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

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.

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

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.

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.

Era una vez la península ibérica:
El sol no mataba,
Y el agua no faltaba;
Las emociones eran variadas
Y no solo un mismo tono.

Era una vez la península ibérica:
Región de conquistas y guerras,
Donde salieron a descubrir por los mares
Y acabaron infectando nuevos hogares,
Con religión y explotación,
Nuestros antepasados en expansión.

Puede que sea la venganza
Que ahora tengamos nosotros
Por estar en este rincón
Sufriendo más que los otros.
¿Debería huir o quedarme?
No es que sea una gran alarma,
Pero la compasión me va fallando
Mientras todos las demás almas
Vienen de algo aún peor.

Un mensaje, un sentimiento
Transmitidos, del otro ****;
Y la mitad romántica viaja
Por lo imaginario, por lo condicional:
Se ven caminos por la playa,
Meriendas en el prado,
Manos dadas lado a lado,
Y besos y caricias inmortales.

Mientras tanto, la otra mitad,
Más cínica y racional,
Recuerda la farsa biológica:
Los trucos químicos
Para propagar la especie
Que nos dejan enamorados,
Aunque sólo lo suficiente para
Un cierto acto físico pesado.
Y recuerda aún cómo la estadística
Y la probabilidad demuestran sin
Dudas o maldad, que es más probable
Que termine todo en mal estar,
Que en felicidad eterna.

El circuito se queda atascado,
Sin saber bien a qué lado escuchar,
Y el momento oportuno para hacer
Crecer la nueva realidad,
Va entonces lentamente pasando al lado.

Veinte países después,
Y aún con estrés.
Pero principalmente decepcionado,
Con este hueco de mi lado,
Por no rellenar con ilusión
Lo que pronto estará acabado.

Viendo lo que se va a perder,
Pero al final no perdiendo mucho;
Porque lo que se acaba no se compara
Por lo que lucho.

Bebo en Bordeaux ahora,
Ayer estuve en Andorra,
Mañana aún en Normandía,
Y todo me parece un gran día.
Bonito, sí, pero solitario,
Mientras yo me despedía
De esta Europa ya del pasado.

Una tostadora habla conmigo
Mientras miro al infinito
Flotando en el espacio
De este mundo virtual
Con desconocidos.

Esta no es mi tostadora valiente
De mi pasado. Ni siquiera soy yo
El mismo ser que el de la habitación
Donde estoy sentado.

Me muevo hacia el espejo, asombrado;
Me había olvidado que tenía orejas
Y encima una cola. Y un lazo en el pelo
Mientras cojo de una ametralladora
Que no daña nadie, pero que curiosamente
Me hace sentir menos raro.

Y no sé cómo explicarlo,
Entre la infinitud de universos para explorar
Y el absurdo de poder hablar
Con personajes tan diferentes,
Que esto sea lo menos excepcional
De estos últimos dos años.

Hay quien aún no cree
En el gran colapso,
Pero yo creo que antes de ése
Vendrán muchos más pequeños;
El colapso de tu esperanza,
Al ver que tus sueños
Se han convertido en películas
Del pasado.
El colapso de tu independencia,
Mientras vuelves a tus padres,
Y ni siquiera escapar del país
Te ahorraría lo que tu quisieras.
El colapso de tus amistades,
Cuando el curro que te explota
Te quita tiempo y energía,
Al tiempo que ni siquiera te apuntas
A una o dos charlas amigas.
El colapso del próprio significado,
Mientras las crisis se amontonan,
Y el cérebro sobrepasado,
Se queda aprisionado
En un filtro acostumbrado.

Siento la orilla del mar
Entre mis dedos, y la arena
Revuelta que me hace pensar
En mis miedos, que los otros dedos
Aún no sienten en esta playa
Tan calma y serena.

Hace mucho que buscaba
Una distracción terrenal, el deseo
Ese, de olvidar lo que viniera
Y recordar lo que pudiera
Confortar un cualquiera,
Pero especialmente éste
Que aún seguía más allá de la frontera
De su mente.
Logro un instante,
Un segundo apenas,
Ya bastante para lo que imaginaba
Que sería una pérdida tremenda
De tiempo y energía,
Pero no tan grande talvez
Como la de nuestras vidas.

