28 juni 2018

...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...

from "Spingalonga"

Spingalonga - island of death and rot:
concentration camp of human refuse
citadel of the defeat of the human body,
everywhere, rotten faces like those of black haunting dogs,
maschalized infant botchings scattered like drops of rain, and
young girls left on pyres, perished in morbid marasmus;
syringes, white powders, small plastic bags, old lighters which do not work anymore;
the pazuzu-fever-plague of death,
all the suffocated prostitutes
without mothers and fathers to bury them;
all the holy martyrs of the wrong truth
which fought with valour for the wrong side;
all the betrayed resistance fighters
in all the corners of the world
and the wailing spectres of pained ghosts
over the taiga of the eastern front -

leprosy colony Spingalonga
welcomes all!

27 juni 2018

Answer it

Say to me, if you know your own life-spoiled children well enough to even answer with honesty and dignity about their inmost nature: how many young boys would do as I would have done – and so have done – with the large carcass of the woods… poking on its exposed innards with excitement and a contented smile, a childish mouth bent like a crescent moon at the merest sight of the dispersing clouds of flesh-eating flies?

from "da book"

You can not handle the growth into oldness, and I mysef can not handle my own aging, the physiological deterioration, the psycho-spiritual deconstruction of consciousness, the erosive grinding down of awareness and the dismantling of self-identity, the dilapidation of cognition and of neurological function – this “reason” which you have put on a high pedestal throughout a whole human life becomes more and more crystal-clear, as if air or some breaking glass, as if it was not even there in the first place... yet you have breathed its oxygen to stay alive! It moves about in the shadows, stepping out of them, presenting and manifesting itself like a trickster or like a fox, and you can see the fucking trick now, you start to comprehend the mind-game, you see the illusion clearer by each blink of the eye... reason only took you so far – what now?

26 juni 2018

a 12 minute doodle inspired, but very much not mimicking, polish early 20th century futurism

THE FALCON

i gaze upward, something moves, something has caught my attention;
and what is it, if not a vague stab i feel
   in my appendix
 as i watch some falcon soar, descend...
   yes, because it descends not to catch a prey
   but it does so only
       to rest tiredly on some ocean-rock
    after another weak and useless hunt!

 i should admire its magnificence
     yes, i should,
  but, as the falcon has not a prey firm in its beak;
  no small rodent and no gasping fish;
  so have i
    nothing
      but the air of modernity
        lodged steadfast
            in the grip of my bosom.

         and what, exactly, is that to admire?
Between January 1941 and the Warsaw Uprising in 1944, the Home Army damaged over 6,900 locomotives; destroyed almost 1,000 railway trucks and damaged another 20,000; set 450 transports on fire; damaged or destroyed over 4,000 military vehicles; destroyed 1,100 petrol tanks; destroyed 4,674 tons of petrol; destroyed 3 oil wells; destroyed 122 military warehouses; burned 8 military food storage depots; burned 15 factories and otherwise incapacitated 7 others; disabled or destroyed almost 100 aircraft; and blew up 39 railway bridges. German records show that the Polish underground stopped one in eight Wehrmacht transports from reaching the eastern front.

SUCK THAT YOU DIRLEWANGER PIECE OF FUCKING HUMAN FILTH, FUCK OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFF

Polska Walcząca.

