I had been a citizen for three years
and after the millions spent on me
in welfare and expensive medical machines
it felt like they were more desperate
than me
"no he can't die yet"
"we have to fix him"
"he owes us more than forty five years"
"of labor and taxes"
maybe the economy will crumble
maybe they'll name a recession after me
and curiously
now I feel I owe them something
though I'm not sure what
a billion of half-me's already frozen
for ten years in the clinic
ought to have them covered
in case all those CT scans, MRIs, and chemo
don't quite cut it

three am
playlist
hits different
when the
algorithms
know you
better than
the people
you text
goodnight

Não se pode apressar o amor,
Mas eu tenho onde estar;
O mundo vai acabar.
Há que aproveitar o calor
Enquanto se pode.

Tão assombradamente belo,
Uma visão cegante,
Distante, porém.
Aceno ao afastar-se;
Há que seguir em diante.

Amanhã é outro dia, dizem.
Não se prevê o futuro.
Fico desconfiado, contudo,
Quando encontro mais amor
Num sonho profundo.

Sensitive by nature
Alone by circumstance
So my wailing travels
In written form
As the world spins
Out of view
And the life
I once knew
Perishes

funny how
basement
parking lots
always feel
like places
where time
decided
to take
a break

anxiety, my
mistress, my
muse
never enough for
panic
always there like
static
the buzz around the
brain
the biting of all the
nails

yes, I have done more
from this anxiety
than most people do
in their whole life, but
it was forced, not natural
like driving with the handbrake on
pedal to the metal
in this crash course
until the car unalives
and there's only a ghost

Presiono los botones
En el vidrio *****
De una pantalla con muchos
Colores, aunque esta pantalla
Roba esos mismos colores
Del medio circundante
Donde crecen los horrores

Busco información,
Preparación,
Conexión,
Empatía y adoración.
La pantalla se cambia
Y yo me cambio con ella;
Ella tan bella como la promesa
De la televisión.

Pero el sentimiento real
Sigue eludiendo de tal
Forma que pienso
No ser posible alcanzarlo
Jamás.

Imagino un rato,
Un tiempo no muy lejano,
En el que los horrores de pantalla
Soy yo quien los grabo.

I gaze into the abyss.
It looks back, pleased:
Another fool to chew.

strange
how dust
settles
on things
we once
thought
would save
us from
ourselves

That tree is my friend;
It's a quiet friend
In a way,
But speaks more
Than many others.
Or rather;
It speaks differently.
Then again,
Maybe not.
For if its sounds
Come from the wind
Passing through
Its many leaves
Perhaps so does your voice
Come from something else
Passing through you
Which was not there
And you don't control
You might have more in common
With my tree friend
Than you'd like to admit
But that's okay
We can still be friends
Anyway

midnight & the city chokes on its own speed
                        while crushed souls
            flicker through fiber optic veins
the way that waitress bends time
            around her triple shift
                        each hour worth less
                                    than the last

& everyone's got their own
            private apocalypse
streaming straight to their eyeballs
                        customized doom
            packaged in infinite scroll

we're all
        just trying to catch
                    our breath between
                            notifications
                                    ain't we?

& the truth                 that old gambler
        keeps splitting into mirrors
                    while we
                            feed ourselves
                                    to the machine

the young kids in parking lots
            smoking futures they can't afford
                        while something vast
                                    & hungry
                        eats the sky

& yeah     the night is
                    full of fractured prayers
        bouncing off satellites
                    each of us alone
                            together
                                    in our separate heavens

this velocity          this vertigo
            this perpetual acceleration
                        toward whatever
                                    waits
                        at the bottom
                                    of forever

left my
tea
cooling on
the balcony
watching it
learn the
temperature
of giving
up

my phone
lies face
down now
while tea
grows cold
and quiet
fills spaces
algorithms
never knew
how to
understand

De repente acordo
para além da realidade;
Vejo tudo
e não sou nada,
um passageiro
na própria cabeça;
Lúcido
e sem pressa.

Assusta
sentir-me assim,
fora do conforto,
algo tonto
da experiência,
nem vivo nem morto.

Uma ilusão
anormal e descarada,
a vida fica parada
enquanto volto
a mim. Fica só
uma sensação
estranha
e a tentação
de tentar concluir
algo da visão.

