HERMANISHERMESHERMANISHERMESHERMANISHERMESISHERMANISHERMES

161231 05200701

Mardrömsfrön är spridda i den grå massan. Den ziggzaggande linjen tvärsöver skallbenet väntar tickande på manifestationen av dess planlösning. Det som växer ur de fraktalspruckna fröna är varken en visualisering eller en riktig tanke, utan en illabådande magkänsla i sinnet som spritter, krälar, i formlösa former.

Demonerna gömmer sig ännu. Men jag hade inte riktigt, förrän nu, förstått att det är jag som är den. De tar mina stämband för piska och ekon av dess slag har nu börjat tissla och tassla mellan örat och temporalloben. Så till den grad att jag ej längre kan spränga dem med min uppmärksamhet. De nämner, föreslår, anvisar. Men om vad minns jag inte. Jag minns ej heller om de förefallit mig vara goda eller onda. Jag tror rättare sagt att de inte föreföll mig som något utav dessa alternativ – ett faktum vars implikationer känns än mer implikerande. De föreslog någonting om mannen som ligger bredvid mig i sängen och sover, eller försöker. Tanken slår mig att han kanske aldrig sover, överhuvudtaget.

Ljusdansaren i mittpunkten av ögonlockens skärm framträdde en andra (tredje) gång. Många armar många ben. Den har ej något huvud, inte heller saknas det. Tacksamt, då hon dansar i mitt – och vart skulle det då annars ta slut?   

Id. 

Herpes Prismakristus

Han var fulländat tillfreds med sin tillvaro i den besörjande rundgång han anlagt.
Du vet, tätt intill ändhållplatsen i den kosmiska kateterns krettslop.
Där misslyckandets sega slagg sipprar ut och slår vakt om våra ädla pannor.
Det var inte lätt. Nej det var fan i mig inte lätt,
men det var av yttersta vikt att det genomfördes.

in bardo in bardo in bardo

with hermes with hermes

POEM #5

these hands are black

from the viscid soot of a hearth

coughing thick smoke

aflame with the mystery

as laughable in absurdity, as terrorsome in outcome;

i fluttered with the swivet of all lawless entrants,

like Ramirez or Kemper stripped of their murderous poise;

like some encroaching rapist

or old, ugly pedophile santa ---

but i stuck in the narrows of its brick chimney

and now i am but the repugnant bezoar

firm in the gastric orifice

of this house, we call it life,

waiting to be vomited out

into the trajectories of all failing things.

FEARFUL LEAP OF FAITH

I have no trust in these eyes ---astral bands of rapists---

eyes of greed, eyes of thirst, eyes of arrogance

to define the ancient secret-clusters

that squirm like pits of snakes

at the base of my inmost organization;

i do not recognize the professed authority,

by which they claim to do so.

c a l l i t a l e a p o f f a i t h

i am the earth on which myriad serpents slither;

the livestock graze my pastures

and their hooves

trampe what i am...

i am the weather and all the hungry storms;

i am vindictive whirlwinds of school-shooters

high on the dirty meth of resentment,

and the nurturant gestures of nuns in warfields,

lethargic with the stupor of selfishlessness---

the premonitions of diabolical cyclones

go off like IED's of ideas ---

on the retina of the soul...

i feel it within myself an atmospheric irregularity

that blows rationality off its feet, cumbersome and stern as it may often be;

something happened a while back ---

i could not muster bringing anything back with me,

but be sure i went

where even impossible algebraic equations made sense

and the cabbalistic ciphers of existence

revealed what was hidden

not in intent, as if solemn,

but as a consequence of the natural order of chaos

by which laws it most often (but not always) adhere to.

is the concept of religious mystery really such absurdity

compared to that which we already know?

it is mediocre logic

and i am deserving of better.

tender science --- french my throat ---

my tongue is rancorous with the bitter gall of skepsis.

science is a foetus

and is essentially the observation of natural reality ---

though natural reality is folded in layers

within patterns

within structures

within --- perhaps --- nothing

as we know it;

reality is complex

and layered in unfathomable weirdness,

and, besides, science is, and was, never

irreconcilable with religion or the profundity of mystery.

