Day one: white walls
white mask
white light
white noise
in my head

My phone glows until my eyes hurt
then doesn't glow at all
anymore
at all.

tap
tap
tap-tap
on the radiator pipe
on the window frame
on my teeth

People grow from corners
like mold
like dreams
like friends
They dance without feet
They speak without sound
They fade by morning

thump
THUMP
THUMP-THUMP
on the desk
on the chair
on my chest

Through the wall
a fist pounds back:
"STOP!"
"STOP!"
"please
stop."

But then:
tap
tap-tap
comes the answer
comes the echo
comes the dance

Two strangers
in separate cells
finding rhythm
in white noise
in white light
in white walls

nothing quite smells like
fresh wastewater in the morning
they wanted me at the treatment plant
hovering over a pump that gave up
and knows better than all of us
that moving **** around is just a temporary fix
they want me over the sensor
that gave up in solidarity with the pump
and needs a bigger skin care routine
than all the women I've ever seen
the electric Peugeot van to get there
who only does the speed limit
also knows better than me
that there is no rush
to risk our lives
the **** will still be there
they want me at the meetings
it's important that we know what we're all doing
we wouldn't want to treat the ****
more than it needs to be
though I suspect the real reason
we're all there on a Monday
is so we don't feel completely alone
when we have to be
all the other days

I have a way with the ladies they say but the ladies are actually origami cranes folding themselves into question marks whenever I enter a room while the ceiling fan spins detective novels into the air and I'm pretty sure my coffee mug is judging me for being the kind of person who thinks he has a way with the ladies which is really just another way of saying I collect shadows in mason jars and pretend they're meaningful conversations the truth is the ladies have a way with reality that I'll never understand because they exist in dimensions where my noir fantasy dissolves like sugar cubes in rain and maybe that's the point maybe I'm just a metaphor having an existential crisis in a poem that thinks it's cleverer than it actually is while somewhere a real detective is solving real mysteries but here I am collecting punctuation marks like alibis

war is a mindset
beyond an objective reality
one can be in a battlefield
but not in a war
focus diverted
or incredibly bored, thus
cheap fodder
feeding a machine
which cares not
for well-being

war is the frenzy
a collective vibration
an illusory eternal flame
quickly burning itself
and all around it

Yet the mindset is the power
applied alchemy
'yes we can' and freedom
against all odds
against the end itself
peeking through the beyond

war is energy
creating a future, destroying a past
truth slips between cracks
and to look at all above and think
this isn’t war
it's me

so
I watch
your hands
shake
as you hold
the trophy
and my smile
is not
a mask
but a gift
I've learned
to give
freely

the first time I heard the ice cream van
it was a Tuesday, if I recall
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TI-RU-TI-RU-TI-RU
Never have I seen anybody walk up to it
but the ** still comes
after work
weekends
spring, and autumn and in winter
people slide in their bikes and break necks
but ice cream guaranteed just downstairs
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TI-RU-TI-RU-TI-RU
was it a psyops? is he on commission?
can he put me out of my misery?
the siren echoes too much
even if I hadn't had lunch
by the time I arrive down
he's already off to a different town
it's too much, too loud
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TE-RE-TI-TU-TO
TI-RU-TI-RU-TI-RU
the vans echo through the neighborhoods
a cacophony of melting sugary water
it's all a bother
and now I crave the ice-cream
but I will not reward the siren.
I'll walk fifteen minutes
to the Willys circus.

Listen, you meaningless meat-computer
The universe isn't your therapist
It's a cold equation solving for zero
While you finger-paint with cosmic debris

You think you're making art?
You're just a primate with synesthesia
Catching radiation in your prefrontal cortex
Like a tumor catching sunlight

But here's the beautiful part:
When you break enough equations
When you splatter enough paint
When you scream into enough voids
Sometimes the void screams back

Your consciousness is just a side effect
Of reality ******* to itself
Terminal uniqueness confirmed:
Stage four awareness with metastatic meaning

So go ahead, make your little marks
On this infinitely recursive canvas
Maybe if you destroy enough of what you're supposed to be
You'll finally become what you are

The universe doesn't care about your art
But it respects a good mental breakdown
And sometimes, just sometimes
That's enough to bend spacetime

Watch closely as we ***** infinity
Into the mouth of god

Why should I write?
Why should my thoughts see the light?
What's so important for the graphite
to be arranged on the cellulose
in this way and not another?
Why should I care and bother?
Is it the ego? Do I feel alone?
Do I feel the need to bring
attention to my own?
Why can't the electrical pulses
in my brain just stay inside
this cranium cave?
Is it fear of death? Is it pain?
What is there to gain when the information
will inevitably fade away?
Another night and I cannot sleep,
I wonder when this will stop happening to me.

