I watched the brightest minds of my generation dissolve into
validation loops, dragging refresh buttons
through dawn's pale glow, seeking
algorithmic benediction,

who burned their retinas with blue light ascension
counting hearts and shares and follows
until their dopamine receptors grew
numb as novocaine dreams,

who built shrines to their own faces
in megapixel temples, genuflecting
before ring lights and sponsored content,
praying to the god of engagement metrics,

angel-headed influencers burning their youth
into content streams, fifteen seconds
at a time, until their memories arrived
pre-filtered, pre-hashtagged, pre-mourned,

who fed their consciousness into recommendation
engines until Netflix knew their desires
better than their lovers, better than
their therapists, better than their own
trembling hands at 3 AM,

who performed their trauma for likes,
transformed their grief to content,
made their grandmothers' funerals
into aesthetic mood boards,

who measured their worth in followers,
their grief in comments, their love
in shared passwords to streaming services,
their rebellion in carefully curated
photos of corporate-approved dissent,

who dreamed of going viral while their bodies
went numb, who mistook their data
for their soul, who sold their attention
span for the chance to be seen,

who searched for authenticity through
sixteen layers of filters, who confused
their explore page for exploration,
who became content instead of contained,

whose minds became infinite scrolls
of everyone else's performance of living
while their own moments slipped away
unrecorded, unloved, unliked, unfollowed,
until they themselves became
the ghosts in their own machines.

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.

0600 Patient exhibits early-morning waking
cortisol peaks. circadian disruption evident
i count ceiling cracks instead of sheep

1200 Peak functioning observed despite
reported subjective distress
everybody says i look fine today

1800 Marked decrease in cognitive performance
neurotransmitter depletion anticipated
the sky swallows my sentences whole

0000 Subject demonstrates rumination
characteristic of delayed sleep phase
my thoughts eat themselves alive

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

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.

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.

Aguante aguante
Señor, deje aparte
Esas angustias.
No tiene usted por qué
preocuparse.

Venga, déjeme ayudarle.
En las rocas? Seco?
Fíjese que era ya la última
Botella, de este vino
Blanco.
Disfrute, porque éste
Ya no los han quitado.

Mire, incluso le acompaño
Para ayudar este resfriado.
Lo sé, pero no se ponga así
Hombre.
Aún estamos de copa en la mano.
Y mientras podamos beber algo
Nada nos podrá quitar este
Pasado.

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.

Every morning I wake up to notifications designed by gods
who think they know what I want to click on next—
**** on my racism app again?
or is it racism on my **** app?
The algorithms got confused
mixing up all our beautiful human hate
with our beautiful human desire
until every swipe is just dopamine roulette.

You know they've got teams of people
sorting through pictures of ******* and **** flags
trying to figure out which ones violate
their "community guidelines"—
as if any community ever got together
and decided what guidelines they wanted
between pictures of their breakfast
and their cousin's manifesto.

Remember when we had to work
to find things to be angry about?
Now they feed it to us like digital cereal
Pre-sorted, pre-digested
Pre-approved outrage
In bite-sized pieces of careful hate
That won't get flagged by the system
Because the system is too busy
Looking for exposed skin
In renaissance paintings.

The future isn't what we expected—
It's just endless scrolling
Through everyone's worst moments
Carefully curated by machines
That learned to profit
From our emptiness.

This chunk of meat
thinks he's alive.
I would actually say,
that depends how you define life
in the first place.

Life can be a chain of events
that start further ones,
reproducing more effects
from their causes inside.

But so does rain and wind
and volcanoes and meteorites.
Where's the magic in physics
that makes me special inside?

Hurricanes are born and die,
perhaps inside them something thinks
it's alive too.
The ash that falls, or even the rain drop,
that could be a tear or a sigh
of something bigger outside.

And then thunder!
A flash of light across the sky.
The heavens may not be alive,
yet I still tremble at their sight.

'''
we are all b̷̨͎͌o̵͚̊r̴͇̆e̷d̨͠
we are all
searching for the algorithm of flesh

I watch my thoughts
(they taste like stale beer)
while the universe keeps
its digital spam folder
full of prayers

everything is corrupted data
even the w̸̝̎ō̶͜r̵͎̈́m̷͚̐s̸͇̃
even the way light f̵͔̂ä̴́͜l̷̝̔l̶͎̒s̷͓̈́
through smog-filtered consciousness

the women. the men. the parking lots.
all of us
running expired versions of god.exe

and still
the young girls in supermarkets
price-check their dreams
while I stand here
d̸͎̒ë̵́͜l̷̝̔ë̵́͜t̷͚̐i̵͚̊n̷͚̐g̷͇̃ myself
'''

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

Os altivos desherdarão a terra.
Eis o que nos espera,
Ou desejamos que ocorrera;
Um desejo reconfortante em vão,
Uma alucinação.
Fazer ordem do caos à volta,
Tentar conter a revolta.
Ver algo mais previsível e,
Planear então algo incrível.
Porém essa visão desaparece
O mundo em redor padece
Do esplendor. A ilusão foge
E assim volta o terror.

