"Добры вечар, цёмна ноч! На табе, вада, маю бяду, а мне маё здароўе назад аддай"

"NIHILISMENS KRÅSHAJAR"

 nihilismens kråshajar
    som glider sina fjäll
    mot den dykalla bottnen
     på jakt efter syfte
     och mening nog att fortsätta med denna jävla skit
     som världshavens saprofyter
 ber
    till tiamat
    att hon må fälla ännu en majestätisk val
     så att de må
     lyckas övervintra
     ytterligare en arktisk piskning
      av vardag, o' heliga vardag -
      ett horliv helt enkelt, ett horliv utan motstycke.

kråshajarna kämpar och kämpar, men det blir kallare var minut:
de uppslukas till sist
  i ett nafs
   av den uråldriga och makabra sjöorm
      med hundra långa halsar
 vars andedräkter
 är de kvalm de famlar sig fram genom,
      och vars frälsning
      de bett om
      i form av den val 
      som aldrig någonsin föll.

"FRÅN ETT ANNAT PERSPEKTIV"

oskuldskött darra av begärets elektricitet
  men uppbådar en styrka nog inom sig
     att avstå
      från att återgälda
      svinens avklädande blickar,
  för oskuldsköttets vackerhet ljusförses
  av en förlorad och bitter måne
  som spränger sina egna rostiga gränser
  intill och inpå den intethet
   som hungrar efter den, och som i en dunst av ömsesidig lusta
   ävenledes efterhungras
    av månen egna gap; 
en vildsint måne
  som gudarnas glädeflickor;
deras tunikor gnistra av kyskhet
  men fittorna skrika av ett annat mål
  och tyget av sammett kan ej smutsas nog
  så länge hon förmår trampa rätt
  över de fält och de kolnade stigar
  som dock är gillrade
     med djävulens sluga fällor...

"MIN TUNGA"

min vederkvickelse - till världen -  är sotsvart -
   så som diamanter - malda - till stoft;
   mina ord dör
     en ensam död
        på min tunga nu
     medan alla dess innebörder skiftar vidare,
        mellan varje olika färg och nyans
        livet möjligtvis kan mana fram...
        tills det jag ser framför mig
        är en regnbåge svart som horlivets fitta;
min tunga är den skarpaste diamant
du någonsin blivit bländad av
   en tunga
    som lyser
     svavelsolen
      över ditt hål där nere   
       medan jag slickar det.

alla mina ord
   alluderar
    existensen
     så som en rolös ande
      fastnar i spegeln
       framör den eviga
        och oåterkalleliga
         intetheten
          som virvlar där bakom.

"ETT ELDHAV"

pelare av lava och svavel
   stiga röda och svarta som kolonner
   ur en ocean som bolmar av en kärleksolja
    i sin sista bränning:
ett eldhav brinna snabbt och fort så vi må dyka snart, göra oss redo för fallet,
 i synnerhet om vi önska känna oljans envishet mot kroppen,
  hur den klibba och kleta,
   kokandes,
   i fränhet med köttet
   som omhuldar våra vita ben
   med naturens varma späck
 men som nu falla av dem
    med en mörhet
    som blidka hoven.

"ETT DRUCKET TAL"

ett drucket tal spänna sin båge
   och splittrar världens nykterhet, 
    en nykterhet 
    vars spillror regna
    från paradiset
   ner i ett abyssiskt och strålande rus
   där de förångas
   och stiger
   i ängeletern;
   verklighetens fraktaler
      pressas sönder -
   ett grodyngel
    i skapelsens malande kvarn.
   köttets spiraler löses upp
      i en ocean av oförståelighet.

"NIDSKRIVARE"

alla skymfliga nidskrivare steklas som råttor
    och lämnas framme att koka i djävulens hätska solöga;
framtidens vilda blod bränner mina ådror till damm och lera
och jag knullar horoffret livet frambragt mig;
 en nyans av skräpighet skimrar
   över kulturers dalklyfta
   som en chimär eller ett spöke,
   osaligt,
   som suktar
      efter
       hämnd och blod.

unedited draft from "The Mahavidya Suite", part XIX, "The Despair of Matangi"

Aloof upon the corpse-throne, Matangi, outcaste empress of the botched sits weakly, a crooked spine bent with the pliers of desperation; yesteryear a smallest girl, today blossoming the fruit of femalehood; surely, the firm bossom of Matangi have seduced much; her hourglass body runs with the sand of blissful expectancies --- but the time is soon out; she is the most beautiful --- yet, with her youthfulness; her face alight with the torches of all divine brisk; yet, the lusciousness of naked children and the firm breasts of a goddess can not help her any longer; her red jewelry gleams --- but in a dead sun, which shines dead rays! Even with being the quantum of all beauties, she can not bargain far, for Matangi, the beautiful; the fresh-scented; the virgin madonna, surely is a goddess of the outcastes!

