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

I have become the project
manager and employee
concept, marketing, sales
a mini-venture of possibility

ambition, the endless staircase
results over process
the calling a distant beep
explosions ringing deep

if only the most beautiful birds
were allowed to sing
all the forests would be silent
and free

the culture of self-exploitation
the elevator-looking cage
intention-stripped, pressing buttons
looking to save face

achievement, the new obedience
better taxes and productivity
flaunting success to rise above
the mold, the introspection sold.

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

the ancestral Man
content
mingling in communal tribe life
the contemporary Man
alone in his car
enjoying a McDonald's burger
on the empty parking lot at two am
the true paradise, peace
heaven on earth
technology, industry
art in the execution
the culmination of human evolution
the right of independence
convenience
specialization breeding a weakness
we call bliss
a comfortable bubble
with radio, heat
moisture condensing in the windshield
light from the phone, LEDs
a blip in history, exceptions to rules
return to the mean, eventually true
a carbon pulse realizing itself
a collapse of complexity
a distant memory
of the individual versus the cosmos
surrounded by metal and rubber
which could go anywhere
but was still and total

I remember certainty
Reading Atlas Shrugged on the beach,
and getting a ***** from Dagny
rather than the bikini ladies all around me
Arguing with commies on revleft
until they sent me to a literal
virtual
gulag
I remember the free state project
seasteading
dreams of industrialists
and gold over fiat
I remember believing
global warming hoaxes
9/11 conspiracies
zeitgeist movies
the early brain rot feeds the worm
I remember the imminent economic collapse
dreams of perpetual motion machines
while escaping engineering failures
I remember the crypto dream
FIRE and decentralization
all so tangible, so manageable
the moral bankrupcy preceeding
the physical one
I remember the red pills, PUAs, so suave,
so fedoras
the promising apps, the market unleashed
the never ending competition
grass-greenerism
I could say I miss the certainty
but what I miss more is its concept
its idea, pure, untainted, filled with potential
the power of arrogance
in unblocking action
the boldness of ignorance
being blind to abstraction
Perhaps caution makes me wiser
while the weight grows heavier still
no longer a burden to shrug
but a truth to bear and feel.

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 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

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

spread your arms and embrace the world
and give love to it whole
your arms, not your weapons!
too late, I guess we have gone defcon
five, and hell is full of good intentions
so must heaven be full of bad ones
does it matter what was meant
if one does not think really long-term
beyond the grandchildren and tomorrow
beyond running from pain seeking pleasure
and you spread your arms further and
only mean well
but now your arms are choking them too there
as the love is not understood,
as the defense becomes aggression
so the elders justify the rules
seniles and youthful through
such bloodthirsty youth that must hide a resentment
that perhaps had only missed
real warm loving arms around them too

a writer is not only what he writes
but also what he keeps to himself
taste acquired
perhaps on long walks on the beach
its a conquered skill
and a beautiful savoring
of a fine diet
that reminds him
of the body he needs
judge them not for their drafts
also not just their hits
judge them for what's attempted
despite the pressure of the ink
and that inner critic
echoing voices of family meets
the escaping of their self
shall feed the escape of others
may they meet on a lovely sunset
making love to the imagination
that could only become free
from light, carbohydrates, liquid metals

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

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.

no sane person sits alone
hours at a time
writing their innermost thoughts;
writers are by definition—
insane.
hell, we pay others
(the psychiatrists and therapists)
to listen to our innermost thoughts
and even they can't handle
more than an hour at a time.
but those that handle it
(by definition—insane)
those, we call readers.
while the common soul,
surrounded by their kind,
lives purely in experience—
processes, moves on, forgets.
(by definition—sane)
the writers and the readers,
both insane,
are the minority amongst the masses.
such insanity,
(beautiful, creative, artistic, unique)
of such rarity,
stands out more
precisely as it contrasts
with the sanity
of such commonality.
should the insanity
become the norm
then would the sanity
be praised
immortalized
sought
desired
should the machines liberate us
for the pursuits of all arts
then we could say
(in the most trivial of ways)
no sane person sits with others
hours at a time
enjoying the present moment
they would be by definition—
insane.

a balanced breakfast begins
with a fresh glass of anxiety
and a bowl of helplessness
which you eat with a piece of dread
and the food pyramid is a lie
and the diet gurus scream
in self-serving ads in your screen
at the end of the day
or in this case the beginning
the balanced breakfast will be
what you haven't digested before
and it will feed you for a while more
just as it fed you that first time
when you starved and needed that
but diets never last
and neither should this
balanced breakfast

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.

I watch a fly read my book
with a perfectly fine glass of juice
by its side
my book isn't sweet
then again it isn’t exactly ****
so what in the hell is so **** exciting
for a fly to be sighting
over it?

must have aged decades
being in that theater of war
with all those other kids
searching for individual pixels
before the pixels
shot you
and the supplies were never enough
and the garrisons were overrun
and nobody coordinated on the mike
and the commander was too slow
and nobody threw the smokes right
and they were flanking us, ******
I must have aged decades
being in that war
long gone
were the days
of calm playing
and repetitive tasks
this now was a dynamic ask
long gone were my reflexes
long gone were my wits
all there was now to it
was the raw experience
but a trivial approximation
of the real
that allowed me to feel
what others before allowed me
to comfortably see
through the television screen
they were the long gone

I bring you the message, but the messenger brings no pain
I've been around, I know this town
The weight of the carry all the same
As roots of okra pull us down
The message, still, goes forward
No more, no less
Than what you can handle today

Half of the human experience is exterior and half is interior
So it's with great sorrow that I see you all
Scrolling
Travelling
Partying
Smoking
Drinking
*******
Attend­ing
Watching
Gaming
Lest you allow yourself to feel and digest anything, beyond the most surface of levels
Oh, its scary
I know
to stop the distraction
And sit with yourself
Alone
While all those things inside
you tried to drown
Come floating up
The thing is
They will come up whether you want to or not
So why not be ready and on your own terms
You can't run away
And even if you could
Why would you miss this
For anything else in the world?

