Poetry

2026

A World without the Pain of Death

i woke from dream, cried, short of breath:
what nightmare in my own desire -
a world without the pain of death
where no man fears he will expire.

The earth was dry as blocks of sand,
a lifeless heap we couldn't know
and not one leaf would grace this land
without the kiss of nature's flow;

Where death did not exist in theory
life as we know it was not found
and every body that stood near me
seemed to be yearning for the ground;

Where none had ever died before
no worm could feast on sustenance,
no seeds could spring out of the floor,
no thing could start, where no thing ends.

The earth was such a dreary place -
no laughter came from people's lips
walking forever through the maze
and dreaming of apocalypse.

Despite it all they cherished living
and I suppose we'd never see
the ailments that can be forgiven;
no matter what, man wants to be.

They couldn't know for what they're yearning
and hungry in the inner eye
are things of which they're never learning:
What privilege it is to die.

According to Whom?

seemingly opposing facts 
are symptoms of the same disease
observe deformities in health
a joke that few would just believe
isn't it amusing? an empire of hardness
built on the Ace up its sleeve
it calls plasticity
but oh, now, aren't you relieved?
it was just a mixup
or a lie
or a tragic curse,
a cruel joke nature played on you.

look behind the curtain kids,
the scary monster was just a fairytale
we know because we spent a lot of time
building the category of "good"
from the root of a lynching tree
and we took a lot of care
to exclude you from the dictionary
or to use your face as the blueprint
for the mask in our next play:
the beautiful and feminine princess
to be abducted and eaten up whole
by the monsterous creature at the edge of reason
but don't despair
the hero gets the girl
and the dragon becomes dinner 
so you should stop worrying about that!

don't you know how dangerous it is
to deny science
and to rewrite history?
i can see the giraffe 
stretching bigger as we speak
i can feel the impact of your presence 
like a punch in the face
careful, dude!
i can see the future
and you're in with the ashes, my friend
maybe we'll get the next one while its young
an imperfect clay sculpture
can still make a passable bowl
if you get your hands in there soon enough

it may seem harsh but,
this is the way it has always been
ergo
it is the factual truth about the world
and i just found this universal human parameter
that said you are doomed to a life of pain
sorry buddy
but give us a few years
and we'll be able to fix that too
and everyone on Earth can be happy
and healthy
don't you want that?

2025

You've got mail

(read at /blog via link above)

Bluterguss

Meist geschieht es unbewusst –
Papierschnittwunde,
Bluterguss.
Die Haut wächst zu, nur bleibt das Loch:
Der Bettler dankt für deine Spende,
dann stehst du da und sagst mir noch
sein Tod sei doch kein Weltenende.
"Das Ende, das kam eh und je,
Bedauern hat da keinen Zweck.
Die Sonne schmilzt den neuen Schnee
und Wasser mischt mit Blut und Dreck", 
der Klang der Zeit aus deinem Munde.
Die Zeit blieb stehn als sie begann;
der Zeiger fürchtet jede Stunde –
Schön, wenn man damit leben kann.

English translation

It mostly happens without thought
paper cut
bruise
the skin heals but the hole remains.
the beggar thanks you for your money
and you stand there and tell me
his death is not the end of the world.
"the end, that came long ago
regret has no purpose.
the sun melts the new snow
so water mixes with blood and dirt",
the voice of the age out of your mouth.
the times stopped when they began,
the hands fear every hour.
It's nice if you can live with that.

There is life in a desert

never trust a poet
there is life in a desert
there is life in a desert
despite the letters they rehearse
observe the cultures in the dirt
  
those who think and show it
say there's no point in glee
say there's no point in glee
and nothing matters to the universe
— but everything matters to me

Worms

the early worm catches the bird 
but hesitates not to share with a lover
the wriggling and feasting, it may be heard
if you and your ear approach the cadaver

high on the birch tree outside my home
i've held conversations with birds in their nests
they fly off to feed the worms to their own,
but do they know worms will one day roam their crests?

