tired tired so tired
of the stupidity, the hot takes
the hasty generalizations
the inane comments
the terminally online people
pretending they're not
terminally online
it was never misinformation
it was the willingness
to believe what is easy
to build the great bubble
and hate, hate, hate flows
it's popular, its engaging
it drives the economy
a hate-social complex
a hate economy
grievanceism
the long term problems
replaced by short term
annoyances
a bombing run
of broken mirrors
a stampede of black cats
giant skyscrapping ladders
shading us below
from the sun
take, take, all taking
as much as possible
as fast as possible
accumulate
intake
store the fat
in the body, the mind
the rivers of late
Christmas shopping,
of fate, revolving, turning
numbers churning
alone, alone, so alone
happily full
surrounded by the things
that were once people
that deep down are things
made of people
it's not as I want it,
everyone else must be wrong
i’ll withdraw from the world
and prove them all
how strong I am
and the silence is so loud
my ears bleed
and a hedgehog's dilemma
and a quiet plea
everybody else can see it
but me
four bees with broken wings
and a dream of spring

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

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.

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

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

the cicadas are crawling around
it's 4 am and I cannot sleep
their faint buzzing vibrating on my skin
if only I had a camera
in my brain, to show you all this
maybe you already believe
sleepless nights are no one's secret
the cicadas crawl some more
and many Great Ones fall
from the constant buzzing
that teeth grinding melody
that often follows a day
but its at night that the sound
grows on you, begs of you
something you can't give
I was never a good at negotiations
and the Universe knows
You have all the leverage
the cicadas show no consideration
all the little feet, steppity step step
twitching skin from that noise
all poised to make me twist and turn
many lose the battle like this
exhausted falling into REM
then mayhem, the next morning
but not me, I know them well
so the cicadas comfort me long
long after, and I pay such good tributes
that I suspect they're crawling on
these letters right now
for you to keep

we just want a little originality
something that hasn't been said before
something not repeated
something given
It is great, because it isn't
consistent
there was risk, perhaps even danger
of ridicule, of denial, of betrayal
but it paid off, and now everyone wants to copy
to walk the trodden step
without the thorns of critics
or the puddles of mediocrity