this book is a dream that you hold in your hands, the dream of a world proud, not ashamed, over being ugly.

en svensk dikt som heter NÖFF NÖFF

När du får glöd från en rykande spliff på handen
så känns det som att du bombarderas
av ett brinnande torn
 med en glödhet spira av aska, för
det är skammens och odisciplinens torn
som brinner upp nu
men röken bolmar upp nu
   som ett cannabisrus
  den susar och väller med annorlundhet -
och du andas in allt detta.

        nöff nöff

a poem called "ex cathedra"

EX CATHEDRA

the holy ghost covered its eyes
  with the palms of murdered children:
   behold! said I
and the holy ghost spake
ex cathedra
  my heart, my blessed temple
  and the holy ghost sounded
the horns of the Lord
    there
    within.

what a beautiful clangor
     there was -
     and suddenly dropped -
a noose from the beam of the earth!
   the hole opened the earth
   and at holy ghosts' behest 
   and I too spake soon with vapour
 out into there,
  into the cold realm, 
   the dying word of nights.

  so i did for the sake of my Lord.
 
   yes,
 an echo framed the night-sky
   and like a burglar in the night of zodiac
  i disappear -
     with the pitcher of aquarius!
  poured, did i , the water therein
    into the stream of worlds' all mouths - and  
 the holy ghost vanished
       under my rains, the sulphur of soul!
    
         boiled to broth and fat
          in the aether-caudron
      the holy ghost became
         the sustenance of the djinn!
          which threw their balls of fire
             over taiga, steppe and storm -
         no longer reign i
            ex cathedra -
            and the holy ghost abandoned...

    so it did for the sake of its Lord.

stilnoct + katharsis + teitanblood = silly homage

SAPROPHYTIK RELIGIOVS PARASITVM
VORTEXX BYRTH ASTORM WOMBE'S TVNNEL
TIDAL CVRRENT SEAWYRME MOVTHE OV DARK OCEAN
ANTI-KLOCKWYSE ANUS OV SHE GOAT
ON DETHE'S HORIZYN ESOTERIK GUDERIAN
IN NIGHT OV HERESIES BRONZE GODDESS WHORE OF THE ERTHE
IRON BLOODE - GREY TOOTHE - DETHE HALO
VOMITT EYE MALEDIKTION VOIDWYRME IN KOSMIK NIGHT
LVMINOUS ATOP FYRMAMENTE SPEWING HOLIES UPON HOLIES
TITANIK WILL KONQUEST IN ETERNUM
HERESIARCHY VIRGINHOOD SUCCUBI
EVERWARD WIDDERSHINS THE LOGOS SPYRALLING
OBZIDIAN HELL MAZE OV NETHER EMPRESS
FAMINE CROWNE AND SEVENTH PESTILENCE
BLOODE SAKRIFICE ORATION TO ERESHKIGAL
NYNE PRIMORDYAL STRONGHOLDES TO THE NORTHE
KRYSTAL EKLIPSE OF OLDEST FIRE CRESCENT
HOLY VEXATION OV SPIRITVAL DYS-EASE
TYPHONIAN MACHT - BLOOD OF DOOM
VOMIT CYKLONE - STORM EYE OV BELIAL
PANZER NYGHTE-SKY COME BLOODE EAGLE
MORBID MERKURY FLOVVE CHRYSTE VEINS
BLESSED MOTHER RETRAKT PSALMATA
HEINOUS TEMPESTE OF FYNAL WRATHE
FUNERALLE PROCESSION INTERFERRED
WITH TOTENKOPF KOSMIK MOCKERY
FROM DANGEROUS AND DYSTTANT STAR SYSTEMAE 

moralogy

you can not derive a morality from objective truth for the morality is ignited by the match which hits the world with friction, and no match can behave like this lest it is not in the hand of an individual undertaking the action of igniting it, which in principal makes the ignition not spontaneous in objective void, but crafted rather in blacksmiths, those of individual subjectivity...