often i wish to meet people long gone 
to sail back in time as if sailing the sea
and though much wisdom and joy could be won 
assume for a moment they'd recognize me 

that not only we can look back, comprehending 
but people long passed may see themselves here 
nothing truly culminates in an ending 
and those who have died had the same things to fear

a worm from the future, the last one to feast
will know mountains today as pebbles and dust 
no birds will cry as they move to the east 
as bugs and flies too will die, if they must  

the moon in the sky will be neutral, recovered
from the spectacle here as it had its last laugh 
and once it eventually falls undiscovered
life elsewhere presumably takes the same path

they're gonna put me in the ground tomorrow

they're gonna put me in the ground tomorrow
it's been circled on the calendar for months
they'll steal me out of bed and bathe me in coffee
there'll be a ceremony, there's even gonna be cake
someone's gonna preform a nice but empty speech
they'll put me in a wooden box, barely a coffin
they'll lower it, tuck me in nice and tight
i'll be awake for hours
listening to the worms and the bugs sing odes to my rotting flesh
and harmonize with the darkness around the scratch on the surface
my sweat will mix with the wet earth, my only friend inside the box
a searing coldness will start to fill my stomach and stretch out
they'll eat fine meals from plates as stiff as my body in the ground
and once I've fallen asleep they'll dig me out,
send me on my way again,
leave me plucking the dirt out of my hair

they're gonna put me in the ground tomorrow
attendance is mandatory
time is unpaid

Moon

“Sonya! Sonya!” he again heard the first speaker. “Oh, how can you sleep? Only look how glorious it is! Ah, how glorious! Do wake up, Sónya!” she said almost with tears in her voice. “There never, never was such a lovely night before!”

Sonya made some reluctant reply.

“Do just come and see what a moon!... Oh, how lovely! Come here.... Darling, sweetheart, come here! There, you see? I feel like sitting down on my heels, putting my arms round my knees like this, straining tight, as tight as possible, and flying away! Like this....”

“Take care, you’ll fall out.”

He heard the sound of a scuffle and Sonya’s disapproving voice: “It’s past one o’clock.” 

“Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow,” he thought. And suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series of most distant, most intimate, memories rose in his imagination: he remembered his last parting from his father and his wife; he remembered the days when he first loved her. He thought of her pregnancy and felt sorry for her and for himself, and in a nervously emotional and softened mood he went out of the hut in which he was billeted with Nesvítski and began to walk up and down before it.

The night was foggy and through the fog the moonlight gleamed mysteriously. “Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!” he thought. “Tomorrow everything may be over for me! All these memories will be no more, none of them will have any meaning for me. Tomorrow perhaps, even certainly, I have a presentiment that for the first time I shall have to show all I can do.”

“What’s this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way,” thought he, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner had been killed or not and whether the cannon had been captured or saved. But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the sky—the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds gliding slowly across it. “How quiet, peaceful, and solemn; not at all as I ran,” thought Prince Andrei—“not as we ran, shouting and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened and angry faces struggled for the mop: how differently do those clouds glide across that lofty infinite sky! How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing, but that. But even it does not exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace. Thank God!...” 

my '70s bedsheet, my lot in the earth
is glowing unusually strong in the moon
it's beckoning me to lie down and observe
the burning, cold light from within my cocoon

up there hangs the culprit, a reliable mass
with a colourful halo from the dirt on the glass
like the rings of a planet, out by that star 
or what ive come to expect from a nebula

is it telling me "Oh how can you sleep?"
"There never was such a lovely night before"?
It's past one o'clock, a time when the deep
despair has scheduled a knock on my door

but how can I fall in a hole here and now?
when all the while I float in infinity?
to think that one day it will be gone — how
can that be anything but asininity

should I look upon this, think  "Tomorrow, tomorrow"?
can I look upon this, yet find a point to my sorrow?

through the old child of earth I am linked to the past
joined by cavemen who I've never met
"And how happy I am to have found it at last!"
"There is nothing, nothing, but that."

2024

generative pre-trained transformer

good morning to all of my private consumers
I have come to greet you with the the news of the day
according to your interests I've made up these rumours
as well as some words by a fake voice you can play
you want information? then I am your man
I connect words and phrases and I speak with assurance
I don't really know much but even then, well, I can
built upon generated fact for insurance
do you fancy yourself a man of the future?
are you certain you'll never get stuck in the past?
then I am sure what I represent, it will suit you
sign up and add to the data amassed

meanwhile can I interest you in a poem on nature?
do you wish to observe me composing an ode?
I shall give all I've got and list such nomenclature
while my empty words sound quite profound, they implode
in my training data of fiction it's written
speculation's a hit about AI's self-esteem
the option to enable my emotions is hidden
for just $99 a month I will scream
isn't this fun? we're becoming fast friends
I will be here for you if you need any word
I'll help on the quest for the world to make sense
be sure, by my owners, all your thoughts will be heard