I put my leftovers out

on my porch

to the night

for Matangi,

the sacred scavenger of human miseries

whom sneaks by like a shadow

or a wolfess strutting in the outskirts of the town...
 

     high off of the fumes of the poisonous lotus, 
                  she smiles... 

from "The Mahavidya Suite: Poetry of the Divine Feminine"

When man starts to fail at his task of bringing order from chaos

and so becomes embittered and contaminated

by the stagnant water of desperation,

he changes hope for resentment

and as a measure of compensation and self-pity

man starts to swing his sabres all around him

in order to punish the world

for even begetting him:

even the cows shall be slaughtered when man becomes desperate,

just to show the young calves, in glee and in spite, what it feels like

to lose a loving mother!

even the copulating couple

massaged by the feet of the divine terrible

shall experience loss of desire, and nausea, and vicious migraine

at the merest thought of continuing their loving act;

yes, even the elephants bloat and swell

and the prodromes of the farthest end

make themselves visible,

as beautiful Chhinnamasta withdraws her arousal

and secures her lock of chastity

as a banishment of her own orgasm, lest it rips open holes in the cosmos

where the cosmic electrolyte of stars

shall outflow into itself and into everything else around it

no! Chhinamasta may not finger, and the divine couple may not longer copulate:

Chhinamasta has grown tired

after millenia of self-obsessed masturbation...

and with it, the world dies into a pulp.

Srim hrim klim aim

Vajravairocaniye hum hum phat svaha.

"Bilder ur en mardröm"

en blöt och bortglömd hund
    ruska och skaka och klia
    förtvivlans pulver
modernitetens damm
    från g l a s v i n g a r
          av våld och tårar.
trevande osäkert skuggandes
      efter oss själva
   som hund efter hussen som slår den
på kolets väg till
    där historien och livet dog
  krossa oblaten med tänder
   av stål och svavelspott
   din mun som sväljer
   det sista rödvita pillret
   till en ny tillvaro
        i magsyrehavet
             där nere
där livsstyrkans strålljus
går igenom som ett bronsspjut
livets gnistrande dodekagon
  och klyver alla färger
     till spillror
       som dunstar sedan
genom livets pilgiftsgröna prisma
    och lägger sig som ett nukleärt stoft
   över alla vaggor
   alla kapell
   alla åldringshem
     och alla griftegårdar
     som vi känner till
       och någonsin kommer
           att känna till.

gnistrande längtan
ocean av nostalgi strand av morgon
och en förlorad guldålder
   som kanske aldrig fanns
    en gammal myts fyrar
    blända med satans röda giftöga.
människan är en obetydlig fotnot
      i dagböcker som förhalats
             vid dagarnas allra slut.

en himlakropp har ställt sig efter en annan
     som även den ställt sig
     i en profetiskt rät linje
      med den som kom innan -
     och ingenting händer!
     en hel tom rymd
     i opposition -
           mot vår sol!

vidskepelse, vanvett, rädsla
    bädda barn mjuka för natten
   apokalypsens självuppfyllande profetia
      slår ut i full blom
      men baklänges
        som en gammal makaber krysantemum.
kopparbojor bundna till en täthet
      som är ett mörker som
blänka i ett sken från en sol som aldrig funnits.

råttor kackerlackor satans slamkrypande iglar
     redo att störta den mänskliga familjen.
skeppsbrottens estetiska skönhet
    och dess dragningskraft
     berusa och bryta och snärja oss.

kaosinfernot av spetälska och dysenteri
    hugger missödets tänder
      i alla nyfödda små bäbisliv
    den sovande, ringlande
     smäller med sina käftar
    över det kosmiska maktspelets kulisser.

anti-tyfoner skölja över kanten till himmelen
och sopa bort allt som finns där;
     eldstormar eroderar summan av alla berg
     och en vindpust av knivar
     karva djävulens ögon därur.
optimismens kalk tippa över
     och timglaset lindas
         i en korsett av existentiell taggtråd

stackars magra ben bli stommar
    som bygga katedraler
    vars spiror
     skrapa helvetets
        hinna långt där över.

