MRCZ (Marcos) is a Brazilian artist born in 1991. He was born into a small town of ~3000 people and lived for years in a countryside house with his parents, which he believes to have changed him forever. He currently lives in the large city of Porto Alegre where he works in publicity. He started his artistic work in 2015, creating daily between college design courses and work. His main objective was to make something he could pour his entire heart into - to immerse himself completely. His productions are a way of expressing the challenges that come with the responsibilities of adulthood in a grand city. His inspirations include comics, music, the human mind and its gimmicks, philosophy, fiction and science.  You can find more of his work here.  

​if i was 2 write a poem –
no
if
    no –
hold on
          if
             i was
                   to marry you
                            have your baby
                                  carry your luggage
                                   through Heathrow
 
trust
allowing me to trim your moustache
u trimming my sideburns
-
throwing out used collected tampons
 
-
hiding the remote
letting u throw your farts at me
 
the UFO sized plug –
drain cover –
listen to it whistle
as the water
                  trickles
                       down
in its insides
 
too small –
the hole
too big
to plug
 
i will sit on it
 
no that’s not grease
from a sausage roll
-
don’t shake your fist
 
it reminds me of –
that is
a
water print
from
        my scribbling hand
 
love is
burping freely
no longer keeping hid
typical –
bodily
              what
typical
         functions of the body
 
shitting
putting loo roll down first
pissing
the door shut
 
eating
with fist to mouth
chewing silently            -
 
do it loud enough now to –
wind you up
 
watch you go
 
love is heedless laughter
 
wonder
 
you are
               disgustingly lovely –
my dear
 
give us a kiss no no not an
elbow in my ribs
 
are u drunk
yes ioz’m drunk
look it is almost happy hour
pisshead
yourself
 
would you rather
i listen
to your
         snoring fits
                    n starts
 
this won’t make sense later
 
 i’m always trying to be somebody
 
as if i don’t quite fit myself
i quiver
 
in this shell \of
flesh bones
 
clumsy –
difficult to control
 
who reads the instructions
 
i don’t understand Japanese
 
i learnt French –
in school
 
but
now all i can remember is
bonjour
 
and oral examinations
 
which were never what
 
i thought they may be 
 
 
and an enthusiastic teacher
 
who had
a voice which
boomed
 
and he was
expressive
 
in his gestures
 
manner of a pm
mp
 
seemed to like me-
 
he left suddenly
 
a lot of people –
familiar faces
have left me
 
without say so
as if i didn’t need to be aware
 
of
 
their leaving but kind faces-
encouraging voices
do not often stay
 
eventually
they leave
 
me
with their lessons
 
have i taken any of it in –
 
still i walk
 
the darkened pathway. 

"I’ve been fascinated with light and the mechanics of photography for a long time. This collection of photos was about trying to capture the flow of natural light, using the southern coasts of Cape Town, South Africa, as a subject. I wanted to try and capture the mood of the environment in Cape Town in winter: cold, rainy, brooding and wet. The exposures were long enough that the ocean ended up looking almost like clouds, smoky and flowing, rather than the crispness that comes with regular exposures. 

I prefer the process of taking landscapes on film and the texture that comes with the medium. Taking long exposures on film without any reference about the results is always a bit unnerving, but it’s also more exciting when you finally get back the images. Shooting with film also forces me to really slow down and carefully focus on the frame I want, as looking at the image I took and doing a quick correction of course isn’t possible. Every shot becomes more tangible. The way light moves is never really predictable, so getting back the negatives is, for me, a more interesting process than getting immediate feedback from a digital screen and then snapping off tons of pictures till you eventually get what you want. I’ve learnt to embrace the imperfections rather than dwell on them."

oh
 
my insides
moved to a new city
where fountains burst into cement
 
my insides are on a time-change, i’m lagged
the architecture is beautiful, my insides say
 
i don’t understand the culture
or the street signs,
i reply
 
oh
 
you
are the new city
 
i’m not into this city, and no
i can’t walk through walls, i’ve tried
 
and most of the time windows
keep you indoors
 
so maybe
 
i’ll change the buildings
that hang from the sky into curtains
 
you aren’t even a body you are
a hallway of mirrors
 
you are a backdrop
a staged room
 
to fool me
to trust
you
 
oh
 
you
bring me
to a room
 
we hang our skin
across from each other
 
lay my organs in the closet
as knotted stockings
 
pour your blood
on the bed as
a duvet
 
oh
 
we look
out the window
at the buildings that hang from the sky
 
at cities where water rushes upwards
and buildings blow in the wind
 
we crawl out the window
and grope the tapestry
 
we coil fingers
knot histories
 
and oh this
new city
oh 

​how do I describe this to you so you can begin to understand
that I c a n n o t compromise my sanity anymore and must learn to compartmentalize
and live with the clamoring in my skull.
 
except that describing a migraine is the clinician’s job. if we gave it to the poet, how might she respond?
 
case study #31:
my mind feels like it took a dip into the aokigahara forest,
but the skull feels like nick and jordan just met owl eyes in the library.
 
file #a246zyx:
herr doktor doktor, you keep telling me to express myself, so here goes.
the ghost keeps haunting the sugar bowl and reminds me it’s there with that imaginary ringing.
What did you call it? Sn Disease, also known as Tin Man Syndrome, cross-referenced as Tinnitus? 
that should be right, doktor.
I won’t have to get BOTOX® like my mom, right? it’s not that bad, but where’s my closed car when it rains?
 
pedagogic recipe for fried thoughts:

• take one (1) oz. of the mind body problem
• a dash of nerves
• three (3) slices of the brain.

 
in a mood that feels like drifting, throw the cutlets into a frying pan hot with oil,
sear and spatter in rosemary to linger with shriveled memories.
if to your taste, blacken it and then serve with edible flowers and sprinkled with gold dust
and 50 mg of ground up ibuprofen.

taking the long way home
to tell me you’re tired
of
us

I am tired
of  
scouring the bottom of my feet
looking for reasons to look back
leaving pieces of myself
everywhere I go
a stream of everything I consider,
slipping out of my heels,
bouncing off the concrete
and back into my mouth,
but losing bits along the way
bits I’ve scavenged for
bits I’ve fought for
bits of you that you’ve been looking for

I’m tracking things in the house now
you’re upset, because I never take my shoes off
I never turn my mind off
I’m upset because you don’t call me by name
as if I blend in with the books and the towel rack
you own every bit of me you wish to see
and I keep dragging
the other bits in
the ones of me that cared for someone else
the ones of me that never cared for myself
they’re all here
in the other room
down the hall
there’s a password
knock three times and they’ll ask which way I fall

the answer is forwards
always stumbling into uncomfortability
into the heavy brown that weighs on me every time
you catch me with your eyes
and string me up in the rafters
then glance elsewhere fleeting suspension as I hover over the ground
and dropping me to the floor,  
breaking the smaller bits
the bits that aren’t replaceable

you say you are tired
of
us, but
truly you are tired of who I made myself be

you’ve explored all my caverns
all my interesting
all my depraved
and you’d like to trade me in
for a smoother, seamless smile
one that won’t care for unwanted bits
one that will ignore your missteps
and gather your loose ends behind you
one that will fit