Love:
a chemical reaction compelling me to breed,
leaving no room for me to plead
for mercy.

It creeps in
unsuspected;
I become infected
within.

The expectations increase.
I yield, to appease
my brain, for peace.
Though I hope for it to cease.

The spark, excited,
which had even ignited
the hopes, will soon fade,
afraid, delayed, betrayed.

Once upon a time in Lund
The kids party
But now I'm the creep
That is okay
We all had our time
To shine
Now I can afford to Be soft
While I wait for them To join me
In this paradise
Of inner peace

regret moves
slow enough
to make us
think we can
outrun what
we already
knew was
true

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

I remember that I remembered
something now long gone,
in my tired sleepy mind,
on the long bus back home.

Why does the action linger,
but not the contents?
Why only faint echoes,
shadows and projections?

I remember words, sentences,
pages full of dreams and beauty
inside my head.
Will they return someday?
It is not for me to say.

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.

In stillness I observe the crowd's swift change,
From cautious distance to feigned victory.
Yet I, servant to reason, maintain my guard -
This cloth upon my face, a simple shield.

Not for praise nor reproach do I persist,
But guided by Nature's unchanged decrees:
That which threatens life demands response,
Whether others choose to see or blind themselves.

Let them mock or stare - external things
Hold no power over the fortress within.
What is right needs no majority,
What is prudent requires no validation.

This mask - mere fabric, yet a duty fulfilled,
To self, to others, to the cosmic order.
Death comes when it must, yet wisdom asks
That we do not hasten its arrival through pride.

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"

nights like static      unwinding
through prescription bottles and empty
notebooks    the doctor says
my heart is wearing thin    but what
does he know about hearts

there's ink in my veins now    replacing
what you drained    and it's going to take
you people decades to recover from
all of the damage    these pages
will burn clean through your hands

Todos los que nunca conoceré
Todas las que nunca amaré
Todo lo que nunca haré
Todo lo que nunca seré
Todo lo que fue
Todo lo que será
Como una ola del mar
O un grano de arena
Insignificante uno cualquiera
Y sin poder interiorizar
La belleza que es
Recordar un después
para lograr continuar sin revés

Things are only worthwhile,
meaningful, valuable,
if there was any hardship behind them.
But hardship isn't romantic
when you are struggling through it,
in the present moment,
in the rat race torment.
It's only romantic if you succeed
and can afford to look back,
in peace,
in comfort.
Yet all those failed dreams,
all those lost what ifs,
their struggle was real.
Romantic or not, I will
remember them too
and so should you.

O tempo anda
o relógio gira
a vida suspira

Tudo o que há para dizer espera

Quantas rotações conseguirei aguentar?
Quantas rotinas conseguirei perdurar?

Há uma luz ao fundo da rua
O autocarro treme, trazendo-me da lua

O dia em pressa, rouba-me o tempo
O trabalho esse que me traz o sustento
Tira-me a energia e traz-me lamento

Recuerdo un tiempo en el que
Un móvil era solo un móvil,
Y no mi identidad.
Un tiempo en el que yo
Era un jóven de carne y hueso,
Y no apéndices de electricidad.
Un tiempo en el que nosotros
Teníamos lazos de fraternidad,
Y no correas de competitividad.

Tiempos no corrompidos
Por sueños de Disney;
Promesas no quebradas
Por un desarrollo individual;
Y amarte no era tan hartante
Como estos pasos todos atrás.

Recuerdo aún, una internet jóven;
Una tribu global, iluminando
Todos los huecos de la oscuridad.
Un sistema de entrega
De contenido de calidad,
Desordenado e incompleto, sí,
Pero auténtico y real;
Todo ahora perdido en el raudal
De ruído total,
Mientras los algoritmos nos sirven
El nuevo menú feudal.

De qué me sirve saber
Qué va a pasar,
Si no puedo hacer nada
Para evitar esa mañana
Que está cercana?
Para qué me infectas
Con ese pesar, cuando
Sabes que ni tu ni yo
Vamos a lograr olvidar
Y resolver ese dato?

Dices que mejor procesarlo
Ahora, que esperar para después?
Cuando todos los otros también
Llegan con estrés? Y así
Pudiéramos ser unas rocas
En la tempestad, para ayudar
A los supervivientes de ese
Naufragio que es la sociedad?

Y quién me ayuda ahora, cuando
Nadie se lo cree; cuando se alejan
Para no pensar siquiera
Que todo puede cambiar,
Y que no pueden negociar
Con ese mandato?

Entiendo, tengo que cultivar
Una gratitud, una actitud
De ver lo que aún puedo disfrutar
Que no restará mañana.
Ver con nuevos ojos
Lo que por ahora es rutina
Pero que sé que termina
Y por eso será ruina
En la memoria de unos pocos.