25 juni 2018

A TOTAL ATTACK ON THE ETHOS OF POST MODERNITY

Radicalization is but a dysphemism for uncompromising individuation, because society can not tolerate uncompromising individuation. Why, you ask? Because by the point the truly individual project has become manifest in a person, and when it has begun working for its own completion, accumulating with every spade of soil it digs a larger and larger heap of rubble to fend off its enemies, and by the same token, acquiring with every spade of soil a deeper and deeper hole of introspection to hide in, as if a Hira of the soul... it will be no stopping to it, save for four potential banes that might stop it in its destructive tracks: heroic or tragedic suicide, assassination by some enemy, wilful capitulation to simple and comfortable conformity, some debilitating misfortune of accidency, or some slowly onsetting and exponentially blood-sucking form of self-corruption...but only from these obstacles of existence might the monolithic Panzer IV get stuck in the Rasputitsa of the world! So, when a person has realized what she is, and what it is in her life that she wants to uphold and what it is that she wants to tear down, her creativity and her pride over creation may see no bulwark... and so becomes also the case of her destructivity and of her hostility towards the other; wherever she sees it fit, it will outgrow all possible negotiation, and no pleading and no wailing may well stall her in her pursuits, for indeed, the need for purging has by then become stronger than even the want and strife for social communion and for shallow comradery, for hedonistic materialist acquistions, and for debaucherous gluttony... and her authentic spirit will start to threaten to overwash everything beyond it, beyond her dreams and aspirations, as if flood-waves unhinging its destructive water over the crops and the pastures along the river-bank... yes, and this is why radicalization is treated as if a pest, even though it is merely, by definition, an explosion of subjective potential, of hyper-individuality... for many a folk it sounds great, and it feels good on the tongue, and it is a trend in the zeitgeist, this individuality and this uniqueness, but many a folk indeed do not understand what real individuality and real uniqueness would unleash - neither do I, and that is my fucking point. To treat it as if benevolent in nature, just we love and just we are free and jolly enough, is to poke a hideous beast which sleeps in the secrecy of night with a hot iron rod! But you, you become instead jubilant and optimistic about this, rather than to feel the fear and trembling you perhaps ought to feel, maybe atleast in part, about this great inward and personal revolution, this fission between man and woman, between state and individual, between class and class, between race and race, between muscle and blood, between spirit and flesh, between cell and cell; for what comes with radical individualization but the segregation of societies, of cultures and of whole ethnicites into the fractal nuclei of a billion exponentially fragmentizing and separating entitites... Listen - I am not an opponent of this development, I am not against it per se, not at all, but I need scolding you and the culture you represent! I smite your idols into gravel as an expiation for the sin of your idealism... this is your monumental delusion and this is the Polaris by which you compass your travels and journeys.. and, worse yet, you have even managed to find somewhere within you the audacity and the self-confidence to even suggest and promote and live out this unbound individuality yourself, or indeed what you think of as individuality, and you do that as if a pioneer! And not a pioneer of heroism or creativity, but of gluttony, sloth, and cultural hedonism, and you sell it as if a product on some shelf somewhere, as if an essence of aether trapped – because that is how we ought to do it in this age of capitalism, is it not? The spirit of human heroism... captured as if the ship in a flask of glass! You let many people touch your body and you call it empowerment; you succumb to your habitual disinclinations of spiritual exertion; you wave a banner high as if the victor or some glorious and ecstatic battle – but it is colored with the sludge of cultural excrement... you say, as if on the corner of some dirty street: come now with me, come now and consume me, fuck me, feed me; laugh and shiver with me until I die... food, sex, sleep, death - is this the dream of yours? This is surely the individuation of our day, is it not? Then, by all means, whore, package it as if an ideology, good luck... surely this cowardly way out of the underworld must stink up these grottos and caverns with the fogginess of human weakness... but yes, you go on and get out there like the devilish harlot you are, sell it, your faux individuality which you have sugared with a coating of hedonism and gluttony as to lure the fools and the children and the weaklings to it... I have never before heard of such an abuse of the coming generations save for the mass rapes alongside the eastern fronts of the second world war! Let me tell you: when society claims for its citizens the freedom of expression, and even urges its population to make the best use of it, it comes with a tremendous caveat, yes, for we are free to express our individuality but only until it becomes dangerous for the other, which is a suffocating limitation for the courageous one: you may only push so far... and that is why this piece of judicial nomenclature itself, this freedom of expression, this abomination of demagoguery, is an intellectually dishonest phraseology at best, and an outright fucking deceit at worst. Do you value honesty? Then, by all means, anabaptize it, rename it, rebrand it... yes, perhaps it ought to be called what it really is, instead of what it failingly aspires to become... but what is it then, in honesty, in reality? I would say, a tolerance for certain mild expressions of shallower, greyer, more colourless and more timid variables of personality. Something like that, and really nothing more than it. That is the true face of this freedom of expression you talk and talk about until all the heroes and animals yawn from tedium... your freedom of expression is an artificial fabrication created outside of the actual human experience of it, for it tolerates not expressive freedom in extremis, rather it promotes a hoax of individuality, as if a mind-trick - it is just a fancy concept, a judicial term, a socio-cultural empty value of the herd, mostly unnoticed, unused, under-appreciated, discarded as taken for granted... but yeah, I suppose you may throw your freedoms under the bus as you wish, that is your decision to make, but what I want to say is that freedom of expression in its most honest and honorific emobodiment would mean the same as radicalization to the point of even becoming interchangeable in terms of phrase - and this is something which every sophisticated society ought not to tolerate... and we might ask ourselves then, why no tolerance for it? Indeed, for the sake of its own prosperous growth into the future! But heed though, every one of these societies, aspiring to this idealistic falsarium of utopia, wherein flowering individuality hugs with love the unhinged and unrestrained gluttony of sex and timid pleasure... for this reason alone, heed, yes, that the beasts of radicality hunt at night, and yes, these wolves whom hunt the lamb and the cattle in the outlands do so not for the sake of food but for the sake of uncompromising individuation at the behest of others innocence, which is a diabolical uproar against all, the only logical conclusion of individuation in extremis, and which, taken to this extreme, becomes in essence radicalization: yes, radicalization is but a dysphemism for uncompromising individuation.

