tyst

IDÉER STRÖMMANDES FRAMKNULLADER FRÅN LOGOS TILL HENES SKÄLVANDE KROPP MEN HAN TILL HENNE ÄR HON TILL HON MEN INGET
IDÉER FRÅN INGENTING en skälvande kvinno kropp vari jag kokade mätte mått tills hon intet blått
ATT MÅSTE VETA
I SPEGELN LETA
ATT FINNS! FINNS! FINNS! NÄR TUNGAN EN ÖKEN NÄSAN VITTRAD I VINDEN DÄR: BRINNER EN BUSKE, LEVER LIK UR SEMANTIK OCH IHÅLIGA, GENOMSKINLIGA GESTALTER ...???...
mitt mord av mitt ord jag vibrerar jag är inte din syster jag är inte din syster jag är inte din syster jag är inte din syster
JAG ÄR SPEGELN
JAG ÄR NARREN
BYDÅRENS ORD: ORDET HAR INGEN SANS, AKTA ER FÖRSIKTIGT -- JAG HAR GÖMT DEN NÅGONSTANS. JAG GER DIG 52 JOKRAR OCH DU SÄGER: DE ÄR ALLA HJÄRTER KUNG JAG ÄR I N T E D I N S Y S T E R JAG ÄR HAN I HON MYCKET GAMMAL ÄNDLÖST NY.

JAG ÄR EN VATTENDROPPE KROSSAD OCH SPRÄCKT MELLAN HÄFTIGA STORMVÅGOR. JAG ÄLSKAR OCH JAAAAA DET ÄR I M I N MOTHERFUCKING MAKT ATT HÄVDA ÄLSKANDET JAG ÄLSKAR DESSA VATTEN VI FLYTER:::::: STELNA INTE LIKT NATURVÄSEN I BETONGSKOGAR INFÖR DET DISIGA EPILEPSISKENET I VÅR FÖRMÖRKNADE VÄRLD. NI SKALL SE ATT NI SER MED ETT OLUSTIGT SYNANDE EFTER FELET; DET SER ER!!! DET SER ER!!!!NI FALLER HANDLÖST TILL MARKEN OCH GREPPAR TAG I S J Ä L V A S T E JORDEN, HIVER KLOTET MOT SKYARNA OCH FASTNAR I EN STELNAD RÖRELSE AV ETT SPIRALSLUNGANDE DU-JORDEN DU-JORDEN O ZIEMIA O ZIEMIA O ZIEMIA

HÄR VAR VI ÄR
HÄR VAR VI ÄR
VI VAR VI VAR
NÄR HÄR VAR HÄR
JAG ÄR JAG ÄR
JAG ÄR JAG ÄR
JAG ÄR JAG ÄR
I
MITT
EJ
LÄNGRE

(DET SOM BINDER SAMMAN -- SAMMA ANNAT SAMMA ANNAT SAMA ANNAT SAMMA ANAT. HÄNDERNAS STRÄCKANDE, HUDENS STOPP. FÅNGANDE, FÅNGANDE, FÅNGANDE, FÅNGANDE"

"THE SORROW OF DHUMAVATI"

my attack withstands; my storms endure;

the trebuchets hurl; ballistas beg for this war to be over...

day, night, my siege unrelenting...

emotional war of attrition...

my hostile neutrality; my victimless terror;

my kalasjnikovs shooting blanks like failed men

and my harrowing indifference towards the world

will shiver my enemies with trepidation,

for i am the sorrow of Dhumavati,

and i wish to be to my own sensibilities,

urges, weaknesses, temptations,

what Kali is to Shiva;

consort; lover; friend; advicer ---

but never ever subordinate;

this is an embargo on the dignity of human life ---

revenge is a drop of blood on my tongue

tasting bitter of wet, cold iron;

i can see

the pulsations of the earth-worm

roiling about in its wormcasts

that lead all the way to Irkalla...

