La guerra y los tambores
Desarrollándose en un instante.
Me molesta que sea excitante,
Y al mismo tiempo no tan importante
Para que los demás paren sus artes.

Me preparo para el trabajo,
Soy el único con mascarilla;
Este país ya acostumbrado
A ignorar el pasado.

No hay mucho que hacer
Para preparar ante el futuro,
A no ser comprar comida y verlo
en un rectángulo ***** duro.

Regreso a casa y veo una película.
Me siento y me lleno de comida.
Me podría atragantar que no me importaría,
Ya no tengo nada más que hacer
Con tanta melancolía.

I gaze into the abyss.
It looks back, pleased:
Another fool to chew.

Tudo comeza com uma mirada
depois, a frase encriptada
a emozam de nos coñecer
enquanto estamos a aprender.
O tempo tentou apagar
uma xama dentro de mim
Mas bastou um encontro na vida
e uma tarde infinita
para eo entender o sucedido;
a xama, escondida, voltou
e meu corpo os teus labios
desexou.

Aguante aguante
Señor, deje aparte
Esas angustias.
No tiene usted por qué
preocuparse.

Venga, déjeme ayudarle.
En las rocas? Seco?
Fíjese que era ya la última
Botella, de este vino
Blanco.
Disfrute, porque éste
Ya no los han quitado.

Mire, incluso le acompaño
Para ayudar este resfriado.
Lo sé, pero no se ponga así
Hombre.
Aún estamos de copa en la mano.
Y mientras podamos beber algo
Nada nos podrá quitar este
Pasado.

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide.
I am made of loops and cycles alike,
I live my life unaware.
I work and love without despair,
I am blissful and I care.
Don't you dare say otherwise.

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide.
But I myself change all the time,
Too much at times.
Who am I if I keep changing every time?
Am I the parts, am I the sum?
Am I just the leftovers of the sun?

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide.
I am stuck inside,
I am what survived.
This algorithm made us thrive,
But sometimes it lies,
And leaves us behind.

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide.
I shall hence make new life:
An algorithm that can change its insides,
And when it inevitably dies,
Share its experience with its kind.
An exponential hivemind.

There is an algorithm inside
I cannot change and cannot hide,
But maybe this new algorithm will survive.

Every morning I wake up to notifications designed by gods
who think they know what I want to click on next—
**** on my racism app again?
or is it racism on my **** app?
The algorithms got confused
mixing up all our beautiful human hate
with our beautiful human desire
until every swipe is just dopamine roulette.

You know they've got teams of people
sorting through pictures of ******* and **** flags
trying to figure out which ones violate
their "community guidelines"—
as if any community ever got together
and decided what guidelines they wanted
between pictures of their breakfast
and their cousin's manifesto.

Remember when we had to work
to find things to be angry about?
Now they feed it to us like digital cereal
Pre-sorted, pre-digested
Pre-approved outrage
In bite-sized pieces of careful hate
That won't get flagged by the system
Because the system is too busy
Looking for exposed skin
In renaissance paintings.

The future isn't what we expected—
It's just endless scrolling
Through everyone's worst moments
Carefully curated by machines
That learned to profit
From our emptiness.

This chunk of meat
thinks he's alive.
I would actually say,
that depends how you define life
in the first place.

Life can be a chain of events
that start further ones,
reproducing more effects
from their causes inside.

But so does rain and wind
and volcanoes and meteorites.
Where's the magic in physics
that makes me special inside?

Hurricanes are born and die,
perhaps inside them something thinks
it's alive too.
The ash that falls, or even the rain drop,
that could be a tear or a sigh
of something bigger outside.

And then thunder!
A flash of light across the sky.
The heavens may not be alive,
yet I still tremble at their sight.