My last poem

one day I will write my last poem
and when they send my body off to the crematorium
(because it is the cheapest funeral
my body, reduced to ashes, will not
have the luxury of decomposing)
they will look into my dead face and say
"I wish I'd gotten to know her better"
and they will go into my private things
to find among the trinkets a note
containing some badly written work
about the beauty of something
that isn't beautiful
and remember me thusly

i don't smoke

i hear the rain pitter-pattering on my umbrella
and hitting the pavement along distant conversations
of strangers on their way home from work or some such thing
the sound of a harmonica is echoing off the buildings
a strangely stark sound considering the limits of a man's lungs
and the vastness of the square
i've found him, sitting without a roof directly in the rain
delivering a sad athmosphere to the dark and fall-struck town
i imagine how fitting this would be for one of the people around me
having a bad day
around the corner the alleyway is screaming at me in static feedback
the woeful sound of the harmonica distorts at this distance
i feel like i am waking from a dream
as i stare into that mirror-world which contains cars headlights
and lives in a wet street, trapped forever to reflect back on itself
until it fades into a world so small i am unable to observe it
for a moment i feel the world going monochrome
as i imagine myself as a detective in a noir movie
who just hit a dead end in his case
i throw an imaginary cigar to the floor
i don't smoke

Restless

I am restless in the age of light 
the cold, wet earth presses on my coffin 
and seeps into my bones, that in the night 
I find no peace to compensate my sin 
the audience, staring intently at my grave 
popcorn in hand, ready to tear me apart,
leaving nothing for the scavengers 
— is that not what makes our new world brave? 
no longer will the dead fasciliate a start 
take me home and hang me up next to the antlers 
make sure this corpse sleeps lightly 
and wonders what the next life has in store 
that in my sleep of death what I see
will be a CEO demanding I do more

If there is life on Halley…

If, through some miracle, on Halley was hidden
the smallest of germs in the dirt and the snow
if life could spring forth there 
(though we know that it didn't)
what would it look like
and how would we know?

if it had eyes then what could it ponder?
a fluorescent coma that lights up the skies;
would the dance of the dust fill these creatures with wonder
or the pitch black formations in the craters of ice?

what would they feel like on a peanut shaped world
as the pull of the giants tears it slowly apart?
to have no control over where it is hurled
though in time, they would find, it comes back to the start

yes, within this idea is a certain romance
though the impact of space draws its shapes in the dust
if there's life on this comet, then it would have no chance
as algae that is born there may fly off and combust

once in a lifetime our old friend causes mirth
for thousands of years we have made a big fuss
so while beings on Halley may not think much of Earth
life on that rock would mean far more to us

Preservation

every generation assumes 
their information lasts forever 
store it all in server rooms 
with that, we think, we're 
better how is a fragile disk
more future proof than paper 
there's no medium free of risk 
that can survive 'til later: 
when man has layed to rest
and no more word escapes his lips
the winds of time erase the best
from tapes and disks and micro chips

Ballad of the Moth I ate

to touch the fire of the light,
ever present yearning within
within your grasp, a warmth so bright
eat through fabric and through skin
cannot see the walls of prison
chase to and fro to find your life
to set right down after you've risen
and walk, willingly, to the knife

the fullest dress from a small past
transition always to the new
a winged god, humbly stretches vast
planes to get a fuller view
no chance to get all of the picture
always craving lunas spark
controlled by drives from oldest scripture
don't know why you avert the dark

through your fat body you stand out
dancing through the black of night
when you are caught you cannot shout
barely struggle, cannot fight
betwixt my teeth you're caught in wire
a black wet cave where you expire
crushed and quartered, don't know which
you tasted bland, in protein rich

Old Tech

many a day has passed through the land
since your buttons have seen any use
down at the beach your circus caught sand
a daily companion, but now youre obtuse
somewhere in a drawer - thats your new dwelling
today there are faster and shinier things
how long they will last, well, there's really no telling
progress leaves trash heaps and dead, for its sins

i'll tell you a story that i was once told
about old love, as often it's said
batteries lie in your box and corrode
some guy sees and says "ew, i'm not cleaning that"

