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creative 2017

MIŁOŚĆ, MDŁOŚCI

i give you things

i am not sure i even own,

and there is dysfunction in that ---

the world runs over

with the ugliness and beauty

like a chalice 'neath the guillotine ---

i feel it so, and I react ---

how can a person

function without hate?

how can you maintain spiritual, personal integrity

in this sludgy morass of a world

without hatred; contempt

as a continuous parameter to relate to?

i don't understand it at all.

how the fuck can you be or become whole

without hatred and love as two equally bearing baulks

in this basilica of everything we call the personal life experience?

i ask you, how can one remain whole without hate?

you bitch and bitch on about how hate

is eroding and destructive to oneself and to others,

that it brings along nothing but negativity and dejection, and anger, and pain,

and that it demands so much energy and yada yada

--- but i ask you ---

have you ever been in love? have you ever loved?

have you been torn from the inside out, possessed by devils,

lost in mists and the woods of the night...

did you ever run the gauntlet of love, mocked by bystanders,

ridiculed, scoffed by those within yourself

you have never been able to strike a peace deal with?

one must be an ocean, an unexplored wilderness,

a great, vast unknown

throbbing like rapists' cocks with the oersnt of mastery

in order to receive the polluted stream, the oil spill, of love

without becoming corrupt, poisoned, impured, tainted:

i do not know if I can swallow the oil leak, I am not ocean enough.

i have fought to handle it

but recurringly I have lost the struggle.

it makes me afraid.

yet i love, I am a loveful being ---

and this woman is the innocence of the child;

the raging fire of the forest no-one knows,

she is the archer of compassion, her arrows benight the sky:

quietness and sanity, mere facade!

she lies with insanity as she lie with me ----

she is the beauty of sumerian priestesses, the lonely one,

the one who stabbed her belly in the middle of a pro-life rally;

I can understand her, and her love is felt thoroughly ---

yet I cry; yet I weep thick tears...

what is love, if not the aorta of human destructivity...

i ask you!

i wonder about affection, the nature of it, is it not obvious to me? no.

I am in love with the devil herself,

and love kills

both when you have it

and when you don't

so have fun with that little adventure;

it will leave me like new years' women in cologne,

if you can wrap your head around that cute little reference.

there you have it, negativity and destruction

wrapped nicely like a fucking christmas present.

but i don't really care --- go on and live your little lie

that unconditional love

and nothing but unconditional love --- and tolerance ---

will save everything good from everything bad...

love will surely set you free, this is true!

but if you do not hate,

you will never have the slightest idea as to what

you have been freed from.

ramblings on Aḥlām al-Naṣr

in honour of authentic freedom of expression i hereby present something i did not myself write, but something that is written by a certain Aḥlām al-Naṣr, the poetess of the Islamic State:

    "My homeland is the land of truth,
    the sons of Islam are my brothers. . . .
    I do not love the Arab of the South
    any more than the Arab of the North.
    My brother in India, you are my brother,
    as are you, my brothers in the Balkans,
    In Ahwaz and Aqsa,
    in Arabia and Chechnya.
    If Palestine cries out,
    or if Afghanistan calls out,
    If Kosovo is wronged,
    or Assam or Pattani is wronged,
    My heart stretches out to them,
    longing to help those in need.
    There is no difference among them,
    this is the teaching of Islam.
    We are all one body,
    this is our happy creed. . . .
    We differ by language and color,
    but we share the very same vein."

i add, in accordance with my own truth, these words to what is aforementioned;
         

           in some weird ways
           i adore you, al-Naṣr ---
            you captivate.
    but
      i will resist 
         the kingdom of your god 
           on earth.
           allah is a spectre
            floating above existential event horizons:
           the memory of mohammad is raped and beaten
           brutalized, like yazidi girls ---
           it is not a pretty sight ---- everyone shall see it nonetheless. 

               fuck you --- you no longer enjoy the privilege of being protected 
               from allahs shadow on earth. 
              i extend my hand to Aḥlām, in marriage, in friendship, in enmity?
                you can choose... you can choose.

                i am sickened by totalitarian utopianism
                        which is a shame
                            because that is the easy way out.

mothers have begun to kill their own children

for they cannot bear life on their conscience!

the little girls whose radiant beauty and silent growth

lingered them into our dream

slaughtered their own pets

for their father told them

"god is dead"

and mother could no longer retain the truth

that so are we

for father had told her she was madness

as he had forgotten

that so was he

and mother had begun to listen

for she no longer nor never knew

what one from nonsense will construe

the little girls grew silently 

and their radiant beauty went to hide

behind layers of fat and pesticides

one (and i know two)

died again

dreamt inside the dream

woke up in the mirror

backwards she did scream

knowing love

was not

and neither was she

-ingentingriddle-

idag, igår, imorgon

människan, min värld

detta är inferno

och jag har glömt

vem demonen är

och jag har glömt

vad förlåtelse är

men jag har drömt

vad kärleken bär

och det var ingenting

med likstel lekstil skrek jag

ylade vrålade bedjande begär

in i intet

men det var ingen där

bara ett eko

av min kärlek för denna värld

må nu min sista blå gnista

ej slockna av det suck

som bereder mig inspirationen

(förlåt mig, skulle jag glömma vad det är)