i can see its tongue

sucking the blood of passion

and i can see

its eyes

glowing like magpies' silver

in the light of the solar anus;

i can see

the dried blood

speaking whole languages

from the cuts on Dhumavatis' wrists

which she gave to herself,

striking her flesh with razors--

i can see Dhumavati

in front of the firesquads; locked in the pillories;

immured in the ancient moats and forced to her knees

at the mercy of bloodthirsty pollaxes;

i can see her

speaking with the failed Sadhu

now plucking nutrience from dung

left by visitors behind whore-houses;

i can see her laughing cynically

with drug-addicted bards; with the lepers of the forests;

with the thralls of guilt, and those of conscience;

with them, she sobs ---

caught in the foreboding stare of Shiva, her loved one, acrimonious...

the torturous whipping, stoning, and lashing of self-hatred

befell Dhumavati surely, for a yoke was hung

on her old, sore shoulders:

Shiva gazed with judgement;

and Dhumavati became the food of worms ---

her picturesque beauty eroded in the great monsoon

as the loo of all things pretty turned against her;

the precipitation of acid and spousal abuse...

her face no longer smiles ---

shredded it became; torn,

with the iron dagger of failed morality ---

and even her crow wept the tears of abjection...

the samudra manthan of the human condition...

on the brink of very death

she crawled

through long-endured starvation,

the thorned bush of desperation...

having chewed and swallowed Shivas' flesh,

her misery was surely rooted in her weakness;

she could not forgive herself

for her surrender unto her own hungry lusts

and her unability to muster decent courage; discipline...

and i can relate her sorrows...

i am myself the prisoner of addiction and of thralldom;

my life is the knitting of the tapestry of failures and impuissances,

but i understand so far:

a thousand failures followed by one tremendous victory

is a thing more important than that one victory alone could ever be.

Dhumavati surely is beautiful in the garments of rotted corpses---

she moves about, spectre-like, in the rags of cremation grounds,

her dwelling-place is every Ghat

from Varanasi to Kanyakumari;

within them she finds felicity; serenity;

she smears the ashes of the dead on her pale body;

she bathes in the chaos-waters and falls asleep to the ship-wrecks as lullabies;

she struggles sword to sword with the Kshatriya knights of dissociation ---

for she is my sister; ugly-beautiful Dhumavati...

the ocean of milk is barren, her cynicism drank it to its last drop,

and like dairy left in the sun, the memory of kṣīra sāgara itself indeed grew sour...

she descends --- Ghandarva of grief --- riding her black-winged crow;

harbinger of bitter and contagious melancholies,

steer-woman of the horseless chariot;

eternal widow,

old, sorrowful widow ---

the architectress of saudade builds on and on and on

and on and on

her heartsick, wailful tower...

can she find her way out of the corpse-white labyrinth

of psychosis and schizophrenia?

I awoke with your name dancing on these cracked lips,

I give my thanks; i genuflect in gratitude.

most egregious of the Mahavidya, become my consort;

i ask you in marriage,

for I need understanding of my grievances;

i need care for my wounds; hugs for my loneliness;

i need friends to ward off demons --- these lands are not safe...

i need food when starving; drink when parching ---

Dhumavati, i offer to hug you

and lay with you as i lay with the harlots;

my sitar is fingered by an orphaned Asura

and without music life is just an empty sad mistake

dancing slowly backwards into stagnation

to the shrill wine of silence and of absence---

so groove with me, please ---

it revealed unto me,

it is my vision,

and my sword is psychedelia;

i have become the scorpion of religious meta-truth,

and my barbs sting at modesty; custom; tradition; dogma...

the mnemonic mist of drugs and depression ---

i no longer can remember why i am alive ---

but i'll find out.