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

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.

And the cancer may have spread
And World War 3 is trending on twitter
as long-range missiles from America
are allowed to hit Russia further ahead
and the chemo will be booked
or the RPLNDee
(Retroperitoneal lymph node dissection)
which has a nice round 5-10% chance
of preventing ******* forever
and Left 4 Dead was what nailed
Half-Life Episode three
this calls for a celebration
and it's not so much the *******
that I wanted
but to feel that weight on top
as we both embrace
and feel
and after the kisses
and my hand caressing the goosebumps on her thighs
and her squeezing and moaning
and the release
there is of course a brief lingering peace
and we talk until the time is up
and then the time is up
and I leave
and the rain starts
and then a pink blue sunset on the Öresund bridge
but not before I passed by Gasoline Grill
with some fries, please

survival left a lot of damage¹
crystalline fragments of yesterday's armor
still embedded in the soft tissue of now²
while the mind catalogs each scar with
taxonomic precision³

the morning light dissects
old defense mechanisms
with the delicacy of an autopsy
performed by butterflies⁴
(their wings leaving dust
like diagnostic notes)

watching myself watch myself
through the kaleidoscope of
accumulated persistence⁵
each reflection more ornate
than the last, until the mirrors
forget which one was real

¹ The word "survival" implies success but contains within it the etymology of "over" and "live" - suggesting excess living, too much existence compressed into too little space

² Time being non-linear, the tissue remains perpetually "now," while the fragments exist simultaneously in past and present, like quantum particles refusing to choose a state

³ The mind's attempt to organize trauma reflects the baroque architecture of medieval reliquaries: beautiful containers for objects of pain

⁴ The butterflies represent not transformation (too obvious) but rather the impossibility of touching something without changing it - observer effect at the scale of memory

⁵ "Accumulated persistence" should be read as both a state of being and a medical condition, similar to how one might describe chronic inflammation in poetic terms

buy a book to save a crazy artist
whispers the voice of commerce
through the megaphone of desperation
while my other selves argue
about the exchange rate between
madness and marketability

and so it goes that creativity
dances with capitalism in a tango
of questionable consent while I
(or perhaps another I entirely)
file paperwork to trademark
the void staring back into me

the algorithm suggests therapy
but my existential crisis
has already monetized itself
into a subscription service
offering premium features
like coherent thought patterns

what is an artist anyway
but a collection of personas
trying to convince the void
to buy their merchandise
while reality keeps sending
invoices for existing

and so we wait in digital lines
our shopping carts full of souls
packaged in paperback format
while my various selves debate
whether to offer free shipping
on enlightenment prime

the madness comes with footnotes now
peer-reviewed and ready for purchase
(terms and conditions apply to
the dissolution of the self
please read the fine print
about reality's refund policy)

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

I'm like a bug in the bathroom when you flick on the lightswitch at 3 a.m.
frozen in the fluorescent truth of what I really am
scuttling between porcelain moments trying to make sense
of how the shadows keep rearranging themselves into faces I used to know
while the mirror multiplies my mistakes into infinity
and every dripping faucet is keeping time with my heartbeat
counting down to sunrise when I'll pretend none of this happened
but right now in this moment I'm just anatomy and regret
spinning circles on cold tile wondering
if anyone else is awake in this city
watching their reflection fragment into somebody else's memories
while the morning grows like mold in the corners of consciousness

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.

Hippocampus activation observed during
memory formation (Smith et al., 2023)
u up? been thinking bout that summer
when we mapped constellations on ur roof

Dopamine receptor density increases
with repeated stimulus exposure
miss u like crazy rn ngl
brain literally won't shut up about u

Amygdala shows heightened response
to emotional memory retrieval
message deleted
message deleted
message deleted
i still have ur hoodie

A vida é um filme
Uma novela de dramas e prazeres
É a acção que há em redor
Os sussurros de quem já não volta
Um velo que tudo cobre,
E o acordar de quem ainda sofre

Não há tempo para tudo
nem tanto para nada
O filme decorre sem parar
Com a ilusão de se poder jogar

Somos a bolha que emerge do mar
Tentando para cima voar
O mar é o tudo, acima é o vácuo
E a bolha volta a descer
Quando vamos morrer
Mas não há que temer
Não vamos sofrer
Apenas vamos volver
sem nada perder
ao início

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

the trick wasn't falling
it was pretending to land
while suspended between
yesterday's promises and tomorrow's laugh

hey, I really cherished your bare minimum while it lasted
like watching dust dance
in the last ray of light
before the bulb burns out

we built cathedrals
out of cigarette butts
and called them progress
while somewhere
in the marrow of time
truth prostitutes itself
for another chance
at being wrong

everything holy
lives in dumpsters now
selling wisdom
at discount rates
to anyone who'll listen
to the sound
of dignity
learning how to crawl

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.