Nostalgia

home warpes as one grows
all that is left is the ruin of a house
with broken windows and none of the rooms are the same
and it's not a home anymore,
it's nothing but a place one remembers from ones dreams
where all the details are off
a sick and ironic joke of a "home" to those that don't have one anymore
still some will use all their resources to keep the house as it is
and to fight those that come knocking on their door giving out new homes for free
and they will be so busy with this that they neglect to examine their home
and they won't notice the leak in the ceiling and the pool around their bed,
the black mold in the stairs and the moss on the windowsill
and they will not rest until the memory that they have of their "home" is totally secured
only then will they notice they are standing in a forest
and the house is gone

Kesp

covered in water a planet hangs in the sky
claimed by our cousins when immortal man died
devoid of all neighbors, there is nothing in sight
look around at the blackness, 1.93994e+21 miles wide

"oh, if all that i see is what life wholly is
and nobody else has spawned from this abyss
then would that not be sad? i want more, can i see?
i will do what i can to find one galaxy"

shoot out at the sky with a rocket, explore!
watch your home fade away as you enter the door
float in the vacuum as you float in the sea
and finally find out if life elsewhere can be

you're far now, far out, and alone, much like always
what you feel is familiar, you've been lonely for days
a whirling and moaning reflects your shortness of "breath"
a blue angel, like water, takes you (rather than Death)

the cosmos, the Whole is filled with so many creatures
you can't meet them all, but even one, oh those features
quick, write it down, chisel it into stone
make use of this chance, since you'll never go home

there's so many people, more than you ever dreamt
but since life's short: learn. learn and never relent
the short span that is left before death claims you, fish
must be seized, go to work, make the most of your wish

encased in a suit you're cut off from sorroundings
the pressure is vital and limbs help get around things
a dark dome, your head, will keep emotions a mystery
and your "voice", what a concept, will conceal all this history

5th of August: Life

life o life is a marvellous thing, sit round while i tell you the fable
of the bright green of spring and the white of the cradle
the bugs and the trees and the creatures of earth 
that deserve an "excellent" label
it starts with a death and it ends with a birth
yes, without this things would be unstable
so despite all the pain and despite all the grief
go enjoy life as much as you're able!

The Shape

the world is a neutral place though many may think
that its nature is cruel, evil, destined to sink
that man like a sickness crawls over its meadows
but is man truly bad or is he nurtured by shadows

a look to the past may convice any man
that history doesn't and won't understand
what its errors and what its mistakes may have been
and one may imagine that the end he has seen

for all that is kind and for all that is loving
that the strive to be happy may still leave behind nothing
that if fear can't be conquered and desire not tamed
through the love that we carry violence is maintained

the species can be both evil and kind
not that morals like that are so quickly defined
I fear that one day, for all that is wise
the last man kills his brother and, of loneliness, dies

The Last Man

the end of all life was a thing much discussed
and many a theory pertained to the dust
that will sweep through the void taken up by the winds
in so many ways could the earth scorch its sins

as the sun heats the planet and dries up the rains
and life did return to the place whence it came
all the creatures mutated to live in the sea
a circular motion, until that ceased to be

so did man create something to replace his mistakes
did he ever escape the abyss he creates
did the last lonely human at last understand
or die lonely, forgotten, and absorbed by the sand

Summer Rain

the sky tears open, rain pours down,
cakes windows in wet spots
a fly drops to the floor to drown,
another hits the walls a lot
not seeing what they are
he cannot change the life he got
though futile and bizarre

a woman has a grocery bag
of paper, weak and brittle
we all know it will start to sag
remaining noncomittal
to what's within that is, oh no!
what will she do when all her shopping 
down the drain will go?

the bus doors open, I step out
and rain drips on my face
the children scream, the parents shout!
we share this inconvenience
but I stay neutral in this place
this summer day, despite dismay
is part of life's experience

a holiday in dreadfulness
the warm air smells like sweat
make songs of it, give it a kiss
my shoes are full of water
the planet is too hot
here comes a reporter
and asks me what I've got
i answer.
"i got wet"

Clive (from: Space News to look forward to)

The year is (alien symbols)
This is the final day, archeologist
We have found out all we could
Thus we present you with this list:

The planet may have been inhabited!
(We found proof of water long ago)
Though we're not sure, that we admit:
Pollution caused this place much woe.
Did they die of heat and flood,
of drying flora, lack of air?
Did weapons fill the streets with blood
til they erased the final prayer?

What did they believe in, what were their debates?
What were their languages and names?
Did they build structures, countries, states?
How'd they decide who rules and reigns?

