képek, betűk

yes. if they order it, shall we eat flowers?
a step’s worth of silence
you pull a cap over the smile planted in your lap
everyone takes a breath at once
of course? obviously? did it just happen?
glove puppets play the piano in vibrating mirrors
they drink oil, excrete gold, burp natural gas
they eat plastic, vomit lithium, manganese, cobalt
withered flowers in empty souls
they fumble with their smartphones
is this some kind of critique? am i green?
oh, not at all. critique has long had no meaning,
just as opinion has none either,
just as rebellion has none,
nor does argument.
since everything is just narrative?
reality,
narrative too,
depends on how much you earn from it?
opinion is price-labelled, marketed,
human nutrient delivered in a targeted way?
like feed for dead flowers?
reason is asleep, breathing softly, trembling
who knows what it is dreaming?
perhaps nothing. perhaps it only pretends?
does it want to achieve an effect?
to manufacture a bubble? to shut down a community,
to shut it in, to influence it?
is evil infinite? does it exist at all?
if you live in constant madness, do you become mad?
social media, pseudo-AI, fashion,
the colours of religion and capitalism have been mixed together?
nice?
has it become so beautiful?
what is the it is it?
hedgehogs dance in the garden
foxes sleep on the grass in the park
in mute silence
I am listening to the music of M.F.
like leftover silence
in the howling, foaming horror
a single candle
locked in an ice cube.