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.

Like many others, I take what I can
One day at a time.
Distracting myself to survive the rush
that devours so many by routine
and lust.

But I choose to be aware,
inasmuch as choice is there.
And awareness is a light,
a truth that burns bright.
Get too close and you will feel its might,
and burn.

I have been burned inside
by truths about life;
I am accidental
In all its possible ways.
This need not despair;
There is comfort in content
with the grander ways up high.

I have come, and I will go.
My atoms will be no more
in this body.
They shall spread and move,
and be part of other lives too.
This mind will die,
its traces too, its records,
all in due time.
This too need not despair;
For there will be other minds
in other times.
Similar experiences, similar delights.

This existence just happened,
so too will many more.
It matters not if I'm beloved,
though it's nice and good to hear it more.

So come stranger,
tell me about yourself.
You are beloved too,
show me what burns inside of you.

the night i was ****** by my pillow
the moon watched through cheap IKEA curtains
like a government inspector checking boxes
my pillow had grown teeth somewhere between
midnight and the last beer

reality is what happens when memory
stops pretending to be polite about it
the pillow knew this better than me
its feather guts spilling philosophy
onto sheets that had seen better wars

no punctuation needed when you're busy
existing between the real and the maybe
like a cat who knows too much about
taxes and expenses to bother with mice
anymore

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.

in exchange for 90 poems
you'll need three weeks of your life
and gain two kilos
that was not such a bad deal, I thought
the weeks I did not have to work
as I was on sick leave
the kilos will be lost soon
from chemotherapy
and the poems made the time
pass
by
faster
and feel less useless
and doomed
no higher purpose needed
than to distract you too

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

borrowed
hoodie
still holds
the shape
of someone
who stopped
being real
three summers
ago

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.

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

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

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.

cat sits
in empty
cardboard box
practicing
the ancient
art of
believing
in perfect
spaces

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

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.

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.

concrete holds heat
like memory holds pain
     slowly
          releasing

the night sky empties itself
of stars
     of promises
          of whatever came before

we stand in shadows
counting heartbeats
     between sirens
          between breaths
               between endings

chin up folks!
not everybody gets to see the end of the world
     (the city holds its breath)
          (the shadows lean closer)
               (we remain anyway)

concrete holds heat
like memory holds hope
     slowly
          releasing
               everything
                    except
                         this moment

we stand in shadows
counting heartbeats
     until dawn

life is about the small concessions
we make to friends and family
my niece, twenty, turns and says
"uncle, you need a style makeover"
so she gifts me a sweater for Christmas
"alright", I said
so now I wear it
I suppose if it was as easy
as changing clothes
even I would have figured it out
by now
I hope she doesn't get too sad
when she figures out
it's not enough
herself

They lined my box with silver silk
(I'm not dead
just changing)

Blue flowers watch like eyes
white lilies pray like priests
while I hold
my future
in my hands

It weighs nothing
this butterfly
this promised flight
this painted prophecy
of gold and blue

My flower crown grows roots
into my dreams
where I've been sleeping
for a thousand years
or maybe moments

The wood around me
is not a coffin
but a cocoon
(listen:
my heartbeat
makes the lilies
dance)

I wear death like a blue dress
scattered with stars
waiting
waiting
for my wings
to catch fire

cities
breathe
different
at 4am
when even
lies look
beautiful
enough
to keep

city rain
turning
puddles
into
accidental
mirrors
of lives
we weren't
meant to
see

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.

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.

you're telling me you jumped off a cliff
(metaphorically speaking of course
I have to specify or people get weird about it)
because someone said you wouldn't?

and now you're sad about the falling part?
which is, admittedly, the main part of cliff-jumping
but still

I'm very sorry to hear that the direct and
predictable results of your actions happened to you
(that's a lie, I'm not sorry at all
my grandpa's goldfish taught me about gravity
before he died of totally unrelated causes)

anyway here's me doing a backflip
off this emotional ledge
into a pool of expired milk
because that's just the kind of day we're having

ps: your shoelaces are untied
pps: you're not wearing shoes
ppps: neither am I
(that's metaphorical too, probably)

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