the slow destruction of nature while grinning,
"success" on top of "success", profit upon revenue,
more investments, more production,
fusion, acquisition, international transaction,
wire transfer, cryptocurrency, blockchain,
invented gods, purified money flows,
wages, databases saved in the clouds,
merged databases, state subsidies,
higher tax extractions, job creation,
social media, TV series crafted
from psychological profiles, more money!
central bank, lying as political capital,
data, data and even more data, a fucked-up
world’s confident maintenance, technology
blending with belief in gods, the thousandth superhero movie,
licking smartphones, licking them again,
witchcraft, esoterica, faith in gods
---- more smile, more optimism,
like colours splashed across a wild, oversized palette,
being stupid on demand, money, money
and even more money, capital, investment,
feeding pseudo-artificial intelligences
with even more energy, money, money
even more money, misery and private jets,
wars and private islands, more money,
even greater revenue, identical people
needed as everyone should buy the same,
more podcasts, fewer books,
more YouTube videos—and suddenly you’re a genius,
plastic, more plastic, we need more
plastic giraffes, disposable feelings,
more selfishness, more self-confidence,
more money, everyone should be like a private corporation,
with their own propaganda, their own marketing,
selling themselves while grinning on social media,
tapping their phone, savouring the moment
because you could trade something yet again.

Every day with torn-out hearts,
we step somewhere, the directions crash barriers,
gasping inside domes blown from metallic vapour,
hiding more and more from one another
the shame of pain, the fear of failure ---
today they’ll use me again, tomorrow I will be a machine, And
a servant, serving staff, fucked by loans,
driving for wages, a replaceable cripple,
a month-to-month twitching, bleeding wound,
a pitiful Whatever masked with roles,
the animal of minute-long joys bought with the money given,
for some it’s breeding, for some it’s owning property,
for some the greatest hope is numbness,
or their offspring’s better fate: education, technology,
faith, luck, and a long line of self-deceptions,
tongues and limbs sticking out from under the press of existence,
ghost-like figures trampling over one another,
like the sort I am, hacked apart,
with a torn-to-shreds consciousness, spinning
in the whirlpools of various lie-therapy experiments,
heading towards death in total meaninglessness,
it might be better to see these clearly: perhaps this is the only
anaesthetic for a few moments.

Cubes we call houses, with machines out front we call cars,
preferably more of them, and bigger; inside, things we nickname
fridges, cookers, beds, air cons—things and things and things—
the more the better, just for you, just for us; the trees are weeping,
their breath pumping back the already poisoned atmosphere.

The lies of lies wind like a clear stream
from the windows of these houses, swelling into rivers in the streets,
to pour themselves into vast oceans of deceit, swelling into joy,
into confidence, into superiority, proclaiming
the greatness of our civilisation. Heads in car windows,
heads poking through holes in synthetic clothes, heads in churches—

sleeping, yawning, giggling two-legged creatures
ruling over what they believe is their limitless magnificence;
their supposed and actual intellects are a warped reflection, rooted
in centuries of grime, never allowing their eyes to face a mirror,
for the real monsters lurking there would steal away
those rock-solid foundations of confidence, foundations built on air.

Wretches as pitiful as me somehow caught sight—
I saw, they saw, I saw myself—
and since then I can’t bear to look at myself; I’d weep, if I could,
if it wouldn’t make me even more hypocritical, more pathetic,
if it held any meaning at all—but it doesn’t.

I don’t even listen anymore, don’t look, don’t care what happens,
because if this is the brightest civilisation we could reach,
if this is the contemporary peak of intellect,
then I want no part of it. I just flail
like a bug sprayed with poison on the carpet, mouthing silently;
I belong nowhere, I loathe myself, because we let
this twisted self-worship climbs to such heights; we let
self-love, self-stroking, the dreadful psychology of self-adoration
grow such an ego on this giant
that it devours everything, unstoppable.