MOUTH OF INEXPLICABLE MADNESS

through the mouth of inexplicable madness

gurgles forth the hideous monster

a sluggish strain of weird and petrified faces---

serenades of human moods, this is my life;

stern countenance of the geometry

that outline, explore, and scheme

the expressions of terror

and sorrow

and abjection

of mankind:

i am everything of this,

tomorrow lies in shrouds,

and space is full of darkness;

i combat myself --- snarl at myself,

over the abandonment of virtue

and i doubt that my inspiration

and motivation will ever come back;

there can not be a sum of wisdom

profound and intrinsic in meaning enough---

and even if there is, the tireless search

would never justify the suffering of it.

i mirror myself

in the faces of others

as a measure of reassuring identity

only to find

the nighmare is as real as i feared,

and, on top of that, that it is sacred:

when it is dark, i no longer suppose the coming of sun ---

the coming of pitch-blackness

and the hunger of nocturnal wolves

is equally probable ---

lest we forget, lest we forget...

a dark today does not equal a brighter tomorrow;

it might very well result

in an even darker and

unimaginably more sinister end of things.

THE BEAUTY OF KHADIJA

   parts I-III

I – in her life

did not Mohammads' frail despondency,

the hissing crickets of angst

the inward tension of personality
and his heavy, tar-bittered heart ---

these, the collected seismicity

of his particular conditions ---

hatch and crawl

from the egg of a womans' love---

her warmth, her eyes and her youthful laughter

woven with the maturest of all wisdoms?

did not her smile that humbled lions

and made peace with all the robbers of the dunes

certainly make stalwart impression on young Mohammad? ---

certainly, for it was

the firmness with which she conducted trade

and the alacrity with which she spread her voice, so by the wind;

Mohammad parttook with diligence

in the construction of Khadijas' furniture

and he lived by the sweat of his brow;

he travelled about with her mercantile caravans;

he was strong on the field like an ox ---

yet it was a humble lamb in prostration

whom maintained Khadijas' pottery and her silks...

it was not for nothing the princess of Quraysh

enjoyed her glimmering status

and her most stellar of reputations ---

and that surely must have

broken the prophet

in two --- torn between

jealousy; inferiority; resentment --- the hostage-situation of love

Khadija chose her Mohammad ---

Mohammad did not choose his Khadija.

many men she turned down

in their stubborn campaigns of marriage,

but not Mohammad, for whose hand she asked---

...the prophet exulted, they loved...

she cast her spell of womanhood

which slithered around like scandent vine,

and the tumultous upsurge of romance

hugged fear out of them both...

then, what drove him to Hira in pursuit of solicitude and contemplation?

he did not have it bad with Khadija, indeed the opposite was true;

her love conjured demons --- every real emotion does this ---

abominable imps of the love abyss,

charging with their red hot scimitars,

lashing about their metal rods

on the anvil of his heart as dense as iron...

did not Aisha, many years later, tremor in quakes of jealousy

at the thought of her beloved husband

dreaming in the veins of his Khadija?

so did the other wives, by the way,

all the way down to the Copt,

for the prophet was indeed merciful,

and indeed had his plenitude of women,

with the myriad difficulties that would bring about,

sown discord; enmity; spite; jealousy; resentment

alas, if not the prophet be loving:

...

yet, competition in romance ---

the autumnal tempest, scythe of emotion---

eschatological conclusion of love ---

did not even caress Khadija, whom faced no rivalry,

for their love was indeed true ---

n o w o n d e r ---

she salvaged him from poverty!

bottomless manholes

of miserable, dolorous sewage

where he had waded and toiled for years...

did not beautiful Khadija --- al-Tahira ---

console the weary visionary,

as he stormed down the mountain

like delirious Zarathustra 'neath the scaphism of gods' love,

feeling weakness in his body, salivating from his desert throat

the white drool of redemption ---

the Arab sun unforgiving, boiling hot as fire?

did she not articulate with him

the great and captivating mystery,

t h e n i g h t m a r i s h v i s i o n s ,

the molestation of the weary soul?

did she not, the loving and trustful,

shroud the torments of the most acute spate

of spiritual trepidation

with the warmth of hugs and blankets,

in effect,

suffocating darkness with love,

for better and for worse?

she indeed held the prophets hand

to the cavernous bottoms, by the rivers of woe,

across swampy moors and the wood, thorned, of doubt;

across the ranges of fearsome mountains,

the next higher than the last,

of gradually developing states

of religious abandon---

Mohammed was caught in the sombre web,

the evil spider leered...

