You are the fart In the elevator In the cinema In the sauna   You are flatulence personified And yet you go flat Like bubble-less champagne Warm like piss Left in the death of afternoon   You are the politician In the pay of the billionaire Bought Ready to sell the people For scrap   You...

She sits at her desk Her headphones in, The world shut out.   She bleeds for others As words fly from  Her mind to her fingertips.   She stares at the screen, At every little comment, The good and the painful.   She forms her emotions Into books and poems To throw away...

That sacred national art form where paperwork becomes myth, elephants file complaints, and the universe waits for a stamp that never arrives. Keep it dry, absurd, and unmistakably lost. The elephant’s trunkcannot be servedwithout Form 32‑B,signed by three departmentsthat no longer...