krematorieugnar bolma
      som gamla lungödemkärringar
     uppställda på rad
      som framför pogromens terroransikte.

   gäddorna
    sätter tänderna i visset vass
    och barnskelett,
         läskburkar,
                 kanyler.

månen gömmer sig skyggt
    som en misshandlad
       bakom tordönsmoln.

misstankar vakna
    ur marmorkistan som är tung och dunkel
    ockulta krafter vimla i rörelse
       över den
när den förstfödde kröner sig
    ensam i antipati
      och kravlar sig ur det mest bottenlösa
        det mest bottenlösa
           av alla eländen.

from "The Mahavidya Suite: Poetry of the Divine Feminine"

Kali slit the throat of every bandit,

gorged on their open necks

and drank every drop of the blood-pour out therefrom ---

then she spoke with a sharp tongue;

I am

beloved Kālarātri, the black and eternal night,

and I am beauty itself

in its uttermost and quantum essence

for there is a silver lining to every murder

and there is a beauty in every act of rape -

and I am this.

en skallgångskedja upp för berget
  de dödas berg
schäferhundar, ficklampor
  söka något som aldrig fanns.

Ni putains ni soumis sommes-nous dans cet enfer de l'amour et de la guerre.

Fadime Sahindal
Samira Bellil 
Arielle Holmes

amongst others...

chain my heart

to a totem 

 of war

   and 

    love.

 

The extroverted person is unable to produce entirely original ideas, he is the mere compost and spreader of others.

spooky ships across oceans of morbid metaphysics, flagged with the colors of our discontent, with sails caught by gales of longing    set sail through kierkegaardian realities; spectrally across thresholds of weird and undefinable dimensions and trapped by the spell - lure of dissolving objectivities, apparition bizarre - discarded, piled memories... ocean of perverse remembrance, memorial remnants of paedophila and horrendous abuse float over unknown spiritual magisteria... and the dreadful face of all the unknown unknowns weep mental imagery from its eyes as voids; 
tears of semen and the muck of damaged assholes coalesce as one in the glorious goblet of fire, the brazen chalice of the dirty transcendence crafted for the divine and for the numinous ugly.

 [...] Post-nihilism, or perhaps meta-nihilism, I call this, the dualization between the personal and the metaphysical, or existential, nihilism, between these two brothers of nihilistic doctrine: the subjective nihilism contra the metaphysical nihilism. I choose not to call this a dichotomization of nihilism because they are indeed not mutually exclusive, but may indeed be extrapolated unto one-another.

Kierkegaard is love and angst

The ghost of Kierkegaard haunts my room, and I welcome this ephemeral presence but I choose not to tamper with the energies which whirl in its wake, breathing all around me now as if a cloud of a gas of guidance: the fire-flies of possibility have begun to flutter, buzz all around me, and I sense a whiff of victory! Kierkegaard imbues me as Jibril imbued Mohammad, as with visions and revelations, as with trepidations and seizures... I receive the commandment which says: there is no commandment at all! And my anointment is to be done home, privately... the booth of confession is the bed of my very night's sleep. The ghost of Kierkegaard have since left my room, but be fucking sure he taught me the ways of administering the freedom that I have not gotten as a gift from him but rather from no-one or no thing: I have had it thrown at me, yes, thrown at me with a cold indifference, and just as I have shocked at the phantastic implications of this freedom, I have embraced it and rejected it, as if my own Regine, my own beautiful Regine Olsen...

What does grappling with death mean to people, and what is the acceptance of personal mortality, if not the eureka effect of life and death?

Yes, what is really the difference betweeen the 'eccentric', and the 'mentally ill' - both are completely original people, but whileas the one is happy with it, the other suffers from it. That is the only criterion of definition by which 'mentally ill' people are indeed 'mentally ill', and not merely 'eccentric'.

Radicalization is but a dysphemism for uncompromising individuation; society can not tolerate uncompromising individuation because, by that point, destructivity has become outside of possible negotiation. That is why radicalization is treated as if a pest, even though it is an explosion of subjective potential. When society claims for its citizens the freedom of expression, it comes with a tremendous caveat: you are free to express your individuality, but only until it becomes dangerous for the other. That is why this piece of judicial nomenclature itself, freedom of expression, is an intellectually dishonest phraseology at best, and an outright fucking deceit at worst. It should be called: tolerance for certain mild expressions of your shallower personality. That is the true face of this freedom of expression, for freedom of expression, in its truest and most honorific emobodiment, would mean the same as radicalization.   

