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

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

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