Lets face it, we’re all sick and tire of that classic kind of romantic bullshit where a guy comes out of the blue to safe his sweetheart from danger (or from herself). And be it we change the two positions of guy and girl, or change it to some other non-binary vocabulary, we’re still going to be tired of that shit. Yet, be still dearly long for that exact strain of romantic bullshit. Romance is bullshit.

I don’t blame anyone for wanting that kind of emotional bond between two people, where one receives all the comfort and safety, and the other continuously gives and gives and gives, or it may be they’re more reciprocal than that, but still, bullshit. Bullshit to the core of it. There’s never going to be anyone that would sweep you off your feet to save you from anything or anyone. Those are the kind of shit that got us stuck in this age of romantic pessimism in the first place: our collective disappointment in ideal romances. So fuck that shit.

Fuck that shit and throw it in the trash bin. Crumple that shit up, throw it away as far as your bodily capabilities would let you. Take it by the neck and snap it in half. Kill it. Destroy it.

There’s nothing more than obscene idolatry in romance. That’s the only thing that matters. Worship. Worship matters. Only that and nothing else. Once you’ve found a new God to worship, to lead you to salvation, that new God would be your center of devotion.

Fuck the romantics.


Nothing means anything if you’re hungry

Sometimes I want you to be my home
But then you’ll never be your own
That’s our nature, and it’s inevitable
We like to conquer and quarrel

I want to be a mountain
But I’m afraid of heights
I want to be the night
But the darkness isn’t bright
I want to be a lion
But too scared to fight

I want you to be my home
But most of the time you already are
You’re a home that I could have no more
But I might not be your home in return
And I think that’s not a fair deal anymore

I want to be a lion
I want to be a mountain
I want to be a mountain lion
I want to laugh at that statement
I want to leave my self all alone
I want to walk away from everyone
I want to make bread, not drink wine
I want to be the best friend you’ll ever have
I want to be anyone else but myself
I want the world to crumble down on itself
I want the sun to explode and make us disappear

I want some food
Because I’m hungry
But I don’t make bread
And I’m out of breath
I don’t make bread by talking
And I didn’t make my bed this morning
And in the light of all these things I want
Nothing means anything if you’re hungry

Home is far away

Home is far away
More than a day’s worth of travel
More than what my feet could handle

Home is far away
But it’s closer than tears
But sometimes it disappears

Home is far away
Tucked into a blanket
On a shelf full of trinkets

Home is far away
But it comes by every Friday
And there’s no more Faraday

Home is far away
Like when we wasted those minutes
That we promised not to take for granted

Home is far away
It’s far away every day
It’s far away and it never stays


Senseless rambling

A myriad of phrases

Flowing from my mouth

Into your eyelashes

That falls on my shoulders

That stream down my arms

And onto my hand

That likes to make fists

That bangs on my temples

That hurts my big head

That is plagued with ramble


October’s lips has the scent of [love]
and [it] poisons her weakish lungs
that she empties out before dawn

when she gets up and yawns

if and only if she wakes up

and if she does, she ought to

but only if she wakes up

And her lips are soft, lips so tender
what am I to do but (ugh) surrender?

And her lips taste sweet, sweeter
than any sugary toaster treat
than any lemonysnicket tweet
than any rainstorms in autumn
than any unfortunate conundrum

(continues to rhyme, until however long you want)

and her lips are hers, hers only
Her lips are too sweet, too sweet,
too sweet to remember, but

Oh Lord!

how does one even think
of forgetting them?

(insert any sort of prayer here, or don’t)


I don’t know anymore

Nobody spends time with someone who sits around in his room all day with too much things on his mind, and too much garbage spread all around him. Nobody spends time with me. Probably there’s too much trash inside of my mind too. No one wants to spend time with me. No one does, and no one will. That’s what those two voices inside of my head always say.

They’ve been inside of my head since god knows when. Two voices that sound familiar, sometimes they’re warm and at other times, cold. They’re both unstable.

Their warmth comes in the form of diverting me from productivity. It’ll be too much, they said. It’s going to take too much time, too much effort. It’ll be better to just give up before you even start, they said. That’s what warmth is to them. Or maybe that’s the part of their being that isn’t cold. I don’t know.

They could be cold too, very cold. They’ll shit on me for getting up from bed too early to do anything. They’d rather have me roll around on the floor, on all of the filth that I’ve amassed since forever, than have me stand up to wash my face. They’d make my muscles tense up whenever I take morning walks, they’d make my head hurt if I try to smile. But I don’t really feel tormented. I’m used to it already.

Most of the time they don’t show themselves to me, but I think they look like me. I think they have the same eyes as me. And eyes are important, they’re the windows to one’s self. But I don’t know what I’d see if I peered into theirs. I know that they have my eyes, and my ears, and my mouth too, but I think they don’t see the cracked, moldy walls of my room, I don’t think they could hear the two of them screaming at each other every time I try close my eyes, and I definitely don’t think they utter the same prayers that I do every time their screams start to make me trembling all over my body. I think they don’t look like me, maybe we’re not alike after all.

And they say I think too much, but I think it’s not that I think too much, I just have to think more than most people when two fucked up things are screaming out evil things in unison. I don’t know what to do about it, yes, but I’m going to let myself get used to all the screaming first. Maybe it’s silent from the outside, but in here it’s the only thing I could hear. And maybe it’s not them that’s fucked up, it’s me.

                It’s lonely here, but this is all I need. A constant, silent bickering between two formless entities inside of me.