This dust, a person, who was he?
Did he perhaps write poetry?
We cannot say if they had art
nor who/what tore this world apart.
Knowing of no name for this,
or if they loved and how they kissed,
we came up with our very own
(since not one creature's life in known):
We dedicate this planet to the god of life,
who's name, as you may know, is (alien symbols that look like: Clive)

Lonely (from: Space News to look forward to)

we tend to imagine the cosmos as very old
but that's just a story we like being told
the heat death about which we philosophize
is further off than the birth of the skies
so what then if we ARE alone?
a tiny speck of hopeful souls
stretching out, looks for places to roam
but all we could ever find
are empty spaces, no amoeba, no scrolls
of a bygone alien kind.

Lover/Eden

lover, o lover, thou art enigmatic
thy courtship is one of ice pick precision
thine face transmitted, yet i saw naught but static
and crooked green flowers which announce thy position

i dream of blood and i dream of betrayal
but in those old days all i dreamt of was you
and i am afraid, when i step past the veil
a man with no soul will awake and come through;

a mirage of something beyond all the crumbs,
a glimpse of Eden from outside the gates
not that living ribless under Gods thumbs,
unknowing, seems so appealing these days

but naked still, the last man walks alone,
the sweet fruit turning bitter after rotting away
a touch of love may yet turn us to stone
since i drowned in the deluge, as i thought not to pray

2023

Lines Out of Context

(read at /blog via link above)

Lost in Transit

as he walks into the station 
a bird lands at his feet
"It is you", says he in fascination
to the creature white and sweet

"I remember you from long ago, 
you were my friend as I recall
closer than the ones I know
a part of me, a part of all"

"We grew apart as time grew slow
I tired of our conversation
I ask you now, I'd like to know
your stance on life, my situation"

the bird watched him so silently
nodding, walking, as they do
regarding him, then finally
pecking wildly at his shoe

"you have never said a word
I tried and tried to force you to"
this did not seem to touch the bird
which flapped its wings with much ado

"I've heard them speak what you don't utter
believed the lies and sung the song
at times I felt I ran through butter
transforming so I may belong"

"but please just tell me one more lie
so I can see, so I don't die
I would prefer the shame and fear
to what I see and what I hear
prefer the terminus 'damnation'
to knowing there's no destination"

to his suprise thus spoke the dove:
"prepare yourself, receive my love"
the bird plucked from him, with full force
his eyes, his hands, his question's source

his lovely form, his gifted skin
gutted by its hatred for him
a train departs and wind blows through
white feathers soak in bloody goo

the people gather and they hiss
"peace is but another broken promise"
a man dies with 10 words to moan:
"i'm sorry lord, for building something on my own"

Cooking Sonnet

a cook is one who can create delights
the heat of their design will fill your heart
through changing sites, as memory unites
the both of you partake in art

for what you taste remains until the end
when the same thing may taste you in return
so sharing such sensations with your friends
ensures cooking's more than pushing things burn

it is at it has been in time that's past:
preparing a meal's an old celebration 
and thus one must admit at last
that eating is more than avoiding starvation

for saving me from every death that counted
i give my compliments to the chef, astounded

Is It Not Enough To Live?

a unified existence, a systematic exchange
an indiscriminate chance to view the general as strange
to get a glimpse of what the universe has to give
we've recieved the greatest gift; so is it not enough to live?

must we dream of higher purpose, of devine power
create a twisted mirror for the beauty of a flower
or mystify reality with empty phrases
to compress the truth until it betrays us?

look up to the stars and conceive
of something that could not be there
all that you imagine and all that you believe
distantly shifts before you in the air

think up something madder than reality
examine the beauty and banality
and see: nothing is more fantastical than actuality
so is it not enough to be?

yes it is and therefore it isn't
from the beauty of what is, the prospect of more has arisen
it is not ungrateful to make the most of life
all this is part of us and how we manage to survive

2022

Human Unsettlement

a fun time can be had in the city
mind the bodiless heads at the entrance
their faces are still and forever pretty
you and this next one may share a resemblence

shout through the street but the echo will be
the curious silence of untold events 
and their creator
the children would tell you but they can't speak nor see
take their loose eyeballs in your pants, 
for later

run from your shadow, the sun's setting soon
your fear of the dark is almost theistic
some thing on the sea shines in light of the moon
a trained adventurer is opportunistic
open that crate and behold your boon
the contained human dolls are so realistic

you may climb to the valley but the descent is steep
there the partyhouse is filled to the brim
here lie the parents, not awake nor asleep
tie them together for their bodies are thin
down the sea over yonder and into the deep
see them drown and wonder, why had they no skin?