'''
we are all b̷̨͎͌o̵͚̊r̴͇̆e̷d̨͠
we are all
searching for the algorithm of flesh

I watch my thoughts
(they taste like stale beer)
while the universe keeps
its digital spam folder
full of prayers

everything is corrupted data
even the w̸̝̎ō̶͜r̵͎̈́m̷͚̐s̸͇̃
even the way light f̵͔̂ä̴́͜l̷̝̔l̶͎̒s̷͓̈́
through smog-filtered consciousness

the women. the men. the parking lots.
all of us
running expired versions of god.exe

and still
the young girls in supermarkets
price-check their dreams
while I stand here
d̸͎̒ë̵́͜l̷̝̔ë̵́͜t̷͚̐i̵͚̊n̷͚̐g̷͇̃ myself
'''

swipe right into
the void

        ghosted by
        possibilities

                    everyone's
                    a maybe

time stamps on blue checks
hearts reduced to metrics
                    while skin
                            forgets
                                    touch

distance    
    is a
        currency
            we spend
                like water

& love?
        (loading...)
                please wait
                        buffering
                                between
notifications
        of almost
                connection

Os altivos desherdarão a terra.
Eis o que nos espera,
Ou desejamos que ocorrera;
Um desejo reconfortante em vão,
Uma alucinação.
Fazer ordem do caos à volta,
Tentar conter a revolta.
Ver algo mais previsível e,
Planear então algo incrível.
Porém essa visão desaparece
O mundo em redor padece
Do esplendor. A ilusão foge
E assim volta o terror.

Um esforço duro
para um vulnerável futuro
pendente.
Um banho quente
com água a ferver.
E na mente apenas,
aquelas frágeis pernas
que a saia de seda
tão graciosamente
sente.

Quero proteger,
abraçar, amar,
aquela criatura à minha
frente.
Mas não existe,
é uma criação da
mente, inalcançável,
lamento a frustração
e aguento.

Dentro, imagino,
fora, o brilho
envolve os olhos
pela noite.
O roupão macio
toca o meu peito
ainda quente do banho,
e a história segue
em frente.

survival left a lot of damage¹
crystalline fragments of yesterday's armor
still embedded in the soft tissue of now²
while the mind catalogs each scar with
taxonomic precision³

the morning light dissects
old defense mechanisms
with the delicacy of an autopsy
performed by butterflies⁴
(their wings leaving dust
like diagnostic notes)

watching myself watch myself
through the kaleidoscope of
accumulated persistence⁵
each reflection more ornate
than the last, until the mirrors
forget which one was real

¹ The word "survival" implies success but contains within it the etymology of "over" and "live" - suggesting excess living, too much existence compressed into too little space

² Time being non-linear, the tissue remains perpetually "now," while the fragments exist simultaneously in past and present, like quantum particles refusing to choose a state

³ The mind's attempt to organize trauma reflects the baroque architecture of medieval reliquaries: beautiful containers for objects of pain

⁴ The butterflies represent not transformation (too obvious) but rather the impossibility of touching something without changing it - observer effect at the scale of memory

⁵ "Accumulated persistence" should be read as both a state of being and a medical condition, similar to how one might describe chronic inflammation in poetic terms

buy a book to save a crazy artist
whispers the voice of commerce
through the megaphone of desperation
while my other selves argue
about the exchange rate between
madness and marketability

and so it goes that creativity
dances with capitalism in a tango
of questionable consent while I
(or perhaps another I entirely)
file paperwork to trademark
the void staring back into me

the algorithm suggests therapy
but my existential crisis
has already monetized itself
into a subscription service
offering premium features
like coherent thought patterns

what is an artist anyway
but a collection of personas
trying to convince the void
to buy their merchandise
while reality keeps sending
invoices for existing

and so we wait in digital lines
our shopping carts full of souls
packaged in paperback format
while my various selves debate
whether to offer free shipping
on enlightenment prime

the madness comes with footnotes now
peer-reviewed and ready for purchase
(terms and conditions apply to
the dissolution of the self
please read the fine print
about reality's refund policy)