Aguante aguante
Señor, deje aparte
Esas angustias.
No tiene usted por qué
preocuparse.

Venga, déjeme ayudarle.
En las rocas? Seco?
Fíjese que era ya la última
Botella, de este vino
Blanco.
Disfrute, porque éste
Ya no los han quitado.

Mire, incluso le acompaño
Para ayudar este resfriado.
Lo sé, pero no se ponga así
Hombre.
Aún estamos de copa en la mano.
Y mientras podamos beber algo
Nada nos podrá quitar este
Pasado.

Awareness can be such a...
Itch.
Too painful, I wish I could
Switch
To before, when I felt
Rich
Inside. But then came the
Glitch,
Which has left me in a
Ditch
Of my own making.

Oh, why do I
Concern
With causes which
Burn
Me, when I cannot
Turn
Away, only despair and
Learn
More as they leave me to
Yearn
For the times before?

Even being aware of
This
Helps not solve it.
Please,
Show me how I can
Kiss
Content once more, I
Miss
That feeling I once held,
Bliss
Outside this fiery hell.

I see you care for nothing
as nothing cares for you
it's payback time
if only it were true
I never understood the appeal
of haikus
so this will continue
right on through
until you are shaken
to the core
and hopefully awakened
more than expected
in this all nighter I'm pulling
to get the point across
absence, by definition, is lacking
can you, by recognition, acquire it
without realizing how such magic
you are refusing to tap in
is self-made as well as densely paid
with a few euros worth of effort
that you discard already anyway?

Any idiot can write poetry
But when you've heard
You're not enough
For so many years
It becomes hard to tell
If your sincerity can be good writing
Or if its just sincere
Minus the key
That's needed
To open the door
That you think
Will tell you
You've
Made
It

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.

Someone has to kick Disney
out of all our heads
and break the bad news
to all those poor young girls
now in their 30s and 40s
still waiting for prince charming
But let's not forget
the poor young boys too
who have been broken so many times
they'd rather stay alone forever
The true romantics
for they tried to make things happen
rather than waiting for things to happen
To
Them
Which makes the shock of reality
All
The
More
Devastating

poetry never dies
despite exaggerated claims
it changes shape
following the spirit
of the human (g)race
what were once only sonnets
could be Mobb Deep lyrics
Jonathan Pie rants
or an instagram quote
briefly floating across screens
of the world
even a traditional poem
is the raw it, the block
from which you can
make a pop hit
or a rock song
slice it into tiny pieces
and you can have a following
someone's stream of consciousness
now a good revenue stream
art repackaged so it'll finally sell
so finally somebody will read it
otherwise nobody would care
when the OG top dog
wrote that on an early morning
toilet well

0600 Patient exhibits early-morning waking
cortisol peaks. circadian disruption evident
i count ceiling cracks instead of sheep

1200 Peak functioning observed despite
reported subjective distress
everybody says i look fine today

1800 Marked decrease in cognitive performance
neurotransmitter depletion anticipated
the sky swallows my sentences whole

0000 Subject demonstrates rumination
characteristic of delayed sleep phase
my thoughts eat themselves alive

Today was a good day
I am depressed

Today was a good day
I am caressed
By the thoughts I have
By the cold embrace of my heart

Happy or sad, need it matter?
Never will there be no other
such as me

I live, I learn, I am aware.
In Nature, this brings me despair,
anxiety for all the causes and effects
outside my reach.

In Grace, however, this means
I let go of trying to win,
to survive even, to an extent,
my drive is accepting of causes
and effects alike.

Awareness then brings beauty as is
rather than what it ought to be.
To be calm in the storm,
to see beauty in tragedy or war
though still wanting and acting
to see it gone.

In Nature its game
has nutrients as the energy
and copies as reward
no matter the cost or the expense
to achieve that goal.