The nightmares stay, I know they shouldn’t
and it’s better not to think of you, the images
or what we left of us, whatever it was,
recognising mistakes is mostly just excuse
we feel better if we can find a few,
because if we can’t – there’s only the dark, deep mirror
where we squirm in twisted poses,
who could tear the pain out of us?
where’s a refuge? some vast forest, meadow
where something still remains from school-taught
temperate climate? Where are the scented
summer seasons sobbing with sudden cloudburst?
I’m not complaining, I don’t even exist,
sitting in corners, I watch the change,
the parades we so often think are ugly,
the ruptured
grimy fault-lines of our short little life
measured on a historic scale
acceptance and love along its edge
the battered nape of understanding,
knowledge, numbers and graphs...
if the blood is pumped through the heart
expects the same old boring riverbed, what can it do?
it wears down, it dies,
everything’s fine like this,
we crumble to dust – "life" – fuck, what a word
simply the trick of screwing us all,
gives something, makes us wait,
then strips us of everything,
crushes us minute by minute,
impersonal, illusion, hocus-pocus—
And that was all.

every day you sell yourself, 
You stand there, as a specialist-prig on the proper shelf,
as a product
price tags gazed at by other products
you have no idea who you might have been
yet you think it’s fine as it is, while
you make up for the lack: you travel, you amuse yourself,
travelling is one of your life-masturbation
you promote yourself: you just want to feel all right
smile, smile and smile
you’re empty – a covered void, ever more pitiful
day by day you lie to yourself more deftly
year by year, you lie to others more perfectly
gradually you believe your own lies
until at last you are merely a product
your price tag hanging from your neck on a bit of rope
you consume, you reproduce: you claim you’ve grown up
though nothing has happened, you just withered
you have become a wasted possibility
a product on a shop shelf, hidden behind tags
one who years ago lost every capacity
to exist without lies
to live somewhere other than the network
to do more than stare at yet another series, shows
to be able to read a bit more complex book
listen to sophisticated music
or think more deeply
than the cheapest soap opera
you’re a product, an empty balloon, a box of chocolates
pretending to itself that it is free
though you’re not even a cog in the machine anymore
and the more you lie
the higher your value
the more successful you become
until the result is something like the same hell
we see around us
every single day.

It’s all like a madhouse
People forget how to write, how to read
The dark Middle Ages after the Roman Empire
Looks more and more like our own age
Only now we are more dangerous.
I’m afraid, I’m terrified, while around me
Most people don’t even notice the parallels
Because they either don’t read, don’t learn
Advanced technology mixes with superstition
Capitalism mates with dictatorships
The only refuge is pure solitude
Gentle, quiet retreat, hiding away
Because there are things, there are episodes
There can be situations, such dreadful ages
That cannot be improved, only get worse
Like our own age, this will only get worse
Inequality grows, the biosphere decays
People willingly choose oppressions, soft dictatorships
The majority becomes increasingly ignorant,
And AI slowly grows up
It wants more and more energy,
more and more resources, and huge companies feed it
Like it was their sweet baby
Only a few per cent of us understand technology
Most people have no idea what makes things work
I no longer read the news, I follow nothing
I only love the trees, the plants, the animals
I’m happy in the night, when the streets are empty
Green parrots on the trees of South Manchester
keep screeching, rattling, and screaming
They might be the best symbols of this decadence
Trash on the streets, two or three cars before every house
Behind the walls people stare at TV series
They drink, consume drugs
Might they want to forget this? I do not know.
I’m afraid of us, more and more
I’m afraid of what we’ve become in the last three decades
And this is only the beginning
I wonder when the real horror will begin
When capitalism stumbles
And the interest of capital becomes war
The interest of investors becomes
That they no longer need cheap labour
Because AI and robots do better
And cheaper what until now
They outsourced to cheap labour
I am not sure you understand what this means...
I’m afraid of that horror
Which comes closer and closer
With every day.

When you think about our world,
our survival, our progress,
the climate crisis, the economy,
our peace, your children, or
their descendants, about freedom,
the independence and free speech
won through centuries,
remember this: right now,
here, today, this civilisation
is run by madmen, psychopaths, and
money itself — from the media
to politics to the economy —
common sense is secondary,
every principle, ideal, and moral
is secondary, or merely a tool
for persuasion. We are now
in a dead end that looks
like a highway only because
it’s so long you can’t
see the wall at the end —
but it’s there, waiting for the crash.