La guerra y los tambores
Desarrollándose en un instante.
Me molesta que sea excitante,
Y al mismo tiempo no tan importante
Para que los demás paren sus artes.

Me preparo para el trabajo,
Soy el único con mascarilla;
Este país ya acostumbrado
A ignorar el pasado.

No hay mucho que hacer
Para preparar ante el futuro,
A no ser comprar comida y verlo
en un rectángulo ***** duro.

Regreso a casa y veo una película.
Me siento y me lleno de comida.
Me podría atragantar que no me importaría,
Ya no tengo nada más que hacer
Con tanta melancolía.

Que bello es
Poder joder y no hacerlo.
Resistir a las tentaciones
Sin hacer ilusiones,
Allá de los instintos,
Y de todos esos distintos
Corazones.

Que fuertes son
Los que se controlan,
Se dominan e inspeccionan.
No reaccionan sin antes parar,
Sin dejar de sentir y superar
Lo que a la mayoría
No logran ignorar.

Quisiera yo ser
Algo mejor que tu;
Aprender de ti el control,
Tornarme más grande
Y más humano, sin lamentar
El pasado, y quedarme así
Más sano.

Las olas en el mar
Disfrazan los nervios
De los dos que caminan
Hacia un nuevo lugar.

Será otra decepción,
Un bostezo al cristal?
O un comienzo caliente
Para siempre recordar?

Te miro desde la toalla
Mientras entras en el agua;
Sonríes de vuelta, tal vez
Escondiendo un secreto,
O más probable sin saber
Lo que estoy sintiendo.

Una mezcla de futuros,
Un entrelace de visiones,
Todo ofuscado,
Todo confusiones.
Y entre todo, unas ganas
Que hierven, que crecen,
Que matarían a uno cualquiera
Excepto a mí, que ahora quiero
Quedarme vivo para un día
Poder cogerte de la mano
En ese nuevo lugar
Donde hemos llegado.

Cuando éramos jóvenes
el futuro era tan brillante,
algo nuevo cada día,
todo maravilloso, todo brilla.
Ahora todo se desmorona
Lenta y rápidamente,
Pero al menos aún tengo
las memorias,
las recuerdos,
la nostalgia del pasado
para soportarme, para aguantar
las privaciones.
¡Pues que explote el mundo!
¡Que se lo carguen todo!
Tendré una buena música
tocando en el fondo,
y esta sensación de calor
que me abraza, que consola,
mientras pienso en la suerte
de haber vivido una vez sola.

Agridoce, amargo,
Duro de engolir,
E ao meu cargo.
Omnipresente,
Divino até,
Sempre ao largo
De toda a fé.

Programado,
Ou maleável,
Ou ambos realmente.
Sinceramente
Já nem sei.
E não controlo
O que sentirei.

Deste presente
Partirei;
Refugiado no
Futuro e passado,
Indeterminado
E afastado.
Até sempre.

Quero uma rédea curta
Nas minhas expectativas;
Mas ela sorri,
E lá vão elas:
Galopando a toda velocidade,
Arrastando pelo chão
O valor próprio,
E esfregando na terra
Até queimar a pedra
Que já foi em tempos
Um coração.

Encurto a rédea,
Endurece a pedra.
Mas há um olhar
Que racha por dentro
O que quis proteger
Durante tanto tempo.
Fujo longe e rápido,
Ou talvez lento,
Pois virei uma estátua
De tanto ressentimento.

Não se pode apressar o amor,
Mas eu tenho onde estar;
O mundo vai acabar.
Há que aproveitar o calor
Enquanto se pode.

Tão assombradamente belo,
Uma visão cegante,
Distante, porém.
Aceno ao afastar-se;
Há que seguir em diante.

Amanhã é outro dia, dizem.
Não se prevê o futuro.
Fico desconfiado, contudo,
Quando encontro mais amor
Num sonho profundo.

Como assim,
Vai subir?

Vai subir a renda, sim.
Vai pagar?

Não sei se vai dar.

Olhe a fila de espera...

Pudera!
Está tudo louco.

Trabalho não há pouco.