 

EN SKOCK NAKNA FLICKOR

en skock nakna flickor dansa
   kring
  kolsvarta ebenholtstempel;
  de dansa runt  
  mardrömmarnas blommande lotus,
  lysandes som ett valborgsbål
  eller som ett fyrverkeri
  i en alldeles mörk natt.

en skock nakna flickor spränga
   sin kropp
   till atomer och damm
   och atomerna blöder tårar av guld ---
         i skam och i pina.

vilsekomna flickor gråta
   med dolken mot den stora magen;
   abortens gudinnor klinka sin märkliga klaviatur
   och fingra sin harpa --- som är en fitta.

skräckslagna flickor gråta,
   djävulens öga vidga sin brutala pupill ---
   en strålkastare utan motstycke ---
   och ångestens genetik
   falsifieras
     och omstruktureras
      i sanningens mest ädla
      och omvandlande empiri.

TYSTA

https://soundcloud.com/theendcommune/svarta-parla

my little diamond in the rough; planned release august 2040

I followed eagerly the berrypickers, and we followed now each-other --- they shook me, hopefully, I them; there is something about these girls, I can not pin-point it, but --- I have entered the citadel of weirdest emotions; for now, I am its denizen, I put the whip on the backs of its slaves, and I wipe tears from the corners of my eyes while doing so... The sky continued to fall out of its womb, the heavenly prolapse... The wetness is everywhere and no avail is spared us, atleast not for this moment, but that feels quite fine, given the situation I find myself in, consorted by two lovely girls into the fearsome, adventurous, unknown... the dream of every honest man... There is an upheaval in mood; time; being... that numinous feeling of setting foot upon thresholds of lucidity in nightmares you by sheer weight of terror never have been able to master or even approach spinefully: I am aware I exist, the forest seem more real than ever, the foliage of the pines itch my face as we cower through thornbush... we slide down mud slopes and rest our battered bodies on the founding stones of ancient and mighty cairns; I have never seen these oceans of oak before, a feeling of adventure befalls me... the dresses of the two girls are now stained with mud and muck: they do not seem to care as long as we are together... half my age, still they feel like mothers in their warm and loving tenderness... laughs and giggles warm my lonely heart... in fact, they look even more beautiful now, shredded as their clothes are, with their fucked-up hair, blue, cold fingers, snot and stains of mushed berries... they look at home, this is their spiritual habitat, and it is so beautiful, the thought of it all... as we rest, something changes... the landscape transforms, anxiety rises like whipping waves to the dam, my reservoirs revolt, but in a cowering, pathetic manner, like children contracting aids from incestuous abuse, disgusting malpractice without end nor beginning, the ultimate perversion, the corruption of innocence... anxiety bend my jaws open in degradation, this is how Eve must have felt, feeling Adam's bitter rancor like the intrusiveness of the rapist, the blasphemous betrayal... even God must have laughed in pity, surely he cringed... I must have ingested some alkaloid; some toxic, inedible berry; some naturally occuring deliriant --- have they poisoned me? Paranoia breeds with excitement, weird mix, I recommend it with spite... I have seen it many times, the raving sun of amphetamine did burn with delirium and blisters many of the people I have called comrades in the past... have they poisoned me? The sun seems more like a judgemental eye now, burning with fiery sarcasm, even though I can not see it --- it is too clogged, the sky --- the grey parapets of the heavens are so dismal, gloomy, sombre I can not for the life of me imagine what lies behind them is any more uplifting... celestial Berlin wall...and the graffitti says 'stay away'.... I do not know... my Theban is rusty... I stare into the unhinged storm of calm --- the face of paradise contorts like children in the furnace waving goodbye to mothers having traded sorrow, desperation and ineptitude for resentment so malignant no return to former shape can even be imagined... this loathsomeness, the overall trepidation, the loss of focus and hope.... I feel sick. Vomit gropes my vellum --- my vellum does not answer with the same intimacy, at least not with consent, so maybe coerced with hostility...a reaction has been provoked: I puke, belch, throw up; I regurgitate gall and berries. I barf like the miserable victims of permanent upheaval of proprioception forced at gun-point onto the decks of ships in midsts of treacherous headlands... my vestibular system, my visual system, the sub-structures of my sense of identity, the sum of my neurobiochemical predicaments throw molotov cocktails against me; everything I have ever believed, everything I have ever held as true, even possible... intellectual toxoplasma gondii paralyzes every subjective truth I claim, and, like a lemmel to the cliff, I wander, in throes of death, toward the ferocity of the feline, its shining teeth, its gluttonous maw, its rancid breath --- old sardines and pure, unadulteraded sadomania... every axiom of my existence grab their purses and keys firmly as they walk through the park of life, at night: my sense of self is locked in the great pillory of despair on some damned hillock lost and forgotten in an ocean of a thousand shark-fins wobbling at the surface... my consorts, the beautiful girls, do not seem to mind, however --- it is a trick. Is it a trick? Enmious, evil quackery... I know it is. Clearly they must be attentive enough as to seem what wreckage I have become over just the lapse of mere minutes! However... I can not lie to myself, childish ridiculousness... I do not know this... how can I take this for granted, I think... on another note, maybe only futile moments have passed... seconds... even less than that... maybe I have lost also this sense of reality: derealization; depersonalization... I fall without rope into the cavern of doubt, I have no friends on the outside and I am sexually assaulted by imps of demoniac psychedelia... small as they are, their sexual ferocity is primatial; only the premier of human rapists could give these fuckers a challenge --- I can not believe any animal would tear a prey apart so roughly as these malevolent forces batter this body --- I swirl like Gods' flushed toilet paper in a vortex engaged in total warfare with the space-time continuum itself... nothing I can take for granted except for the seemingly innate beauty of the smiles I have above me, like two opulent suns showering me in the grace of aesthetic otherwordliness... they utter words now...