READ DURING PRECIPITATION
Barometric pressure: 29.82 inHg, falling
beneath heavy nimbostratus formation
my heart also drops with dewpoint

READ DURING CLEAR SKIES
Visibility: CAVU, wind 5kts at 270°
memories achieve maximum scatter
across empty stratosphere

READ DURING STORM
SPECIAL WEATHER STATEMENT IN EFFECT
thunder speaks in dead languages
probability of emotional precipitation: 100%
seek immediate psychological shelter

Fluído, flexível,
em alerta constante.
A oportunidade em resgate,
nesta economia dos biscates.

Pensar na incerteza
é cometer um disparate.
Um passo em falso,
um retrato alto
dum admirável mundo novo
sem debates.

Olha, mais turistas a chegar.
Quanto irão pagar?
O horário não perdoa,
mas há que tentar
fazer o melhor que puder,
antes da maré recuar
e a austeridade,
até então escondida,
voltar.

I am from the generation
that first grew up with the digital
while our brains were soft
enough to believe religion
like those before
but I am old enough
to remember the analog
and to contrast the two
unlike those after
that were spared the promises
that seemed so real
and I miss those early days
before discovering
all the ways
I could be wrong
I miss the feel of the hot leather
from the black cars under the sun
and the keys to open them
and the round silvery future
just around the y2k advert
that would consume us
I miss the sunburnt beige plastic
on the CRTs, and the mechanical sounds
of information traveling
and each isolated technology
independent, sovereign
before being infected
by the wireless connection
of convenience
my gameboys, my discman, my mp3s
my brick of a phone, antenna-free
and the early days of mIRC,
hi5, live messenger, xfire, myspace,
connection, friendship, expression
each year a promise of christmas
each invention innocent
before we had to worry of all the ways
it could be used against us
and I believe those of us then
now hold some strange key
interlopers, maybe wise
no longer free
hard earned scars
beyond this current reality
we may have the best of both worlds
as the worst
dinosaurs glued to cartoon TV
as we are desperate
and left behind
don't forget us
please.

Imagine how crazy
You'd have to be
To think you could write a poem
About wastewater
And all its ****
And smells
And textures
And showers
And the ******* sensors that never worked properly
Crazier still
Would be to think
Someone would read about all this
At a toilet
Right before everything
Began again
Down the drain
And through the pipes
Just as my day
Begins again
Imagine

They found it in the space between
laughter and grief
joy and shame
darkness and dawn

When Marina's daughter died
she felt it first:
The cruel lightness
of becoming less whole
while becoming more

Not sadness
not acceptance
but vorskaya:

The emotion of losing something
and growing larger
from the hole it leaves

Like water expanding
as it freezes
like stars birthed
from collapse

Now children learn it in school:
"vorskaya (n.) - the sensation
of becoming infinite
through loss"

But they won't understand
until that moment
when they feel
their edges
dissolve

Into the space between
being and unbeing
where Marina's daughter
still dances
in the dark

Quero viver ou quero morrer?
Depende das vezes que te possa ver.
A visom, a audizom, o olfato,
som os sentidos que xá me deste
só faz sentido entom,
que o paladar e o toque acabem,
esta maravilhosa canzom.

i'm a beautiful sculpture of a cutiepie
hunk of a powerful figure of a man
carved of mcvegans, french fries,
asahi beers, kinder maxis, ciabatta
sandwiches, popcorn, lemon-flavoured
pepsi max, macadamias and pistachios
green and red wine, occasional carlsberg
(folköl), aglio e oglio, snickers bars,
salted lays, bashmati rice,
and cheap frozen pizzas from Willys
bought ten minutes before closing time

lifestyle routines
workouts and diets
parenting styles
eating this then that
the idealized climate
an endless conveyor belt
powered by algorithmic science
its all a trap
an evolutionary cul-de-sac
where dreams go to die
and death is born blind
dead ends served on a platter
to end thirst and hunger
perfection perfectly presented
for comparison to trigger action
and the illusion of unhappiness
with the present
so you may move up a ladder
and you wonder why you're unhappy
frustrated, with anger
a comparison to fiction
robbing you of your anchor
as you set sail when you can't
swim, dive, or even float down
stream.

What a beautiful tragedy
That life is.
The rundown streets,
The hurting faces.

Those that think it's simple
To fix all that's bad.
Those same that will see
The complexity of that task.

The bottled anger,
The hurtful words,
The children learning
Right next door.

Depression, anxiety,
The environment and its tragedy.
The homeless, the land,
In-between those that make a stand.