- tlazolteotl

jag tog LSD i fredags, detta är vad jag lyckades kladda ner:


suicidie mission
lsd
försöker få med oss hem
vishet
från lsd
ett självmord
musiken är fantastisk
jordan b peterson = fantastisk
KOMMER DU ENS IHÅG VARFÖR DU LEVER
KOMMER DU ENS IHÅG VARFÖR DU LEVER
STÄLL FRÅGAN TILL DIG SJÄLV
BRUKAR DU GÖRA DET OFTA
horunge

and in the

playing a game

in front of me

alas, why a game?

once you know who will win

i-that-which-sees through the veil of skin

the black man lingers not lest

his theorem rots

and in the

magggots

something

happens

L'APPEL DU VIDE

the imp of the perverse

on my shoulder

whispering of rape and pillage

dreams

angels

descend

with daggers and molotov cocktails---

the panzerfaust of the sky

moves about...

libido

destrudo

rape each-other

i am the first lemmel

i can see the cliff now...

rape everything into parts

i am the mongrel between swine and man

leave me alone for this reason only ---

besmirch me not with empathy ---

i want no flowers on the stone of my tomb,

no grievous widow, no abandoned children

i want some black rotten dead dog

to give me company

and affection

because i am the peril we warned ourselves about,

and that is all i am worth ---

nothing more, nothing less --- than death.

for years we sat

in our academies

and the class rooms

immersed in the dialectic of existence

telling ourselves about the fear

beyond thresholds ---

the fear which mothers rear from in the ninth month

and that which fathers think about right before they betray their spouses ---

i am diphenhydramine in the flesh ---

i am your feet and i am the first step

and i am that fucking threshold ---

half poisonous nightmare, half transcendental divinity

segueing into a free fall down the verticality of life,

devoured in one single bite

by the beast of conditionless renunciation

i am

in love with a haunting presence

---apparition---

her smile is the mist i lose myself in

i am an orphan home-sick for the home of my childhood,

alas,

it does not exist ---

too bad for me.

dépaysement, l'appel du vide,

désespoir et de façon destructrice..

A LOST, ABANDONED, LONELY DOG

i am a lost, abandoned, lonely dog

emaciated

on the bridge of Overtoun

weeping,

the bringer of pestilence, my sobriquet---

i feel aloof

like the

ghosts

of traumatized children

floating in the rectories of pedophile vicars,

mutilated post-mortally

as to not rise again...

färskt horblod

i am an orphan home-sick 
for the home of my childhood,
      alas,
      it does not exist ---
      too bad for me

I PUT MY EARS ON THE TRAIN TRACKS,

AND ALL I HEAR

  ARE THE HOOVES OF APOCALYPSE

i confess to my own courts the knowledge that i bear:

the line between beauty and ugliness

strikes right through the hearts of humans.

what a rejoice i feel to know that hell is so near,

and that abjection, hopelessness and woeful torment boils at our feet,

right 'neath the thresholds, obfuscated by evil, brackish waters,

the suboceanic volcano of armageddon...

all of the bad, bad stuff waiting like moray eels in the coral,

...like malevolent avalanches waiting patiently

for the alarm of a human scream to set it in motion....

i confess my visions in the court of the blind ---

i can hear the lure in the background singing melancholia,

and the beacon is only mildly visible from here,

but all the evidence point broken fingers in same directions:

in honesty,

can we not all see what is happening,

just we open these eyes?

the hypnotic spell, nay, curse, of egalitarian and solidaric idealism

that is weighing down the cerebro-spinal system of the world

with the paralysis of the creeping, slow-moving, irrevocable downfall

and all the perils and sufferings it may bring to us

and to the children tucked cutely in their cribs of safety;

surely must be harrowing to us all?

--- i put my ears on the train-tracks,

and all i hear, the hooves of apocalypse ---

mommy is no longer here, daddy is off fucking some other woman ---

the children are left in the clutches of abandonment and crisis,

and no-one ever taught it even in the slightest how to combat it,

yet, what is most absurd, is how they taught the fucking opposite....

consider it a subconscious homage to maldoror, the wicked one,

the quantum principle of evil.

  so, life ---
i fell more in love with the echo of it
   and not so much the actual sound:
   the sound is harrowing
   --- a distress signal ---
   but the echo is rinsed, refined:
   what you hear is nostalgia
   and nostalgia is always easier because shit already happened ---
   a sound is right here right now, it'll fuck you up ---
   the echo of it, though, woeful as it may be, is merely an echo, and always the sign of change:
   so, life --- 
   give me more echoing of bad stuff, and less distant noise of bad stuff, as if it is crawling nearer.
   then, i'd be a very pleased little rat human 

ett grepp, ett pytongrepp, krama

hennes must ur hennes kropp

och hon insjuknar i sexuell stigmata...

tiamats vaginala flytningar lysa

som en blodmåne,

ett ilande öga

uppspänt

mot natten.

jag vägrar reduceras till ett trist parti schack

i detta evolutionära spelets bögiga turnering;
jag vägrar ge mitt liv i remi

som om jag vore en dålig förlorare;

jag är en bra förlorare... jag förlorar alltid...

robes of anguish 

folded with white noise

convoluted in the distressing static

of not life but also of not death

but of freedom... 

life is an auschwitz train to death---

---death---as nothing more

than a dire urgency without utility;

the bitterest of all draughts!