THE SOUL OF A TERRORIST

will i abdicate my papacy

and bathe in human terror

as to dissolve in ecstasy

by the neurotoxic agent

our political leaders call radicalization,

which means

the realization of unique and priceless potential;

i however

prefer to call it passion

and not even the bounds of terrorism

may long stall my pursuits

with their trenches and bulwarks of compassion:

i confess

to the synod

of anti-dogma

and i firmly believe in the beaten path of self-realization through nihilism:

i guard my gates

against the hound-demons that bark from the hinterland

and against the burglars

looking to steal all my valuable paintings ―

which i don't have.

BENEATH THE CHURCH

THE DEVIL BREATHES

they welter

and bask proudly

in the sun of egalitarianism ―

it has become the idol of their worship,

and they take on this egalitarianism

conceptually

not as a mere principle of politics

or as a judicial mechanism of regulating equality

but as a fundamental dictum of existence

and they feed from it, as from the hand that weaves the tapestry

of our ecumenically shared morality...

and it is with this apocalyptic folly

they engage with the world

in a spirit of justice and fairness

but fail however recurringly to realize

the torrential current of egoism and barbarism

which undermines it.

slithering, meandering river-like

like wormcasts 'neath a basilica

from where the devil once in a while

makes himself a fiendish presence

from his long-protruding catacomba

like a spider of the ground leering predatingly,

reminding us yet again of the darkness that we fail to keep at bay,

and conceives yet again some concept of abstraction

that will go uncomprehended

but, in its most toxic and potent form,

would quiver even the spine of god with the neuropathic pain

no dose of pregabalin could possibly quell.

THE INSECT DEITY II

i further my campaigns of exploration

and i penetrate the wall of nature;

i travel the routes of the marching ants

until i reach

the temple of the insect deity

where the clusters of moth and cicada

on the walls of stone

give off an eerie stench of life

and where the great caterpillar failed in its ascent to excellence

and became instead

one of those cursed butterflies

that comes to die defeatedly in the belly of a nihilist romantic;

well...

a long time ago

maybe

mayyyybe

those frail wings fluttered spastically

in the pangs of exhilirated regeneration

but they soon burnt off

from the heat of the devils' sun

and now the butterfly lies

dead and rotting

in the bellies

of the young and copulating couple

trampled by the sacred soles

of chinnamasta, the beautiful, the terrifying, the murderous.

T H E   I N S E C T   D E I T Y   I

'

i have a dream

and

i conjure

horrifying

imagery

through fantasy

and i can see

an insect deity, sixtysix-legged, billion-eyed,

encircling with nasty and protruding tentacles

the towering brickwork of the lighthouse,

and this is surely an abomination,

the inhabitant of nightmares, glistening

like a sun on the azure heaven,

with a corona so pungent even comets re-draw their trajectories

in order not to play dangerous games

with the foulest star of them all;

this is the egg-bearer that puts the question of death

into the soil of all bearing mothers;

and it struggles under no flag,

it is loyal to no denomination,

and it is uproarious to all hierarchies of man...

for this is the abomination of nihilism,

and it fights

a subconscious war of attrition

against the whole world,

clawing itself out

from inside the womb of all holy love, for

the insect deity

is the patron of love

and we do best

in not rousing it

should we wish

to keep what is inside, in

and what is outside, out.

new fuck

T H E   B O T T O M   F E E D E R S 

the mighty detritivores feed on the bottom of humanity

hungry for the scraps of freedom

you discard as uncomfortable:

for the frilled sharks of the abyss

every bite of freedom is a bite of great vigoration!

...and every quark of nutrience they can trace in it, be sure they will suck it out:

no-one but these feeders of the bottom care much about

as we call it

the freedom of choice,

and it is often thought of as a mere bycatch

in the grandiose fishers' nets of existence ―

yes, indeed, nowadays

it has been left behind like unexploded ordnance, the whole idea of it;

the waters by which you bathe in your sun of hope

have never even ben swept of their mines ―

but what do you care? you will not take a swim anyway.

coward.

yeah:

nowadays the oceans have puked forth from its bellows

these feeders of the bottom;

the flounders; the frill-sharks; the sea-stars;

the haddocks; the cat-fish; the anemones...

and the beaches strand overwhelmingly with their cadavers:

their eyes stare like the hearts of debased prostitutes

through the prism of your fractured and miserable spirit,

which explodes with light at the direct contact:

yes, these ugly fuckers remind you of something important:

the healing of your problems

are postponed until further notice, man:

no god cares,

solace is a mechanism of defense,

and you can forget about that absolution.

sincerely, with a heartful greeting

from all the frill-sharks down there:

fuck you;

fuck you for never utilizing the freedom

for which you demand privilege as compensation.

just hit 25,000 words which makes me a bit proud and self-confident in a time mostly coloured with nuances of melancholy, longing, emptiness, restlessness and angst of separation.

and a 70's bangladeshi female freedom fighter thrown in for good measure

old slutet cover ideas

DESTROYING

SOMETHING

BEAUTIFUL

i seek

that which destroys by default,

and i seek

to absolve in the viscidity of it;

like quarks of entropy embedded

in the nucleus of the universe

i too may ripen

into the precursor of the mightiest storm,

the gale of quantum catastrophe;

i put my ears to this void

and i listen to what it sounds of;

i shall try to savour these letterless words

for nothing is talking to me - and i need listening to it;

i need silence and i shall claim solitude

like one need savouring a bitter and old fruit with impunity

over the volition of gaunting marasmus;

i am attentive to the null oratory

of whatever incomprehensible is out there,

and i seek drinking the draught of wisdom

for my throat is parching by the fucking second ―

i ponder emptiness

indifference

and eternal recurrence

and thereof starts to take note

of every passing transient moment

until i gradually realize

the ubiquitous and formless

nature

of all experiential phenomena ―

for so ordains the admonition

from the pulpit

of

nothing at all.

quasi-philosophical bullshit, i hate myself

in every serious human idea
 presented to the world as an engagement with it
 there is an unavoidable lacking in meaning,
  a meaning
 which becomes left behind, 
 sticking in the mire of that amorphous sludge
         of unwordable intuitions and emotions 
         from which it originates:

  ponder this:

 rip the weed from the ground all too fast
   and it will return and it will thrive in a matter of days;
  rip out the thought from the space which nurtures it
   and it will disappear and sink into the quagmire
   of every other neglected and discarded thought;

in every serious human idea
 presented to the world as an engagement with it
 something dire is lost, even has to become lost,
         like a root to a beautiful and fragrant flower
         or like a reindeer getting stuck with its antlers
          tangling them in the sinuous branches of some old tree
          in the panic of fleeing the forest-fire raving all around it:
 drag out the flower with force;
 drag out the reindeer with force;
            both will die!
       the flowers from losing its roots;
       the reindeer from losing its head.

            now,
 drag out - isolate - the flash of genius from the complex electricity of personality;
  define it with language; compromise as to make it as commonly understandable as possible,
  and it too shall die;
  every idea that is born out of the genuinety of individuality,
             having been ouroborically fostered, nurtured by it,
     but has shifted into depending essentially on the mechanisms of the outside
     and its automation with the social machinery of communication
     as a measure of involuntary and instinctual endurance in order to thrive in continuity,
             shall wither with the systems of socialization on whose waves it floats,
             for they can not be of eternal substance; they too
             are aghast by the wraith of ominous impermanence
             haunting and spooking like acoustic feedback all around,
             bouncing, looping
             in the rehearsal room of the final and ultimate end
             with which the idea in itself has become inseparable.

FUCK _YOU_