She sees herself slipping sideways, crawling out of frame—a fractured shadow laughing bitterly at the void. Split into two, three, a dozen hungry ghosts armed to the teeth, blades humming, flashing like neon sickness under a rotting sun. A chemical tang on the tongue—morphine dreams, sharp as razors, as bitter as the lies she whispers to herself, again and again and again. Agreement? No chance. Agreement's a dead language.

The streets are jagged veins, carved by desperate hours and desperate hands. The past crashes through like a ****** in withdrawal, clawing at her skin, digging for some fragile vein of meaning. The chosen ones scatter like cigarette ash into the unbreathable air. Truth burns. Doubt screams. Nobody wins this game.

She’s disgraced, sure, but truth is her leash. She’s got the numbers—counts the dead, calculates the weight of significance in a world slipping off its axis. Oracle burned to ash by her own prophecy, she's got secrets to sell. Whispers futures into the ears of corpses. Hands groping through the static for some code, some cipher. Eyes wide, empty. Blind.

The labyrinth pulls her deeper, silken threads unraveling into something monstrous, writhing roots, tangles of anxiety choking the air. Confess! she commands, spitting venom. Purity’s a joke told by the ******, a punchline you find only when the blade's in your hand. But she’s reaching anyway, clawing at enlightenment like it owes her something, like despair’s got an answer hiding in the filth. Flowers bloom red in the cracks, ecstasy spilling like blood, too much, too fast, choking.

Blood pools where the flow stops. Stagnant. She swallows herself, folds into nothing. The mirror devours her whole, spitting back echoes, endless recursion, hysteria blooming in the cracks. Scream trapped, caught, reflected infinitely. A Möbius strip of despair, looping forever, cutting deep, deeper still.

No exit. Just mirrors. Just screams.

As far as I know, the scope of humankind's problems doesn't decrease, overall (somewhere this or that situation improves, while somewhere it becomes worse). There's a galore of sociopolitical problems, also there are environmental ones. While the world human population is already somewhat above 8 billion (8 **** billion) & keeps growing (due to the majority of the most sentient species' members mindlessly reproducing, regardless of their financial situation, genome, & 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘 other 𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗦 that 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗 𝗕𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗕𝗘𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗕𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗕𝗘𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦... 𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗧𝗘 𝗠𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗗-𝗨𝗣 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗟𝗗; but who the hell gives a ****, right?). 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗢𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗬 & 𝗢𝗥𝗚𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗭𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗠𝗘 are 𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗘 (𝗥 𝗜 𝗦 𝗘). As it was mentioned by me in a note to one of my recent rhyme pieces, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗟𝗗𝗪𝗜𝗗𝗘 𝗢𝗥𝗚𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗭𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗟𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗟 𝗥𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝟰.𝟴𝟳 𝗜𝗡 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟭 𝗧𝗢 𝟱.𝟬𝟯 𝗜𝗡 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟯 (according to data published on ocindex.net). It's now 2025 approaching. You think the situation has improved? 𝗟𝗔𝗦𝗧 𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠𝗘𝗥 𝗣𝗘𝗢𝗣𝗟𝗘 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗗𝗬𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗧 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗟𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗢𝗜𝗥𝗦 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗗𝗥𝗬𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗨𝗣. For 72 countries with the total human population of more than 2.3 billion, last June-August period became the hottest since at least 1970 (according to info published here: climatecentral.org/report/people-exposed-to-climate-change-june-august-2024). This 𝗚𝗟𝗢𝗕𝗔𝗟 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗚 is, as it's known, 𝗛𝗨𝗠𝗔𝗡-𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗗. 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗦𝗘 of it is, as it's known, carbon dioxide (CO2) entering the atmosphere from emissions caused by the burning of 𝗙𝗢𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗟 𝗙𝗨𝗘𝗟𝗦.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗕𝗢𝗧𝗛 𝗦𝗢𝗖𝗜𝗢𝗣𝗢𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗠𝗦 & 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗟𝗢𝗕𝗔𝗟 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗚 are those of high & ruling social classes. In other words, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬. It's the wealthy that form & control a sociopolitical course the most. Most mobsters belong to the wealthy. It's the wealthy that consume more than the rest & cause the most CO2-containing fossil fuel emissions. All of the wealthy are corrupt to different degrees. Now, there's a good question to ask yourself: being the main causers of & contributors to all those problems, 𝗪𝗛𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗟 𝗜𝗦 𝗜𝗧 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗨𝗣𝗧 𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗔𝗙𝗙𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗦𝗧?! A wicked good question keeping in mind that it's mostly unprivileged & way less corrupt people who are affected by both sociopolitical problems & the global warming caused by the corrupt wealthy. That's unacceptable, it's wrong to accept that. There's an option on how to decrease/slow down sociopolitical problems & the global warming. It's simple as rhyme schemes of most writers of pop & trap lyrics, but not in terms of how to reach the proposed. I don't see a better option of fixing the status quo than to get rid of as much of the corrupt wealthy as possible by both legal means &, if legal ones are blocked or ineffective due to governmental corruption, forcible ones. I don't mean everyone of the wealthy should be targeted, only ones that contribute to injustice more than do something good to society or its individual members. The groups of 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗨𝗣𝗧 𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬 𝗕𝗘𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗗 (in my view): 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗥𝗨𝗟𝗘𝗥𝗦 & 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗜𝗥 𝗟𝗢𝗬𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗦, 𝗠𝗢𝗕𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦, 𝗙𝗢𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗟 𝗙𝗨𝗘𝗟 𝗟𝗢𝗕𝗕𝗬𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗦.

