today, it is not a good day
i am sober out of willpower
something melancholic is massaging my shoulders 00000
and i want to die exactly as much as i want to live.... i. e. not at all
so, what is that supposed to even mean?

the only thing i relish in is the rain pouring over my city and the victories of the YPG and the YPJ

the conqueror

vomitfire rains upon the vulgar duality
as presented by the semites as truth---
a sword of truth --- and the lance of honour ---
held firmly in the hands of the conqueror;
and as artilleries empty on the enemy
and new trenches are dug each day
reaps the conqueror a harvest of grief
in the autumn of the last year of summer ---

another existential poem

veiled in mantles of mastery and exaltation
     are we all --- we are all
     spasming and howling
through mists, on moors, alongside rivers ---
those which nourish the wells of poisoners.

lured by wands of sedation --- the smile of hypnos burns ---
   are we all -- we are all
     lost
       aloof

in the primeval fog 
of a tomorrow as distant
as a spectre in the northern sky
and as the blaze between the two mountains:
     one, whose treacherous, steep slopes
are abound with the plethora of Eve-fruits;
and another, warm and nice
     as the kiss of love
        from the mother of all incest

--- two mountains ---

one that reaches solace; heaven; the mesmerism of paradise
and another
   which is not an illusion

this is a strange world
that has strange things to offer;
we shall not need clothes,
     for shall we not conquer? ---
we do not fear nakedness
as we must blot our necks
to the gluttonous teeth of perdition
in order to understand our origins
and to quell the rebellion below...

we represent
an alien ideology
rife with ecstasy of terrorism
   we represent
   a dogma
   ravished and molested by autonomy

we are alone
     as we are unique

only small fragmented pieces 
   will you add
to the sum of human angst
because even in this regard
   you are worthless

at the deepest roots of all beauty;
all happiness; all virtue and all the glory of accomplishment
lies something grotesque
suckling the udders of humanity
   until they will eventually dry up
   with cynicism and corruption
   like child prostitutes
     on the eve of life's winter,
     lost in the hopeless static
     of moribund contemplation....

märklig dikt #1

en halmdocka slits itu
lika lätt som människors personligheter
   över barnsligt groll
   eller av
kärlekens giftkrokodilbett,
   och ilningarna av ensamhet och skakningarna
   i köttet
   från avundsjukans isvaksvatten,
dreglandet över ömhetens förbundsark
     hänger kvar
som en bisvärm instängd
    i en häxring av giftig svamp.

absolut sexuellt nedbrytna mentala landskap
flödar av honung och sperma
mitt i häxringen --- den av giftig svamp ---
en liten pojke:

naken som adam (var)
   lika falsk som adam (var)

 den ursprungliga synden var icke ätandet
 av den frukt gud förbjudit,
 utan det var när adam
 slugt men dumt
 drog ner eva
 i ett herointräsk av skuld
 ända där nere
 så långt ner
 att inte ett enda spår av Dante
 kunde ses.

en liten pojke
   insmord
   i honung och sperma
låt nu bina göra sitt gjort
en nioårig gosses blekkött
slits itu
lika lätt som en halmdocka...

låt nu prästerna göra sitt gjort;
   sina välsignelser och riter
   öppna armar

varningsklockorna klämtade som barnprostituerade
hörde ni dem ej?

utan att ens hinna blinka
ligger en pojke
död
våldtagen

halvkass dikt baserad på en mäktig dröm

morgonen 

den 5 maj 2015

inatt drömde jag stort;

ung och lysten i väldiga städer,

metropolkvarnar av död materia och kött och blod

skyskrapor fem hundra meter som ett långfinger

mot guds påbud

om människans måttlighet och ödmjukhet.

kolosser av glas och betong ---

våldsamma intryck av det moderna förfallet ---

neonljus stadens dekadens tysta våldtäkter rustagna barn;

efter hundra kilometer på skrubbade hälar

genom graffiti avenyer rännsten blod horor hårdhet

möter jag ett obskyrt hus:

en vildvuxen gård i betongens kaosmyller,

rötter träd gräs mossa dammar myrstackar

plåt gummi plast betong avgaser gift

förenas kontrasterande,

magiskt,

på denna gård.

