on the train
I remember
across the street
from my grandmother
lived two orphans
I once made them a salad
and told them
about my computer
I knew how to make things
appear on screens
I felt like
a demigod
for the abandoned
by parents
and broadband
when I got bored
of the worship
I hid in the curtains
their colour
buttercream
peach
back then
my attachment style
was coming along nicely
nowadays
I think exclusively
in streams
of unconscious rambles
I say whatever
comes to mind
then examine
what I've passed
there I am again
in self-excrement
seeking self-knowledge
is almost dignified
I'm thinking
about a very specific lover
whose surprise at the world
renewed itself
overnight
and somehow
so did I
he ran his hand
across my skin
mesmerised
by the colour
buttercream
peach
he did also once
put his penis
into a white bread loaf
so there's that
I like being seen
into being
yet
self-analysis
will suffice
I like my thoughts
untouched
by other hands
yet
there are worse ways
to pass through
a person
It's entirely possible
that I am
a sorely abundant loser
It's entirely possible
that the highly victorious
are amongst
the abundance of loss
I have always liked
colours that sound
like something
you could swallow
buttercream
peach
there I am
again
Greta Kaluževičiūtė was raised by the Internet and it shows.