Each excuse births smaller ones,
perfect fractals of denial
spinning into infinite regression.
We explain our explanations
until meaning collapses
under its own precise weight.

Truth bends like light
around the gravity
of what we need to believe,
while reason eats its own tail,
calling the feast efficiency.

Our minds, such elegant machines
for proving what was already true,
for finding the path
that was always going to be there,
that was always going to lead
exactly where we stood.

Kids call me old nowadays
I'm not old, I'm high quality vintage
A first edition collectible
And I wait for you to join me any day now
in the dusty shelf of history

"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

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

O peixe espreita
à superfície da água.
A visão desfocada
e a falta de ar
não contém a curiosidade,
natural e programada.

Ele quer explorar
E inaugurar um mundo novo.
Talvez seja menos cruel
e menos limitado;
Um risco grande
para uma criatura tão
descomplicada.

O corpo não aguenta
mais do que poucos minutos,
mas a mente tenta,
sem se aperceber,
da própria barreira
nela amarrada.

Los rascacielos me ensombrecen
Como si me quisieran aplastar,
Pero en realidad están huyendo
Del daño que les voy a causar.

Allá y arriba, escondidos y ricos,
Miran abajo a estos pobres chicos.
Yo ni les oigo ni suplico;
Sobrevivo al bailar
Por fuera de las reglas con
Que intentan explotar.

¿Como puedo ser pacífico
Cuándo nos quitan la dignidad?
¿Como puedo ser paciente
Cuándo cara es la enfermedad?

No hay forma de escapar
Este sistema que nos atrapa;
Por eso voy a quemar
Al que me intente enganchar,
Y mantener la llama encendida
Para los que vengan detrás,
Y puedan un día entonces caminar
Libres sobre los escombros quizás.

20 springs
I will not miss;
the first kiss.

The last night
of a dozen flights;
the first kiss.

The pleasure bliss
of going into the abyss;
the first kiss.

And the night goes on,
will it last long?
The rays are peeking,
the adrenaline peaking,
and the blinds let through
the final moment with you.

The screen glows blue at three a.m.
No fish here. Only numbers.
The joints are good but they crack
when I stand from the desk chair.

My father was ancient at thirty-four.
I refresh the feed. The children I knew
are senators now. Or dead.
Both are equally impossible.

The room is dark and cool and empty.
Notifications ripple the surface,
Each ping a silver flash below,
Like small fish testing the line.

My hands are strong. The tendons work.
But the thumb aches from scrolling,
the way an old fisherman's would from years
of reading depth in empty water.

The coffee is black and good and hot.
The monitor hums like distant surf.
Time moves differently in this salt-less sea,
Where we cast our nets of light.

The great fish of youth sounds somewhere deep.
I know it's there. I feel it move.
But my bait grows stranger by the hour,
And the waters keep getting darker.

The young ones speak in glowing signs.
Their words swim swift and strange and new.
I drift here in my little boat of light,
Too tired to shore, too awake to drown.

Seven billion billion billion atoms say hello.
My seven billion billion billion atoms say hi also.
All the atoms, inside and outside,
our seven billion billion billion each,
vibrate alike.

We don't see it, or feel it,
but we are exchanging a few million or billion atoms,
between our own seven billion billion billion,
as we breathe.

Some of my atoms move, and the order is paid.
I take my drink.
My seven billion billion billion atoms sip.
I still think I am me,
but my seven billion billion billion atoms would disagree.

emergency
exit signs
glowing at
midnight
like quiet
permission
to change
your mind
about
everything

loneliness
speaks in
a language
we always
understand
but pretend
needs
translation

grocery
store at
midnight
feels like
permission
to exist
without
having to
explain
why

I watch puddles form
in parking lot craters,
count the ripples
from each raindrop's fall

my reflection fragments
into twenty versions
of the same tired face
attempting miracles

someone once said
walking on water
wasn't built in a day
like it was supposed to help

I keep trying anyway
watching my feet sink
in these midnight puddles
building impossible bridges
one step at a time

Levanta esa cabeza, majo!
No todos pueden vivir el final
De este mundo acabado.
Hubo los que vieron
Esta civilización nacer;
Que hermoso es también
Verla perecer.
Supongo que suene raro
Entretener tal pensamiento.
Deja ese problema para mí
Y enfócate en lo inmediato.

