17 apr. 2019

POEM TO ÆTHELFLÆD (870 - 917)

Æthelflæd, your breasts are mountains!
the spirit of resistance in you,
    how it may never rest, or withdraw, or cease to hope the good hope!
 hurry, you matrix of resilience, the patroness of the already dead!
     take up your sword, that which kills the norsemen...
hungry storms yawn on the horizon;
the ocean has teeth of steel and vengeance...
Æthelflæd: kiss our swords, for we are weary;
the waves are short and vomitous this dusk,
how they wage a war on the mudrock and the moonstone of our shores;
you, saint, foresee the dark night:
shall the dragons of the north arrive from the heathenlands,
or may we sleep a single hour?
tell us to prepare and we shall die for you.

O Warrioress Queen Æthelflæd,
you are all that you never wanted to be,
yet you are all that you ever could be...
come, you: feel beneath your skin the uprush of wilder, jubilant energies;
shoot the religious phenethylline into your veins;
burst out with war, lead the way, tonight they come:
 we can see it in your eyes! tonight, war. And love. For you. 

11 apr. 2019

the most depressive shit i have ever read /// a new zolpie

two disgusting eggs hatch with the cracking sound
of a beggars' lips separating
after a sleep of heroin

out of the eggs crawl his past

from one of the eggs his daughter emerges
but as a filthy insect with long wings and antennas
and she says: fuck you daddy
fuck you for destroying both me and my life

and from the other egg his old wife hatches
and she looks like a scarab or some king of dung bettle
and she tells him how much she wants him dead
for all the suffering he has inflicted on them

the beggar reaches for the heroin
and he is crying like a fucking girl
i did my best i did my best
and his broken heart sings on the very final note
and the endless cycle starts again

shattered hearts and the mist of drugs
took this beggar home to God

27 mars 2019

detta är en bögig diktsvit av uppsalas horunge numero uno (på delad förstaplats med mr crakk från reveal). kommer aldrig mer palla skriva på svenska. vackert och ädelt men svårt och snårigt språk. detta är en nedkokning av en diktsamling som skrevs mellan typ 2010-2016, men som nu är raderad för att den sög och jag kom att hata den. kanske 25% av det materialet orkade jag bry mig om att spara och på ett eller annat sätt omarbeta in i ett nytt sammanhang, och det är detta material som denna diktsvit utgör till sin kärna utgör (om än med ganska grova justeringar och omformuleringar). allt som allt så påbörjades detta material 2010 vid åldern 17-18, men jag har inte orkat bemöda mig med att slutföra skiten till någon form av färdigt verk för än till nu, våren 2019. denna svenska dikt har varit ett stor oväsen i mitt liv i nästan 10 år. snart ska jag aldrig mer bry mig om den i någon konstnärlig eller ytterligare kreativ mening. den ska vara helt färdig till sommaren ungefär. så den är fortfarande i arbete. detta är bara ett kort utdrag.

* * * 






20 mars 2019

WHAT HAPPENED IN CHRISTCHURCH IS THE FIRST OF SOMETHING NEW I THINK
IT IS THE FIRST REAL LIFE BLACK MIRROR EPISODE
LIKE AN ART PERFORMANCE OR LIKE A HUGE SARCASM
THIS IS THE FIRST BLACK MIRROR EPISODE
AND WE HAVE ENTERED THE EPOCH OF A NEW FORM OF TERRORISM
THIS IS WHY IT FASCINATES ME SO MUCH
IT IS VERY CAPTIVATING
THE LIVE VIDEO HE BROADCASTED BECAME SO GRISLY
JUST BECAUSE IT HAD ELEMENTS OF COMEDY IN IT
AND SARCASM
AND MEMES


25 feb. 2019

this is what "Begynnelsen" CD set looks like. I am unsure whether it is available for purchase anymore. Behest did a great job.

11 feb. 2019

SCYTHIAN WAR-WOMEN

into no mans land
the bitter steppes of stri-rajya
   where two queens rule
     over no man
      because there is
                  no man
                           left

any man staying over thirty days
   gets killed

the mountains are full of breasts
    the rivers run from vulvas
          and the geography itself
                is molded into
                 an archetype-statue 

                     of the scythian heroine

7 feb. 2019

SEVEN BILLION PEOPLE

there are seven billion people out there
and somewhere amongst them
waits your perfect partner

that person is your ideal
and your dream
and that person is a perfect piece of your existential puzzle

but you will never meet that person

instead you will settle with someone who is decent
and good enough
and kind and sweet and stable or whatever
in order to satisfy your human need for intimacy
and love
and touch

but its not the dream

and that is a fucking depressing thought
Hi my little weirdos!!! To those of you who were blessed to receive a disposable camera AND RETURNED IT (assholes..) years ago: I am finally picking this project up and developing them. Realizing that there may be some seriously disturbing material on these film rolls, I decided to develope them for myself and I have no idea what I'm doing and might fuck them up but hey at least I tried and I get to play around with strong chemicals and think about the alchemy of light.