I know what humanists & pacifists may say. Something like: "Yes, they're corrupt, but they are still humans, they have human rights. It's wrong to get rid of or put pressure on anyone by forcible means. Blah-blah-blah". On which, some would retort that it's justifiable to get rid of or put pressure on them by forcible means. (I'm not sure about some types of agents of authoritarian regimes & fossil fuel lobbyists, but) the majority of the former & mobsters deserve to be dealt with by forcible means, for they contribute to injustice, including by means of force, not being forced by their social situation to do so. There are justifiable wrongdoings (necessary/lesser evil) & unjustifiable ones. A food theft committed by a person dying from starvation, or a ****** of a murderer committed by a person in retribution for their significant other murdered by the very murderer are examples of justifiable wrongdoings. There's nothing like that when it comes to the afore-mentioned groups of the corrupt wealthy. The best justification of their contribution to injustice they have is that they do it to maintain & preserve their wealth & to survive physically under a corrupt system they're parts of. That's a wicked lame justification. They should never have become a part of a corrupt system in the first place. Contributors to injustice must face consequences of their actions. In other words, «𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗟 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗕𝗘 𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗗».

If whatever legal means to punish the afore-mentioned corrupt wealthy are blocked or ineffective due to governmental corruption, all anti-authoritarian-minded adult people in fine fettle should 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗔 𝗖𝗨𝗘 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗪𝗡 𝗔𝗦𝗦𝗔𝗗'𝗦 blood-shedding 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘 recently or, as it was more than once mentioned by me, 𝗩𝗜𝗚𝗜𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗦 being expert assassins, 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥𝗧 𝗠𝗖𝗖𝗔𝗟𝗟, 𝗝𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡 "𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗗" 𝗧𝗢𝗗𝗗, 𝗙𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗜𝗦 "𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗥" 𝗖𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗟𝗘, 𝗩. All those problems can't be fixed under this **** liberal-capitalistic system, for it's flawed in ways making it able for corrupt creatures, such as the afore-mentioned wealthy, to exploit it. Think about it.

«𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗡𝗟𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗡𝗘𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗨𝗠𝗣𝗛 𝗢𝗙 𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗟 𝗜𝗦 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗚𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗠𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗢 𝗗𝗢 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚»
«𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗜𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗟𝗔𝗪, 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗗𝗨𝗧𝗬»

Chop, chop, chop. The marionette slumps, and I’m left holding the blade, sticky with the residue of years. Family? A loose construct. A rotting scaffolding propped up by shared scars and the thinnest thread of blood. They weren’t people—they were collectors. Hoarders of anger, archivists of hurt. They fed on it, bled for it, distilled it into a toxin they called love. I drank it until my veins swelled, until the comatose hum was the only sound I knew.

Their lies were iron bars, their truths blunt objects. They didn’t whisper—they shouted, fists slamming bets on the underdog. "He’ll crack," they said, "too small, too soft." They didn’t count on the dog biting back, didn’t see the will buried beneath the scars.

And the scars—purple, thick, obscene. Skin turned leather under fire. A graft job, patched together with pain and necessity. They thought they’d burned me to ash, but ash has its uses. It fertilizes. It grows things.

Now I’m moving forward, past their circus of anger and blood, past the puppeteer’s stage. The road hums under me, neon signs flashing promises that aren’t real, but maybe they don’t have to be. The truth? There isn’t one. Just will. Just the drive toward some distant point of light. Peace isn’t handed out. You take it. You keep it. And maybe, just maybe, it keeps you too.

alright, alright, the records sound good
and the mulled wine tastes great.

everything here is tidied up;
swept, mopped, vacuumed, wiped down
to an immaculate degree

it matters very little though
when your utterly alone
on Christmas Day
in a clean house
without anybody
to ***** it up
again.

all I have are these thoughts,
these tiny flashes,
you appear,
then disappear,
then reappear
once more.

I can only imagine you bringing us a drink
while we laugh at the same movie
we’ve seen for the 400th time
and the kids are playing at our feet
with their new toys and board games
and eating oranges or chocolates
or walnuts on a white cozy afternoon

but looking around now
while dipping into the 5th scoop
of wine from out of the ***,
there appears to be
nobody here.

I add cranberries, an orange slice and a cinnamon stick
as I switch the record to Leatherface or Joy Division
or The Shocking Blue or Black Sabbath or
the collected works of Richard Strauss
but it doesn’t help my melancholia,
only suppresses it
for a while

and as the dog stares wide-eyed
and the cat leaps out wildly
and the gloomy clouds roll by
and the poem writes its obituary
to a silent response,

the music grips my heart
and squeezes it like the
blood of an
orange

and I am
utterly alone
without
you.

my father is telling me last night he dreamt he was telling the neighbours to install a shining privacy screen. my mother is telling me she dreamt about doing her taxes. “hand over your documents” the man said. she’s telling me how it was a different man, and how he really should have already had their documents, and i’m just sitting here thinking ‘if my dreams ever get this boring, please shoot me’. i don’t want domestic fantasies. i am not my father. my father’s only son is the house we live in. i am not allowed to touch the walls. i am not my mother. i do not care if my surfaces shine or not. i am not my parents. i do not want a government job. i do not want a sterile house. i don’t like ikea furniture. i still have dreams about zombies and my friends and war the ocean and i never want that to go away.