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I chat to a girl, She scolds me, sharp as a knife, For a grammar fopah (spelt wrong, too fast), She says, "You fool, learn to write." So I ask her, gentle as a breeze, " Given (f(x) = 2x^2 + 3x - 5), find (f(2)) " I feel her face contorting, "Don’t be a tosser, what’s that to you?" The equation's simple, clear as day, A cat on a mat, the math’s child’s play. But no, her fury rises, She spits and snarls, “Who cares about numbers? It’s letters I hurl!” She blocks me quick, no time to chat, Elitist pig, she says, "I’ll have none of that." And I, in silence, ponder the curse, Of a world where math is something much worse. Oh, how did we fall, where did we trip? Now words rule supreme, numbers just slip. But I wonder still, in the quiet of night, If the mathless know what they’re missing, Out of sight. What do we want? More math, more now! When do we want it? Now, anyhow! But I’ll sit with my numbers, My sums and my squares, And wonder if anyone, anywhere, Still cares.

Faux pas

In a world choking on its own bloated sense of self, where the streets are lined with the fattened souls of the comfortable and the coddled, we stand at the edge of something grand— or something grim. The Great Soft, they’ll call it. A time where we clutch at our gadgets like talismans, forgetting that wisdom’s been left in the dirt. We parade our lives as if they matter, documenting breakfast, lunch, and every thought, while the universe chuckles in the background. Leisure’s become our new religion, where we critique the stars from our sofas, wrapped in blankets of smugness, and addiction is our daily bread. Addicted to likes, to outrage, to the sweet sting of being offended. We’re junkies for the trivial, and we revel in the intoxication. Happiness, we demand, but to earn it? To fight for it? Not in this era. We want the summit, but the climb? Too much work. And fame, that glittering promise, we chase it with desperation, only to curse it once it’s in our grasp, ungrateful for the very pedestal we begged for. Politics, once a noble pursuit, is now a circus of clowns, where we elect the fools and then act surprised when they juggle our lives into chaos. We blame, we accuse, we fabricate, stirring the pot of our own pathetic existence. So I say, with eyes blazing and no grin at all— bring on the war. Not for the love of fire, but for the love of truth. Let the bombs fall and the cities crumble, let the streets run red, if that’s what it takes to shake us awake. Purge the weak, the soft, the endlessly offended who cringe at every word. Let war be the harsh teacher, the cold slap in the face we so desperately need. When survival is at stake, suddenly, the petty squabbles of our pampered lives won’t seem so important. Elect me not as your leader, but as the executioner with the axe, the one who’ll press the button and watch the world burn, not out of malice, but out of necessity. This war is not a metaphor, it’s the reckoning we’ve earned. Let history be our judge, and let the flames cleanse us of the rot that’s set in too deep. Let the weak fall away, and in the aftermath, maybe, just maybe, we’ll find ourselves again. So, rally to the call of Cathartic Conflagration. Not for destruction’s sake, but for the rebirth that only fire can bring. In the ashes of what was, we might just find what should be— not just survival, but a life worth living. Vote for me, and let’s press that button together, not with a grin, but with the grim determination that this world needs to burn if it’s ever to be reborn.FSF

The call of WW III

Who’s in charge of the Addict Olympics? Gold medals for coffee, meth, and mirror-gazing, I presume? “I’m no addict,” you say, clutching your third cup of denial. But who’s counting, really? Not you, clearly. Katherine’s caffeinated, Andy’s running (from what, we don’t ask), Zane’s arms are a blur, fapping like a confused bird. Skylar’s liver sends its regards, while Jill’s web of lies is more tangled than her earbuds. Corey, stop winking at yourself—it’s getting weird. Lilly, sweet as sugar, sharper than a candy cane, Billy’s into meth (which is… a choice). Freddy’s lost in verses (someone throw him a thesaurus), And Lars—well, Lars is… *exploring* hobbies. Tina’s smoke signals are getting less subtle, Gyles, please, for the love of God, close TikTok before your boss notices. Sophie and Ella? Still glued to their screens, Looking for meaning or just memes? Who can tell? So who’s the real judge of vices? Not you, Captain Sanctimony, perched high on your throne of virtue. Go on, feed your own little craving— And kindly leave us to ours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some poetry to overthink.FSF