ett gammalt gammalt sekelgammalt hus

krökta bjälkar savsvepta träd

oplockat ogräs maskrospest

murknat trä i samliv med mögel

en gammal gammal man

hälsar oss välkomna

lång, okrökt rygg

fortfarande frisk

fortfarande hungrig

efter hundra år på fronten

öga mot öga

mot en osynlig fiende

medaljer från krig

uniformer från krig

visas upp -

jag är vördnadsfull

tagen av djup respekt

för döda kamrater

jag aldrig ens känt, eller sett,

förlorade i infernaliska krig.

han förtäljer sitt liv,

det apokryfa livet,

från nihilistisk kolvandring till religiös späkning,

och från vänskap till svek; från kärlek till hat, och tillbaka sedan

till utsiktstornet framför

nihilismens okrökta horisont.

jag skrattar högt, och slukas av euforiska vindstötar

men - skrattet varvas med salta tårar

som faller på uppslagna böcker nedklottrade

med numinösa upplevelser

och drömdagböcker

grundliga redogörelser av mystiska klardrömmar -

parapsykologiskt urkaos -

avhandlingar i gnostisk religion;

i mystik; i det esoteriska.

långa rader med bokhyllor

från Basilides till Jung

från Enheduanna till Mirabai

och tillbaka till Gud själv;

om den gnostiska sökandet

någonsin fann svar, och tillslutning,

och det gudomliga vetandet

vilar i människans händer,

så är det i dessa längor av bokhyllor i torrt trä

som svaret hittas i bläck.

sirener ambulanstjut kvinnoskrik revolvereld

betongborrar en miljon bilar i ormgropstrafik

uråldrig visdom sofisk insikt den esoteriska urkärnan

det urbana moderna förenas med det eviga sakrala

i ett kataklysmiskt virrvarr av intuitivt upplevd självmotsägelse --- i mig.

jag bränns till aska

inför denna mäktiga uppenbarelse,

denna ackumulering, anhopning,

av värdefull kunskap,

så som Semele förgick

i den grönblåa eld

som omsvepte Zeus

i teofanisk explosion.

den gamle mannen lägger sig för att sova

men vaknar snabbt, ängsligt

när staden utanför sjuder som tystast,

som en långkokande kittel av plast och betong:

"jag kan inte sova",

"jag kan inte längre sova".

jag gråter hela tiden

under nådeportens majestätiska valvbåge

där jungfruns föräldrar

förälskade sig djupt

på branten till morgondagens första ljus.

jag tänker,

"är detta på riktigt, eller möter jag mitt idealsjälv?"

vad är den gamla mannen, en symbol?

jag kommer fram till att det är mitt idealsjälv -

och vaknar.

jag har varit med om något fantastiskt.

jag har mött mig själv -

den självförverkligade.

människan är ett öppet sår

och blöder vidare

tills det läker, eller infekteras.

livet och döden

är ett outgrundligt motsatspar

men åtminstone en måttlig tugga

av denna levande paradox

serverades mig

i denna märkliga dröm.

5 little faggy aphorisms or something, i dont fully get what an aphorism is. i think aphorisms are shorter than these. well.

1. the world is literally absurd beyond our comprehension; it is incomprehensible as a wholeness, thus mysterious. the world is a mystery. for a philosopher, thus, a playground. our actions, how meaningless they might look, carry consequences beyond wild imagination. the butterfly effect. people can have good or perfectly decent intentions but still fuck up the world. take for example the dudes who invented the automobile. of course could they not prophesize environmental disaster a 100 years on. things are always more complex than what they seem. the grotesquely incomprehensible causal processes that chain events together in this world are so above our heads that we can barely scratch the surface to their magnificence.

2. the world is devoid of intrinsical value. nihilism. every argument against this absolute premise or presupposition of human existence is a bitter attempt at saving one's own pathetic, fear-shaking ass. it is up to the human to fill the void with meaning. most, however, retort to dogma; nationalism; racial pride; familial identity, etc. this is because they overcompensate the harrowing loneliness of being. i think one must deconstruct - devaluate - all values and thence find what they really were - and what they really were worth. in order to understand them, one must deconstruct them. deflate them. this is a nietzschean idea. one must open the door to nihilism, "the uncanniest of all guests", and let it in, let it have its way with you, tear your asshole open and enter it with barbarity, before you can realize what the old values actually meant - to you.  interited culture, national identity, racial identity, religious heredity, ethno-cultural identity, patriotism, national pride and similar shallow concepts are in its hereditary form completely useless. people willing to 'serve their country' can fuck right off. it is merely a compensation for the total existential loneliness of the human condition. people have the urge to identify with the collective because it is fucking scary to swallow the bitter pill of the existential conditions we face. rootlessness is the worst nightmare for people. so they cling to their bibles, their flags, their grandfathers old rifle he killed japs with, and so on. dont be proud over something  you did not do, asshole.