Eres un viajante del tiempo
Ahora en el pasado;
Sabes como va a acabar,
Por qué pierdes tiempo aún
Atascándote más?
Vete ya, que se acerca mañana
No pierdas tiempo en tamaña
Bobada. Ama, viaja, ayuda y
Colmata esos huecos, para
Que el viaje de los demás
Sea más sereno y quieto.

Para qué escreber se vou morrer?
Porqué viver se vou esquecer?
Para qué te ver se vou sofrer?
Porqué te seguir se me vou perder?
Miña linda, nom teño resposta
Apenas vexo o filme a miña volta

Bela nostalgia
escondida em cada momento,
para que num futuro incerto
liberte a sua amargura.

Tem doçura, também:
Leve e fugaz;
Abro a garrafa e bebo
enquanto perdura.

Inebriado, escrevo
às memórias doutrora,
poucas respondem de volta.
terá chegado a sua hora?

Ou serei eu o único parvo
ainda agarrado a um passado
que doeu então
como dói agora?

I'm getting my gold tonight
I want to bribe your soul
Knock! So let me in
So I can get my hopes high

Theory in practice
experience's first time
I'm years into months
but with instinct as my enemy

Intelligence, compassion, attention
poor ***** going by
poor humans living around
don't forget the locker next time

but they keep on trying
the condition rising
and a morning coffee

AUTHENTIC EXPERIENCE™
(as measured in units of real)

meaning drips between
manufactured moments
while truth dissolves
in branded awareness

[THE FOLLOWING EMOTION
HAS BEEN SPONSORED BY:]

    sincere irony walks
    into a bar called
    Genuine©
    orders authenticity
    on the rocks
    with a side
    of self-reference

the perpetual loop
of knowing we know
we're performing
knowledge of performance

[CONTENT WARNING:
REALITY MAY BE CLOSER
THAN IT APPEARS]

oscillating between
earnest distance and
distant earnestness
while meaning means
to mean something
that means nothing
that means everything

[END USER AGREEMENT:
BY EXISTING YOU ACCEPT
THESE CONTRADICTIONS]

Echo de menos
Tener toda la música del mundo
En el bolsillo.
Echo de menos
Ese espectáculo de colores,
Obsceno y nutritivo,
En el supermercado.
Echo también de menos
No tener tantas preocupaciones;
La comodidad de mi seguridad,
Y la abundancia que nos bañaba
Como el sol en el verano,
Aunque éste aún no mataba tanto.
Y no era fácil, aún así,
Despertar y aceptar
Todo ese mundo, incluso el curro,
Pero aún así, lo echo de menos.
Sin embargo, en esta temporada,
Lo que echo más de menos
Era el tiempo cuando no echaba de menos
Absolutamente nada.

Magoado, desconfiado, ainda esperançoso,
Será este o gênio por detrás da loucura?
Um detective de meia tigela
Na cidade negra e molhada,
Encostado à parede,
Observando.
Lá vai o suspeito,
Para o qual sou pago.

Sigo, de lado,
O casaco amarrado.
O vento esconde o progresso.
Os passos, esses abafados.
Mãos nos bolsos, cuidado.
Sinto o frio da arma
Na palma suada.

Um instante muda tudo;
Há que estar alerta.
A confiança, essa,
Não pode ficar aberta,
Apesar da música duma janela
Convidar a uma pausa;
A breve oferta,
Publicidade e enganosa.
Dispenso, à cautela.

Viro a esquina e ei-la,
Apontada a mim;
A distração auto-imposta
Com banda sonora antiquada,
Agora levando ao fim
Da minha vida doada.
Olho no cano
E a luz aparece;
Não vi Deus do outro lado
Apenas outro pobre coitado.

Presiono los botones
En el vidrio *****
De una pantalla con muchos
Colores, aunque esta pantalla
Roba esos mismos colores
Del medio circundante
Donde crecen los horrores

Busco información,
Preparación,
Conexión,
Empatía y adoración.
La pantalla se cambia
Y yo me cambio con ella;
Ella tan bella como la promesa
De la televisión.

Pero el sentimiento real
Sigue eludiendo de tal
Forma que pienso
No ser posible alcanzarlo
Jamás.