I find overwhelming beauty in the world, so, in an apparent attempt at maintaining emotional and spiritual balance, I seek the opposite (which I surely think of as a successful operation of introspective self-therapy). Where the fragrant flowers bloom in thousands and the sun showers its earth in opulence, I am attracted to the piles of dead leaves… maybe I can find and talk to the hedgehog down there, spiked little master of isolation and solitude!

I can not fucking explain to you a more sickening and upsetting folly than to FUCKING ERASE HUNDREDS OF GREAT WORDS YOU JUST FUCKING WROTE

FUCK YOU

FUCK YOU

FUCK YOU

 i cried
like legit, tears
 i screamed into my pillow
 fuck you, me
fuck you
you stupid fucking piece of shit
           you cant even save what you write you should fucking kill yourself

I do not run your puny errands. I do not speak your language, your words. I take your sentences and I dismember them. And if that has momentarily made my task a little more difficult, so be it: at least I do not run the risk of carrying grist to my opponents' mill. I do not look for struggle if it may be avoided, I am not of fiery temperament in that sense, but heed this though, that I will not speak your filthy language, foul my mouth with your disgusting words? Do you think I am a whore of tongues? No, I am the master of language, I know what to write, and how to write it.

erooooom

You seem to care more about identity, victimage credentials, virtue signaling, social status than you do about the cause you so fucking proudly scream about... Are you driven by your hate for men, or by your love for women? Now, do you care about women, or do you care more about complaining until your individual life becomes a tiny bit more comfortable? Do you love women? Do? You? Care? Action is like the receipt of care; how you act, is how you care. If you care, you do everything in your might to relieve the suffering (or damage) of those (or that) you care about. Now, do you care? Go to South Africa and slit the fucking cocks off of these rapist pigs whose impressive statistics I spoke about in the beginning of this text. Your false pretenses disgust me and you should put your care where your mouth is, which currently is locked around the cock of islamic apologism, I know: I can see it right afront my face, but when you get that monstrous thing out of your mouth, maybe you can use that hole to talk with instead? Try it out. For example, we can talk about how you sow discord in the aether without knowing the aether is there, and how you disturb frequencies you are not even aware you are on.

tey niaga erom tihs

nowadays, I speak the tongue of the Zorza, and I do it with sophistication and I am always hungry to learn... the tongue of Zorza, the language isolate immemorial, is a weird but pretty language, obscure to me until the moment I fully understood it with the blink of a tigers' eye: it is full of swaying diphthongs and triphthongs that flow about slowly and create ligament and tendon to dozen-lettered words ripe with many different meanings at once; it has a hissing, mysterious phonologic aura to it; vibrant and free-flowing; the speculations of the linguist would draw to the harsh-soundingness of the western slavonic tongues... It is reminiscent to some degree to old proto-Polish, although it is way more dense with wovels; as I mentioned, the triphthonged words are rather a standard variety than a hidden curious oddity – but it is completely different from, say, Polish, or Belarusian, which I also thought of, in some fundamental elements; the strange, random and loose syntax with which they construe their sentences was alien to me for the longest time, and the melodies and intonations they interweave into their speech are underpinned with a lot of emotion; they spit ugly words and they make love to beautiful words; all of it with the brooding undertone of passive-aggression; their language exacerbate my infatuations: they tell me their stories over new camp-fires every night as we slowly but steadily approach the beaches opposite Buyan; I am so impressed by their experience; how they are centuries old, having lived through the birth of culture and also having been the first to call out the symptoma of its dilapidation... nevertheless idealistic, radical adolescents, still passionate, still imbued with stern meaningfulness... and the energy and strife with which they chase their goals set aflame an old match I had forgotten somewhere inside me... we never settle for more than a night at the time, and everyday is the laughingstock of the next one...

