#irony
This cowardice has become my respite.
These thoughts sober me as I live my drunk vicarious life.
I was following the straight and narrow
until drugs made me think twice.
Chemicals of life brew in my brain.
We are born high. We can only come down.
Who wears the crown?
The king or the clown?
Reservation to act exclusive,
or rather, being reclusive.
My laugh is a frown.
I observe the inherent inheritance in all *****
Still, when social I simmer merit behind my wall
because the humourless act so appalled by a black comedy.
The line between tragedy and chuckles is thin.
Where does one begin?
Waffling can turn you into a pancake.
What an absurd joke.
Does every normal bloke feel this way?
Is it just me, lying alone?
Playing my games in my head. Feeding bread to pigeons on a cold day.
They come home to roost in my lofty burden.
Noise breaks darkness yet the loud are uncouth.
Aloof equals enlightenment because silence breeds truth.
I’m shouting nonsense for fear of the unheard
and mixing up lots of meaningless words.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 1:11 PM UTC
Something has always been wrong with me. Every extreme emotion connects to the same concept; hidden behind a mask of pleasure... feeling so warm I could just die in someone's arms—so overjoyed that I could just stab myself in the gut a million times.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 3:19 PM UTC
Unbalanced. Imperfect. Incomplete.
Humanity.
Distinguished from animalistic predecessors.
By manner and grade.
Yet, Flawed by definition, a test.
As do the tides of time ebb and flow, as does the degree to which this trait is measured.
Where esteem is defined extraneously, and the plight of the accursed, a matter of humour.
Thus, stands the question - what are we really?
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 12:57 PM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF™: “Safety in Numbers (Curated)” (Part III)
(Another layer of the curated self – the version designed to be seen, not known.)
“Thanks for coming –
how’s your evening so far?”
It always starts like this.
A softness rehearsed
until it feels spontaneous.
A small, human sentence
placed like a welcome mat
outside a door
that never fully opens.
Welcome.
Here, the lighting is intentional.
Warm enough to flatter,
dim enough to conceal.
Every angle pre‑approved.
Every silence moderated.
I arrive already arranged:
hair undone in the way
that suggests effortlessness,
fingers on the keys
as if music simply happens to me
and isn’t practiced
like a survival skill.
Or the violin –
tilted into that posture
that reads as devotion
but never risk.
I call her me.
She calls me content.
She never asks
why they’re watching.
She knows the contract:
I provide the outline,
they fill it with longing.
Safety in numbers –
though numbers now have names,
icons,
tiny faces offering
soft approval shaped like a heart.
They gather.
Not too close –
never that –
but close enough
to simulate intimacy.
And simulation is important.
Simulation feels safe.
Simulation performs truth
without the inconvenience of it.
Honestly, I wish
I could be like other people –
careless, unlit,
unarranged.
But that would be…
off‑brand.
So I offer fragments:
a phrase at the piano
that sounds like confession,
a bow drawn slowly
as if revealing something
I never intend to reveal.
Not too much.
Never too much.
Just enough
to imply depth
without the burden of it.
“Come closer,” I write
without writing it.
“Stay a while.”
But not long enough
to ask anything real.
I can give you something –
tonight,
tomorrow,
whenever the algorithm
permits my existence.
It’s easier this way.
With one person
there are questions.
With many
there is only response.
A chorus of small affirmations
that never quite touch me,
but orbit,
obediently,
like well‑trained birds.
Do you see?
I am alone,
but at scale.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 10:47 AM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF™ (Part I)
(Because even authenticity needs a little editing.)
Every morning,
The Polished Self™
wakes before I do.
It stretches,
straightens its metaphorical collar,
and asks me
if I’m ready to be seen.
I tell it
I haven’t had coffee yet.
It tells me
visibility waits for no one.
Together we review
the daily rituals:
curate,
crop,
soften the shadows,
brighten the eyes,
remove the parts
that don’t photograph well –
which is to say,
most of me.
The Polished Self
is patient,
in the way a mirror is patient:
it reflects
without forgiving.
It reminds me
that authenticity
is a performance too,
just with better lighting.
Sometimes I ask
if we could take a day off –
be unpresentable,
unoptimized,
unseen.
It smiles
with the kind of pity
reserved for amateurs.
“People don’t want the truth,”
it says.
“They want the version of you
that looks like the truth
but doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”
And I nod,
because I’ve learned
that arguing with a reflection
only makes the glass smudge.
