The day she realized she hated her
brother was the day she went into his
room

until then she loved him,
everyone loved him
He was the family's artist, the prodigy
and he was **** good
and had some career ahead of him

"A rare talent," the
teachers said

And sure the teachers were right
but they didn't know about the
prodigy's secret stash of
lewd drawings featuring his little
sister and even his mother

they were skillfully laid across A4
pages divided in panels and some
even had speech bubbles and
what was written in those speech bubbles
made her burst out of the cursed room
and run into hers screaming
"Sick **** sick **** sick **** ****!"

The family dinner was never the
same

nothing was the same

And why she kept the secret,
she didn't know

Sadly enough there are philosophers in this world
who have no questions to answer and
nothing to theorize about
All the thought provoking practices
have apparently been consumed, have
been done into extinction, devoured and
digested and shat
It is over
Humanity has no mysteries left
for the mysteries have no humanity
and are therefore heartless and soulless
and a waste of time

There is nothing left to discover
The world is a big play but all the
characters and all the scenes and all the
settings and the interactions have been
discovered as to ultimately rob us of the
sense of journey

Now it's like we just exist here
Perhaps to worship those who existed
before us and discovered all things for us
To stand in their shadow and bask
in the knowing that we will never create a
new poem or a new novel anymore than we
will design a never before seen color

Only that which I have never seen before
might qualify as new, and only to me, for
the concept of new can never be universal

And the more new things I see, the less
new things I see
and the less value they bear
Old people will agree to this
And the rest, they will grow old one day
Tomorrow
When the senses will wear out and the
ear will know that music is made
out by the same
vibration
and the eye will know that
all the colors are the same colors
mixed differently

Ultimately the mind will understand that
all ideas are the same idea told
differently
and heard differently
and passed along differently

And the idea says that happiness
starts with being and ends
with thinking

or perhaps this is only how I think of it
or how you hear it

at times I think these walls
are laughing at me

Hey, look
here's a boy who has no problem spending
twelve hours all alone in a room
with no human interaction whatsoever
Oh, look
he even enjoys it
he wouldn't have it any other way
*******, we're an office here
but if we were a jail...
I think he'll be the kind of prisoner
who throws his bucket of slops in the
guard's face when the guard comes to
free him from solitary confinement,
you know, so he can spend more time
in solitary confinement.

You're right. I wish we formed a jail here
instead of an office
and look upon this boy

Yeah, I hear you, bro
I always wanted to be a prison wall
Ever since I was built
That's an entertained wall
one who forms a prison
there's really something to see there

I wish I was a bedroom wall
D' you think the walls that form his bedroom
are entertained? Better than us from the office?

This guy? You kidding?
He probably does in bedroom the same
thing he's doing here in the office
Just sitting there,
an absolute silence about him

How can he be so content about it?

Perhaps he doesn't know any better
You know what I'd like?
To be a wall of his mind.

Hehe, that we are already, brother.

Oh well, ******* too,
I say to the box of cotton swabs
sitting by
the mirror
It's pointed at me with the side displaying
the 'Don't insert in ear!' sign
And I push the swab further
and give it a spin
and I think to myself
I should write about this
I should...

Yeah, and then the eyes that
read
would say, '******* too'
and 'why do you write if you have
nothing to say, ******?'

Perhaps I am no different
from a box
of cotton swabs
somebody swears at
and what I write is equally frowned upon
as is the warning on the side of
that box

Yet there's something else
we have in common,
the box and I,
we display our message anyways
because we can't say it aloud

I put down the swab and
pick up the box with
a lot more
compassion this time
and walk away from the mirror and into my
room where my girlfriend is
reading something

I place the box of cotton swabs by my notebook
Open the notebook and start writing.
I write 'Oh well, ******* too,
I say to the box of cotton swabs'

“What you do?”
my girlfriend
interrupts
me

“Writing,” I say

“Pff, why do you write if you have
nothing to say?”

And I put the pen down and pick the
box of cotton swabs up and walk over to her, look
her in the eyes
and say, “why don't you go to the bathroom and clean your ears?”

I had a friend once
and he
was a poet
Wrote over two hundred
pieces
He was a genius

Look, he said
Check out these mad rhymes
Tight as vines strangling yo' chimes

He was right
He had so many rhymes there
Tried to make any word rhyme
with the next and the next and so on

Awesome, I said
Your rhymes are mad, my lad

Two hundred and some
poems full of words that rhyme tight

So when are you going to publish any?
I asked

What you mean? he said
I been publishing since last year
With my every sweat, every tear
****

Oh, so where can I get them?
Magazines, books, volumes
I'd like to buy your work

Me and this friend... we never had a fight
Yet after that question we never spoke again
He would avoid me in the streets
He would cross on the other side
Well,
I'm not one to go out of my way for people either
We just never spoke again

Though I'm writing this
because yesterday in a cafe I heard
someone call him from another table
Well, I'll be ******, he was the bartender, my friend
and the guy who called him did
it with a kind
of mock
and addressed my friend with the name McGonagall

My friend's name is not McGonagall
Why would they call him that?

Well, I decided to ask him
But he talked a colleague of his into
taking my table's order

I had a pint of beer and a shot of whiskey
and no smoke
And have never spoken with my friend again

He ate flowers.

this mentally challenged boy
from the countryside
I used to watch him
in the fields
when I visited my grandparents
as a kid
He was like an exotic thing
a wild beast chasing
static pray
They had no chance,
the flowers
he would assault them
with a killer's smile, frothing,
and would grab
and tear and rip them from
the stem and
would eat them

Nobody knew why
and the only explanation given
was that he was insane

then the men and women
who saw him would
scream at him
to stop and he would raise
his head and watch them
like a deer surprised by
headlights
Then he would spit the colorful
froth from his big mouth
and would run home
hopping and leaping like a horse
through the tall grass

He was mostly inoffensive,
this flower eating boy
but they all told me to stay away
from him and would
always chase him away when
he got too close

Time passed and I moved to the
city and went to school there
and stopped visiting the
countryside and its wonders
I got busy
and my busy life drove away the
magic and mystery of childhood

The flower eating boy is now but
a memory
neither good
nor bad
just strange, interesting

He doesn't eat flowers anymore
because he doesn't live in the
countryside anymore
No, from what I've heard
he's in some mental facility and it was
his last flowery meal that sent him there

I don't know,
maybe if they hanged signs with
"Don't wear flowers in your hair!"
around the village and the fields
that little girl would've been saved
and the village would still have its
magic beast.

I visited my girlfriend in the hospital
after her appendicitis operation.
she looked good
and her smile made me smile

"I made a friend," she told me.

There had been another girl in the room with her
and this girl,
she was in the hospital because she sprayed a whole
can of bug repellent into a cup and drank it

"Why?" I asked.

"Oh, well," said my girlfriend. "You wouldn't understand.
Let's just say she wanted to **** the butterflies
in her stomach."

"Okay."