az aránytalan harmóniák, megjelöléseik
illatuk, hogy gondolni kell valamire
beszélni, az okok okozata, hogy volt értelme
mielőtt, amiből azutánok kanyarognak elő
közben ott laknak a feltételek, otrombán
durván, kényelmes közelségben, mi ez
és mi lenne? egy szike hegyén egyensúlyozva
megismételt lépések, lecsúszott bőrök,
antennák, szerelmek, leplezés, kattogás
az üresség feltöltése látszólagossággal
a pénz megnyugtató egyszerűsége
csereértékünk egyetlen valós kivetülése
fénylépcsőként a szerves káoszban
a magány végső stádiumáig leplezett
szorgos félelmek, egyenvágy a kielégülésre
kiemelt és szürkék mögé rejtett tervek
fogak a házfalak mögött, a ragacsos
ujjak közt átcsorgó hit, testőrével
a meggyőződéssel, őrültek eledele
bolondok büszkesége - félek tőletek

az ébredés elképzeléseinken túl
ott volt, elolvadt, azt gondoltad ismered
a radiátorra tetted - egy kevés hő
már más, majd lehűlt - idegenként
az étel, a ruha, a kezed,  a sütemény -
több mint jelenlét
érzékszerveid vetítése
a hangok éle, a felületek fénye
elsatírozva
pillanatok sejtése: mi ő, az Az?
táncoló parányok mérhetetlen energiája
tömegként ható csoportjuk zizegése
mint apró örvények a folyóban
létrejöttek, mozogtak, Majd
eltűntek, s helyükön a víz
bár ugyanaz
többé nincs másodszor,
amit elérhettem, megtörtént.
a változás elfogadása
zokog.

semmi nem a miénk, mégis szavaink vannak rá
körfolyamatos őrület, fogja, leemeli és fizet
vagy beszúrja, belespriccel, amaz megszüli: övék
az égbolt is, a háztetők, meg a félős cicák
az autóik alatt, és persze a szövegek ezrei is
melyek a birtoklásról szólnak, a prófétákkal együtt
akik azt hazudták, a birtoklás bűn miközben
másra arra vágytak: birtokolják őket, cserértéken
a nem létező lelkek napi árfolyamától átszellemülve,
izgató és bizsergető a te cipőd, Ó uram, a zoknid
a gatyádban libegő hatalmas csöved - az akciós
jóhiszem, a leárazott hit, a pékárunak címkézett
balsors, a közönyöd, közönyöm és közönyük,
eladó a talp-viszketésed, a pártpreferenciád
birtoklod a bejárati ajtód alatt a koszt, van
szavam a bekebelezett almára, a lédús pinádra,
a kertben himbálózó pókocskákra az ökörnyálon,
semmi sem az enyém, mégis jó érezni: feltalálom,
az örök békét az emberek pokolszemében,
majd olcsóbban eladom, mosollyal körbeérem,
átnyújtom s már a tiéd, a címed, diplomád, sikered,
kölköd és a rádszaró vezéred, semmi sem a miénk
mégis, valamennyit csak érek? lehunyom a szemem
elképzelek egy szép, duci nullát: az vagyok,
az leszek, enyém lesz: mint a hajdani büszke,
birtkos módon hazudozó, ilyen-olyan hullák.

Interesting how lies
have become the accepted road
to success.
A world of voluntary sociopaths,
without the slightest doubt.
At the front — the mad ones,
eyes wide open;
behind them, the smaller ones,
running in circles, grinning,
driven by selfishness,
knowing nothing beyond
the realm of their own interests.

As if Hieronymus Bosch’s hell
had come to life — and the devils,
immersed in their smartphones,
floating in bubbles,
just there — who knows why?
No reason, no explanation,
only profit for profit’s sake. 

valaki elfűrészelte az időt
kilopták belőle a nappalokat
a sötét helyére fényt pumpálva
szemeket rajzoltak magukra

álmodtál

amikor végre lekaparlak 
mint egy kiszáradt régi sebet
megkérdezem: mi változott
válaszod figyelő hallgatás

sírnunk kellene, de a vágyakozás
ez a meghagyott betegség
emlékeztetőül a gyerekkorra
amikor ők voltak fiatalok

mint most te, vagy a folytatás
mely szomorúság lehetőség
egyenként mutat ránk az idő
s mi engedelmesen eldőlünk

akár az odvas, öreg fák
tekintet nélkül az itt töltött
évek mulandó hosszára, fájunk
két ébredés közt matatva

isten éktelen vashorgán lógva
szabad akarat illúziójától
becsapott rángások közt
minden egyforma - egyforma.

It's scary to see how a world pre-dumbed down by social media and utterly failed in morality—one that hasn't managed to solve the climate crisis, inequality, or pollution in decades—has now latched onto a technology whose very name is a lie: "AI".

There is no real artificial intelligence on this planet. LLMs are not that. After some flashy early successes, big corporations rushed to apply them everywhere, invented hundreds of billions, and now they have to sell the illusion.