Still,
there are evenings
when I catch myself
in a window
after dark –
unfiltered,
unarranged,
unpolished –
and I think:
this person,
this quiet, unlit version,
might be worth showing too.
But morning comes,
and The Polished Self™
is already awake,
already shining,
already asking:
“Are you ready
to be believed today?”
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 8:46 AM UTC
When I was six my mama said
She’d pay me for each ten
Flies I got alive or dead
A penny.
So I wandered room to room
Swatter cocked to ****
Listening for the tell-tale buzz
Of a fly on a windowsill.
Whap! Would go the swatter.
Splat! Another fly.
Whappity-wahappity, WHAP! SPLAT! WHAP!
Die. Die. Die.
Soon the hunt was over.
Not a fly remained.
The windowsills were dotted black;
the swatter smeared and stained.
I collected all the bodies
To see what death would bring:
Mama paid me seventeen cents
(and some were only wings!).
Today at school we learned about
How baby seals die:
“Mama, did you make a hat
Out of all those flies?”
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
I hate love poems.
I hate wet blubbering fools.
I hate ting! – ting! silver bells.
I hate, I hate, I hate
Cute I love you’s;
Little, naked cupids
Bow-bent, waiting.
I hate love poems.
I hate sweet hot convulsions on paper.
I hate. Oh! Oh! Ahh…..!
Desire when
Two touch.
I hate love poems.
I hate silent bells
And broken arrows,
I hate boo – hoo –
Love poems dipped in
Hate – thick red
And dripping
Self defense.
But most of all,
I hate
The soft,
And final,
Kiss.
Nov 18, 2021
Nov 18, 2021 at 3:59 AM UTC
You tried to own my success.
You suffered 14 years, but
It wasn’t enough.
If you had made an offer
For my failures, too,
You could have had it all
For a love song.
Feb 25, 2025
Feb 25, 2025 at 6:09 PM UTC
I think I love you like a man.
I love your pretty face,
your lovely hair,
and all the missing bits
I’m kindly filling out for you.
The more you’re gone,
the more ideal you appear.
That soft delicious skin
hides your lack of basic skill.
I like the way you’re shy.
I like how I’m making you uneasy.
Your face is pale, yet still blushing,
those rosy cheeks afire.
I’d love to have a piece
of your dainty dark blond curls.
I cannot hold in my desire.
I fear I might force myself
onto that ****** lock.
Sometimes your ruby lips
spill silly little pebbles.
But that’s alright, my love,
you should not worry.
A boy as sweet as you
needs neither wisdom,
nor pointy sharpened wits.
We wouldn’t want to *****
that lovely mellow finger.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 4:05 PM UTC
I don’t usually talk about a club, in the club
but last night I was chattering breathlessly, at midnight,
about how right the club had gotten its atmosphere.
I’m never quite sure, design-wise, what’s ‘now’ and
what’s retro nuance.
My bf Peter said the design was “Warholism,” whatever THAT is.
I gave him a puzzled look and he said. “The Factory?”
Like that meant something.
Why is he so much smarter than me? It’s unjust.
Lets wax poetically..
The drinks were priced like artifacts
but we ordered them like essentials.
A club is a machine calibrated for pleasure.
Similar to real life, but with much better lighting
plus their decors are tuned to optimistic escapism.
Last night’s club, was all chrome and blue light
making us feel like we were on a spaceflight
Clubs hit escape velocity around midnight
when everyone’s having their own garish moment
- crowds roll in on the vibe, and things warm up.
When moving on the floor started to feel like work
we escaped the ordinary for the cooler mezzanine
We arrived as our drinks were being freshened up
I tip well and they’re happy to manage my money
It was a good thing. Our generation doesn’t know
how to wait without looking like we’re waiting.
BTW: Don’t you LOVE anti-spiking drink covers?! #justbrilliant
ok, now it’s this morning (Saturday).
My head is pounding, as if someone were striking it,
every thirty seconds or so, with a timpani malot.
“That was the LAST time..” I moan, but I was being ironic.
I know it’s not true, Peter knows it’s not true, I know, he knows,
I know it’s not true - but he gets my meaning - that’s irony.
Peter never seems to have a hangover and at times it pi$$es me off.
“How do you feel,” I ask him in my smallest voice - lest I awake the timpanist.
“Fine,” he says, with an enjoyable sense of righteousness.
