Fufu

by Eva Irene


should i start collecting bugs again, like i used to do when i was a child?

i could, of course, choose the easy way out and come clean about it all

- the drugs, the alcohol, the sex, the abortion, the cheating, the anxiety, the one time i dreamt of birthing your child

the world’s sins, wrapped up into one average-looking, walking, talking contradiction


and i have this friend who never listens,

she just awaits her turn to speak

i bet she’s also the oldest of three,

firstborn fruit of a loveless marriage


she now looks for warmth in beds she barely sleeps in and dreams of living by the lake


why haven’t i moved to portugal yet?

sunburn or some tough love, i don’t know what i need most


mañana, i’ll be a pile of worms under the ground

better be happy with very little while we’re at it

cause they’re putting clowns on a pedestal

and mass produce Matisse for the nouveau riche

's white walls


sobriedad

nombre femenino

cualidad de sobrio.





took the train to the seaside, everything was closed so i peed in the dunes,


a cop saw me + gave me a fine


life’s no fun anymore

you need to learn your lesson or the lesson will learn you, LOL


FINE.

i’ll switch to Gauguin and think about Tahiti





but…







white men talk about the Congo as if it’s still their home





he prepares fresh Fufu every Tuesday, like a boy without a father, desperately clinging on to every good guy that comes along







alluring/heartbreak/oder?

reality/concept/absurd/molecules/still here/i like being here. i’m still here, aren’t i?