Archetypes

So these days I have become my parent's child again.
'Good for you' - someone says - 'enjoy it while you can.'
Certainly, but let's go a bit further.
My concept of love
lies in the bliss of distance.
Everything else
is murder, it seems.
'You'll die alone.'
people say with such conviction,
it's hard not to believe they are more
well-informed than I am.

XY

Now I remember.

My problems began
with my inability to accept
someone's authority over me
whose theory of the world is sheer madness,
who insists that 4pm is the middle of the night,
who calls a window a chair,
who declares himself a communist yet celebrates Putin
who says hippies were right about polygamy and weed
yet wants me to stop acting so stupid and drink up my palinka and go get married soon
who drives our car into the tram because he's a wreck himself
who believes friendship and romantic love are better off based on mutual interest
who likes women with big breasts yet married the one with the small ones
whose best friends are a jew, a closeted nazi and the neighbour that he really hates
who watches television all day yet condemns the internet for washing our brains
who ignores his son and treats his daughter like a man,
whose idea of reality is just as confused as I was
when he tried to hit me with the window in his hand
'Say that you're sorry.'
'I am sorry, father. I truly, really am.'

Thank you for asking if I am lost in the world of men. I think I'll get by, I'll get by a train and maybe hang myself.

XX

My mother's love for me is retarded,
and it makes me feel retarded,
maybe I am.
Her favourite things are statements that emanate
the tedious breath of infinite consensus wisdom
and common knowledge
things like,
'oh you know, people always say, that people always say, but they shouldn't.'
or
'Big, blue triangles tend to have three sides, they are mostly large in size and well, their colour, as I observed, is somewhat blue. But I am not sure.'
or
'You like pumpkins. You always liked them, even as a child.'

She entered my room and ran straight to the thing - oh what's this? what's in it? is it a bottle? is it empty?
She lifted it slightly, it was heavy. 'Yes, it is empty.' I said.
The half-full bottle of cornershop wine that I left in the cupboard since summer. It is long rotten and it stinks too. But since no one knows about it I figured I'd just keep it, I don't care.

My mother's love for me is retarded, or maybe I am.