I suffer from a disease that goes by the name of Loneliness.
It's an ancient affliction;
some sick kind of curse,
and those who know it best often boast: it's the worst.

But every now and then,
I look around me to see some fat cow in the company of a dead-eyed chudd -
spewing out a slew of inanities for lack of the cud.
He finally shuts her up with a kiss on the mouth,
as they walk off hand in hand.

I think to myself:
"How in the hell did they find a cure,
but I can't?"

It’s contagious
And outrageous  
Not very courteous
And quite ferocious
It is ridiculous
To call me pretentious
And  it’s very conspicuous  
That I am, au contraire, extraordinaire

You tell me these words
that my ears want to hear
that my eyes want to witness
that my heart wants to feel

You act like this person
that really likes me
that actually cares for who I am
that gives importance to my existence

But the truth is that
your words are deceiving
your words are illusions
your words are insincere

Because I am just an option...
when you are bored

He asks himself,
To ask himself:
    
    “What’s self-referential humour?”

Oh please stop complaining
I don't even care

This world is full of cruelty
so don't act surprised
just expect it from me

I am done being too naïve
I am done with feeling stupid all the time
and most of all I am tired of all your
unreasonable ways

I am tired of dealing with your nonsense

This time, if you want competition
I will give it to you
and I will show you what I am capable of

This is just the start
you'll see more of me as the time goes by

But you'll never see the real me anymore
because my barriers are stronger and can never
be knocked out by some unworthy people

writing things:
constructing entities
not objects, subjects
those entities interact
they act upon the reader
hey this is me, this is me in you
is there a me in you?
they ask
and they may say no
they may wonder and ponder
and we are so over structuralism, hence
they do not look at what you've written
or what you wanted to write
they look at the entity
and for a moment, the two converse
as far as semantics go,
you are irrelevant now
i am irrelevant now
curious things
constructing entities
not objects. very subjective subjects.
this is me, they say,
i am about love
i see everything through these lenses
i am these lenses
i am about pain
see through my lenses
read me enough times,
enough between the lines,
and you'll see the whole world
reflected, colored, distorted or true
but it is not my world
no no no
this is a conversation
you may even debate
you may even be hypnotized
there are no writers
here is the text
and there are you
talking
this is a very talkative text
i am a very talkative text
the reader may object
but i strongly believe what i believe
i am what i am
but for you, i am what you see in me
a terrible experimental poem
or a decent experimental poem
or a meta-brag from a talentless hipster
but, really, i wouldn't know
i' m here for the conversation

doth thy timorous voice
tremble so, faced with choice
one so simple as to be common sense
between freedom and thy abusive ex?

A cockatiel lives in my ribcage
and maybe it should
come out and tell me about
the pain it swallows
and turns into songs,
songs for everybody to hear.

I am fine with it there most
of the time, really.
But sometimes at night my pretentious
heart gets tired and I want
to tear it up and set the bird free.
There's nothing that can save me.


F.Z.**N

"i don't wanna have to be the one to tell you this,
but you're no foodie; you're just a fat-***
who's too cowardly to take an honest look at yourself.

It's okay to be whatever you want,
just don't lie to yourself proclaiming to be a foodie
to justify late-night trips to Jack in the Box four days a week,
or eating a whole jar of Tostitos 'Salsa con Queso' every two days.

Are you trying to mummify yourself with all those preservatives?

Y'know,
just because you blow most of your paychecks
on gasoline, **** food and overpriced coffee
pulled to the most pretentious of standards
doesn't at all begin to mean that you've got any class, taste, or style,
let alone that you're a foodie.

At least recycle all the paper products your pseudofood comes in.

Moreover, your thighs aren't ******* gluten,
they're all that other junk you eat habitually
while watching your oh-so-edified selection of films
before sleeping it off until 3 in the afternoon.

No wonder you're so full of ****:
you are what you eat, I suppose.

Pull your head on out your ***.

All that fat and cholesterol isn't for the faint of heart."