He sips his coffee as if he has not a care.
“You’re only fine because your head is empty,” I lash out in a whisper.
.
.
A song for this:
Can't Tame Her by Zara Larsson
Tears by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 7:03 AM UTC
I think children should eat.
I don’t mean metaphorically.
I don’t mean spiritually.
I mean food.
On plates.
Regularly.
And just to be clear,
I am mentally stable.
I slept last night.
I am not being coerced.
No one is holding my phone hostage.
I think people deserve shelter.
Walls that don’t leak ideology when it rains.
Roofs that don’t ask for proof of moral purity.
A door that locks from the inside
because safety should not require an application.
This is not a threat.
I am calm.
I am employable.
My friends can vouch for me.
If I disappear, it was not because I believed this too hard.
I think healthcare should heal people
instead of measuring how much pain they can afford.
I think breathing should not be a luxury upgrade.
I think insulin should not come with a ransom note.
I think survival should not depend
on how well you smile at a receptionist.
Again---clarifying---
I love my family.
I love my country.
I love cats, probably too much.
This is not extremism.
This is a pulse checking itself.
I think consent matters.
In bodies.
In borders.
In conversations.
I think “no” is a full sentence
even when spoken softly,
even when spoken by someone
you’ve trained yourself not to hear.
I am not angry.
I am not unstable.
I am not inciting anything
except maybe reflection,
which I understand can feel violent
to systems built on speed and silence.
I think history should be told
without footnotes that apologize for power.
I think textbooks should stop flinching.
I think erasure is still violence
even when it’s laminated.
This is not an attack.
This is not a call to action.
This is me stating facts
with my hands visible
and my tone approved.
I think some lives are treated like warnings
instead of worlds.
I think the word “unfortunate”
has been doing a lot of ***** work.
I think when suffering is predictable,
it stops being accidental.
I am okay.
I promise.
I am not “spiraling.”
I am observing.
I think dignity should not be conditional.
Not on productivity.
Not on obedience.
Not on how quietly someone breaks.
I think a society is not judged
by how it punishes its worst,
but by how casually it abandons its most tired.
Please note,
This is not a cry for help.
This is not coded language.
This is not me “going down a path.”
I think calling empathy dangerous
is how you train people
to fear their own reflection.
I think when truth needs a disclaimer,
something else is lying.
And for the record,
for the screenshots,
for the archives,
for the “just in case”---
I am sane.
I am lucid.
I am not missing.
I am just living in a time
where asking for humanity
requires an alibi.
And that---
that is the most radical thing
I’ve said yet.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 3:42 AM UTC
This is the issue
With you logophiles —
From your logged eye
Your pleonasm —
Your tautology —
Your tenuous lexiphanes
Are a rationalized
Superiority — sculpted
In alabaster vowels
And lacquered tone.
You genuflect towards
Your own verbosity —
Polished and pristine —
While adding precious stones
To a gilded noose
Braided in adjectives.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 11:13 PM UTC
In this place we hid, drinking rain drops as a kid, the water ran wild
Now the metrics are all sold and told when and why
On the sidewalks we used to see far only one line at a time could be spoken of, so respected was the labor of sidewalks
Out in that airwave now all the costs became a lingo for people with plenty of school, the sidewalk just waits, all four sides of it
But we don't get very long to stand up and do what we must, so must we still sell the lines? The lines of people? The lines of cars? There's no way out of the line now.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 11:55 PM UTC
I've not refined for one's pittance
Class is not as the poors wretched freedom
Cost exalts one!
Deny the excess?
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 6:48 PM UTC
Winter settles in,
the outside noise has lowered.
In this unusual quietness,
I can hear life’s hum a little more clearly,
carried by forgotten breeze into an old room.
And swiftly, my heart began to thaw;
the air felt colder against my skin—
yet strangely, the chill warmed me further.
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 2:02 AM UTC
I’m up late thinking of ways to start my days less exhausting.
I stuff my face with unhealthy food as I ponder how to be healthier.
I take another sip of caffeine to help figure out the cause of my racing heart and shaky hands.
I bite my nails, worrying about what methods to use to make them grow faster.
“Why must everyone in this world be so addicted to technology?”
I say as I stare at a screen showing a teenager staring at a screen
“Making excuses to avoid work? Lazy!”
I say as I spend the third hour of my “I’m busy that day” day
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 2:03 AM UTC
Janam, how softly they say,
“Compromise, my sweetheart,”
guarding every inch
of their beautiful hayat,
while preaching others
how to lose their lives.
