31 maj 2016

the angels

angels now pour themselves a bath of misanthropia
having become bitter cynics beyond return
while they smash the bloated piñatas of hope
with barbed wire baseball bats;
their spilled vein blood brighten even Nammu's deep
like lightbulbs in Fritzlean rape dungeons
adorned with opulent smiles stolen from faces
of children on the night before christmas
as dead religious pasts spring back to life
with the touch of their steel-bearing hands;
the knights of valour, red-crossed chests
drown in morasses of their own chivalry
as the maidens knit conspiracies of religious terror
in the shadows of the ignorance of their men;

angels now pour themselves a bath of cholera;
of AIDS; of leprosy; ebola; malaria; 
for the sickness unto death, the sickness unto death
will surely cleanse us all:
no solace, no escape, no safehavens, no wombs - 
the meaning of life is the ever option of suicide ---
as angels even, swallow this bullet,
surely must you too.


17 maj 2016

Eerie and cold, like arctic winds sweeping, I hear muffled voices… murmurs of bleating… ecstatic… distorted human voices, as if heard through a weird filter; like tampered with, pitched down to a bizarre disfigurement beyond the chords of both man and beast… the humanity of it was kind of raped out of the hoarse throats, and pounding distantly, like an underlying pattern, or a fisher’s web, was a monotonous sound of primeval drumming, like a framework almost, to the extravagant atmosphere of the night, fullmoons luminous... Only slightly above the threshold to what a human ear possibly can perceive, it was, like a carpet covering the whole of the forest. I could hear vague dialogues over the dim noise of sparkling fires and locust choruses, but I could not, to my dismay, discern a single word; as if they spoke, but without meaning – as if their pallets parched by the second, like shoved with the dryness of whole deserts, and they merely tried to form words. It escalated to a jumble of human voices, a hobo of strange words and guttural vociferations; a crucible – this black grove became – of weird tongues… I could hear violent outbursts of bestial-sounding grunts, like the primitive moaning of aroused apes molesting their female kin, but it was so suddenly cut off again and again by acute shrieks, high pitched, charged with desperation or ecstasy or both as to rouse curiosity and intimidation coupled; I follow, to the greatest extent of my ability, like a dog sniffing trails of blood back to the slaughterhouse. I collapse; schizophrenic oracles preach the end gospel, and I hear the psychiatrists ripping their ears open – they listen – and the psychotic mania thrives and begets a virus, and fuck, not even gods can challenge such a paralyzing darkness, the nefariousness, the profundity, of language... the mystery of the human condition, cornerstones of the temple are the words birthed like babies on our tongues...

I hallucinate lucid paradox, I dream awake: I see parched lips sewn together with speechlessness, the oracle shed tears... teethless wanderers, pilgrims, prophets sell their silence for the price of Yerushalayim gutter prostitutes, hoarse mouths raped to reticence, children of sloppy whores hung from ropes of regret, cloaked by the black smoke, the scorching ruins of reason, human coal in the life furnace... the stench of the vapor of words aflame, set aflame, by pyromaniac boys living childhoods on the threshold of matricide, patricide, fratricide, sororcide (they build their temples around these fantasies, ruinous basilicas of no-thing-ness and truth). I wake up and find myself walking paths that does not really exist; complete and utter hopelessness befalls every wanderer, so now I am also here, and an unutterable sequence of words take hold of my throat; I witness anti-clockwise and chaotic evolution of written and spoken language; this will end in confusion at worst and total death at best.  To the left of me, oceans of trees, to the right, the yawning abyss of possibilites; Kierkegaard talked passionately about this; I listen! Dark, endless oceans of neglect and of pain spill over the shores of redemption and logic as I tear out pages of millennia-old diaries: my prayers, my wishes, my ceremonies, my poems stick on my tongue, my confessions of love, terms of endearment, clog like semen in my throat; I revoke literature! It is a cancer. Scribes become property in brothels and on the fields of cotton, price tags mark their necks... carved in the stele of dementia and abandon is the concept of unable-ness of verbal expression: All. Known. Languages. Deteriorate. From. Within; such is the nature of the spoken word. They collapse inward, dilapidating like fucking N. Y. towers, stumbling on their own chinese-bound feet which is grammar...