having described themselves as the Zorza, or more commonly, perhaps, known as the Zorya --- I feel calmer, for I know what I have encountered.

demonic possession bullshit

   the possession of people by uncontrollable preternatural or paranormal forces
   traditionally and colloquially referred to as demonic possession
   is in fact a reality ---
   we call it mental illness; we call it clinical depression; schizophrenia, psychosis,
   hysteria, epilepsy, dissociative disorder...
   we no longer throw around words like demonic, supernatural, etc
   out of respect for the zeitgeist --- reason worship, anti-superstition, deification of science ---
   but the powerful implications of these words have remained intact:
   there are stuff outside the bounds of our understanding, 'neath the thresholds, behind locked doors,
   that will get out if we let them or if they grow strong enough.

   i have come close to these demons first-hand
   not by means of aesthetic manifestation; i have not heard them; i have not seen them,
   but i have spoken with them directly ---
   one of my most endeared friends have been demonically possessed for years now
   schizophrenic and psychotic, a serious clinician would say ---
   i wonder, the difference...

   in fact, modern scientific psychiatry describe stuff like demonomania, demonopathy
   in which the patient believes that he or she is possessed by one or more demons.
   how is this not legitimized, valid demonic possession by definition?

   the problem with a label such as demonic possession is the implications of it:
   this is, however, not my problem.
   people associate with demons
   some kind of visually manifestable demonic entity, imp-like, horned, malicious...
   these childish and obnoxious ideas are, to me, obfuscated by what is really going on.
   hell is not an actual physical place beneath the crust of the earth,
   demons are not horned, red, and malevolent physical and personal entities.
   hell is here and demons are everywhere:
   have you ever been visited, say, by the demon of failed romance;
   the demon of mental insanity; the demon of suicidal ideation; the demon of financial hardship?

THE BOREAL NIGHT
    a homage to the taiga

pine, spruce, larch ---
be my witness
as i lead this pack of wolves
across the taiga of existentialism;
i am the biome of conflicting identities;
my winters are harsh, my summers, mild:
i am the earth ---
i am its plains, its forests, its rivers,
on which we graze, hunt, and drink;
i am the oldest of the conifers, the fir of might and age,
i am the sad, forgotten spirit, the looming apparition,
the boreal winds, the storms of ice, the murky sea,
the hoarfrost in the foliage of pines ---
i am the spectre over moors at night, wailing the lost love,
and when i dream,
i dream polewards, and in saudade...
boreal night, lull me to sleep ---
i can hear the ambience of the Östersjö waves...