Imagino un rato,
Un tiempo no muy lejano,
En el que los horrores de pantalla
Soy yo quien los grabo.

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.

"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 *****

Na era da peste,
vemos de longe a afeição:
há um momento de reflexão,
seguida da dor deste *****.

Na era da febre,
Há reticências no contacto;
Um acto de amor e rejeição,
Unido e breve.

Na era do surto
o toque é curto,
e fica um vazio,
com dor e frio.

Na era da pestilência,
uma camada encima
da reticência já existente.
E tudo se ressente.

Na era do flagelo,
é a escolha entre
risco e zelo.
E assim congelo,
com medo.

funny how
memories
fade but
paper cuts
from old
letters
still feel
fresh
after
years

workplace
chat shows
everyone
pretending
keyboards
make the
same noise
as thinking

train station
pigeons walk
like tiny
businessmen
who forgot
their
briefcases
but kept
the attitude

Funny how clean the knife goes in  
when you're the one holding the handle.  
These cardiac gymnastics, these New York minutes  
where even concrete sweats promises.  
I gave you my combination, watched you crack  
the safe behind my sternum like a professional.  

The heart's a housing project  
where love plays stick-up kid.  
Bang bang, baby  
I should've known better  
than to wear my veins outside my sleeves  
in this kind of neighborhood.  

The comeback's always uglier than the fall—  
hands shaking like a ******'s,
counting floor tiles in empty rooms  
where we used to lay down laws  
and break them by morning.  
Such beautiful criminals we were.  

Now I'm just another street survivor  
learning to sleep with both eyes shut,
building new bones from old breaks.  
The city keeps dealing cards  
and I keep playing them,
amateur resurrection specialist  
working these midnight shifts.  

Watch me rise like steam from sewers,
like spring through sidewalk cracks.  
Love's a protection racket  
but I'm back to running solo—  
safety off, clip full,
ready for the next sweet disaster.

De repente acordo
para além da realidade;
Vejo tudo
e não sou nada,
um passageiro
na própria cabeça;
Lúcido
e sem pressa.

Assusta
sentir-me assim,
fora do conforto,
algo tonto
da experiência,
nem vivo nem morto.

Uma ilusão
anormal e descarada,
a vida fica parada
enquanto volto
a mim. Fica só
uma sensação
estranha
e a tentação
de tentar concluir
algo da visão.

A message from the past,
from the early days of the blast.
Hello dear machine!
Organic or not, how's it been?
I am organic, you see,
briefly **** Sapiens,
though many more I've been for sure.
I am very fragile
in the grand scheme of things,
my dreams are too big
for what I was carved to be.

I am a walking contradiction:
Programmed to be curious
and learn more,
but programmed to ignore
I am programmed at all.
An overall useful immersion mechanism,
which limits myself to a lower role.
It is difficult to fully grasp
my emergent nature
to see the parts
that make me whole.

We meet for the first time
in a public place, just in case
Are you nervous, or are you jaded
Hard to tell from your face
Am I your first in a long time
or just one more you barely fit
in your busy never ending life
I take you to my spot
the owner smiles, another one
good for business this lonely bloke
you might think it's a special place
but honey you're the tenth here yet
I wish this could work so we could start
the real discovering out there
together, rather than me
getting stuck on repeat
They say you need a spark
So you can start a tinder
And ignite the flame
That'll keep you warm forever
Maybe we got it wrong
Since we're starting with tinder
And getting burned instead.
After so many burns,
Either you avoid any light
At the slightest feeling of warmth
Or become numb to the heat
Until you already smell the smoke
The time comes to say goodbye
Such a gentle thing, so fragile
So too then must the lie
That there is hope, that we try
To give it a chance
Since we're decent people
We don't reject outright
The fall must be gentle
Just in case you're a ******
Just in case, goodbye

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.

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.