neve erom diputs tihs

In the Epic of Gilgamesh, the namesake hero refuses having sex with the beautiful goddess, Inanna; she commands him to perform for her, rousing every fibre of manhood in Gilgamesh, whom, as with a flash of heavenly strength, declines the glorious offer made to him, the naked flesh of the sex-goddess herself... Only a hero of masculinity could turn down Inanna, for masculinity is as much the ability to contain oneself as it is to set free oneself... Gilgamesh thence becomes a true hero, master of his own faculties, for he disciplines himself and he does not throw himself to any woman, not even goddesses... But heed though that there is no glee nor is there spite or resentment fuelling mighty Gilgamesh; as he does not want it, neither do I want to strangle the women I appreciate, for he surely appreciated exuberant Inanna, fierce goddess of sex and war and love, the storm of untethered femininity! No, I do not like brutality, and I do not like molestation nor assault. In my dreams, I beat rapists to death with blunt objects. In fact, it all frightens and repulses me: I for one would not like to carry the yoke of barbarity into the new century, and I would prefer to leave the heredity of unrestrained primitivity behind - lest I become devoured: I am a kind and soft soul; I would not slash any throat even in the blackest of thunderous tantrums; no disappoinment, no betrayal nor the painful fading of loves' flickering flame would prompt such murderous lunacy in me; I am not the fist of misogynistic hatreds and violences – rather the opposite, and my striving for the opposite it ardent, since I intensely loathe the haters of women; surely at the end of days before the tribunals of purgatory they shall have their mouths bent open and they shall drink the piss from the judges of the apocalypse... and these contemplations take my mind hostage – a trance which is broken with the merest smiles of my berry-picking cohorts, whom I forget and rediscover by the minute...

erom morf eht koob

Emerald scimitar, the best of friends, firm in the scabbard on my left, and the unfiltered alcohols of the warrior poet bottled in the found flask of old ship-wrecks hang to my right; I have laid with Comandanta Ramona, beautiful woman; I have admired her body in the light of the Chiapa sun: I have slept with a goddess and I no longer take any fucking prisoners – fuck your quiescency, your serenity, your passivity: this blade is sharper than even the devils tongue, which I often dance upon with abandon; depravity by my side, I have cohorts – madness, intifada! Heed my strenghts, I shall, and hearken my weaknesses, I do... believe it... I am no self-praising fool: through my ability to swell my ego in a blowfish-like manner, I am the enemy of the smallest of needles, how they can burst my beautiful bubble... I cling my sword in victory, raise my glass in the successes of bloody battles; I pay prostitutes with the bounty of pillaged gold and pleasuresome as it is to me, now harlots and sellers of all lewd company walk streets embellished with the luxurious jewellries of blue-blooded duchesses, and I have granted them the dignity of kingly courts, with the touch of my steel-bearing hand – shall not a woman stand on the pedestal erected by the beaten hands of thralls, given that she is the daughter of the divine? I drink the blood of Eve; I smear the menses of empresses as war paint on my face...

Slutet "Jihad" cassettes from M.O.H. Creations from Germany

when i start to write
and when i start to _____
i rip open an abyss before me
 that will not stop yawning
  and ______
until i throw words in there,
  which catch fire
  and burns off
  in ____________

a question of moral divisiveness

What is good? What is bad? And on a similar note, let me ask: is it godspeed or maleficence when the bubonic plague purges dramatically regions of severe and burdensome overpopulation, reducing and decimating until only a few strong and battered are left amongst the piles of human bodies? Think with courage

on the moral conundrums of existentialism

Was there a higher degree of common evilness amongst the germans of the Third Reich than what could be found in for example the United States within the same time-frame? When the collective goes insane, how does one assess the criteria of culpability for the individual? If you, as an employer, refused and discarded the application of an emaciated, dire man over his ethnic and religious ancestry, were you an accomplice of the Holocaust? Maybe you did not even disfavor the Jews, maybe you did not give a damn about the racial hygiene, and maybe you even sympathized with their inhumane torments and discriminations? Would it make you an accomplice... of genocide? Where do one draw this line? Not surely can the yoke of the Holocaust be hung on the shoulders of one single man, but is it reasonable by the same token to hang it over the back of an entire people? Where is the middle-path here? May it be so that there is none.

