up wrapping his farts, his yawns in the blankets,
striving on his lazing, his slow stretches, he rolls on the bed, waits for the banquet... a still mummy, lacking worries and edges. day in day out and nothing is achieved but for a new procrastination goal. night in night out and nothing is conceived... a wingless airplane than him has more role Who's that sloth, so tired of the not doing? He eats, sleeps, complains, jerks-off, sighs, repeats... born bum, who vagrancy is pursuing, I wonder how his heart keeps on its beats... Look! He stood up! and on his feet he goes! pat him on the back for stirring up his toes!
0 Comments
empty room; empty plate
no windows, no doors you just sit there and wait. empty room; empty state no future, no past just you and the glass plate. empty room, empty faith no clothes, no mattress waiting there like a dead weight. empty gloom; empty date no sanity; no kiss just you and that dish - you wonder how it will taste. I wanted to go West.
I was very excited. I got on the bus. Still excited. 8 hours latter I found out that I had gone the wrong way, far up North; almost a straight line. So I hated myself every second of the 8 hours trip back South. The next day I told myself I wouldn't be silly and that I HAD to get on the right bus. I went North again. I went south back again. The third day came and this time I checked 100 times the ticket and the number of the bus and the time of its arrival. I got on. I was excited and a bit anxious. The West vibrated for me, the horizon like warm lips waiting for my kiss... ...and there I was up North. again. And back south. Again. I woke up. a nightmare within a nightmare within a nightmare. I looked Out: the landscape rolling to the snoring road; and Inside: the steady low hum of the engine; my legs semi-numb, consolidated on the bus seat. One more hour and I'd be there. It seemed to be snowing about 80 miles ahead. We are smudges of bones and placental blood
On the defiled skin of Earth We are white noise spinning regressively around the clock we are landfills of skyscrapers mass graveyard of expectations We are always online Always on time logging in and out for cheap laughter rush of petty grievances food for narcissism We knee for holes thriving in the sky molecular machines hunting its blue making it another good for us to buy We ask “how much for a pack of cigarettes and a bit of sunshine?” We are fabricating a new kind of disease A phantom virus A plague besieges our steps An addiction beats like a vital organ We are scarce of oxygen and friends and peace of mind But we drag around this device in our cocoons Saying, Hey add me on Facebook follow me on Instagram You see how #happy I am? You see this pic? Do you like it? Do you like it? Do you like it? Do you like it? Motherboard, Do you like it? We are on standby mode We are alone in our dim cubicles Venerating a white apple of light We see Eden But it’s just augmented reality We are reckless parents putting our babies to charge We are all smiles for cameras We are jelly jolly brains on kebab sticks as mouths of quantum computers salivate I force myself to write.
I force myself talking to you... nothing personal - I don't feel like talking to anyone. I'm tired of Brazilian culture. I'm tired of North American culture. I get sick of any culture if I live long enough into it. I'm in Limbo. I need to drink alone to keep going - it makes me sick. I'm sick of myself. I'm sick of my thoughts. I'm sick of my boredom. I'm sick of my desires. Nothing makes me more or less important than the baby who just died or the king who lived 300 years. Nothing makes me better or worse than the child dying of starvation this very moment. My speech is redundant. My complaints are irrelevant and so are yours. I can shut myself into silence and it won't make any difference. I could die at any given moment. I'm a fart in geological time. I'm insignificant and I'm aware of it. Any thought of validating my existence is just arrogance and ignorance. the universe is fucked up. My sex life is a desert where skeletons pile up beyond the horizon.
I could rape a cactus. |
|