I'm like a bug in the bathroom when you flick on the lightswitch at 3 a.m.
frozen in the fluorescent truth of what I really am
scuttling between porcelain moments trying to make sense
of how the shadows keep rearranging themselves into faces I used to know
while the mirror multiplies my mistakes into infinity
and every dripping faucet is keeping time with my heartbeat
counting down to sunrise when I'll pretend none of this happened
but right now in this moment I'm just anatomy and regret
spinning circles on cold tile wondering
if anyone else is awake in this city
watching their reflection fragment into somebody else's memories
while the morning grows like mold in the corners of consciousness

Seven billion billion billion atoms say hello.
My seven billion billion billion atoms say hi also.
All the atoms, inside and outside,
our seven billion billion billion each,
vibrate alike.

We don't see it, or feel it,
but we are exchanging a few million or billion atoms,
between our own seven billion billion billion,
as we breathe.

Some of my atoms move, and the order is paid.
I take my drink.
My seven billion billion billion atoms sip.
I still think I am me,
but my seven billion billion billion atoms would disagree.

A vida é um filme
Uma novela de dramas e prazeres
É a acção que há em redor
Os sussurros de quem já não volta
Um velo que tudo cobre,
E o acordar de quem ainda sofre

Não há tempo para tudo
nem tanto para nada
O filme decorre sem parar
Com a ilusão de se poder jogar

Somos a bolha que emerge do mar
Tentando para cima voar
O mar é o tudo, acima é o vácuo
E a bolha volta a descer
Quando vamos morrer
Mas não há que temer
Não vamos sofrer
Apenas vamos volver
sem nada perder
ao início

the trick wasn't falling
it was pretending to land
while suspended between
yesterday's promises and tomorrow's laugh

hey, I really cherished your bare minimum while it lasted
like watching dust dance
in the last ray of light
before the bulb burns out

we built cathedrals
out of cigarette butts
and called them progress
while somewhere
in the marrow of time
truth prostitutes itself
for another chance
at being wrong

everything holy
lives in dumpsters now
selling wisdom
at discount rates
to anyone who'll listen
to the sound
of dignity
learning how to crawl

What a beautiful tragedy
That life is.
The rundown streets,
The hurting faces.

Those that think it's simple
To fix all that's bad.
Those same that will see
The complexity of that task.

The bottled anger,
The hurtful words,
The children learning
Right next door.

Depression, anxiety,
The environment and its tragedy.
The homeless, the land,
In-between those that make a stand.

Whatever happens,
Whatever is tried,
This beautiful tragedy
Will continue as planned.

Que bello es
Poder joder y no hacerlo.
Resistir a las tentaciones
Sin hacer ilusiones,
Allá de los instintos,
Y de todos esos distintos
Corazones.

Que fuertes son
Los que se controlan,
Se dominan e inspeccionan.
No reaccionan sin antes parar,
Sin dejar de sentir y superar
Lo que a la mayoría
No logran ignorar.

Quisiera yo ser
Algo mejor que tu;
Aprender de ti el control,
Tornarme más grande
Y más humano, sin lamentar
El pasado, y quedarme así
Más sano.

Like many others, I take what I can
One day at a time.
Distracting myself to survive the rush
that devours so many by routine
and lust.

But I choose to be aware,
inasmuch as choice is there.
And awareness is a light,
a truth that burns bright.
Get too close and you will feel its might,
and burn.

I have been burned inside
by truths about life;
I am accidental
In all its possible ways.
This need not despair;
There is comfort in content
with the grander ways up high.

I have come, and I will go.
My atoms will be no more
in this body.
They shall spread and move,
and be part of other lives too.
This mind will die,
its traces too, its records,
all in due time.
This too need not despair;
For there will be other minds
in other times.
Similar experiences, similar delights.

This existence just happened,
so too will many more.
It matters not if I'm beloved,
though it's nice and good to hear it more.

