FEMALNESS

I cannot solve the puzzle of my soul

Maybe I am an infinite emptiness

Maybe I am just a boring entity

Without a goal and motor

The feeling have left me

After the storm

What is there to pursue

Decorating the home?

I was hungry so I have eaten

Now

I want to dance a little

Its all in pieces

Its just existence

Mundanity

Oh insanity

You are a blessing

You give a meaning to this disconnected pleasant normality

What is there underneath

Don’t ask your mother

She won’t say anything

How is she not bored with this mundane eternity

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In the realm of the numb

Just now I have almost lost the meaning of life

Ok, lets the love die

lets dive into the abyss
with those bloody witches

you’ll win

after all, we cannot longer contain the explosion of malaise
the boredom is eating us like fish and chips

I have no more dreams

Lets us all go mad in this boring madness

all this stupidity

so what

they always win those bastards

so let them win

Cyborg’s afternoon

I am not interested in my own thoughts anymore

The Machine does it for me

I just lie there

contemplating these four flies at the ceiling

one of them is doing a peculiar quadrical dance

fly’s quadrille

never seen anything like that before

not that I care about the flies

not that I care about anything

People!

Trying to press my head into my hands

to consolidate, to close the circle

to calm down those algorythms

Mother

she is there too, in my head

and my lover Judas with Jezebel.

‘Numb’

The more I postpone
the worse I feel
more bottled up
more unreal
I hate that weakness
this subjection of will
avolition of thought and desire
a stateless person in a stateless mind
can’t transcend the heaviness of my lazy being
the need of correctness
is driving me mad
the empty days are followed by nights

F*** Cosmos

I am bored so terribly so deeply so profoundly
so metaphysically astronomically perpetually
the boring cosmos invisible and silent
the boring people all around me collection of wicked
biological cumulus of dendrites
my biological head tissue is almost dead brain
but still like on duty
is creating this boredom without a break

In the Cocoon

Meaningless lying on the floor in the dark room in the middle of strange Manhattan, far away from home and my roots. Meaningless lying on this mattress in the dark room, under a high ceiling, in the empty air of unknown galaxy, silent universe. If I was living in a village , surrounded by a familiar bunch of villagers, with whom I would wake up at the morning and look at the twinkering stars at evening, listening to the crickets on the little bench during the evening summer, that would be better , I think. But those things are impossible. My voice is dying inside of my mind, somewhere. In my chest. A silent transcription of my demotivated mind. It’s stuffy. The monotonous sound of the air conditioner exemplifies this weirdness and hollowness of my existence. I know, talking about existence is not in the fashion. Lying is in the fashion. And smiling. But the energy in me imploded and I am a dying one. It is so monotonous that I will die and lie in the cementery – what does it change if I say anything or nothing. And the life goes, goes with it’s whole unimportance. The politics. The carriers. The people. Especially the politics. I just can’t get excited anymore. It’s the way I am constructed. I wanted to play a flute and piano when I was a kid, but it was a long time ago. I loved many people and many things. But here, it just feels like nothing belongs to me, nothing, not even my mind. Nothing. I have lost opinion on everything. What is the point of having an opinion, anyway? Somebody will have a contrary one and will cancel yours out. And so on and so on. Everything, my whole surroundings seem so strange and boring. Cannot connect to this furniture, to this food, to anything. Sometimes only a quick hatred erupts, just to make me even more exhausted and disgusted. Days pass, and pass, and pass in irrelevant universe on Upper West Side.

One Prosaic Afternoon

My mother is so middle class and I’m her quirky baby
she holds a calculator on her laps calculating diengi
I tell her that I’m bored and sad
but she is getting angry
and tells me eat your soup cause soup is good
but am not feeling hungry
I ask her what’s the point of life
she says no one knows
and asks me about homework of geometry
she takes me to the kitchen table
to calculate the cone size, but I obviously hate this
I ask her about universe and stars
and then we start to argue
she calls me feeble-minded and I call her prosaic
but suddenly I see the cone comes from the page
and swirls in the air just in front of her

I do love geometry now
but now she thinks I’m crazy

Fucking New York. Chapter first and last.

PROJECT BOREDOM

Information overload. Dying of it. So many projects. Everybody asking for money to fund their useless projects- projects created out of boredom- projects with no content, or content – nobody cares about, narcissistic orgy – what’s the point in creating new art? New entertainment? It’s everywhere. I am so sick of it. Everybody is an artist, out of boredom, really. What is worth doing anymore?   Stuck in the city. No exited enough to do anything anymore. Books. Books. Books. Pictures. Photos. Opinions. Everybody got one. Total isolation. What’s the point of all this?  There was a woman yesterday, sitting on a bench in Central Park with 5 dogs , talking on the phone: She said: what’s the difference if I will live 1 or 2 years longer, who cares? Exactly?? What’s the difference? Where is it all going? I know it’s no funny or uplifting,  for that I am sorry. But there is too much garbage and I am thinking about moving into the woods;)