The Two Zorza Which Keeps the Hellhound Simargl In Its Chains Lest Apocalypse Becomes

They tell me of their childhood...
       ...and their upbringing;
                 it is an interesting story:

The Zorza had stood up against order and refused to adapt; all things considered, after all, this is no strange thing for any growing and evolving adolescent, though the terror-like and militantly radical antics they adopted surely was a foreshadowing of an insurgency far outstretching the bounds of some mere teenage rebellion; they were the subject of monitoring from various intelligence agencies and secret police surveillances until they successfully threatened with the destruction of the divine fire had the harassment not ended in convencience with their eighteenth birthdays; this was surely a defeat for Buyan authorities; which cowered to the terms the sisters had stipulated, afraid they would release the fire-imps upon them; such was the profound respect the sisters had been given along with other various heredities of their birth; the island of Buyan spawned the Zorza and treated them well like princesses – after all, it was in their mythic duty to keep the wolf shackled at bay – but they grew all too big for their little bird-cages they had around them, for holy fire always melt iron bars... consider it a parable: power should never travel down genealogies and authority should never be inherited by anyone; it should be earned... the Zorza did not want to execute authority over some undefined, abstract 'paradise' – they wanted to strife for authority over themselves; no-one else; no thing else. They did never give a fucking shit about the greater good of Buyan, and that was the seed of the schism. They told me how they grew up with fan-posters of rock-stars such as Eve, Lilith, Lalleshwari, Enheduanna, Mother Lü, and Goddess Eris in their teenage bedrooms, and how they had carved and sculpted figurines of Al-lat, Al-‘Uzzá and Manat, the three patron goddesses of the Pagan Arabs, which they had placed thoughtfully atop their wooden altars, beautiful shrines of worship embellished with carnelian and lapis lazuli... I behold them, I rarely can muster anything eles: the sisters look moderate albeit cosmically beautiful, though disregarding their aesthetic lustre, they are quite anonymous in their physical presentations; do not get me wrong, they can easily turn the head of every man down a busy street, but never would one think anything other of them than that they are indeed two mere, ordinary girls, fathered by a father; mothered by a mother... They appreciate this. Holy work gets worked on in the shadows, not on the lustrous stages of amphitheaters; they find something valuable in their anonymity. I have supposed it is the reversion and rejection of childhood and adolescent traumata: growing up, they carried the yoke of expectations; neither one of them wanted to assume the tedious work of diplomacy, nor did any of them feel rather comfortable in the garbs of Buyan ambassadors; they ploughed their soil with the oxen that had wandered alongside whole genealogies and they became so fucking sick and tired of the weight of history: they rebelled against their lineage and they burned the cords to their families; they cut the massive rope that tied the galleon of dutiful apprehensions to its dock: yes, this is the story of how two ordinary girls discovered their innermost powers, and how they learned to cultivate them; how they tread the path of the existentialist and how they found me astray in some desolate part of the forest and this is the story of how they took me along – for we are the same – onward to the gates of Buyan, paradise of heaven; this is the story of how the holy fire was stolen from the walled garden, carried out into the wilderness passionately, ignited paradoxically with the cold and thick absenceness of darkness, then returned to set the fundaments of their world aflame... the sisters were mistresses of the flame: in the ancient Aksumite lands, they have been venerated timelessly as Great´Esato; the word for fire in the tongue of the Amharic, for the Zorza hold in their hands the keys that unlock the fire-beast from its pithole; likewise the archetype they represent can be found in the farthest corners of the cultural world; from the north american Inuit to the Yaghan tribes of the South Cone, the Terra del Fuego – spanish for land of fire; it is called so because of the many fires the tribesmen lit on the beaches as the first European man approached with his magnificent ship; the Zorza is also in the fire of the ancient Iranian Zoroastrian magicians; the Zorza is in the the halo around the burning skull of Agni, ancient Hindu deity of fire; the Zorza is in the Sacred Fire of Vesta and every other eternal flame that ever burned; the Zorza is in the fire the Indo-Aryans leap over in their anticipatory embrace of the forthcoming year: yes, they are surely the potential of house-fire and of forest-fire... it is they who wield the sword of Androktasiai in every battle of human history, for the Greek deity, feminine archetype of manslaughter, gave them their fighting swords as accolades of initiation; it is they whom kill the beasts of the forest and the wicked goat-people of the mountains: the heads of Nemean lions have been impaled on stakes all around their dwelling-places... Both the Zorza, the Morning Star and the Evening Star, had daughters on their own; Veleda and Mavia respectively. Veleda was of Germanic descent, a prominent prophetess and priestess amongst the Bructeri and Batavi peoples of the north-central Germanic lands; she led many military campaigns against the Roman invaders. Mavia was a warrior-queen of Arab descent, swift in her military prowess, achieving unity and igniting inspiration and communion amongst many nomadic tribespeople against the Roman occupation in what is modern southern Syria; after reaching the frontiers of the Egyptian lands through enduring and resilient military offensives, and having brought humiliation and the loss of many men upon the Roman occupiers, they finally sealed an embarassing truce with her on conditions she herself proudly and spinefully stipulated; such was her character and for it she cements herself in the museums of the history of human resilience as a glorious incarnation of the She-Wolf, majestic Inanna, goddess of warfare and love... Both Veleda and Mavia were beloved by their mothers, but they were the grievous fruits of fatherless conceptions: the Morning Star had stolen the semen of some Germanic tribesleader she had been infatuated with many moons ago during the exploratory campaigns of her youth; she seldom talks of it nowadays though, it must be important and feel-strong an episode to her. I have only heard her mention the father of her daughter once, and she did so with the tone of saudade caressing her spine, carried by chills of icy emotion; the Evening Star, on the other hand, had masturbated visciously the leader of a Tanukh tribe in the drunken sleep after he had raped her; she saved the semen in a small glass jar and a hundred moons later she sent her daughter to avenge the rape he had commited. That night, he died with the thrust of the scimitar, eye-locked with his only daughter staring with the iris of requital; that night, he got a good taste surely of the bitter fruit-nectars of revenge, his Saracen blood spurting outward in the fountaineous fashion from the hole in his sand-coloured body. later, Mavia and her mother celebrated; they fed the body of the father to Simargl, whom had not been fed for weeks or months, and they scoffed and taunted every bypassing man on the streets of their home. None was safe that night... Veleda on the other hand took a more pragmatic stance in the question of her father: she had even visited him later as she had grown to the warrior-queen we all modernly know her to be: they even battled rebellions against the Romans together, forging a copper-strong bond on the fearsome frontlines: surely, Veleda loved her father. Surely, Mavia hated her father...