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

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 could pity the rich
Just as much as I would envy
But the poor were always ahead in my mind
Not in a glamorous way
But in the raw intensity of their experience
And no matter how much money
You threw at things or experiences
Nothing could beat the
Exasperation
and
Desperation
of panic
When you have no other choices
And then there was me
Seeing both through different
Groups of friends
Drifting like a **** who won't fit in the right pipe
No matter how much you try to flush it
In the end we all need the toilet
Even if one is shiny
While the rest fall apart

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

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

The perfect hate
Fed by the perfect bait
Constantly
Relentlessly
You can't resist the Lure
The boiling inside
Itself feeding your Rage
Until, energized, you Take
Onto the keyboard
Like a true warrior
Except
In this war
The only casualty
Is your agency

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

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

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.

It's all a shot in the dark
Either you make it, or become a civilized 9-to-fiver
Now the nine-to-5er is the shot in the dark
But that doesn't seem to be making us
want it any less
Marriage and children?
Be content with a situationship and a dog
And pity those that only have **** and plants
But pity more
those that don't even have those
Except, perhaps, it's for the best
It's all for the best

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

All the pretty beer bottles on display, and the distinguished kids going in for a drink
Inferno used to be a falafel joint
With the cheapest falafel in town
Nineteen crowns
And they would give you a free sample while you waited
I guess cheapness doesn't stand the test of time
Even if laced with kindness

That tree is my friend;
It's a quiet friend
In a way,
But speaks more
Than many others.
Or rather;
It speaks differently.
Then again,
Maybe not.
For if its sounds
Come from the wind
Passing through
Its many leaves
Perhaps so does your voice
Come from something else
Passing through you
Which was not there
And you don't control
You might have more in common
With my tree friend
Than you'd like to admit
But that's okay
We can still be friends
Anyway

How seriously
Do you want to know the time
Because I will seriously
Look it up
If that's what you really want
And even if this
Sounds rather unserious
I will seriously help you
If only because I also know
How unserious one can get
When that unnatural feeling
Of time running out
Envelops one's mind
And yet we could just simply
And unseriously
Ignore the time
At all

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

simulacra and simulation
the performance and the stage
as we jump from platform to platform
seeking connection
authenticity
genuineness
briefly, we bask in such light
before the masses arrive
and change the economics
that makes fakeness profitable.
With each new cycle
the jading creeps in
latching like a limpet
thus no matter the waves
we poison each new sea
in this beautiful theatre
sinking reality

There's me
And everything else
There's inside
And outside
And just a small thin layer
Keeping it all separate
Except, perhaps
The layer is made up
And we are all made up
As these words float up
As your feelings grow up
And this dust does not settle
Is this cheap or a petal, instead
Can you afford to consider it
The thought, not the flower
I mean. Though I suppose
Both are as beautiful
As they are expensive
When you really
Wrap your head
In deep.

It was a year
Not unlike the rest
A particular burden
Saddened by a test
One could be tired
Or demoralized
Or about to give up
One could glow, instead
And step up
That small ladder
Which is only rather
Symbolic, but reminds
Of the gain
That each new day brings
As one then looks back
At all the small days
That made this year
In the end
Not unlike the rest

The superficial
Versus the intent
To cruise comfortably
Or feel the dents
To float above
Or dig deep
To be detached
Or love to see
To skip some parts
Or intently be
To quickly scan
Or needlessly focus
For all that there is
There is more if you want
And the want can be wanted
Deep down as a seed

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.

Can I placebo my way
Into spontaneous pleasure
And nocebo my way
Out of random pain
If all that it takes
Is just my sharp focus
And a big old superstitious
Pray?

O save me from unnecessary
Lessons
Lest I gain perspective,
And never again try to show me
That it's only me;
Neither younger nor older,
Standing tall every new day.

The little foam of my beer
ever so gently sizzles.
Its softness reminds me
of skins I used to brush
ever so slightly
with the tips
of my fingers
on past nights.

Not even this
amber bitter beauty
can dare rival your
own bitter moans,
as I remembered
they'd be over
before we even
got it on.

It was never really
the same;
both that first sip,
and that first kiss.
It doesn't matter.
all that was given
was fully received.
The aftertaste lingers,
then fades away.
Otherwise it wouldn't be
the same.

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

hey quick question
did anyone else's childhood come with receipts
because I think mine was factory defective
(but like, in a quirky way)

remember when we used to eat crayons
not me specifically, that's a generalized you
I was too busy trying to teach physics
to my imaginary friend's pet rock

the creative adult is the child who survived
which explains why I keep finding glitter
in really concerning places
like my tax returns and emotional baggage

turns out
trauma is just spicy nostalgia
and imagination is what happens
when your brain does parkour

anyway here's me
turning my childhood drawings into prophecies
because apparently
that's what we do now

ps: my therapist says I'm healing
pps: just kidding, I don't have a therapist
ppps: that's what the pet rock was for
(it had a doctorate in psychology, obviously)