Mohammad

found, unlocked

the metal cellar door

the circular stairway down the

abyss of the crisis of personality

with the lovesome aid

of his warm Khadija;

for she had reconciled with madness

and swallowed the lava of mysteries;
she had slept in his bed of night-terrors

and kissed and tucked him softly

as flickered between wakeness and parasomnia...

II – in her death

quarter a century of a most humble loyalty

between the two

forged loves' copper bondage

and left both transformed forever;

so, as beautiful Khadija died,

not much longer could his darkness

be kept at bay

and his demons kept housebroken

before shit and piss

would start to stink up his beloved grotto .

fear-stricken o n e i r o m a n c y

of the illiterate prophet.

the loneliness and love-sickness of the despairing widower,

and his sleep-paralytic nightmares

as black and cold as led

became the mystic midwife of islam, the unconditional surrender unto Allah---

fever dreams of hedonia

mutinied this spiritual ship,

untrodden seaways to glory,

lustrous idylls of mercantilism---

harbors of the blissful divine

in the heart of the warmer currents---

far downstream the headlands,

the lonely prophet envisaged...

he wakes up to the dream, he does not sleep into it;
in the speculation of Khadija, in her wiseness,

it may just be the defining divider between

the mystic and the ordinary dream-states:

[he dreamt:]

the heavenly al-Burāq, winged horse grazing on the pastures of the night,

the keeper of the gates, the deepest of all the slumbers,

, the seventh of the heavens and the phantasmagoria of death,

the heavenly of loves... the even heavenlier of warfields,

ascending the majesty of existential plateaus

above rats basking in the wealth of the sun of transcendence,

he dreamt of the opium nights, the felicity and quietude of mind

all the way to the riches in life; the riches thereafter;

to the ecstasy of victorious battle...

to the spoils of mighty sieges ...

and to the retreat --- in surrender or in valor ---

from those great, great battles within...

Mohammad

blessed by war

the horns of battle and death's percussion

forebode

his pillaging advent

and, in extension,

the noxious scent of tribesblood

started to stink up his pigsties

of luxury and of polygyny---

did not Allah favour this

heavenly vengeance on the Quraysh,

for their enmious hostilities

and indeed if he disdained it,

why did he let it be?

there was a road to the gates of paradise ---

and Mohammed was eager to set foot

in any direction away

from the agonizing memories

of his most endeared Khadija---

the prophet rode into the primeval mists

of purity and solidarity

clinging, the sabres of extermination...

III – Appendix

it is probable that

Mohammads' revelations

would today designate as

sleep paralyses of a most eruptive kind,

his prophethood put in question ---

how many prophets have indeed been disgarded as mad,

vilified for it, abject with ridicule and belittlement...
how many visionaries have enucleated themselves in the courts of the blind

and drunken boiling oil to scold the tongue which beget words

in the face of the most harrowing fear of all,

of persecution, condemnation or worse?

people want to live; it is understandable,

but, hold on --- only fools find that respectable:

we can not know the true character of Mohammad,

but if it is indeed true, what Islamic tradition pictures,

he would be a magnificent man amongst dogs...
however, it is also probable that these traditions

have been infused with so much complete bullshit

to the point of completely flooding it,

that the truth is now only historical.

I cast the first stone in this esoteric and gnostic re-interpretation

of Mohammad and the archaeo-islamic era:
the religion that we today associate with the extremism

of outward manifestation; omni-encompasssing jurisdiction;

externalization of divinity; totalitarian code of morality, et cetera,

is the facade of modernity on the aeonic skeleton of religion

and that the flesh attached to these white bones of ire,

is poisoned, rotted, attacked with the flesh-eating bacteria

of the Kierkegaardian anarcho-religious idea:

the freedom from dogma, the innecessity of ritual ---

the real and honest

highly personal

and subjective connection with the divine...

the Islamic religion was born with a series of sleep paralyses,

as having been experienced by Mohammad; it is with this first dictum

that I launch the archaeo-islamic esotericism...