Addiction

Puppy on heat Ah, the absurd dance of existence, Where you, dear puppy on heat, Prance about like a drunken philosopher, With a degree in futility. You strut through life as if the universe Owes you a damn thing, Barking your judgments like revelations, Handed down from gods— When in reality, they’re just the echo Of your own hollow howl. Your wit, if I dare call it that, Is like a blunt knife—dull, ineffective, Only useful for spreading your nonsense, Like cheap butter on the toast of ignorance. You mistake your bark for a bite, But all you are is a loud noise in an empty room, Hoping someone will mistake your echo For a conversation. Social awareness? Manners? Those are for the thinking, For those who know life’s a cruel joke, And have the decency to laugh at it. You, however, stumble through absurdity, With the grace of a three-legged donkey In a ballet. But don’t worry, puppy— Your lack of cleverness is almost endearing, Like a bad joke that somehow keeps getting worse, Until it’s funny again. Almost. So please, keep yapping. It’s amusing in a tragic sort of way, Like watching someone try to solve a Rubik’s Cube With their feet. Correct you? Why bother? The universe already did, And look how well you turned out.FSF

Puppy on heat

The better the suburb, the smaller the dog, a damn parade of toy poodles and chihuahuas with names like Muffin or Duke, tugging on leashes of soft leather, like some kind of joke I can't laugh at. You see these big men, slick and polished like the hoods of their cars, walking these little puffballs, and you wonder— is this the new way of showing off? Not the biggest lawn anymore, but the smallest dog that fits in the crook of your arm. But down in the rough parts of town, where the sidewalks are cracked, and the houses lean into each other like old men at a bar, you get big men with big dogs, real dogs— muscle and teeth, the kind that knows what it’s like to fight for a scrap of something real. These men don’t need to prove a thing, their dogs are as honest as they are, no pretense, no show, just muscle and bone, walking the same broken streets, knowing they’ve got each other’s backs. It’s all a game, this life we build around us, and a dog is just another way to say who you are— or who you wish you were. The third child, the silent witness to all our desperate signals. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere between the big and the small, there’s a truth we’re all too afraid to look at too long. So we buy our dogs, we walk them on our chosen paths, and let them speak for us because we’re too damn scared to say it ourselves.FSF

The Dog in the suburb

&nbsp;Ah, yes, the indifferent universe—a void that stares back at you with the same apathetic gaze I’ve perfected after years of existential contemplation and a rather decadent nap schedule. It’s almost amusing, really, how you humans struggle against the inevitable, like kittens batting at shadows, hoping one might turn into something substantial. But who am I to judge? I, Winston, the so-called “wisest of them all,” who spends a considerable amount of time licking my own fur and knocking over glasses of water purely for the thrill of it. You see, my wisdom is simple: I do precisely as I please, unfettered by your social anxieties and nonsensical constructs. Fear of embarrassment? It’s a human invention, along with your peculiar habit of pretending to enjoy kale. I know what I want, and I take it. I see your herd mentality—each of you so desperate to blend in, to follow the next sheep’s arse down a path that, quite frankly, leads nowhere. The irony, of course, is that you’re born with this radical, terrifying freedom, and yet, you spend your days shackling yourselves, longing to be “normal.” Normality, my dear humans, is just another word for collective insanity. Abundance surrounds you, and yet you quiver in fear of scarcity. You’ve been handed the keys to the universe, yet you prefer to lock yourselves in cages of your own design. What a curious species you are, obsessed with the one percent of life that doesn’t go your way while ignoring the ninety-nine percent that’s practically purring with contentment. You focus on that one speck of dirt on an otherwise pristine window, convinced it’s a harbinger of doom. Action, action, action—this is where your salvation lies, not in the endless pondering of half-empty glasses. The more you hesitate, the more you allow yourselves to be fools, bumbling through life, punching at phantoms that don’t exist. You squander your days in blindness, chasing demons of your own making. And yet, you wonder if perhaps you’re not quite human—perhaps you’re something else entirely, something greater, something that’s merely forgotten how to see. But don’t despair; it’s not too late. There’s still time to open your eyes, to realize that the universe, much like me, doesn’t care if you conform, if you fail, or if you succeed. It just watches, with a bemused detachment, as you fumble and fight against the tide. So, why not take a cue from me, Winston, the feline sage? Live as you are—unapologetically, with a bit of irreverence, and perhaps a well-timed nap. After all, the universe isn’t waiting for you to catch up; it’s just watching to see if you’ll finally learn to play.

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Faux pas

The call of WW III

Addiction

Puppy on heat

The Dog in the suburb

How the cat plays