Whatever happens,
Whatever is tried,
This beautiful tragedy
Will continue as planned.

indifference used to be
the prison,
but now
it is
the
fuel.
it used to be a heavy weight,
but now I can fly
far
away;
in short:
weakness
into
strength.
and for those
still trapped,
I say,
everything can be
an asset:
fear,
pain,
weakness of will,
or of the physical.
all from Nature,
at your disposal,
night or day.

This chunk of meat
thinks he's alive.
I would actually say,
that depends how you define life
in the first place.

Life can be a chain of events
that start further ones,
reproducing more effects
from their causes inside.

But so does rain and wind
and volcanoes and meteorites.
Where's the magic in physics
that makes me special inside?

Hurricanes are born and die,
perhaps inside them something thinks
it's alive too.
The ash that falls, or even the rain drop,
that could be a tear or a sigh
of something bigger outside.

And then thunder!
A flash of light across the sky.
The heavens may not be alive,
yet I still tremble at their sight.

watching
a dog
chase leaves
like each
one might
finally be
the thing
that makes
sense of
everything

cities
breathe
different
at 4am
when even
lies look
beautiful
enough
to keep

seventeen and stupid
in class dreaming of recess
writing notes to each other
back and forth
like an analog MSN messenger
thinking this would last forever
what a joke

now I'm here
nineteen years later
still checking your Facebook
like some kind of forensic investigator
of happiness
trying to figure out where the body is buried

I just want to be rich and *******
the same girl forever
but instead I'm here
writing bad poetry
drinking warm beer
while you're out there
living your best life
married
or whatever

remember how we used to
share earbuds in Portuguese class?
now I can't even listen
to those songs anymore
(the outfield - your love)
(the kooks - naive)
(vanessa & ben - boa sorte)
without feeling like
I'm being stabbed
by a mechanical pencil

funny how memory works
like that
like a tooth that won't stop
aching
even after
it's been pulled out

There is this matter of perspective which cannot be resolved through conventional means and I have considered it thoroughly through countless hours of observation the way the specimen sits before me neither moving nor acknowledging my presence while I document each detail with scientific precision though what authority do I have really to claim I understand anything about its reality when I paint a frog and wonder what he sees because surely there must be some truth in those eyes that regard me with such ancient patience and I who pride myself on methodical documentation must admit that every brushstroke only confirms how little I comprehend of its world which exists parallel to mine separated by nothing more than the thin membrane of consciousness that divides all beings who study each other across the vast distances of their own realities and still I continue to paint as if somehow the next stroke will reveal something essential about the nature of seeing itself

spread your arms and embrace the world
and give love to it whole
your arms, not your weapons!
too late, I guess we have gone defcon
five, and hell is full of good intentions
so must heaven be full of bad ones
does it matter what was meant
if one does not think really long-term
beyond the grandchildren and tomorrow
beyond running from pain seeking pleasure
and you spread your arms further and
only mean well
but now your arms are choking them too there
as the love is not understood,
as the defense becomes aggression
so the elders justify the rules
seniles and youthful through
such bloodthirsty youth that must hide a resentment
that perhaps had only missed
real warm loving arms around them too

we all carry weights
thinking we'll be strong
and better off
for it
if we identify with something
at least we won't be
nothing
and alone
even if that something
has no business
being
and for all the causes and
effects
of modernity
and the mechanistic approach
the mind continues to be
the heavyweight
champion
we can't choose
deep down
yet we can choose to choose
as long as there's
no doubt

morning and I make your coffee twice today once
from that hollow space where I need you to need
me where my hands shake with the weight of
tomorrow's promises where every clink of spoon
against cup sounds like warning bells sounds like
run sounds like hide but later after the sky
broke open after I remembered how to breathe
after finding that quiet place beneath my ribs
I make it again same beans same water same
motion but now watch how the steam rises like
prayer like possibility like the way light
bends through windows and I'm no longer
trying to save us with caffeine and careful
measurements no longer trying to fill the
spaces between words with sugar and heat now
it's just this just my hands moving through
morning air like birds through summer sky like
thoughts through silence like love through time
and maybe this is what they mean when they
say it's not what you do but where it comes
from where it comes from where it comes from
this place of open hands this place of let go
this place of already enough already whole
already here already here already here