Entiendo, pero no me gusta.
Preferiría la ignorancia
Y el éxtasis del descubrimiento,
Aunque eso pudiera
Cogerme de sorpresa
Y no dejar ilesa
Mi vida.

risk assessment? never heard of her
too busy following biological GPS
into situations that would make
a stunt double file for retirement

my mother always said use your head
but failed to specify which one
now I'm writing memoir chapters
titled "mistakes were made: volume 47"

my **** has led me to places
I wouldn't even go with a gun
which explains why I'm banned
from three Denny's and a petting zoo

survival instinct sent me a cease and desist
but hormones filed a counter-suit
now I'm representing myself in the court
of extremely questionable decisions

they say think with your brain
but mine took a sabbatical
left a post-it note that read
"good luck with the bad decisions, champ"

judgment called to check on me
but I was too busy turning
bad choices into better stories
(the emergency room staff knows me by name)

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

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

my poems are short
because I am impatient
the tension must be resolved
quickly
if you or I wanted edging
**** would be a better
and quicker
way of doing
it
my poems are funny
in that nonchalant
way
occasionally somber
and melancholic
so you don't get poisoned
in that toxic positivity
craze
and the humor heals
whatever is left of me and you
after a long work
day
my poems are in at least
three languages
but mostly english
as I am the interloper
sea out of the fish
that learned to drive
when it only had fins
my poems are written
while crapping
or barely asleep
or standing and dissociating
in some queue or walk
or ignoring netflix
in the TV
my poems use simple
vocabulary
slow, almost
challenged
not very rich
a type of colorblindness
of words
to mimic my
own faults
my poems probably sound similar
to someone you've read before
are they unoriginal
or familiar
or nothing more?
my poems are not therapy
I couldn't otherwise
live with the fact
I was paying so much
to my therapist
my poems are raw
rude, *****
and not just a few
explicit and arrogant
maybe even misogynistic
cheap attempts
at honesty
hiding behind the language
blurring my imagination
with the reality
that I'm not gonna make it
in any meaning of the word
my poems are short
but not this one
****, someone call the editor
this blunder is one
too
many.

we keep changing the names
of things
as if better semantics
will help us change our nature
but whether you call it
emotion overflowing reason
the furies awakening
having one's buttons pushed
or getting triggered
the human condition
remains
unadulterated
pure
its essence stubbornly
bare

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

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.

seven
missed calls
from mom
sitting in
my phone
like tiny
universes
of guilt
expanding

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.

A silence so great
I cannot escape.
Family and friends,
now other moments in time,
like memories, intertwined.
A love that was warm,
it too just past.
This silence is calm,
but alone, a sham.

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

"A small act is worth a million thoughts"
A small thought can save you a million acts
Think carefully about what you do, so you can do what was only thought before
Did you think it was enough to say a platitude and speak it?
A catchy saying is worth a million *****
Once it falls behind the curtain of your present thoughts
Oh you'll photograph it and share it
Maybe even put it on your wall
Desperately trying to keep it relevant
So you don't forget how it once made you rock inside
A small gesture is worth a million praises
A small signal is worth a million imaginary reputation points
Are you gonna be left behind the race everyone else insists you join?
Will you let these amateurs overtake you in karma score?
"A small act is worth a million thoughts"
Enjoy your acts then, you *****

"oh, you've shaved your head"
she said
"new look?"
"yeah"
I replied
"I call it: non-seminoma"
"I now belong to that rare club"
"must be fun"
she snorted
"it is"
and I was glad at least
she was not a gravedigger

two months later
and it already feels
like a distant dream
the slowly growing hair
the only reminder
of what I've been
through
there is a small sense
of hope
and dreams
like it was a warning sign
even if I did nothing
to deserve it
I just was
and will continue
to be
part of me
thinking its overcome
but another part
still afraid
that this was a trial run
for the real thing.

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

social feed
refreshes
like slot
machines
teaching us
to hope
luck knows
where to
look

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.

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

some days
forgiveness
arrives like
morning fog
knowing it
will lift
before we
learn how
to keep it

"keeeey-koh"
said an excited high pitched voice
and then came the bouncy
floppy ears
and the flowy hair
dip-dyed.
from the chaos of the
optimized box
to the quiet YTS
you're too young...
you shouldn't be there
this is full of monsters
it's better to be lonely
than with them
I wish your parents were better
as I wish for mine
I wish you grew up in my time
Mostly, I wish you make it out
alive
it's okay, expected even
to get very hurt
but it only takes one moment
to end it all
forever
the finality contrasting highly
with the casual presentation of this
universe (metaverse)
a shock shaking to the core
a lesson learned heavily
that cliché of moderation
could end up saving your
life
I'm no angel and cannot look over
forever
I cannot even teach everything needed
for there is no time
and you wouldn't listen
just as I didn't
before my own
prime

underneath the floor
there is silence
except for my art
as I drag the sofa
back and forth
to make room
for the play area
or to eat while watching a movie
above the ceiling
its a mediocre play
no rhythm, no beats
tolerable beyond its rarity
sometimes voices
mostly from the TV
given the timing on the daily
behind the walls, more of the same
no passionate banging
no cries of ecstasy
except whatever resonates from my own
about once year
the one party now quiet
as families and routines
settled in
there is less and less room
for us all
including the sound
that once must have roared
in this building ten
when the young could afford
the future on a credit hold