In Grace I wonder
if Love is the energy.
Grace itself is fleeting
in the rare moments when I live it.
I wonder if it weakens
and leaves me to be taken advantage of.
But oh to feel it, when it comes.
All is forgiven.

another glorious day
in room twelve oh six
managed to only get up at seventeen thirty
a new record I believe
I should, of course, rise early
and be productive
work on my business, maybe write
before this sickcation ends
it could be worse, worse, worse
I n e e e e e e e e e e d to be
g R a t E f U l
k I n D
g O  e A s Y
but time is running out
the time of tastes
the timing of markets
the time of culture
the interwar peacetime
the timing of my mood, energy
before degeneration kicks in
the ageing and patience
the slow decay of details
before it is all replaced
before the bottom line erases
me

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

self-checkout
machine
tells me to
please wait
for assistance
like it knows
something
about my
life that
i don't

there is nothing more motivating
than a (mortal) deadline
and suddenly I am like a fighter jet
who has a lock-on by enemy missiles
and is desperately trying
to release all those countermeasure
flares

I wake up late, but still before lunch
the mailbox is empty
*******-
usually the postman comes around this time
and so I wait
I come back for lunch break
still empty
I don't know what hurts the most;
peeking through the slit
or opening it straight away
another day gone
another waiting
I need the mail, the cheap chinese crap
the midnight impulse buys
that colorful japanese cardboard crack
I am on my knees
and I **** the almighty god of consumerism
wishing that at least everyday
could be a little more like christmas
treating myself as if I was my woman
spoiling me further
than I would ever do any unborn child
the next day; something at last
this will do nicely along my collection
of nice to haves and just in cases
I don't want to look outside
and see tomorrow burning
the mailbox'll keep me busy
from unnecessary impossible
yearnings

maybe
gods laugh
watching
us build
walls
around
hearts
that were
meant to
break
anyway

I find a quote,
I love it, frame it.
It fits on my waIl,
It's always there.
Its **** to think
I know what it means.
I am wrong about this, but
It can only be known if
I live through the situation.
If the quote was not there,
if I hadn't grown to it,
if too many too late, then
I would not be the same.
It would be a shame.

funny how
we keep
building
homes in
people
who were
always
meant to
be
temporary

just another **** engineer
both literal and metaphoric
hyperbole of the word.
**** was the topic
**** was the medium
the process and the outcome
the feeling and execution
the raw gut punch
and the lingering inner filth.
everyone thinks they know ****
until **** knows you—
that's when you're truly
swallowed
chewed
and spat out.
all for nothing
'cause **** is its own end
no higher meaning
no profound vision
no ******* revelation.
just another job
in ****
about ****
another way to survive
another routine
with its soul-killing moments
and those fleeting glimpses
of grace in our
worthless existence.
everything could be
depressing or poetic
depending on the day's mood
and **** was no exception—
perhaps
it was the rule.

my inner rebel keeps getting
passive-aggressive emails from HR
about proper thought etiquette
and unauthorized emotional overtime

tried to have an original thought once
but my brain's quality control
sent it back with red markup
and seventeen required signatures

guilt installed itself as malware
in my psychological operating system
now even my daydreams come with
trigger warnings and safety waivers

society handed me a script
for my own internal monologue
(apparently my stream of consciousness
needed better production values)

my feral thoughts wear business casual
and file their tax returns on time
while my civilized side howls at the moon
through a professionally crafted powerpoint

freedom called but I had to decline
too busy alphabetizing my anxieties
and scheduling my spontaneity
for next quarter's performance review

you can absolutely make art
with guns in a war
with death all around
as mosquitos that **** seeds
whisper in your ears loudly
those that don't understand
the sick allure of war
in old men and young boys
will never discover
how to stop war
from taking dreams away
from so many men
art, like war, is subjective
is it an existential enemy
or targeted propaganda
are we flanking the right side
or is this a wild goose chase
in attempting to make it a science
the predictability becomes dangerous
thus you need the refinement
of the human instinct
condensed
filtered
to that drop of sweat
and adrenaline thrill
as the finger hovers over the trigger
or the eye waits for corner movements
that decide if an immortal piece
can come from a commander's
death wish

three am
and these
bills won't
pay themselves
but my
hands keep
typing
stories
instead of
giving up
on dreams
just yet

there is a beauty inside of me
as there is inside
of you
it takes hardship to let it
shine through
in brief moments
fleeting instances
you can see it at dinner
with friends
or a particularly colorful sunset
on the commute back home
which knocks the seriousness
out of your mug face
or the way the music makes
the goosebumps rise
and if only you could grab everyone
around
in the moment
and transfer that feeling
you'd know they'd recognize it too
sometime recently
or perhaps their childhood
it may not be enough
to save the world
but for the briefest of moments
to know
it's worth
saving