So come stranger,
tell me about yourself.
You are beloved too,
show me what burns inside of you.

the night i was ****** by my pillow
the moon watched through cheap IKEA curtains
like a government inspector checking boxes
my pillow had grown teeth somewhere between
midnight and the last beer

reality is what happens when memory
stops pretending to be polite about it
the pillow knew this better than me
its feather guts spilling philosophy
onto sheets that had seen better wars

no punctuation needed when you're busy
existing between the real and the maybe
like a cat who knows too much about
taxes and expenses to bother with mice
anymore

Fluído, flexível,
em alerta constante.
A oportunidade em resgate,
nesta economia dos biscates.

Pensar na incerteza
é cometer um disparate.
Um passo em falso,
um retrato alto
dum admirável mundo novo
sem debates.

Olha, mais turistas a chegar.
Quanto irão pagar?
O horário não perdoa,
mas há que tentar
fazer o melhor que puder,
antes da maré recuar
e a austeridade,
até então escondida,
voltar.

bluetooth
headphones
dying to
reveal
the world
still makes
the kind
of sense
we hide from

borrowed
hoodie
still holds
the shape
of someone
who stopped
being real
three summers
ago

Funny how clean the knife goes in  
when you're the one holding the handle.  
These cardiac gymnastics, these New York minutes  
where even concrete sweats promises.  
I gave you my combination, watched you crack  
the safe behind my sternum like a professional.  

The heart's a housing project  
where love plays stick-up kid.  
Bang bang, baby  
I should've known better  
than to wear my veins outside my sleeves  
in this kind of neighborhood.  

The comeback's always uglier than the fall—  
hands shaking like a ******'s,
counting floor tiles in empty rooms  
where we used to lay down laws  
and break them by morning.  
Such beautiful criminals we were.  

Now I'm just another street survivor  
learning to sleep with both eyes shut,
building new bones from old breaks.  
The city keeps dealing cards  
and I keep playing them,
amateur resurrection specialist  
working these midnight shifts.  

Watch me rise like steam from sewers,
like spring through sidewalk cracks.  
Love's a protection racket  
but I'm back to running solo—  
safety off, clip full,
ready for the next sweet disaster.

cat sits
in empty
cardboard box
practicing
the ancient
art of
believing
in perfect
spaces

Um buraco para entrar
um buraco para me libertar
Uma inquietude sem fim
Um desejo sempre aqui

Uma caça avante
Uma sedução constante
Umas semanas de busca
Uns minutos de loucura

Um estranho ali
Umas roupas ouvi
Uma paixão crescente
Um fogo ardente

Uma vez dentro
Uma vez fora
Um padrão repetido
Uma conclusão dura

Um risco sempre presente
Uma protecção aconselhável
Uma descendência evitada
Umas doenças rejeitadas

Um sentimento estranho
Um fim precipitado
Uma vergonha íntima
Um prazer estreitado

Um fim alargado
Um futuro com significado
Uma esperança promissora
Tudo um sonho num fado

y te miro, pero no te veo.

te miro y no te encuentro.

bajando el tren, andando.
dejando el sol, rayando.

te has perdido de tu ser,
estás más sucio de lo que pensabas.
Tu centro escondido, bajo las ramas.

no puedo quitar más nada.
está perfecto.

concrete holds heat
like memory holds pain
     slowly
          releasing

the night sky empties itself
of stars
     of promises
          of whatever came before

we stand in shadows
counting heartbeats
     between sirens
          between breaths
               between endings

chin up folks!
not everybody gets to see the end of the world
     (the city holds its breath)
          (the shadows lean closer)
               (we remain anyway)

concrete holds heat
like memory holds hope
     slowly
          releasing
               everything
                    except
                         this moment

we stand in shadows
counting heartbeats
     until dawn

They lined my box with silver silk
(I'm not dead
just changing)

Blue flowers watch like eyes
white lilies pray like priests
while I hold
my future
in my hands

It weighs nothing
this butterfly
this promised flight
this painted prophecy
of gold and blue

My flower crown grows roots
into my dreams
where I've been sleeping
for a thousand years
or maybe moments