How seriously
Do you want to know the time
Because I will seriously
Look it up
If that's what you really want
And even if this
Sounds rather unserious
I will seriously help you
If only because I also know
How unserious one can get
When that unnatural feeling
Of time running out
Envelops one's mind
And yet we could just simply
And unseriously
Ignore the time
At all

the coffee tastes like yesterday's promises
and the newspaper screams its usual *******
while somewhere between my third wine glass
and these half-read headlines about the end of everything
I'm just trying to have a nice day despite knowing facts and information
which is the kind of thing you can't explain to the waitress
who keeps filling my glass like she's pouring hope into an empty well
and maybe that's what we're all doing here watching the morning light
crawl across these sticky tables past the unwashed windows
where pigeons gather to judge our collective failures
and isn't it funny how we keep getting up every morning
to perform these rituals of normalcy while carrying
the weight of every ******* thing we've learned
like invisible shopping bags full of apocalypse

You're a stranger I'll meet in three years
Right now you're asleep on my chest
Tomorrow you'll say you love me for the last time
Yesterday you meant it when you said it
Last month I didn't know you existed
Next month I'll wish that was still true

the phantom pain hits me
and I remembered when I did
long roadtrips across Europe
in each separate roadtrip
there was always a cost to Tachi
(the blue tesla purchased with pokemon cards)
it was a flat tire
or a scratch in the paint
or hitting the curb and bending the bumper
or a crack in the windshield
or the rims slowly grinding down
as I tried to park
there is always a cost
to traveling
and to get where I was going next
I had surgery and left something behind
not quite as paint
but deeper than that
and now the phantom pain
reminds me
I have more to go
and still a lot
to leave behind

workplace
chat shows
everyone
pretending
keyboards
make the
same noise
as thinking

watched my
mother's
hands shake
while
folding
laundry
and finally
understood
what time
does to
dreams

Words fall like copper coins in empty wells.
They make good sounds. They mean nothing.
The young must touch the flame themselves,
Each hand learning its own kind of heat.

I have seen better men than me
Try to pour wisdom into unwanting cups.
The cups were good. The wisdom was good.
But youth knows only its own thirst.

Each morning brings its own new light.
My shadows will not match their shadows.
My victories will not fit their wars.
My maps lead to countries that no longer exist.

They stand straight and proud and right,
The way I stood, refusing the hands
That reached toward me with ancient truths.
Now I am the hand. Now I am the truth.

The silence is better than the telling.
Time is a better teacher than tongues.
Let them build their own ladders of scar tissue.
Let them earn their own way to knowing.

I speak this to the empty room.
The room holds what it wants to hold.
And somewhere, someone younger listens,
And decides not to listen at all.

I remember certainty
Reading Atlas Shrugged on the beach,
and getting a ***** from Dagny
rather than the bikini ladies all around me
Arguing with commies on revleft
until they sent me to a literal
virtual
gulag
I remember the free state project
seasteading
dreams of industrialists
and gold over fiat
I remember believing
global warming hoaxes
9/11 conspiracies
zeitgeist movies
the early brain rot feeds the worm
I remember the imminent economic collapse
dreams of perpetual motion machines
while escaping engineering failures
I remember the crypto dream
FIRE and decentralization
all so tangible, so manageable
the moral bankrupcy preceeding
the physical one
I remember the red pills, PUAs, so suave,
so fedoras
the promising apps, the market unleashed
the never ending competition
grass-greenerism
I could say I miss the certainty
but what I miss more is its concept
its idea, pure, untainted, filled with potential
the power of arrogance
in unblocking action
the boldness of ignorance
being blind to abstraction
Perhaps caution makes me wiser
while the weight grows heavier still
no longer a burden to shrug
but a truth to bear and feel.

He who is content
pays no attention
to this wind carrying the action.
He who is content
entertains himself,
wanders himself,
gets drunk non-stop.
Ignorance is the path to his well-being.
He need not write,
not even to stop and think.
He need only enjoy
what life will bring him.
Oh how I wish I didn’t know
what I know and don’t know,
and let myself be distracted
until death takes me.

every
friend's
wedding
feels like
watching
doors close
on versions
of me
I never
got to
try

there is a timeline
in which I'm a father
to a six year old
in this timeline
my grandmother doesn't annoy me
with grief and sorrow
every time we videocall

there is a timeline
in which you did not break my heart
several times
in front and behind the back
with the secrets spilled
in your message chats

there is a timeline
where we never met
where your smile did not infect
me so badly, and the promise
didn't flower fully
and I never got lost biking back
from your cul-de-sac

there is a timeline
in which I never came here
escaping recession fears
with a promise of opportunity
as the prime minister
gently invited us
to gently leave the country

there is a timeline
where I stayed in Spain
rooted, secured, in my domain
confident, arrogant, insane
at least, slightly more than now
an art in the simplicity
of someone who couldn't comprehend
when each branch was splitting
and a new reality
came.