My body feels weak, but that is no wonder. I have gathered wood for hours; yesternight was rain, wet wood and weet feet is no joyous thing... if you need warmth, which I do. Autumn roars in the distance. My feet hurt, and these arms sway in the mild breeze; precursor to a hungry storm, if I could have a guess, that will rage about over my hut tonight...though I like the storm, thought I can appreciate its ravenous appetite and the sound of its whining as a lullaby... though I can respect it with all the mightiest of its properties, it sows worry in me... I can not know beforehand if my hut, which is a rather simple yet also footsure nest, built with passion and ardency by these young hands, can withstand the erosion of this night, which will imprint itself in the memories of tribes around these sombre parts of the earth, for in these vast lands, storms matter... weather matters. This night will be the darkest in five-hundred-and-forty thousand years --- a rather important night for the tribespeople. The significance is noticable; there is something in the air; I met a few gatherers; they giggled in cute modesty at the sight of me, my bruised arms with scars scattered; my stern face sombre from th e weight of days... they gathered berries of a peculiar kind I could not for the life of me identify; curiosity raped me, I asked; they did not answer. They weren't afraid though; their eyes were blue and big, and they seemed to study me, almost with a lack of decency: I do not know where these two women come from. After a while --- I gathered wood, they plucked berries from thornbushes, I have never seen such a berry-bearing bush --- they, in abrupt break of a somewhat awkward silence --- said to me , “follow”... after that utterance, short as it was - confusing, a bit weird - they left. There was something odd about them, but not in some disturbing manner; I did not fear, neither did I feel that anxious feeling in my gut: they were happy. They smiled and giggled amidst this weather-heavy forest, quite unwelcoming as it was; thornbushes, trails overgrown since hundreds of years; cairns, even that great forbidden chasm in the central plateau of these woodlands.... dismal this forest was, but it was not dead: two full baskets they had gathered in a mere hour or so --- rather impressive I found it, given the bleakness of the day, the hostility of nature with logs and cairns, the wet moss and the tarns which were treacherous... holes in the ground filled with murky water.... They had lustre --- something was good about them; not only were they beautiful as paintings, they were clad in ceremonial garments --- in the middle of this inhospitable forest --- it made me smile, it made my mood rise like sun in spring... I followed eagerly the berrypickers, they entranced me; there is something about them...

fuck fuck fuck whore

i just wrote two excellent poems and then accidentally erased them from my computer
i havent been so infuriated with myself for months
the loss of creative work is to me almost a summit of angst
it feels, when that insight hits, as if everything suddenly and abruptly lost meaning and value
and that you, by accident, raped yourself spiritual self in the asshole, and not in the good kinda way

...SOMETHING IS 

ON THE STOVE 

BOILING 

LIKE A STEW OF ART 

SOMEONE ADDS SPICE

AND FLAVOR

--- PASSION ---
OF A BITTER HEART

SOMETHING SOON 

--- A CHILD OF LOVE ---

WILL CRAWL AND KICK

IN UTERO

POINTING FINGERS

HOPEFULLY
TOWARD THAT PLACE

WE'LL SOMEDAY GO...

the difference between entertainment and art is that art is never in the service of society --- it is never limited by the bounds of it, nor is it friendly with it; art does not cater to the needs of the society from which it sprang, and it does not watch and guard over society when it is lulling its cute beauty sleep; art and society is not tied together in mutually assured ethos; it does not carry out its stinky moral propaganda... art should not condemn public enemies but condemn enemies of art: art is a spectre looming hauntingly through corridors of entertainment, for it is a ghost of entertainment... for example: entertainment makes its concession: we want to entertain... and what type of concession does art make for itself... we want to express ourselves.... sometimes in cocoons of solitude and emotion.... sometimes at the peril of the world...