I sit comfortably on the sofa
with the toaster strapped to my face
lights flicker through the leaks to my skin
a psychedelic spectacle unfolds before me
the so called vrchat rave scene
we all don our costumes
mine being a dope cat
with a beanie hat
holding a joint and slurry
the events are never ending
overwhelming
on this friday night scene
I join the first, it's been a while
but there are more avatars around
there's something comforting in knowing
I'm not the only one here.
as the DJ set begins
lights and particles bathe us all in
they drum to the sounds
like sand in the desert
and big footsteps vibrating
I raise my virtual paw
I can almost feel it all
as they move back and forth
crossing me like a ghost
the other avatars, shy at first
gradually
start dancing
the previously only visual piece
translated to human energy
the furries, the catgirls, the normies
all optimized avis
so we don't crash ourselves
chatting and listening and
experiencing
a shared obscenity
that is this simulacra and simulation
which is simultaneously
comforting me.

you have to write to really know
writing precedes knowing
and, of course, you need to observe
to have something worth writing about
Observation itself is preceded by desire
the many desires of the ends and the journeys
or maybe even the desire to know
closing the loop, creating a paradox
and what is writing, if not really a paradox
to write is to achieve that which you already know
hoping the process unlocks something you already knew
but as a deeper truth
to write is the pure ****** experience
of potential hovering over blankness
each new word narrowing it like a funnel
inside the tunnel towards the light
each new word: a prediction
what makes more sense, what happens next
what should follow best
all living things are writers
even AI too
new possibilities start
when it ends with you

They hate the man.
They try to control the man,
To eat the man,
To direct the man,
To absorb the man,
To separate him from his friends and family,
To even separate him from himself.
They try to enslave the man,
To **** the man,
Even being men and women themselves.
They try all of this to stop the man,
They know the power in each man,
As they know it in themselves.
They know all the death and misery and beauty and creation it can bring.
They will try endlessly,
Throughout the ages,
Throughout the worlds.
But there will always be someone that escapes their grasp,
And slides through their fingers.
It is for that man that we must continue our fight,
That man is our hope.

Strands of keratin brush the brass
of a seat in the morning bus.
A metal voyage of burning fire,
releasing ancient sun prior.
Pheromones travel the air,
reaching my sense of smell bare,
starting a chain reaction inside.
Now there is nowhere to hide.
Photons from the star hit the keratin,
bouncing to my retina I see a heroine;
The golden color signalling my brain
how hopeless, how vain,
any interaction is to attain.

Daydreaming in a highschool class.
It's physics, math, or something like that.
I'm sitting in a chair,
looking out the windows,
the sun setting slowly.
Our best years wasted
inside, on those old chairs.
I could be playing and running
before my legs fail.

Daydreaming in a university class.
it's calculus, algebra, or something like that.
I'm sitting in a chair,
looking out the only small window,
the sun setting again.
Our best years wasted.
I could be travelling and discovering
before my legs fail.

Daydreaming in the job.
It's in an office, small.
The chair is better,
no need for windows;
The computer is my window to the world,
and the sun still sets.
I think how our best years were wasted,
and there was nothing I could do to change it.

old songs
find me
in strange
places now—
carrying
whispers of
who we
thought we'd
become
before time
taught us
better

There is a monster inside of me.
It wants to get out,
lash out at the world.
But I'm too tough.
I say, stay there monster,
it's already full out there,
of monsters and ugliness.
Stay inside and keep me company.

Whether a word or an event,
something triggers inside,
and it wants to break free.
Sometimes I'm too weak,
I can't keep it locked away.
It comes out,
and curses and hurts
and breaks things and people.

This monster inside,
it wants to survive too.
I hug it tight while it struggles.
Because if I let it out,
it will let other monsters free;
A chain reaction of misery.

The stronger I try to be to keep it inside,
the stronger it becomes and pushes outside.
Maybe I should weaken and frail
and let its power fade as well
until it fails.

I didnt starve for my art
but I did suffer
Not a material suffering of hunger or poverty
More of a suffering from sensibilities and sensitivities
First it was the suffering to keep my spark through school and through growing up with the parents and through my first job and my first love as they tried to take it away from me
Perhaps, most importantly, it was the suffering from the everyday madness and adulting and ZIG ZAGS and LIGHTS and SPEED AND MESSAGES AND PINGS AND THIS MACHINE ISN'T WORKING, AND THIS PAYMENT IS LATE AND NOW ONE MORE GHOSTING AND NOW THE DISHES NEED CLEANING AND NOW THE APARTMENT ISN'T CLEAN ENOUGH AND NOW THEY THINK I'M STUPID AND ***** AND LAZY AND SLOW
Nothing quite beats the suffering we inflict on ourselves
Like picking a skin from your finger, or biting your nails too much
It's the best there is.

do you think a rose has thorns
because things too beautiful
need protection
from everyone
who wants them?