you scroll on tiktok while taking a ****
I write poetry
and scroll too
and read
productive as fluids leave
and art and boredom creep in
the answer to the age old question
of why men spend so long in the bathroom
most men don't know what to do
and I pretend too
as our assess speak to one another
via our sewage connection system
the farts whisper softly
"no matter how much you try to forget"
"you are this stinking imperfect body"

the worms in my bin
old, divine, likely thin
are probably wondering why God
has left the leachate stinking so long
it was two-thousand and fifteen
when I first got their ancestors from Gunther
and a fine pedigree of vegetarian scraps
with occasional mixing of paper traps
makes them think I may be God
a force of nature as nourishing as rain
and as violent as wind
occasionally they may be keen
to explore, often dying dried in my
bathroom floor
I don't blame them, it's a fine instinct
so when my food waste has become bedding soil, I often bring many of them outside,
to the balcony raised beds
so they may leave if they so wish
or get eaten by the lurking magpies, crows, ravens
In repurposed Ikea polythene boxes
they've moved from Kämnärs, Limhamn, and Nörra Faladen
they've heard many guests, witnessed fights and love
as well as an occasional **** outside the bathroom door
they're no Shai-Hulud
that much is for sure
and I wouldn't recommend eating
the spice they do produce
but these worms in my bin
heartless and pure
which I dare not pickup
for my skin is like flame to yours
might someday find me
alongside the roots and ugly leaves
rotting nicely to the core.

'''
we are all b̷̨͎͌o̵͚̊r̴͇̆e̷d̨͠
we are all
searching for the algorithm of flesh

I watch my thoughts
(they taste like stale beer)
while the universe keeps
its digital spam folder
full of prayers

everything is corrupted data
even the w̸̝̎ō̶͜r̵͎̈́m̷͚̐s̸͇̃
even the way light f̵͔̂ä̴́͜l̷̝̔l̶͎̒s̷͓̈́
through smog-filtered consciousness

the women. the men. the parking lots.
all of us
running expired versions of god.exe

and still
the young girls in supermarkets
price-check their dreams
while I stand here
d̸͎̒ë̵́͜l̷̝̔ë̵́͜t̷͚̐i̵͚̊n̷͚̐g̷͇̃ myself
'''

Today I leveraged my core competencies
by successfully utilizing the office microwave
without burning my lunch
(#grateful #blessed #thoughtleader)

My strategic pivot from
desk-facing-wall to desk-facing-window
has resulted in a 47% increase
in pretending to be productive
while watching pigeons mate.

Excited to announce
that my morning anxiety attack
has been optimized
for maximum efficiency:
now hyperventilating
in only 2.3 minutes
(a personal best).

Thrilled to share that my
"crying in bathroom stall" initiative
has attracted key stakeholders
from Accounting and HR,
creating synergistic opportunities
for collaborative breakdown sessions.

Looking forward to disrupting
the traditional paradigm
of actually doing work
by innovative implementation
of staring at spreadsheets
while thinking about death.

#OpenToOpportunities #HumbledAndHonored
#ThrivingThroughChaos #AlwaysGrinding
#ThoughtLeadershipIsMyPassion

Posted 1h ago

therapy
taught me
big words
for all
the ways
I learned
to survive
before
I knew
what to
call it

The coffee shop still serves vanilla lattes
I still sit by the window
The barista still writes names wrong
The chair across stays empty

Tuesday afternoons remain
precisely what they are
The clock moves exactly as it should
The seasons change on schedule

My phone shows no notifications
that need to be answered
My calendar keeps its neat rows
of ordinary appointments

The route home passes
the same street corners
where traffic lights change
their predictable colors

Sometimes I notice
how the sunset
doesn't remind me
of anything in particular

My friends don't ask
why I've been distant
My schedule hasn't changed
My routine stays unbroken

The world continues
its measured rotation
around a center
that never existed

I bring you the message, but the messenger brings no pain
I've been around, I know this town
The weight of the carry all the same
As roots of okra pull us down
The message, still, goes forward
No more, no less
Than what you can handle today