A splinter in the mind,
awake, and asleep,
when death is being shy.
A crack in the perception,
changing the momentum
of my life.
Sadness and words
mix so well, it hurts
the thoughts themselves
at times.
Life is being shy itself;
another splinter opens the mind.
I welcome the guest,
and show him the rest
of the house, unconfined.

we all think we had
the wrong starter pack
to explain this mess
this eleven year old
explaining me how her mom was ***** young
and her mom's husband, her dad,
is abusive and narcissistic
and she spends her time in vrchat
getting rejected by strangers
for being too young and therefore
dangerous
but witnessing also all the weirdos
hunting this jungle
while her parents argue
instead of warning her
this seventeen year old
adopted
moving from state to state
by her mom's job
stuck in eighth grade
adopting dad in jail
lifetime punishment for driving
and killing one poor soul
but at least she is six months older
than her boyfriend
and can meet him virtually
and not feel so alone
even if she could be better alone
than with unwanting biological parents
or a hateful adopting father
or more weirdos on the internet
there are many more
wrong starter packs
perhaps all starter packs
are wrong be definition
because nothing could ever be
perfect
and if it was
what would be the
reason?

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

A stranger looks me in the eye:
4.1 billion years flash by.
An old choice arises,
automatic, precise,
like a laser cut knife,
sharp, unkind.
I look away,
I live to die another day.

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.

sunday
alarm clock
still rings
like a
promise
i made
to someone
i stopped
being

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

Há tanto para fazer,
e tão pouca gente.
Parece o contrário,
quando nos convencem
nas notícias.

Um empreendorismo estreito
que não tira proveito
do melhor de nós.
A imaginação amarrada
pela sociedade desgarrada
e os instintos cautelosos.

Congelados de inação
esperamos em vão
pela inspiração de alguém.
E não vai ser
um poema ou canção
que mudará esta situação.

whenever I was feeling a bit too
content
comfortable
cocky
I took great pleasure in watching some of my favorite war stories
Saving Private Ryan
Band of Brothers
Apocalypse Now
Gladiator
Black Hawk Down
Generation ****
Full Metal Jacket
Come and See
and others
and if I was particularly up in the sky
I'd watch more like
V for Vendetta
Lord of the Rings
Gravity
Alien
Elysium
Rogue One
Interstellar
Jurassic Park
and The Walking Dead
and soak in all that individual suffering
and drive for survival
and quickly fall down to earth
but somehow also be energized
for the plight of the stories
was not as bad as my own
and I was not as strong as they were
yet even if just a little of that strength
rubbed off on me
inspired me
transversed the air between the screen
and my eyes
through some still unknown
knowledge osmosis process
I could make it
even if everyone else around
wouldn't

the slow closing of a heavy glass door
the humming of the air conditioner
the distant banging of construction work
the occasional hurried or lazy steps
just outside
on the sidewalk made of cobblestones
a child's voice mildly annoyed
tires on the road
and a gentle honk
diffused chatter melting in the background
the exact anxious business chatter of an interior design store
the frequencies I don't hear anymore
from flickering lights
rustling clothes
breathing in and out of noses
all of this in an instant
a moment
in a late morning
of the childhood neighborhood
as they discuss the furniture for the new home
away from the memory, from the past,
filled with a promise
hoping this time it will
last.

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

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

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.

Oh to drive that road again
slowly back home,
after that (ful)filling sob
at the parking of the clinic,
when God said no.

Myself, but different;
everything else the same.
Just slower,
like the wrong setting was on,
and nothing could be done.

And she carries the plastic bag,
and he rides the scooter,
they can't wait to cross the street,
others can't wait to leave it,
but the bus isn't there yet,
just me.

I gotta be honest with you folks
I am not looking forward to the start
of this glorious new year
of our mythical lord
of twenty twenty five
I have an existential weariness
that has been slowly grinding me
and my batteries are drained
and I keep forgetting their names
and I don't want any more syringes
things going wrong
precautions within cautions within
causes
and did you know I only had a
zero point zero one two per cent
chance of getting in this mess
that's one in every eight thousand
and three hundred men
Christ, a man this lucky
oughta be playing the lottery
yet the only ticket I want
is getting out of this ride
as soon as possible
and if I can help it
relatively unscathed
except for the scars and memories
from this very strange place.