Up your mother’s

We used to throw planes off my building
We would burn them and watch
How they blaze in the air
The flying flame
We talk about ideas
Talking leads us to ideas
Bomb fell
Flurried the organisms battered the organs knocked the organs out
Scattered us over the flat
Propelled me over the balcony into a dustbin full of cats
You're under the walls can't see if you're alive

The most boring number outnumbered us

Terrible eunuchs took you away from me
Fourteen papers I had to fill out
By then you were gone
The first paper was all boxes
The second my biography
The third your biography
After the fourth I got something to eat
Be calm my nervous stomach
My nervous stomach was calmed
You won't come back
I won't find you
I'll eat paper
I'll feel the climate change
Inside me and outside you dispersed
You're not real

Still I touch the mercury I watch the lamp I close my eyes to catch your form

We were talking about the pirate's treasure
The bills are marked
The assets are frozen
The eighth paper assessed my psychology
You're not real
I'm not true enough to regain focus by myself
Glory to those who graduate

Remote work

I get up
A peak of the day descending
Into disposition
Hi hello sorry to thanks
No problem
Most meetings don’t require a camera
Most times I can mute myself and cry
But I just sigh
Record the calls and scroll
Through filtered profiles with filtered jobs
I’m not young nor pretty
Enough to get out of this

Chair. I sigh again. Sorry
Could you repeat the question
Ossifying
This is my fifteen seconds
Of shame repeated
Couple of times in a couple-hour meeting
Muted back to not being
Pretty nor young enough but I do have several traumas
But I don’t know how to brand them
I have fewer friends
So my intestines chip in
Taking me out to
Colonoscopy, gastroscopy
Exciting new places
Though next morning just feels worse
Organs are bullies, an awful lot
Thus back to the chair
Ossifying, blocking them all
Scrolling through society like
An old man hating everyone
Just wanting to be
Hated back
Rituals ought to be married
To formalise their boredom
Still, how I do look forward to spending
My night with them while
Boss is turning the last chapter of the last
Meeting into a stand-up
Before his muted, private, ossifying audience
Green glow of paying humour
Seconded and haloed
By his son’s screams
I think about blaming my parents, how
They hushed me to the ground
Bye goodbye sure by tomorrow

Alas, couch
Bones crackle like parquet
I feel my pulse, then faint
Only to find
The flat ossified
Into me!
But I have another endoscopy
In an hour
I get out
But can’t get rid of the flat on my back, the shell
My new organ
Trembles as I walk through the street
And people avoid me
Not to get hit by a brick, so
I crawl to stop
The earthquake

In the middle of the street
With a flat on his back
A snail won’t make it to the appointment
Dilapidated
He’s dying a death of a building
Interrupted
By cyclists’ nagging ring-rings

A poem in which I try to capture the everyday in its patterns like your everyday poet

To shut down and cool off like my laptop
All I need is wind and weed
A pitch-black night in which
Apparitions come out like girls
That turn my brain on and my brain makes my dick hard
I take a tepid-leaning-to-cold shower
Food is old people's last passion
So to me food is family and love
And death is becoming in me
The once mystical stranger whom now I see
Sometimes in my every bite
Sometimes because nothing is always
And people like to call out each other's generalizations
Gleefully pulling out examples that refute those generalizations
Like nerdy kids who outsmart their teachers and make them look stupid
Kids are stupid

All kids
But sometimes they show promise
I tend to forget my promises
The memory of them
Moves to my stomach
They gnaw at me, they bite, they chew, they are kids who move back with their parents
Death manifests in food as a slave driver
At least the energy of food gives off that vibe
When life's your enemy
Stomach was your only true friend and you
Went whoring around in consumerist hysterics
Your stomach is crying acid tears
And we all can enter the same river twice
But the second time it turns to blood just like with kids
Who move back with their parents
And old people, you know how they (sometimes they
Don't) call each other boys and girls and chicks and dudes and lads and chaps and bitches and babes and baes
Even though they're old
Some of them even call the people young enough to be their offspring kids
Oh, you know that boy, he just moved back to his parents' house. Anna, remember Anna, that redhead hoe who used to eyeball us probably dreaming of a threesome? She's his mother. Well, her husband isn't exactly a chad, and she was quite a catch, as in catch-her-by-the-pussy hot, catch her snatch and snatch her heart.

A slippery source once told me
There's a syphilis pandemic rampaging through the nursing homes
And it turned my brain on and
My brain makes me keep on going
That, but also the belief that moving back with our father can't pass as heaven