So, I confess and I proclaim – I am nothing – the changeling born of the mother of anti-tonges tucked soflty in the crib of phoentics and grammar, supreme abstraction and springboard into realms of mysticism... I want to stir revulsion and dissentment between man and language – such is my goal – I want to put to exposure the fragility of it all... the hobo of existential sophistry veils life in static and noise; the golden rhymes, the prose shot from the dirty needle into loins of love addicts... I walk, and I walk; astray, lost in psychotic monologue, I can no longer discern a path, and my feet splash in a puddle of my own urine... God can not carve words on your canvas of flesh and blood, so why do you ask him, or her, or it, to beshrew himself; herself; itself; over your worthless life. I do not think your god can speak at all, let alone understand english, or your sorry excuse for it; divine omnipotence is a hoax and a string without end, and solace is a land mine planted in the yard of the home of our upbringing: language is a bridge between yesterday and tomorrow and I, the terrorist, plant bombs at its foundations!

It is a measure of coming of health to question the absolute truth with nausea; it is a criterion of autonomy to doubt the genuinity of language; it is a sign of confusion and disorientation to take for granted the intrinsicality of the qualia of words, and it is the eternal feeling of perplexity contra the weirdness of language that is the measuring rod of intellect and numinous potential. Language is as much the crucible of logic and emotion as it is the washbord of our spiritual fabric, and it is with the boiling waters of this melting pot the individuist transforms his muck into his cleanliness; I am the wanderer, alas, I am the seer, I am sovereign, I am nothing and I am all; in death as in life I am nothing and all - an analphabet hypergrapher on the brink to madness - i am the bestial poet, the mungoose battling the Jormund serpent in a fierce, stubborn struggle over pride and prey... I am just a mosquito on the body of an obese world, sucking the old blood drawn from its achilles tendons... the blood of the wound inflicted by  the dagger of lovepours into a chalice crafted in clay by amputees and the raison d'être of parasites is the being of an appropriate host,  but in my case, the host lies dead in my backyard, shot in the back of the head in a very emotional execution; the funeral is due, you should come.
Much as the snake which once encircled the world, I throw my bait - words - into the shoreless sea and I bite my tail and when I let go, bad things will  happen. I, the sovereign, the spiritual hermaphrodite in a cloak of religious and linguistic fascism, am nothing, and yet I am the culture that is becoming the civilization in which my children would thrive - but I refuse.. how can we expect to find a word to describe the everlasting nothing from which every word in the beginning emerged?
Opposed – inborn, undeniably, or by sheer force of will – are people who live restlessly in the sunless shadow of Death, ever seeking to flee it: life on death’s terms… oscillating between war and love – majestic pillars of existentialism – and not between damned ideals of weakness, this peace and love, which is capitulating the will and strife of the hungry soul completely, forcing a surrender on weak, subjugating conditions… as they denounce the vital component of strife – turning their eyes elsewhere, to the right or the left, or below, into caverns of self-deceit and rationalization… wherever they have to, in order to flee its harrowing implication – they also unknowingly denounce – shun, even, in futile cacophonies of psychological defense mechanisms – the slightest opening or potentiality for any kind of transcendency or genuine happiness, self-deification or Gnostic forms of enlightenment in life… The light – that which they certainly curse as suffocating darkness – have ceased to glow, and left are remnants, a hollowness, like muscles with pearls snatched; bestial shells of food and sex: the beast among a million equals, if I ever described one…

I, of course, count myself in these ranks; I find myself flapping wings of hunger, ravenous bat's wings, and I sustain myself with the dirt and murk of humanity... I divide weakness and power between politbureaus of the mind in opposition – terror balance absolute... are words weapons? They are surely weapons, spears of sacrilege pointing upward in vain, and my breath, that of the lioness, abscond towards the Hliðskjálf of my visions and my dreams, high atop of the plateaus of Gods, the mountain Ebih, the mountain Sinai; Olympos; Ararat; Meru; the summit of claircognizance; now my soul has watchtowers, yet I weep tears of blood, saudade blood, over the base of the mountain... The mountainous pneuma, I have heard, been told, will be arousing; morphine-like almost; alluring, seductive; like children through the eyes of the prophet... But this is no serene, bountyful valley – where is the eden I have been promised? Where is the solace; the concession of peace, the burial grounds of ancient hatchets? I can not see the blooming flowers, the ever-bearing trees! The eternal light, the bliss, where is it?

