cataclysmic astroquakes change the course of whole worlds;

upsurges of dark energy clip the strings of all fucking theories

and the hand of god redraw the aesthetics of our beloved constellations;

planets die off with the snapping of fingers

and the space around us expands ― indifferently;

galaxies wither like old vase flowers

and the stars collapse into a swallet where even light drowns;

majestically incomprehensible in grandeur, all this is:

proliferating 
existential 
melanoma 
under the 
raving nihil sun

...the Zorza had rebelled against order; they grew up with fan-posters of rock-stars such as Eve, Lilith, Lalleshwari, Enheduanna, Mother Lü, and Goddess Eris in their teenage bedrooms...

10 albums for a remote island

Vehemence - Assiege (2014)
Burzum - Filosofem (1996)
Lana Del Rey - Born to Die (2012)
Katharsis - VvorldVvithoutEnd (2006)
Anomie - Anomie (1997)
Duszę Wypuścił - Przekrólewszczenie (2011)
Eucharist - A Velvet Creation (1993)
Forest - Заревом над прахом (1997)
Sylvester Anfang II - s/t (2009)
Jedi Mind Tricks - The Psycho-Social (1997)
(+ compilation of Ros Sereysothea tracks!!!!!!!!)

give me water, lyrica and some bananas and i will survive to the end of the world

no, Buyan was not for us; we had no place in paradise because we were no worshippers of light; of blissful ignorance; of idealism and of happiness... hearken: we are the Zorza, and we possess the power to unleash the wolf upon you all, ever since we acquired the keys from the last king of Uruk at the crossroads between the steppe-wastes and the Cedar Forest; thenceforth we contemplated with ardency our plannings for the future, for we held the golden staff of terrorism; you should be wise in fucking with us; nowadays, there is still a flame in our hearts, and our blood of vengeance is boiling hot; we want to lay waste to Buryan; our dreams circle like preying animals around the thought of it... our glorias shine with the ecstasy of destroying something beautiful; wherever we look --- holocaust-spires, death-obelisks, pylons of destruction: yes, consider this the declaration of war: we shall carry out a co-ordinated and well-orchestrated terrorism campagin on the island of our upbringing, Buryan: we hate it and we want to level it with the ground: we admit this and we will not change our minds.

from 'dödens svarta kärlek'

The air is crisp. Suddenly, one of the girls slice, as with a knife, the air with her voice and utters aloud, as if the announcement of a vicar from the embellished pulpit:

“we are the two Auroras and the two Zorza; we are the ones who guard the winged doomsday hound in its leashes and tethers lest it break its coffles in the abysmal tantrums, and wreak loose the apocalypse upon the earth: we shall not let that happen for we are the goddesses which surveil the Polaris star, astral prison of Simargl, gluttonous beast; roaring mouth of demon-spirits with a mane of burning reed, the saw-toothed hell-lion of the abyss; we are the Zorza, or Zorya, the heavenly daughters of Dadžbóg, Solar King: we come from Buyan, the island beyond the threshold, where all weathers create themselves and where the vortexes of world has its epicentres; we are from Buyan, the origin-abyss of all schisms; Buyan is the mysterious place beyond the clouds; shape-shifter of the ocean wastes: Buyan disappears and appears with the movements of the tides; with the moon it breathes; with the sun it awakes... Buyan is the mystical oak-tree in the middle of the walled garden; the one which keeps everything inside, in, and everything outside, out. All waters of the lands are tributary to the root-system of this magnificent oak; for they run even 'neath the oceans; and in a hundred days journey in every direction. Therefrom we originate, with pride and with eloquence, but therein we did not choose to stay: our passions possessed us furthermore the bounds of old Buyan...”