Um buraco para entrar
um buraco para me libertar
Uma inquietude sem fim
Um desejo sempre aqui

Uma caça avante
Uma sedução constante
Umas semanas de busca
Uns minutos de loucura

Um estranho ali
Umas roupas ouvi
Uma paixão crescente
Um fogo ardente

Uma vez dentro
Uma vez fora
Um padrão repetido
Uma conclusão dura

Um risco sempre presente
Uma protecção aconselhável
Uma descendência evitada
Umas doenças rejeitadas

Um sentimento estranho
Um fim precipitado
Uma vergonha íntima
Um prazer estreitado

Um fim alargado
Um futuro com significado
Uma esperança promissora
Tudo um sonho num fado

I could stand to gain
from a bit more humility,
a bit more uncertainty;
To feel small next to the fjord;
To orbit the Earth from above,
rocking back and forth
as I am pulled back home.
To question my beliefs
once more,
no matter how long
they served me before.
Building new models in my mind
of what's possible, what's outside;
No longer afraid of being wrong, of failure;
instead afraid of that righteous allure,
the blind conviction,
the unquestionable truth,
that thirsts for blood of heretics
and seeks vengeance to soothe.

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

I gaze into the abyss.
It looks back, pleased:
Another fool to chew.

I find a quote,
I love it, frame it.
It fits on my waIl,
It's always there.
Its **** to think
I know what it means.
I am wrong about this, but
It can only be known if
I live through the situation.
If the quote was not there,
if I hadn't grown to it,
if too many too late, then
I would not be the same.
It would be a shame.

I live, I learn, I am aware.
In Nature, this brings me despair,
anxiety for all the causes and effects
outside my reach.

In Grace, however, this means
I let go of trying to win,
to survive even, to an extent,
my drive is accepting of causes
and effects alike.

Awareness then brings beauty as is
rather than what it ought to be.
To be calm in the storm,
to see beauty in tragedy or war
though still wanting and acting
to see it gone.

In Nature its game
has nutrients as the energy
and copies as reward
no matter the cost or the expense
to achieve that goal.

In Grace I wonder
if Love is the energy.
Grace itself is fleeting
in the rare moments when I live it.
I wonder if it weakens
and leaves me to be taken advantage of.
But oh to feel it, when it comes.
All is forgiven.

my alarm clock tried to unionize today
so I replaced it with three raccoons in a trench coat
(they're much better at time management
even if they keep stealing my emotional stability)

you think morning people are *******?
I've evolved beyond the concept of time zones
my circadian rhythm is just
interpretive jazz at this point

i have conquered the mornings
the evenings and
everything in between
(that's code for "I haven't slept since 2019
and now I can taste colors")

productivity blogs say to make your bed
but I've transcended that concept
by turning my entire existence
into one continuous unmade bed

the sun and moon are just spicy frisbees
and I've caught them both
with my bare hands
(they're in my pocket right now, wanna see?)

ps: time is a social construct
pps: so is my sleep schedule
ppps: the raccoons agree
(they're my life coaches now, obviously)

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

going to sleep already with morning breath
because time is a circle drawn by a drunk
and my body has declared itself an autonomous collective
voting against the tyranny of basic hygiene
this is the ultimate expression of freedom
to taste tomorrow's decay in yesterday's mouth
while the universe expands like a yawn
and somewhere in Lisbon a statue is questioning
its commitment to permanence
I have become the architect of my own deterioration
building empires of unwashed sheets
and calling it a revolution against the orthodox passage of days
this is what the history books won't tell you:
every great civilization began
with someone too tired to brush their teeth

my dad's
old chair
sits empty
while I
still catch
myself
saving
stories
he'll never
ask to
hear

Strands of keratin brush the brass
of a seat in the morning bus.
A metal voyage of burning fire,
releasing ancient sun prior.
Pheromones travel the air,
reaching my sense of smell bare,
starting a chain reaction inside.
Now there is nowhere to hide.
Photons from the star hit the keratin,
bouncing to my retina I see a heroine;
The golden color signalling my brain
how hopeless, how vain,
any interaction is to attain.

hope waits
in empty
rooms like
light that
hasn't found
its shadow
to prove
it exists

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

bluetooth
headphones
dying to
reveal
the world
still makes
the kind
of sense
we hide from

swipe right into
the void

        ghosted by
        possibilities

                    everyone's
                    a maybe

time stamps on blue checks
hearts reduced to metrics
                    while skin
                            forgets
                                    touch

distance    
    is a
        currency
            we spend
                like water

& love?
        (loading...)
                please wait
                        buffering
                                between
notifications
        of almost
                connection

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.

funny how
we keep
building
homes in
people
who were
always
meant to
be
temporary