They aren’t, I tell you.
Neither they are aliens; they are objects
similar to a dildo
some are idols
a reason for living
and for dying— for most
bad and good asses
but some are fake
all are fake
all became fake
What difference does Gal Gadot have to a cake?
Except the former is unpalatable, both are consumed.
They are commodities, fetishized by consumers— like you
They earn for a living, it is then genuine labor
the difference is— they work from you
and you— work for them.
no one works for you.
unless you’re not human.
Like I told you, they aren’t.
The case of desensitized people in the urban milieu (be it the middle or the poor) in this time of atrocities has become rampant, soon to be rife (or it is already rife). We assimilate this fascist culture of repressing political dissidents which threaten the “peace” which shrouds the exploitation of labor through surplus of the working class and marginalization of minority groups, yours truly by bourgeois politics and bureaucrat-capitalism, fashioned into populist state fascism backed by western imperialism, the last (hopefully) stage of capitalism into our ideological preconscious which waters down further violent reactions from the diminishing shock-value of phenomena.
There is no doubt on the fact that we [the urban denizens] don’t know what are our neighbor’s businesses or even their respective names. We only know of their presence but still act and think as if we are within a vacuum; we wait for the menace to be sucked into our immediate sense-triggers which could endanger our immediate lives. Carpe diem.
We don’t care [anymore].
Woke up as I had slept late yesterday
Tired from asinine schooling
Not yet enrolled but attending classes
But today, happens to be my rest day.
Freud, Lacan, and Castaway
I don’t know— I must do something for her birthday
The will permits— but is unable
Deterred by the feeble mind
Subdued by procrastination
I want to do something.
Conflict is what we loathe and longed for
On leisure, cause, and purpose
Mao affirmed it inherent
on the nature of man:
On the verge of vying
there is one certainly dying
On screens we search for it
On boring days we avoid it
we find conflicts on our boring stories
as we avoid them on our boring lives.
You say they are drags;
they are useless as trash
you don’t care—
because it doesn’t affect you.
Your perception is supreme—
yes, they have nothing but their voices,
their feet to coalesce,
and their hands to loosen
the chains which hinder them—
but it was not but a chain;
it comes with a handcuff.
You, where do you use your hands?
for working hard on your new job.
May I know what that job is?
O, in the factory, yes—
making more chains and handcuffs.
She conceals herself with a mask,
and you, in your bona fide decorum
you condemn her with words
dripped in sweat and blood—
you try to strip her only property
unaware of what is yours
and what is theirs—
—but all is a slut for the right person.
“Is obscurity – the very trick that makes them beyond reach, almost mystical – merely a game laid-out to trap you? Is this fair?”
It is not the altitude which made it unreachable
or its depth which made it never unearthable
It is the hubris which ascends poets in pretense
and preempts their craft from being reached
It is a hollow receptacle filled with illusions
guided by their awe to mysteries
and their insatiable curiosities
“Yup, poets are calculating merchants trading on sentiments. Once you read a sad poem just think: A ghost is pulling your legs. It’s not real.”
real. not real. unreal. never real.
poets but exist within contexts and symbols.
without – never real.
they are those who seek life in lifeless letters
and warmth in cold phrases
in the most idealistic way.
Inspired by Edel Garcellano’s Anti-Poem