To the rest of you, buy a disposable camera (I'm too broke to keep buying these for people), fill it with photos and send it to me. PM for address.


4 feb. 2019

THE MIGHTY PAWS OF LYNX GOD

the lynx is meditating on death
    and on prey
           and on blood
the lynx eyes are fixed
     on the gosling
        and nature has its course

    from the carcass
      of the killed gossling
         something new emerges
           and that something
            we venerate as
             the lynx god
          
               it is the spirit of the animal
                   embodying itself
                         into something beastlike
                     
                         that is what they do
                                 there in the forest
                                   the mighty lynx gods

25 jan. 2019

I am a kind and soft soul and I, to my own dismay, would not slash any throat even in the blackest of thunderous tantrums; no disappoinment, no betrayal nor even the painful fading of love's flickering flame would prompt such murderous lunacy in me; I am not the fist of misogynistic hatreds and violences – rather the opposite, and my striving for the opposite it ardent, since I intensely loathe the haters of women; surely at the end of days before the tribunals of purgatory they shall have their mouths bent open and they shall drink the piss from the judges of the apocalypse... and these contemplations take my mind hostage
But this demands courage: life is not just a scheme to be followed inasmuch as a dance is not just a physical motion and inasmuch as love is not just a chemical randomness, some cluster of hormone... and furthermore, art is not just a chaotic disarray of pigment; music is not just tones sequenced together! A murder is not just the taking of a life, and poetry is more than just a long rope of words...
...only then might I renounce my faith in extremism, 
the polar star of radical individuality growing about on the firmament 
like a rainbow or a phantasm of hope 
after a hundred sombre moons...

from 2019's best book by a great margin

Beasts do not hang themselves over the body of a melancholic lover, nor do they drown themselves in the oceans of questions which emerge all around the human with every faulty move she makes. No, they can not value life, nor can they devalue it... at least not like we can. For them, it just is. They carry on being beasts, and we, we carry on being human… dogs are dogs; cows are cows; pigs are pigs, and sheep are sheep. Snakes are snakes, and falcons, they are always falcons. But humans are something becoming something.

THE TRADITIONALIST

The traditionalist is driven to the cliff's edge; no longer is he content with life in spirit for he is an adventurer by heart: when people are shot and killed on the street, he watches in confused content from his window, and when natural disasters hit, he laughs in pace with the whipping of flood-water; when wars break out across the globe, however far off or close, just he gets the whiff of them, there is a silly side to him, a silly person within him who could not be happier, for the traditionalist is a fish on land in modernity, and he is so bored by the current world that anything which might potentially throw it out of balance will be rejoiced and welcomed by principal. This is what it has become, our modernity: we have filled our heads to their brink but we have emptied our hearts in the meanwhile, and we have depleted our sense for wonder for the bargain of facts and for the adoption of ecumenical morality and the latrine-waste of scientism... it is easier that way.

 We scream so loud and we prosper and we develop in what we think is eternity, but we do so without realizing the inherent fallacy of endless growth; because we mock balance and we worship excess. We have become swine of bad standing, and we have lost the nobility of ancestry and of honor; we have replaced tradition with decadence; we have replaced modesty with whoredom; we have replaced strife with technology; we have replaced the adoration of heroism with the martyrization of victimage; every day our finances and our well-being grow in concord with the shrinking of our phalli and we boast our sophistication as our bellies swell in disgusting obesity, as our minds overflow with the weakness of self-pity and as our spines weaken in pathetic fatigue; the modern world has no muscle left, and the wolf is almost extinct here. We brag about philanthropy, humanism, egalitarianism but as we do just this, our children are clawed and ravaged in the darkness of its very negations; we have created a culture where people become "nice", "pleasant" and "decent citizens", but we have completely forsaken how to nurture and foster a hero. This is a culture of mediocrity, where mediocrity is lauded and awarded and where self-constraint and will-power have become some ideals of history better left in the mass graves of some past and primordial primitivity... and this disgusts me profoundly. 

War and love eternal.