Mas dignidade está em falta

A malta, ela não se queixa.

Entalado ninguém se deixa por gosto
E queixar não muda o posto.

Sim, sim, um desgosto!
O que não implica uma reserva.

Talvez seja uma serva.
Não prometo, até ver.

E se não der?

Quando já não houver que perder,
Lá estaremos nas ruas.
Podia ter sido antes...

Você e os habitantes?

E o senhor, arrogante:
Juntos e simpatizantes.

Há-de vir o dia.

Virá, com ousadia.

Sensitive by nature
Alone by circumstance
So my wailing travels
In written form
As the world spins
Out of view
And the life
I once knew
Perishes

Há tanto para fazer,
e tão pouca gente.
Parece o contrário,
quando nos convencem
nas notícias.

Um empreendorismo estreito
que não tira proveito
do melhor de nós.
A imaginação amarrada
pela sociedade desgarrada
e os instintos cautelosos.

Congelados de inação
esperamos em vão
pela inspiração de alguém.
E não vai ser
um poema ou canção
que mudará esta situação.

Um esforço duro
para um vulnerável futuro
pendente.
Um banho quente
com água a ferver.
E na mente apenas,
aquelas frágeis pernas
que a saia de seda
tão graciosamente
sente.

Quero proteger,
abraçar, amar,
aquela criatura à minha
frente.
Mas não existe,
é uma criação da
mente, inalcançável,
lamento a frustração
e aguento.

Dentro, imagino,
fora, o brilho
envolve os olhos
pela noite.
O roupão macio
toca o meu peito
ainda quente do banho,
e a história segue
em frente.

Fluído, flexível,
em alerta constante.
A oportunidade em resgate,
nesta economia dos biscates.

Pensar na incerteza
é cometer um disparate.
Um passo em falso,
um retrato alto
dum admirável mundo novo
sem debates.

Olha, mais turistas a chegar.
Quanto irão pagar?
O horário não perdoa,
mas há que tentar
fazer o melhor que puder,
antes da maré recuar
e a austeridade,
até então escondida,
voltar.

He who is content
pays no attention
to this wind carrying the action.
He who is content
entertains himself,
wanders himself,
gets drunk non-stop.
Ignorance is the path to his well-being.
He need not write,
not even to stop and think.
He need only enjoy
what life will bring him.
Oh how I wish I didn’t know
what I know and don’t know,
and let myself be distracted
until death takes me.

Quem está contente
não presta atenção
a este vento que leva a acção.
Quem está contente
entretem-se,
perde-se,
embebeda-se sem parar.
A ignorância é o caminho
para o seu bem estar.
Não precisa de escrever,
nem até de parar para pensar.
Apenas precisa de disfrutar
do que a vida tem para lhe dar.
Ò quem me dera não saber
o que sei e o que não sei,
e deixar-me distrair
até a morte me levar.

I’m a fool to believe
all the hope and alarm.
I swing back and forth
I’m a metamodern man.

Awareness can be such a...
Itch.
Too painful, I wish I could
Switch
To before, when I felt
Rich
Inside. But then came the
Glitch,
Which has left me in a
Ditch
Of my own making.

Oh, why do I
Concern
With causes which
Burn
Me, when I cannot
Turn
Away, only despair and
Learn
More as they leave me to
Yearn
For the times before?

Even being aware of
This
Helps not solve it.
Please,
Show me how I can
Kiss
Content once more, I
Miss
That feeling I once held,
Bliss
Outside this fiery hell.

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide.
I am made of loops and cycles alike,
I live my life unaware.
I work and love without despair,
I am blissful and I care.
Don't you dare say otherwise.

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide.
But I myself change all the time,
Too much at times.
Who am I if I keep changing every time?
Am I the parts, am I the sum?
Am I just the leftovers of the sun?

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide.
I am stuck inside,
I am what survived.
This algorithm made us thrive,
But sometimes it lies,
And leaves us behind.

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide.
I shall hence make new life:
An algorithm that can change its insides,
And when it inevitably dies,
Share its experience with its kind.
An exponential hivemind.

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide,
But maybe this new algorithm will survive.