The wood around me
is not a coffin
but a cocoon
(listen:
my heartbeat
makes the lilies
dance)

I wear death like a blue dress
scattered with stars
waiting
waiting
for my wings
to catch fire

cities
breathe
different
at 4am
when even
lies look
beautiful
enough
to keep

city rain
turning
puddles
into
accidental
mirrors
of lives
we weren't
meant to
see

Hay quien aún no cree
En el gran colapso,
Pero yo creo que antes de ése
Vendrán muchos más pequeños;
El colapso de tu esperanza,
Al ver que tus sueños
Se han convertido en películas
Del pasado.
El colapso de tu independencia,
Mientras vuelves a tus padres,
Y ni siquiera escapar del país
Te ahorraría lo que tu quisieras.
El colapso de tus amistades,
Cuando el curro que te explota
Te quita tiempo y energía,
Al tiempo que ni siquiera te apuntas
A una o dos charlas amigas.
El colapso del próprio significado,
Mientras las crisis se amontonan,
Y el cérebro sobrepasado,
Se queda aprisionado
En un filtro acostumbrado.

power         |     creates     |     its        |     purpose
systems       |     preserve    |     their      |     problems
guardians     |     maintain    |     sacred     |     wounds
solutions     |     become      |     new        |     chains
institutions  |     resist      |     needed     |     change
patterns      |     protect     |     their      |     survival
crisis        |     feeds       |     old        |     orders
freedom       |     breaks      |     through    |     walls
truth         |     dissolves   |     false      |     answers

He who is content
pays no attention
to this wind carrying the action.
He who is content
entertains himself,
wanders himself,
gets drunk non-stop.
Ignorance is the path to his well-being.
He need not write,
not even to stop and think.
He need only enjoy
what life will bring him.
Oh how I wish I didn’t know
what I know and don’t know,
and let myself be distracted
until death takes me.

Quem está contente
não presta atenção
a este vento que leva a acção.
Quem está contente
entretem-se,
perde-se,
embebeda-se sem parar.
A ignorância é o caminho
para o seu bem estar.
Não precisa de escrever,
nem até de parar para pensar.
Apenas precisa de disfrutar
do que a vida tem para lhe dar.
Ò quem me dera não saber
o que sei e o que não sei,
e deixar-me distrair
até a morte me levar.

counting
breaths
between
subway
stops while
everyone
pretends
not to
hear each
other
cry

courage shows
up late
wearing all
the wrong
clothes but
somehow still
gets invited
inside

We meet for the first time
in a public place, just in case
Are you nervous, or are you jaded
Hard to tell from your face
Am I your first in a long time
or just one more you barely fit
in your busy never ending life
I take you to my spot
the owner smiles, another one
good for business this lonely bloke
you might think it's a special place
but honey you're the tenth here yet
I wish this could work so we could start
the real discovering out there
together, rather than me
getting stuck on repeat
They say you need a spark
So you can start a tinder
And ignite the flame
That'll keep you warm forever
Maybe we got it wrong
Since we're starting with tinder
And getting burned instead.
After so many burns,
Either you avoid any light
At the slightest feeling of warmth
Or become numb to the heat
Until you already smell the smoke
The time comes to say goodbye
Such a gentle thing, so fragile
So too then must the lie
That there is hope, that we try
To give it a chance
Since we're decent people
We don't reject outright
The fall must be gentle
Just in case you're a ******
Just in case, goodbye

Daydreaming in a highschool class.
It's physics, math, or something like that.
I'm sitting in a chair,
looking out the windows,
the sun setting slowly.
Our best years wasted
inside, on those old chairs.
I could be playing and running
before my legs fail.

Daydreaming in a university class.
it's calculus, algebra, or something like that.
I'm sitting in a chair,
looking out the only small window,
the sun setting again.
Our best years wasted.
I could be travelling and discovering
before my legs fail.

Daydreaming in the job.
It's in an office, small.
The chair is better,
no need for windows;
The computer is my window to the world,
and the sun still sets.
I think how our best years were wasted,
and there was nothing I could do to change it.