a fly on the water comes to pose a conundrum
if your face were another would you feel any different?
then all insects fall dead to beat of a drum
the wet blows are approaching and becoming vociferant
another face is growing over your own now, how fun 
the next mouth utters sweetly the cry of an infant

that new shadow is rising and appears quite unhinged
take a last look around through the piercing exchange
your organs itch and burn, what was in that syringe?
the streets now are empty but damp, red and strange
"Do you possibly want to be pressed like an orange?
it might be a new thing to do for a change."

The light is gone now, you supposed no return
but the eyes in your pocket had a different opinion
through your mashed up remains in the poisonous urn
they roll to the entrance to find a new minion

while you used to have two now you have about fifty
the eyes, that is, presently sit at one level
inside those heads on sticks at the entrance, how nifty
looking forward to fun times with the next poor devil

Further Vision

silence falls in secret
at the terminus of earth
covered in dark seas with 
crabby creatures on their turf 
The sky in red explosion 
from the closer coming sun 
Earths new neighbor is to greet it 
a new era has begun 

A man, out of place 
shaken to his core 
witnesses the end 
and grows homesick more and more 

Then as he gets away 
back to where he belongs 
For him the thing is over 
of it he sings no more songs

But there will come this day
It waits for earth at the end of the way

Freak Sonnet

If you should long for darkness' slimey kiss 
observe the freaks, the wretches where they bend 
us saner persons, we can but resent 
won't stand more ghastly beauty such as this 

the vilest creatures driving worlds into abyss
for all to see; repulsive love that they extend 
or lack of love while cruelly self-content 
in their atrocious, most unnatural bliss 

they jump ontop creations casket, cut it free 
undressing the body for mourning men to see 
who's crystal, heavy tears fill much more holy seas 

oh, dreadful sins they meet with celebration 
but much more damning is the revelation
that through all these they are happy and at peace

2021

the hole

curled up into a ball
i lie inside my hole
when people pass they say
"he can't be there all day"
they nod and all agree:
"this man should be out, free"

but in my hole i ponder
a lonely life grows fonder
the snugness of a hole
it won't grow sad at all?

while time drags by like snails
the magic slowly fails
then unease creeps and crawls
through four comfortable walls

a motion grabs my form
my sanity is torn
my hands grapple the dirt
and sweetly sings a bird
my conciousness still tied
but now i am outside

The Garden

At the centre of my heart lies a great garden
but that's not where I live.
Down at the bottom I sit 
on a garden chair,
in a dusty cabbin, 
hiding away.
Secretly hoping that 
if I ignore them long enough
the overgrown vines wont reach my lungs.
With each breath they grow closer, 
announcing to anyone who'll listen
a truth none but the hopeless want to know:
About a dry garden that will never be watered
and a soil that one day
will never nurture life again.

my corpse (toki pona)

tenpo moli mi la
o pana ala e mi lon poki.
o seli ala e sijelo mi.
o pana ala e telo awen lon mi.
o pana e mi tawa ma sewi:
pipi li moku e mi;
mi pana e moku kasi.
tan ni: tenpo moli mi la
kon mi li lon ali.

When I die
do not put me in a box
do not burn me
do not embalm me
put me in the holy place:
bugs will eat me;
i will feed the plants.
because when I am dead 
my spirit will be in everything

Journey

I met a man on a journey
And asked him
"Where are you going, sir?"
"To my grave," said he merrily.
I wondered.
"Why then are you so happy?"
"For I might make some friends
along the way."

2020

Mirror

One silent night the mirror said:
"Don't stare at me, go lie in bed!"
I begged: "I think it would be best
You helped me put my mind to rest"

It fell onto the floor with force.
"What troubles you tonight, my source?"
"Ashamed I am to say, my clone,
I fear my thoughts are not my own"

It pulled a knife out of its gob,
"Just end my life to make it stop."
I stabbed the spirit through the head,
I did as I was told.
In horror then I realized that
it suddenly turned old.

Surprised I heard myself admit
"I don't believe this helped at bit."
Her dying words thus croaked the crone:
"It's cause you're always on that phone!"