3. the world consists of seemingly barbaric and absurd injustice. deal with it to the best of your abilities. it will crush you many times. when your child gets diagnosed cancerous, for example, this premise of existence will certainly boggle your mind and entangle you in existential suffering of rarely seen profundity. the worst part is, you can't even do shit about it. try to deal with it. you'll probably fail. commit suicide or start over as, hopefully, a somewhat stronger person.

4. in accordance with existentialist principles, the individual has only one intrinsic culpability, and that is the culpability of choice of continuing living. as camus once said; the only philosophical question is whether or not to commit suicide. through the want for life, the choice of living on, a yoke is hung upon us, a crushing weight of responsibility, heavy and bleak: although pessimistic in flesh,  it flows with the bright red blood of eternal option of choice: kierkegaard spoke about drowning in possibilities and that it is the human condition, for we have extreme and absolute freedom to act in any given situation. this does not mean that you will have a positive option with a positive outcome in any given situation; if your child gets diagnosed with leprosy and you could trade it for syphilis... both are horrendous, but, hypothetically, you could make that choice. that is why sartre told us we are not blessed with freedom but rather condemned to it;  you decide what you become. you create yourself. and that is a burden probably more so than it is a gift. it is a tough fucking life: we have no responsibilities what so ever except for that over ones own actions. you are always responsible over your actions. everything else, every other responsibility, is a choice, because man is condemned, surely, to freedom, and every day people drown helplessly in the oceans of possibilites. all laws and rules that are shoved down your throat are to be considered acts of aggression and should be countered, fighting fire with nuclear warheads. maybe you are a very comfortable, conservative and simple person who respect and wish to adhere to the laws, taboos, norms, and rules set up by society and community. then, by all means, go for it. we have our freedom. 

5. god is not good. you see more a real god in your own piss and vomit and the shitstains in your underwear than you see genuflective staring up on the christ afore the altars;  god is not loving you because there is no personalized, anthropo-psychological god (meaning god does not exist within a human psychological framework. god has no conscience because god has no ego. it is waaay tougher than that, son. god is not a person. abrahamic doctrine tries to tell us that he is somewhat a human being, only divine and transcendent, or atleast that he (apparently its alwyas a dude) possesses the possibility of integrate himself within the framework of human psychology. they ascribe to him very human emotions such as jealousy, grief, will to power, destructivity, murderousness, etc etc. god, or what we have called 'god' throughout millenia, is not a personal, self-aware, self-conscious, emotional mind. i think that is the great misunderstanding of religions. god is everything beyond. 

a fast little poem about something, i dont know, time to sleep

windthrows beneath a reverse offing
yawning like death itself
fallen spires degrade black
green becomes black and dead
clasm sweeps the meadows
  rot, necrosis
fucks like ice through deserts
the windthrows yawn
  and howl like wolves,
   like death itself
   like a wolf
   having lost
to the elders
the battle of power
now chained to humiliation totems
last in line for food
and for the lusciousness
of the wolfmother vulva.

oracles in sentinels
outposts
watchtowers of saudade
on the verge of unknown moors
even 
the white hell of winter
 predicts fortune, growth
bearing witness at the peril of a forest's death---
even the foxes gather at the council
they never show up
but it is important this time.
so important the oaks shake even;
last time the oaks shook and the foxes came,
the world went to shit. 

the spoor
of northern vipers
sprinkled with the bones of oracles
fangs that pierce as if solemn
in their bite
out sips blood
from wounded white wrists
that seem more grey than red,
like most human hearts
i suppose.

master of

speaking

determines reality

when we die

 

Vi skrämmer barnen med sanningen:

människan går under och du med den!