Down here, at the mountain-base – which I have travelled almost twenty-three years to find –  I can see a lot of anxiety, anguish, and self-contemptuous cogitation, I can see the cursed children of raped women playing violin on arms with razors... Storms of inspiration; I thrust my knife through my skin in flashes of genius and madness; I see all kinds of decadence, brutality, denial... Down here, judges beg forgiveness to the executed, and fathers sell albino daughters to horny witch-doctors (I have seen it firsthand), but I can not figure where to go, on what kind of clandestine untrodden trail I must set foot, in order to find Ebih, the mountain Ebih, which have been described as the abode of gods... where even the gutters are flowing with milk and honey... Countless many times I have heard humans from all castes of existence ascribe to the mountain, Great Ebih (as they venerate it, although it goes by manifold names), blissful and awe-inspiring qualities, and promises of happiness and solace are assured at the gates; People say that at the base of the mountain Ebih, even the nights are lighter than our days, and the sun always shine. The crops never die, and the water never poisons; Ebih – the original eden, the fortress of peace... I seek it and I have sought to seek it, I have read maps and I have stayed in the huts of the hermits; I have ventured to edges and coastlines, I have waded through swamps of doubt, I have kept all keys I have been able to find... I have followed instinct; I have followed reason, logic, and I have discarded most of it… my emotions are my signposts… I have followed elders, my mouth have been bent open and the soliloquies of lecturers ring still in my ear... I have bribed, I have tried to cheat, I have stabbed backs, I have walked over corpses of innocent humans, but I can not find it still! The Ebih of my dreams – symbol of perfect and unparadoxical harmony – a fraud? I feel fooled... 

6 maj 2016

Poem

roots undo themselves like love
in the disorderly subterrains of the world
as the trees grow older and older and older 
out of the ocean of root and dirt
firming their grip on the cold earth
ever tangling like two hearts in bondage -
one for love, one for deceit - love, deceit -
and with every breath the crown takes
the bark shivers, the twigs cower like abused children,
and every horizon it leaps forthwith through
is another scar on its picturesqueness;
so, the woodlands, autumnal, are mirrors to men;
shit is getting harsher, and colder, and darker,
by minutes seeming like years lost in aeonic stasis
sweeping slowly, mistlike, over caverns, cliffs, moors
as the hours pass eerily
like stupid faces on other sides of windows;
collapsed psyches pass through the portal
whirling with the absence of poverty and asceticism;
the stillness of the forests disrupt
with the absurdity of being
and even the trees now
cry hopeless tears and their leaves fall sadly;
the countenance of the greenest ocean
became death;
all the growth of life, grew backwards
along with all culture and men
backing
with a barrel to the neck
into the darkness
of the certainty of entropy

3 maj 2016

nihilism must be experienced fundamentally as a prime mover of philosophical inquiry; not read about, not thought about, but felt, convincingly, the chills of the breeze of worthlessness caressing the hairs of your skin, the most delicate...  Although, it must in equal importance be overcome, trumped - for its emptiness, those maws of incredible death, will certainly swallow you whole, if not you escape these saw-teeth with the strength and the fervour of personal meaning... the pursuit of finding it, the challenge and the heaviness of establishing it and the passion subsidized by the touch of something sacred necessary in order to sustain it... because only through personal meaning can a person become whole (if wholeness is even cherishable in the first place); only through the humiliating, knee-scabbing ordeals of immersion in nihilism, actively, with Kierkegaardian passion - strife - not just circumventing the crisis of existence in dull passivity - as if it was acted out on stages of theaters...  could a person understand that  the world is bereft of meaning, as an intrinsicality, and that dead religious pasts spring back to life with the touch of the steel-bearing hand of the individual, the resilient and the determined one...