I see myself by the river, crossing
The current runs north, rushing
against my feet, swelling
from standing in the center
of the madding crowd, wearing
yellow and red, crying
against each other
“I don’t know my own position,” Lacaba saying
while I, standing
the fleshes are being
torn away: “Do they?”
asked one voice, laughing
then poofs to thin air
while I find myself
still in the center, echoing
“I don’t know my own position”
I once stopped to think of the envies of life
Destitute and helpless I have seen the worsts of all:
Poverty, moral depravity, darkness beyond measure
Though I would regard much about it no more
Had once desired those idle idylls which bore no value
And times have been, darkness ensued
Nihilistic delusions, cynicism at its core
Once thought apathy and indifference
Would make one a better number
All ended to nothing, mortal regression
But redemption comes due
I think again of the envies of life
Still a destitute, but not helpless
I am deaf and blind no more
Perhaps the meaning of life
Lacks certitude, away from solitude
But found on the human condition,
and ultimately, social revolution!
I am for nothing but the world
and the world is but the people!
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.
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.