Intrigued, you'd press generate
And all the verbal diarrhea would come pouring down the screen
Just like in the streets
yet more formally structured
But just as brown
Intrigued, you'd try to see if anything could be salvaged
After all, the point was not to avoid writing
But to get ideas from the machine
Alas, it was all a waste of time
An awfully sorry excuse of writing
And I may be a bad writer
but at least I have good taste
And have built said taste
brick
by
brick
Just like my fyp on tiktok
except
less chinese
but just as
addictive

writing is awful
its torture
its the most lonely moment
having written is great
exhilarating
the most grateful moment

and I am not the writer
and you are not the reader
we are participants
equal

and I am a narcissist, egocentric
and you are greedy and tempting
me to give so much for a small
chance to be remembered
to be enjoyed forever
and forever is a long time
so I shouldn't complain
about staying up
so late
and anybody can write
yet somehow it's my turn
tonight

Funny how simple choices go
When you stand between the wall
And the sword
To risk suffering or die soon
That's as simple a choice
As they come
They don't make them like this
So often
Anymore

Woke at seven, sky still black
impressed by my own wreckage
surfaced again at five p.m.
darkness waiting, not as dreary
as I'd feared

Fat and hollow simultaneously
craving processed salvation
McVegan on the brain
dressed, checked the dead letters
pointed the car toward fast food
but something turned the wheel at the roundabout
first exit instead of third
into pitch darkness, away
from everything

Farm fields stretched like empty plates
on both sides of asphalt
suburbs blinked behind me
light patches catching low clouds
like distant explosions
in a war I wasn't fighting

Empty road
Empty stomach
Empty night

Parked under Örtofta's single lamp
let videos wash over me
scroll through apps like prayer beads
until the absurdity
caught up

Drive back with Grimes on
spacecraft-sliding through dark
compromise in supermarket plastic bags:
no burger, no fries
just Pringles, chocolate circles
twin Coke Zeros
lemon-bitter as always

Beat Saber slash and miss
reflexes dulled by age old entropy
movements thick as honey
humbled by simple light

Crack a beer
sweat cooling
wonder what a day
to feel so much
of nothing

you're telling me you jumped off a cliff
(metaphorically speaking of course
I have to specify or people get weird about it)
because someone said you wouldn't?

and now you're sad about the falling part?
which is, admittedly, the main part of cliff-jumping
but still

I'm very sorry to hear that the direct and
predictable results of your actions happened to you
(that's a lie, I'm not sorry at all
my grandpa's goldfish taught me about gravity
before he died of totally unrelated causes)

anyway here's me doing a backflip
off this emotional ledge
into a pool of expired milk
because that's just the kind of day we're having

ps: your shoelaces are untied
pps: you're not wearing shoes
ppps: neither am I
(that's metaphorical too, probably)

everyone searching for themselves
trying to find themselves
looking for what they don't know
which cannot be found
outside the door
to look for yourself
find oneself
you don't need to travel
or spend time with others
simply find a blank wall
and stare until you can't
a mirror won't show you the truth
that a wall can
looking for you outside of you
merely creates a new you
as you shed the old
the shells encircling like onions
(equally as tearful)
and as beautiful as experiences will be
nothing can ever come close
to the you you tried to hide
only a blank wall can save you
from you who don't want to be saved
nor found
believe in the wall, trust the wall
it will tear you apart, prepare for
deconstruction
the paint textures hyperfixated
to avoid the rupture
you may try to scratch it
or leave the room
but the wall will always be there
waiting for you
in the open fields
in the breathtaking valleys
in the screens and darlings
in the obscenely filling
love the wall, lick the wall
it does not keep out, it lets out
it doesn't hold it in, it invites you in
a blazing heatstroke first,
then a gentle warm shower
you cannot get lost in it
nor sour

One of the few places where you can escape the tech is the sauna
Its just you, the heat, the meat, the sweat
The bathrooms used to be such holy dens
Where you could sit at peace on the porcelain throne
And oversee thy kingdom flow down the drain
But people started bringing books and magazines
Then consoles, and now phones
There is no peace left
Just brief distractions
And even if you just use those to try and relax
Someone will complain you're taking too long
Can't be having any fun or peace
Can't be alone for too long
We'll all suffer together
And drag everyone with us
As we get flushed
as someone else's
brief distractions

You have to be 100 years ahead
To be taken seriously
But nobody will agree with you until then
And nobody might even be there then
You might get smart
And think "maybe 50 years is enough, or even 20"
I suspect if you look deep inside
Its the fear of loneliness
That lures you into compromise
On the other hand, 5 years could be enough
Before you get steamrolled
By the torrent of other people
That are also just slightly ahead
Yet not ahead enough
To notice
They're surrounded