unseen;
And eternity occurs to me, and all the ages past,
it’s as boring.
Long ago, it was white fingers hitting the piano.