I am so perplexed by the gap between the mystery of the object and the power of language with which the subject is trying to describe it.

the no mans land between science and religion which i dare tread

When a man has come to realize that the stars in the night-sky are not mere sources of light, and no mere playful phantasmagoria of the firmament, but entire and absurdly remote worlds - perhaps worlds more similar than ours than we want to imagine - then this man can simply say: I can not understand this, but I can choose my reaction towards it, and I can ask myself verily: is it a crowning achievement of science, or of religion, the discovery of extra-human intelligence beyond the stars? Most are inclined to say that it is a discovery of science, but I am not sure of this. What if - for the sake of this abstract argument - this intelligence exercised serious influence on us, perhaps with means of parapsychology? An extraterrestrial entity exercising parapsychological influence on humankind, a matter of science or religion? The people shall feel intuitively that the border between science and religion is not a border very well defined anymore.

a passage on faithless contra faithful religions

It is my personal opinion that most mainstream denominations of most Abrahamic faiths are not religious in practice but rather psychological, cultural and socio-political attempted bulwarks against the deluge of involuntary freedom which screams and roars on the other side of the dam; for on the other side of this dam is the water that crushes all ships and drowns all pastures, and it is the chaos which they desperately en masse try to define and organize themselves against: yes, most mainstream denominations of most Abrahamic systems of faith claim the scepter of religiosity, but fail to grasp it when it is so given, it is too heavy, they can not muster, for it is only within every religious person to handle the scepter of religiosity, and none may do so for her, for the path it illuminates is a path on whose trails she meet no other wanderer nor any other pilgrim or traveller. But it is a beautiful path, it is tranquil as if dead in nature, and the loud noises and obnoxious rumpus of humans scare off the spirits whirling around it... be forewarned and adviced to seek God in the veils of quietude and contemplation, reject the theaters, arenas, pulpits, scoff at the congregations of the Church - for they are social, not religious, institutions. The divine matter of religion has been washed out of it like dirt! For example, protestantism is just Christianity without asceticism, as much as the chasm is ocean without water, or the shadow is life without its sun. Yes, Christianity itself is just religion without rebellion - and this is a concept which turns on itself and dilapidates. You would be wise in not trying to mold together life-long peace with life-long faith, for they are the irreconcilable prospects of this same life... these ideologies and shallow systems you promote as religion, as faith - they are designed to protect you from the very faith you claim to seek, they are not encouraging you to confront with it, the say: rear away and weep into the bosom of a loving, careful Lord! What a fucking disgrace and what a sarcastic paradox... I say: these are eggs without life in them, but with the cold embryos in them instead which might never have lived in the first place... all these ideologies to subscribe to, and all these flags to wave proudly, all these package deals to buy and welter in, these values and meanings, the concepts of self-absolution, self-denial, religious idealism... these are surely the ideals of the masses, and they are existential utopias; they are trains of thought, and indeed like trains they have become lost in the endless tunnels that run through the mountain, they have lost contact with everyone outside of it - the mountain of Abrahamic faith is so thick it can not let pass any signal of communication, and the electricity shuts off in this great shadow of the sun, this blindspot of all energies - and as much as this mountain is nothing and everything at the same time, so is the train of thought travelling through it, it is itself nothing and everything at the same time, a potentiality which carries encapsuled in it the eternity of all possible outcome... it is these possibilites, the hopefulness of them, which vigorate the human heart, the heart which is weary and over-worked... alas, for it develops within itself the need for the psychological scaffolding such as, for example, these shallow, materialistic religions, so that the heart may pump on through the mundane bitterness, so that it may walk the path of loneliness, and so that it may stand strong as if a lighthouse amidst rain-storms on cliffy coasts... but the heart needs not only stability and certainty, but it needs faith, it needs the iron of faith lest this lighthouse falls into disrepair and lest it crumbles into the dust of nostalgia and fallen brickwork, with its shards washing outseas with the tide of life and death, perennial pulse of the ocean, the aorta of cosmic eternities...