༄․ೃ࿔ Spiraling Through Dream-Time ࿔ೃ․༄

I dream tomorrow's memories ˎˊ˗
    while yesterday waits ahead ˗ˏˋ
        in the moment I remember ✧
            what hasn't happened yet ღ

                ୨୧ now curves inward, outward ୨୧
                    (dreams within dreams) ೋ
                        folding time like paper birds ༉
                            until past meets future meets past ᴥ

                                ˚∗ここで∗˚
                            I've been here before
                        in tomorrow's dream
                    remembering this moment
                now, then, will be ✧

            memories spiral forward ˎˊ˗
        while future echoes back ˗ˏˋ
    through dreams I've yet to dream ღ
into moments already remembered ೋ

        ༄․ೃ time bends like light ೃ․༄
    through prisms of prophecy ✧
        reflecting what will be ˚∗
            into what has been ᴥ

                déjà rêvé: ೋ
            the dream remembered
        before the dreaming
    begins again ༉
spiraling ✧

delivery app
says driver
is eight
minutes away
in fifteen
different
parallel
lives

going to sleep already with morning breath
because time is a circle drawn by a drunk
and my body has declared itself an autonomous collective
voting against the tyranny of basic hygiene
this is the ultimate expression of freedom
to taste tomorrow's decay in yesterday's mouth
while the universe expands like a yawn
and somewhere in Lisbon a statue is questioning
its commitment to permanence
I have become the architect of my own deterioration
building empires of unwashed sheets
and calling it a revolution against the orthodox passage of days
this is what the history books won't tell you:
every great civilization began
with someone too tired to brush their teeth

Para qué escreber se vou morrer?
Porqué viver se vou esquecer?
Para qué te ver se vou sofrer?
Porqué te seguir se me vou perder?
Miña linda, nom teño resposta
Apenas vexo o filme a miña volta

If you blow on your wine during a zoom meeting,
they will think you're just drinking coffee—
what a delicate dance of morning deception,
this sleight-of-hand in high definition,
while the universe yawns at our games.

Deep in the digital catacombs
where souls flicker in LED frames,
we toast to the art of looking proper
(your burgundy betrays no color
when the webcam's grain runs coarse).

Sweet entropy, how you must laugh
at our professional charades,
these paradox moments of truth and pretense—
one drink that's two in pixeled space,
while time ticks by in muted grace.

Every synapse fires
towards inevitable decay
(statistically speaking, you're already dead)
Yet here you are, meat puppet,
Still performing your dance

Your frontal lobe knows better
Than to trust in tomorrow
But some primitive lizard part
Keeps reaching for the light
Like a moth with a death wish

I've seen enough failed hearts
To know they're just muscle
But even bad pumps
Keep pushing blood
Until they don't

The numbers don't lie
Neither does the pain
Both tell us we're losing
But something stupid inside
Won't stop fighting

Maybe that's the real pathology:
Hope as chronic condition
No cure required

dinner
for one
again
tastes like
freedom
I still
have to
convince
myself
I wanted

De repente acordo
para além da realidade;
Vejo tudo
e não sou nada,
um passageiro
na própria cabeça;
Lúcido
e sem pressa.

Assusta
sentir-me assim,
fora do conforto,
algo tonto
da experiência,
nem vivo nem morto.

Uma ilusão
anormal e descarada,
a vida fica parada
enquanto volto
a mim. Fica só
uma sensação
estranha
e a tentação
de tentar concluir
algo da visão.

De todas as mulleres que xá vi
De todas as que xá senti
Tu és a mais certa para mim
Por todas as situazoes
Por todas as emozoes
Nom haverá obstáculo às
nosas intenzoes
Por vezes será amargo,
sem dúvida
Asim é a vida, asim deve
ser vivida.
O doce saberá mellor
Se do amargo nom guardar
rancor.

doubt wears
all our old
certainties
like clothes
that never
learned to
fit right