scrapped cover idea for "Jihad"

"eethr yingssa"

#1 Tolerance and acceptance of deviance per default will be the seed of that ripe fruit we called the downfall of western culture.

#2 In this western culture, I have yet to find out if the word "human" is the vilest insult or the most glorious compliment. 

#3 We who are given birth into this western culture, we are trapped in it: we all live in it for a time, and we all shall die, this is fixed - but in between, you are God... alas, you will suffer, for the passion of art and meaning is the heredity of the gods, the alchemy of the deepest depths there is, where even the Scylla weeps in the face of the true and impenetrable darkness...

1 msirofa

"...yeah, man is the hog of truffle, domesticated in the fine art of rooting the earth for his answers, but the hoarfrost is stubborn this year, and no husk may browse through this soil, frozen as it is, from nihilism."

Æthelflæd, your breasts are mountains! The spirit of resistance in you, how it may never rest, or withdraw, or cease to hope the good hope; hurry, you matrix of resilience, the patroness of the already dead - take up your sword, that which kills the norsemen... Hungry storms yawn on the horizon; the ocean has teeth of steel and vengeance... Æthelflæd: kiss our swords, for we are weary; the waves are short and vomitous this dusk, how they wage a war on the mudrock and the moonstone of our shores; you, saint, foresee the dark night: shall the dragons of the north arrive from the heathenlands, or may we sleep a single hour? Tell us to prepare and we shall die for you, between the half-ruinous towers and the old stone chimneys...  

O Warrioress Queen Æthelflæd, you are all that you never wanted to be, yet you are all that you ever could be... Come, you: feel beneath your skin the uprush of wilder, jubilant energies; shoot the religious phenethylline into your veins; burst out with war, lead the way, tonight they come: we can see it in your eyes. Tonight, war. And love. For you,  

                                                                . . . Æthelflæd
                                                  870 - 917 A n n o   D o m i n i .