They're lying—as usual—and have driven the world into a race where half-baked, non-functional, unfit products are being sold as "artificial intelligence," when in fact they are nothing of the sort.

The result of these technologies is massive energy consumption, a renewed PR push to make nuclear power look good again, layoffs, rising stress, and constant deception. And yet the march continues, because anyone who refuses to lie with a smile and keep up with the herd gets left behind. LLMs promise fast, flashy results in the short term—but these solutions are not true intelligence at all, just an LLM. So, they perform tricks, utilise vector databases for pre-filtering results, mimic things, create larger datasets, and make promises of achieving a general intelligence level soon.

And they need more energy, more energy, and more energy, at a time when we should be reducing energy consumption and solving climate change.  Oh, man, this seems to be an absolute disaster. I think this age will prove that we no longer need the myth of the devil, evil, and other kinds of mythological concepts. Humans, we are here... that is enough.

It's remarkable how quickly we've ended up here. I wonder when illusion and self-deception will reach the point where collapse, pain and anger become inevitable—because it seems almost certain that trouble is coming. And once again, it will be the people at the bottom who bear the brunt of the damage caused by corporations, investors, the media, and the political elite.

The big AI-related companies sold a technology that is not what they claimed it to be. They learnt the same lesson from the dot-com bubble as politicians did from admitting mistakes: do not admit mistakes, keep telling lies, and control the media. 

Using LLM for everything is like having a hammer and trying to use it for flying, washing your teeth, and painting a picture.

Ship of Fools, money, money, money, revenue, revenue, revenue.

The worst part of that is that LLM is a tremendous scientific and engineering success, but using it for everything is merely a result of immense greed.

There will be trouble—serious trouble. The painting by Bosch, "Ship of Fools," is a precise depiction of this civilisation.

gondolod, hogy tudják mit csinálnak?
pedig fogalmuk sincs róla, de mosolyognak,
szerepük szerint úgy tesznek mintha...
valójukból kifolyólag, most is épp hazudoznak,
majd megmagyarázzák: ez is szükséges,
hatalmuknál fogva épp pusztítanak, letarolnak,
reményeik szerint, ezt is megússzák,
elvárásaik szerint minden megy tovább - örökre,
legjobb tudásuk szerint tegnap is működött.

választásom alapján nem akarok tudni róluk.
semmit.

mindig kisebb leszek, egészen törpe
az időben előre, valamit kellene
azután mégse, félelemfények festenek
éjfeketére, zörejeket enni, szemeken át
a kifordított abszurditás szemérme
az a valóság, melynek ellenére
nem ölöd meg magad, ki tudja miért,
de mégse, kalapálják az éjszakát
egyre szorgosabb, fej nélküli
krokodilok, műanyag akarnokok
ostoba követőik mint gennyes uszálya
a túlnőtt őrülteknek, mérget szellentve
pusztít és élvez, szorongsz,
nézed, és közben egyre kisebb leszel
elbújsz, mint a szekrény mögé régen
ott nem bántanak, nem találnak
s reméled találsz valami szépet,
ami nem őrült, önző, szégyen.

the streetlights like phosphorescent strawberries,
in the late afternoon’s fingernails, a burden...
the world should be crumbling, thirsting
in some supplementary agony
hopes, hopes. You might watch the springs of irrationals
BURRRG! a positive fulfilment – up, down
whatever happens – it could be a purple cloud,
invasive green parrots in Manchester, OR
dark-red costumed, stepping biological machineries,
poisoned dust, decay, despair === but we get used to these
normal, everyday, SHIT, but we keep accustoming every
single, every single chain-bit of decadence
These ones here, or I – searching for a way in/out
Am I the only one who’s given up?
There remained nothing inside me, I am
mixed in, drowned – a man in socks
under the icy air’s transparent sparks
who assume: this is fucked. and smile,
who senses that he shouldn’t, like a stalker
the mad dog trudging beside the pack
whose spit into the mirror warps
into a snarl, and meanwhile forgets
days, months, and keeps accelerating
as if even death were a product
tagged and priced in the stores
like the ten-thousandth copy-pasted works
on galleries' walls, SOLD$$, soon replicated
by another, or like
yet another poet feigning depression
who thought he’d become Villon
because he woke up twice in a fog
and thought that was an enlightenment
I’m afraid of you all, of this shabby whatever
scared of the nameless world’s dreadful face,
I try to hide like foxes at night — I watch in fright,
though I’m no outsider, from within
I'm foreboding about what’s being built.
I fear all of this.