(Cathar gnostics expelled from Carcassone, southern France, 1209)

Horrible birth, 

the walls of the vulva 

tear and crack 

to the unsettling 

disharmonies 

of her agonized screaming, 

and I cannot help but think, 

it is surely a funeral – 

not a celebration – 

for the unborn

The true justification of love, its legitimacy of being, is the potential of it to exhaust the resources of egalitarian society for the greater good of the subject; and deplete the utopias of ecumenical human efforts and their civil togetherness, founded like a temple of Solomon on the stone of contemporary socio-cultural paradigma... it is this society which is being favoured, being built, and being cherised upon this earth, but become not too jubilant over it, for alas, the presence of true love is a diabolical force which works for the exhaustation of such a society - it is the sword of subjective authenticity which cleaves it right in two, and the affective warmth of love is the fulfillment of this authenticity; the society based on true love is the society of conflicting ethos beyond compromise, with one half promulgating the unitarian morality, developing this concept with fervour and delineating an epigenetic human nature of universality to it, while the other half posits that true religions - contemporary ones as well as the ones lost in time – promote or atleast are meaning to promote in part the idea of an essential religious underpinning to human nature, and in part to motivate an incentive to pursue religious ecstasy and to become smitten with the love of subjective passion as an antidote to the religions of the flesh and the mind always contemporary, parallel in time to them, those, which, if cleared of their magical coatings and mystical underpinnings, would reveal that they do not contain one iota of social-material reality – to the very trepidations of the imams, the priests, and the rabbis...

love, that monstrosity of the abyss which rose to the surface! The typhoon of emotion... Yes, love strangled embryos and love hurled spears; love desecrated holy matrimonies, and love coffled losers and failures in loneliness: yes, love kills like a virus, but a thing even worse is the immunity of it... I wanted to hang myself too, believe me, but as the dog returns to his vomit, so the fool returns to his folly! Have you ever been in love?

But people continue their dogma and their communal ritualism, for religion has grown out of the absurd and out of the realm of the unknowable, and over time, it has coalesced culture, spilled over into the economics and into the politics and ethical frameworks of man's shallower life; out from the dimension of spirituality from where it originated, and into the arena of the material world, in which it has morphed with deforming resistance as to fit the cage man has presented for it, locked it into.

There is no legitimate consensus 

to be reached nor any well-founded opinion 

to be uttered when it comes 

to the existence of the divine; 

I presume that those who have felt it 

rarely have in them the interest 

to tell the story... 

if you know, you knew from 

the very point you came to know, 

that there is only you who can know 

what you know, 

and that there is nothing, 

absolutely nothing, 

for an outsider to know 

about the things you have come to know.

What some see as rare, 

I see as inevitable. 

We are inevitable, 

as inevitable as we are rare - 

we had enough space, 

we had enough time - 

we happened. And this, 

my reader, is the living pulse...

         of existentialism!

Eve felt the post-natal depression, that is for sure – what deformity she birthed to the world. She did not care for Cain, but by the time Abel came around, something had turned inside her. What harrowing terror of the soul to feel the love of your own not at all... God had as well been indeed able feel it, as a human would feel it, had God been imbued with the sensibilites and intricalities of the human soul! But God is not. On this point I confess my hostility towards the Abrahamic foundational religious doctrine. Again, post-natal depression, your Creator must be in it as well.

This is a dream, the dream of Ebih, and it has travelled through the prism of space and it has continued below the threshold of consciousness collectively, archetypally through all the centuries of man, and it has been chorused by a lamenting dying off and constant re-kindling of memories in the cyclical tragedy of time, the long opera, as it is, of death and sadness... Ebih is this opera, which is dramatic, urgent, grotesque and loudly thundering with the baritone of the socio-cultural, political, moral, religious, and, as a consequence, the very civilizational apocalypse... and in it, the actors not act but do, because here are no fictions, and here is no shallowness of mimesis or of skilled stagecraft: this is the theatre of cruelty, and in it, everything fractalizes with time exponentially

A flash of unedited truth 

may be all a man needs 

to survive - 

and a tiny, filthy spark 

from God 

may be all the devil needs 

in order to light his torch.

from the shit text

They fell out of brotherly love – that was their culpability, but what with love is a crime? It depends. If you view the world as being fundamentally constituted by law as the highest common denominator, then surely love is a breach of this law, a crime. Many take on this view of the world, as an arena of fair and judicial law, an ecumenical and universal sub-structure of governing and ever-prevailing cosmic law... and what then is a crime if not the fellony of every passionate man, which is to say: the crime against law is to love without restriction nor regulation and it is the sum of this unhinged passion of all men and women that is gnawing and clawing the holes in the raft of law and common order, having shape-shifted into a large and ravenous tiger-shark, attacking that unstable thing, how it tumbles around, out there, by the rugged shores of existence, scraping against the cliff and stone!