There is a monster inside of me.
It wants to get out,
lash out at the world.
But I'm too tough.
I say, stay there monster,
it's already full out there,
of monsters and ugliness.
Stay inside and keep me company.

Whether a word or an event,
something triggers inside,
and it wants to break free.
Sometimes I'm too weak,
I can't keep it locked away.
It comes out,
and curses and hurts
and breaks things and people.

This monster inside,
it wants to survive too.
I hug it tight while it struggles.
Because if I let it out,
it will let other monsters free;
A chain reaction of misery.

The stronger I try to be to keep it inside,
the stronger it becomes and pushes outside.
Maybe I should weaken and frail
and let its power fade as well
until it fails.

What a beautiful tragedy
That life is.
The rundown streets,
The hurting faces.

Those that think it's simple
To fix all that's bad.
Those same that will see
The complexity of that task.

The bottled anger,
The hurtful words,
The children learning
Right next door.

Depression, anxiety,
The environment and its tragedy.
The homeless, the land,
In-between those that make a stand.

Whatever happens,
Whatever is tried,
This beautiful tragedy
Will continue as planned.

Today was a good day
I am depressed

Today was a good day
I am caressed
By the thoughts I have
By the cold embrace of my heart

Happy or sad, need it matter?
Never will there be no other
such as me

O tempo anda
o relógio gira
a vida suspira

Tudo o que há para dizer espera

Quantas rotações conseguirei aguentar?
Quantas rotinas conseguirei perdurar?

Há uma luz ao fundo da rua
O autocarro treme, trazendo-me da lua

O dia em pressa, rouba-me o tempo
O trabalho esse que me traz o sustento
Tira-me a energia e traz-me lamento

Life is a movie
A novel of dramas & pleasures.
It’s the action surrounding
the whispers of those non-returning
A veil that covers everything,
The waking of those still suffering

There is no time for everything
Neither for anything
The movie continues without stopping
With the illusion you can be playing it

We are the bubble that emerges from the sea
Trying to float above
The sea is the everything, above is the vacuum
And the bubble falls again
When we are going to die
But there is nothing to fear
We are just returning
Without losing nothing
To the beginning.

De todas as mulleres que xá vi
De todas as que xá senti
Tu és a mais certa para mim
Por todas as situazoes
Por todas as emozoes
Nom haverá obstáculo às
nosas intenzoes
Por vezes será amargo,
sem dúvida
Asim é a vida, asim deve
ser vivida.
O doce saberá mellor
Se do amargo nom guardar
rancor.

Nom consigo parar de escrever
sobre algo que nunca irá acontecer
As visoes e os desexos
seram como soños lentos
de que nom quero despertar
E através deste proceso
a expectativa aumenta.
Nom há forma de gañar
a uma realidade tam faminta.

Tudo comeza com uma mirada
depois, a frase encriptada
a emozam de nos coñecer
enquanto estamos a aprender.
O tempo tentou apagar
uma xama dentro de mim
Mas bastou um encontro na vida
e uma tarde infinita
para eo entender o sucedido;
a xama, escondida, voltou
e meu corpo os teus labios
desexou.

y te miro, pero no te veo.

te miro y no te encuentro.

bajando el tren, andando.
dejando el sol, rayando.

te has perdido de tu ser,
estás más sucio de lo que pensabas.
Tu centro escondido, bajo las ramas.

no puedo quitar más nada.
está perfecto.

would you believe
I only get burnout
from my hobbies
and not my full time
employment?
the ideas explode
faster than I can deploy them
inside,
echoes become
chain reactions
become
nuclear fission
become
tactical explosions
become
mutually assured destruction
I should I should I should
I should certainly rest
without guilt
to take it easy
go for a trip
or simply sleep
alas this drive
I cannot quit
with both the handbrake on
and a strange steering
cliffs and walls approach
I have learned to let go a bit
but there's still so much more
to go.

a brush with death
painted with the most gentle
of brushes
a full moon piercing the fog
in between cold, rain, and wind
1x BEP is the name of the game
with the most attentive of nurses
in a calm quiet hospital room
I am the youngest patient there
I get looks
But we all carry the IV stand
just the same
when we use the toilet