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 8:38 AM UTC
A smile arises from the irony:
The heart misses you,
The brain is scared,
And in a vain attempt,
To save the broken pieces,
Sculpts your precious ojitos,
Accross my ruined realm.
How funny is the thought...
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 7:47 AM UTC
i laid down on the railroad tracks,
hoping for God to finish me.
as the rain came pouring,
the thunder came rolling,
i wished the sun was over me.
but her warmth didn't come,
her cold breath came instead.
the snow settled all over me.
finally i could hear the engine,
i close my eyes.
oh Lord is it over for me?
but the end never came -
has He spared me?
i raised my head over the railroad tracks,
i see the demolition team.
turns out
the train don't come through,
here no more.
poor, poor, pitiful me.
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 6:18 PM UTC
Наряд культуры
Нормы ренессанс
Условности - валюта
То сногсшибателен прикид
Животному - сшибающему с ног
И над рассудком кичась - "Поглумись"
Выравнивают ему ворот
"Ты за ошейник потяни" -
Ощеривает рожу Молох - "На, поводок"
Смести анализ, планы, разум
"Похоть!" - кликают найти повод
"Нет! Пусто! Тело - фокус!" -
И багровеет кожа - кулаки
И шею костной
Ворошит желанье -
Дурак кричал - "Стой! Погоди!"
"Валяй" - и началось закланье
Молчал во мраке Аполлон
Слепой до света - соучастник
"Ты покормил собой господ?"
Обглоданны Атланта плечи
Всё стонут нимфы -
"Позабудь" - вину о детях
Сложен рок - из искренности
Безучастья - песня
Мы вторим - всё нам невдомёк
Во изувеченном лице - усмешка
Простую колыбель - и мать простит
"Заснуть бы поскорее"
"Отдай, дитя, надежду"
Во сне клеймит отчаянье -
"Заткнись!" - и загудела рана
Дрожь - экстаза - "Я живой"
Все встали в круг - "Нет! Зеркала.."
И замахнулись руки -
Истошно разрывая связки
"Это сон! Ну, встань! Проснись!"
И разбивают рёбра и ключицу
"Проснись же! Встань!"
Ломают руки, отбивают спину
"Проснись.."
И рассекли затылок - смолк
Исчезли трупа отраженья
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 11:36 AM UTC
All the world said to me I was naught but a pawn
That was hanged between index and ring
But from all of my dreams I still woke with a yawn
And believed I could make myself king
Then when after a stroke that had earned me some rank
I was told I could now be a knight
I was told, though my place was still humble and frank,
At least now I could enter the fight
Then when more social place did I earn through my deeds
It was said I could then be a rook
I looked down at myself and repeated the creeds
That I’d found in a chess player’s book
By the end of the game, though the battle was done,
I now king, though my army was gone,
I turned ‘round and in shock, for I thought I had won,
I faced mate by a servile pawn.
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 3:48 PM UTC
My gönül! so heartless,
wanted a golden egg.
I followed like a hen,
returned, aşkım, with blindness.
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 2:17 AM UTC
The hostilities of society,
Where you’ll find different kinds of hate in variety,
Where the ignorant play their games of morality,
Forgetting the one true rule of mortality:
Don’t die!
Easy piece of advice, right?
Swim through life until you reach 85,
close your eyes, reminisce all of your time.
And all of your lies..
Wait what? What do you mean?
There’s no major lies to look back on,
To contemplate or perceive.
No, no, you see,
All humans are alike!
Jumping to conclusions when you see somebody holding a knife,
Assuming that everybody’s words is an attack,
What a strife.
We are of some degree, narcissistic.
Disagree?
Well, let’s face it.
We’ve all assumed the whispers as we walk by,
are some hateful jeers about your dress or your tie,
When in reality, no one really gives a ****
But as paranoid creatures, we don’t understand.
You must be angry now, because how dare I,
Throw out such accusations about how you live your life?
While here I hold up my head so high.
In reality I am a victim too.
Do you not see my hate?
My hate of everything, do you?
I hate the people that jump to conclusions, which means I also hate myself.
What might be someone’s demonstration can be another’s cry for help.
But you help yourself.
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 2:08 AM UTC
the world adjusts
to his legs.
mine learn
m
a
n
n
e
r
s
.
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 11:28 AM UTC