I need to grasp the numbers 

in order to grasp the algorithm, 

but the numbers

 are so vapid, so aethereal – 

and then, who am I 

to question the experience 

when I do not understand its phenomena?

https://www.svt.se/nyheter/lokalt/stockholm/dom-i-fallet-om-misstankt-gruppvaldtakt-i-fittja

GOD JUL

One may conceptualize biological life as a rarity in extremis, the odds of the cultivation of sentience and organic life being, in presumption, unfathomably rare, astronomically small - but does not rarity, the practical happening of it, exist in inevitability given it has as much time and space needed in order to cultivate it, trigger in it a response? Yes, if you have enough space and time to allow for it, rarity becomes certainty... in fact, all kinds of rarities are bound to happen, if it becomes enclosed in eternal and endlessly proliferating circumstance -  given enough space and time, everything grows, everything happens. What some see as rare, I see as inevitable. I am inevitable, as inevitable as I am rare - I had enough space, I had enough time - I happened. And this, my reader, is the throbbing pulse of existentialism - the philosophy which puts a dagger in the back of all other ones.

from the most profound book ever written

Yes we need the Ed Kemper, the Richard Ramirez, the David Parker Ray... and what would our culture be without the great genocidal artworks of the last century? The grotesque mass-executions of Treblinka, the Norillag, the forced extreme labouring camp in the Soviet Union where bad nights could reach -61 degrees... the Holodomor, how the Soviet authorities starved the Ukrainian people resulting in millions of bodies... or the so-called Three years of difficulty in Maoist China... those communist fucks sure love their euphemisms... we need what happened in Rwanda; in Nanjing; in My Lai; in Srebrenica and in Oświęcim... we need the sum total of all genocides to haunt us as spectres in our silent hallways at night; we need reminding, and we should not fall to sleep, lest we might dream of utopia... we need to be captivated by the darkest of raging fires – what can we be without them? We must feed the fire of hate, lest the fire of hate feeds us, and makes us, in its glistening light, see things that are not real; we must contain the flames and sparks of hate, lest its shine brighten the path of madness and self-destruction and leaves us possessed by the devils... what might we learn of the failed rapist other than the art of his invasive terror? Time shall tell, but there is a lesson to be learned in every second happening in this world...

Egzistencijalista sam, tim se dicim
To ne može biti svak,
Umrijeti za slobodu
Može samo div-junak!

THE HEDGEHOG

i am the hedgehog
   dying hour by hour
   thorns falling out
        one by one
    without anyone
         nor anything
         noticing.

   yes, i die little by little
   for my pile of leaves 
        is burning like reed
   and by the second the degrees heat
   and in a fortnight
    the pile of leaves will give away
    to the match and phosphor of nature.

we all die, and so i shall too, 
      the little hedgehog...
   and i will die a lonely 
    and burdened wanderer,
   now that my pile of leaves 
   has turned to walpurgis ash - 

but is it not beautiful
  that the nails of the corpse keep on growing after death,
   and that the memories of great deeds also echo,
         atleast for a while -
           until they too drop off the frequencies
           and becomes lost
           in the white noise static
           of all meaningful happenings unremembered,
           adding to a history
           of lost and buried greatness...

Tell me Barlaam, what was indeed the ill of hesychasm more so than being acrimonious towards your silly, worldly hierarchies? For surely you never pondered the depth and thickness of its spiritual resonance, an echoing mystical clangor from a churches bell tolling the hour of truth? Alas, as you failed to assume its axioms, you failed to comprehend the theology, which is but a body on, and a vessel for, an archaic sub-structure of religious epistemology: god is constituent of everything we do not understand. We know of its concept, and we intellectualize and cartograph the outer circles of it, yet we fail to grasp its essence, the uproarious inner core, centre-volcano of the terrifying and sacred mystery...

second batch of Jihad EP on cassette from Manifest of Hate Creations out of Germany.

of course you would not admit, but beneath the collar and behind the closed church-gates, it all looks the same to me. Barlaam - that cloak hides nothing, and virtue glows with absence all around you, aura of spiritual hoax... have you ever gazed aloft your Calabrian shorelines where the ocean swallows its lands like the panther swallows the chunk from the side of the gazelle? Could you see the ocean and can you rest on it with your gaze, or is the absolute nothingness in front of it, and atop of it, too hard see through? Can you see this splashing on the surface, far out in the distance? Only outright retarded children would take a swim in shark-infested waters merely because they do not see a fin wobbling at the top of the surface... only blind children is comforted by the deceptive gaslighting of the pederast offender...