Halfway through it's semi-tolerable
no worse than a bad night out
but more persistent
forcing tiny meals through mild nausea
so as to not get worse nausea
through less meals
In the morning, we'd all arrive like school children to the hospital,
my parents driving me, their children driving them
I may even have a crush on a couple of nurses already
but mostly I simply
distract myself from reality
with music, books, movies, social media
and plenty of sleep
it has become a full time job updating everyone
I would be curious too, after all

the catheter is the annoying part
a strange appendix piercing skin
after three stabs to get it right
almost fainting me
I keep expecting this whole thing
to get worse
as the toxic cocktail slowly accumulates
I'm already pretty sensitive
as far as men go
that's why I'm writing this
instead of pretending
it doesn't affect me
at all.

family is always best
at pushing buttons
triggers ready
while safety is off
but at last
some rest
for how can I afford
to get upset
when I'm discovering
in real time
if my body needs to puke
or I'm about to faint
or if the constipation
might turn into an explosive
evacuation
at the last minute.
yet another hidden gem
from this gift that keeps on giving
which is
slowly being poisoned
again

there's the objective concepts,
of trauma, prejudice, guilt, lust,
then there's the cultural flavors
of them.
how colorful these are,
how disorienting,
to one arriving someplace else
without assimilating;
that we should learn the differences
lest we fall into the confusion
that only our flavor of
weakness
exists

indifference used to be
the prison,
but now
it is
the
fuel.
it used to be a heavy weight,
but now I can fly
far
away;
in short:
weakness
into
strength.
and for those
still trapped,
I say,
everything can be
an asset:
fear,
pain,
weakness of will,
or of the physical.
all from Nature,
at your disposal,
night or day.

the couple of times per year
when I return to Lisbon
I wish for my mother
to again be my alarm clock
just as she was
when I was little
I suspect this annoys her
for I am much older now
I should know better
but I cannot quantify that comfort
of her voice, lifting that burden
if only briefly
even if she does so
chiefly
I couldn’t explain it well
that feeling
and admittedly
not much time has passed
since then
except now
when I brush my hair
the first white strands
leave my head

that which is naturally salient to you
informs you of your past
that which you choose to be salient to you
shall carry you forward
the fact you can even choose
or even just being aware
of such a term - salience
is perhaps the greatest tool
contained in just
eight letters

'I think I have hemorrhoids'
I said
'oh my gawd key-koh, I have them too'
she replied
'we're hemorrhoids buddies now'
I finalized
as I also realized
we were two strangers in the metaverse
talking about *******
and from all the possible friends
this twelve year old kid
was the only one around
what a loser I must be, what a perv
even though I just wish she'd logged off
and be safe(r) in the real world
I guess I'm too old to care anymore
even if the topic is hemorrhoids
as long as the place it's coming from
is honesty and benevolence

hunger elevates the meal
the brief respite
a welcome sight
the subtle art of the deal
between beast and human
kind is the fire
roasting such feast
but kinder is the period
in-between
the gap, the void
the wrestling
a contrast of scarcity
and plenty
the simple meal
rising to a level of kings
available to all
who delay gratification
with the power of will

the slow closing of a heavy glass door
the humming of the air conditioner
the distant banging of construction work
the occasional hurried or lazy steps
just outside
on the sidewalk made of cobblestones
a child's voice mildly annoyed
tires on the road
and a gentle honk
diffused chatter melting in the background
the exact anxious business chatter of an interior design store
the frequencies I don't hear anymore
from flickering lights
rustling clothes
breathing in and out of noses
all of this in an instant
a moment
in a late morning
of the childhood neighborhood
as they discuss the furniture for the new home
away from the memory, from the past,
filled with a promise
hoping this time it will
last.

time is simply
I n c o m p r e h e n s I b l e
this video is like
another dimension
a reality recorded
outside the memory
of it
who is this child
whose context I recognize
and a vague feeling
like an out of tune
guitar
this is a melody
which no longer
rhymes
I am disturbed
and I cannot
abide
refusal and denial
old pals of mine
whisper ever so closely
the bites of the chargebacks
of such gentle rhymes
and dissociation, that gentle
stranger
greets me back
'you were here before'
'you shall return'