at least i can still write

Above an olden woodpath, the abandoned trail of ancestral foresters, oaken twigs have arrenged themselves into something beautiful, and it is beneath this sinuous beauty I awake. The night has been rough on me, I can feel it with every move my limbs make and with every twist and turn in the ligaments of my flesh; I have rested awkwardly in the position of a beggar or a leper outcast; rough stones have been my pillow and the whorled branches of the mighty spruce have been the canopy; as the lids separate painfully from the dryness of my swollen eye-balls, I hear muffled sounds of my cohorts awakening into the sun-bright dawning; I can hear their arms stretch awide, upward, with the cracking sound of loins and tendons; I hear cute grunts echoing the deepest offing of sleep and the long, wide-mouthed yawns drag out slowly like the fishers' net; soon it will catch words in its meshes, but until then, I will leave her to the inconveniences, privacies and intimacies of the morning ritual... I would not want to disturb, nor can I impose without a mortal transgression of dignity; the girls may talk when words flow from the source unhinged, and meanwhile, I shall not like the mosquito of the  summer night attack retardedly; I wait until my suckage can commence with consent --- but let us not fool ourselves; I need the answers like mosquitoes need their blood... Meanwhile, I can anchor safely my questions at the docks; there they can boil and bask in the sun for a while. We have the Sisyphean eternities to ponder afore us, for we shall never die; time is of no importance. It is alright, I shall ask my questions, a moment shall present itself, but until then, I shall grant them space. I hate the feeling of becoming the subject of annoyance... It diminshes my courage and crooks my posture vehemently; No, I begin to gather the faculties: I look to the woman sleeping to my left; I look to the woman sleeping to my right: still, I feel at home --- they will answer, but I should not be so eager and restless ...

excerpt from the longer one

I am a man of shroud and I wear my trinkets of alienation, not out of pride but out of necessity. I preach never, though I spread the bacteria of existentialism consciously (which is, by the way, meaning to say: you can never outspan your own freedom, not even in death, for suicide is not only a virtue of self-dependence but it is the crown-jewel of it all; the ultimate choice); this is my sole contribution to the schemata of civilizatory development; otherwise, I wish not to speak to you, nor of you. You disturb frequencies you do not even understand nor recognize. Adieu, i will delay you no longer; it is not of my aspiration to do so. Let me not inspire in you any act of piety, of courtesy, of common manners or anything else of the sort; save me this, and I shall accumulate courage; leave decency at the door, and I shall shake your hand; I do not want to be the influence of virtuous transience; this is no sermon; no preaching; no passionate allocutions from the woodcut pulpits; no speech of inspiration... nor do I intend to stir the glorious upsruge of transformative motivations in any of you; I scream only of individuality. That, and the destruction of society. That is my dogma, which disarms and dismantles all other dogma, itself included...

...As we know, astrologers already have proclaimed the year of the child-rapist and villagers are ordered at the mercy of the pillaxe to make babies out of love and then kill them out of sarcasm...

what you sow, shall you thence reap: as you build a world of gutters, the content of gutters shall flood your future: aqueducts overflow, the dam will not hold.

I swallow my pride 

like i swallow my drugs; 

fast, and without cogitation...

enter colloseum of nihilism,

eagle warriors, egyptian horse chariots;

barbarians of the north, graceful lions and their bones of christians;

thraks, bulgars, teutons, goths, moors;

slaves, thralls, mad ones, sick ones; limp ones; blind ones;

gudit, ethiopian iconoclast queen,

itzpapalotl the fearsome skeleton woman,

lalleshwari the scribe at the brink of the earth

and the onna-bugeisha, with her seven blades and javelins;

simple peasants, wooden swords, swollen eyes,

godlike warriors on the trail of the jaguar ---

ENDLESS NEGATIVE THEOLOGY

the human experience, toilsome apophatic theology;

god is not...

god is not...

god is not...

ad infinitum.

we are lost in everything

that is transcendental reality;

we carve an idol out of it, and we call it god,

and salvation is where our passions point,

into the badlands, where all thesean threads vanish in the dark.

we are self-affirming creatures, weak with natural instinct

and infused with all the calibers of the animal:

given these circumstances

we like to think of ourselves as in control,

and we aspire the mythical dominance hierarchy, but

we do not exactly choose our passions, do we? ---

thus god is not subject to our canes' beating;

god is no dog cowering and cringing as we scream at it;

we are no masters in the house of worship,

but humble, lost kittens at best:

often it seems, passions even choose us,

and we do not even understand when and why it happens:

given their numinous power of influence,

one drops to ones' knees, and we worship them; they are all so important;

they direct you, and you follow them like the fish for bait ---

for what else could one do?

not worshipping your passions is the same thing

as turning your back against god, the hidden one,

and I do not even know if that is possible, or if it becomes

a contradiction of fundamental terms.

the anti-theists swing about

the intellect as a sword,

and like children

they dismiss what they do not understand,

they stress the believer into believing in not to believe,

a model of pedagogy failing with the every second it is utilized---

belief always precedes the acceptance of fact ---

before you can conceive the algorithm, you need to believe its numbers;

before you can feel god, you need to believe its transcendence;

the belief in transcendence is to religion

what the belief in numbers is to mathematics...

god is not just what we cherish the most --- a common misconception ---

god is not merely what you like to do, or what you dream of;

god is uncomfortable truth; intrusive truth; offensive truth;

if you want to be safe --- do not walk the path of the religious:

god has no person; no ego; no will;

to believe in any of it

is to hold, quite frankly, a retarded conception of the divine ---

that is what I choose to believe

(i can not know for sure but I exercise faith);

god does not --- can not, in paradox --- care about your human problems

and god is not to be conversed with;

rather ---

god is everything we do not know about the world;

the never-ending apophatic existentialism:

god is the physically unattainable; the incomprehensible;

the noumenon-dimension and all the knowable and unknowable unknown:

god is what the palamites sought in prayer

and what scared the shit out of barlaam of seminara;

laugh it away with mockery all you want ---

surely the tactic of a mole rat, fitting of you:

but remember this --- we are not

talking about some silly man on the clouds here,

but we talk of your future and your past; your essential identity;

your potential for happiness and your deepest shames and secrets;

the fundamental constituents of your personal life experience,

and your never-emptying potential of rape; murder; extinction...

but god is so much more than the dumping-site of your deep-psyche garbage;

it is transcendence; ecstasy; numinosity; magic;

it is love; murder; passion and mysticism;

god is ugliness; the absurd; the angst and the alienation

and whatever else captures your attention --- that is god.

god is the via negativa of everyday life;

god is god of the gaps,

as far as i am concerned, that is the very definition of it all ---

the endless negative theology;

kierkegaard was right ---

the essence of god is the unprovability of god.

that is the fucking point, duh.

this poem consists of half zolpidem

and half language.

i find myself in a mexican stand-off

between me, morality and society;

i stuck my fingers into the anus of existence

and now they stink of the refuse of freedom...

you take for granted that ''the universe'' wants good for you --- bad move.

you like to believe that something, somewhere, somehow

has got your back in the troublesome times of your life,

an existential stockholm syndrome:

you start to identify with that which rules you

and you rationalize through the filter of solace

the motif behind that which rules you

into being benevolent for you, or luckysome, and powerfully meaningful:

excerpt, "angels of resentment"

...as a pathetic measure of jealousy and revenge

they abuse their heavenly powers

and bend and twist them

to make them fit the cages of morale

they have built from the spines

of all the needless human beings

that disappointed them;

the imps and the trolls bring it in with their apple-carts

all the way from the hills of crucifixion

and from the chambers of torment in the north

and from the gallows on the hillocks to the south,

where all the people die

the useless, endless death ---

for people who care; PC lobby facebook shut our page down due to some kind of terror endorsement (false) and sexual content claims. way to go, great stuff. fuck you all; life is not about safe-spaces; life is about confronting the dragon every god damn day and facebook and similar platforms should mirror that. but whatever. we still do what we do at bandcamp and blogspot. we can't bother with the facebook and tumblr shit anymore. fucking bitchz.

july 2: death is near and love kills without mercy