24 juni 2018

UR KONVULSIONER

4.
Lura aldrig en best. Råkar du stöta på en som somnat själv-mjölkande och själs-ömkande; reta inte upp den, visa absolut inte dess ansikte i en spegel. En sådan best är inte tafatt och handlingsfattig som det verkar; en sådan best drivs av misstrogen och saknad kärlek – något mycket farligare än den vars hjärtkrans pumpats blodig med Afrodites groddar. Nitälskande varelser är redo att svärta rosenbladen och förgifta chokladen - med sina egna liv. Den som förlorar i kärlekens tre faser – initieringen, åtagandet och avskiljandet – är den vredaste demonen att någonsin ikläda sig människa. Tro mig när jag säger att misogynismen kommer frodas, blomma och explodera i en syndaflod av hämndlystna tistlar. Mannen kommer vara den parasit som samhället odlat under kvinnans stöveltramp på väg till det heliga berget. Det är som om hunden lämnats ensam hemma utan mat och utan lek alldeles för länge, och snart rivs huset systematiskt ned.
Snart kommer jag ta ett piller, och då kommer kärlekskvalet tystna - det blir troligen inga fler rader skrivna om detta idag.
 

5. 
Vill jag, eller vill jag inte? Det återstår snart att se. Detta med magkänsla är sannerligen svårtolkat. Om jag nu har en dålig sådan; är det då för vad jag precis gjort, vad jag gör just nu, eller för vad jag kommer att göra? Är känslor kanske något som överskrider tidsbegreppet? Kanske har jag en dålig magkänsla därför att jag tänker på den, men att den egentligen är dålig även när jag inte tänker? Kanske har jag en kroniskt dålig magkänsla därför att jag gjort så många arroganta beslut och försatt mig i dåliga livssituationer?
Det finns också en möjlighet att magkänslan inte har något med mig att göra, utan istället med min omgivning. När omgivningen mår dåligt, då mår jag också dåligt – därför att det inte finns någon gräns oss emellan.
Sant är det dock att min magkänsla blivit behagligare efter denna konvulsion. Det hade alltså inget med mig att göra trots allt; den fanns bara i orden. Det var som att ordens peristaltik knutit sig i tarmarna därför att dem inte fått tala. En manifestation till rummet och tiden var allt som behövdes, som om dem sökte döden.   

--------------------------------------------------------------


13.
Förtröstan är som en hundvalp i knät, tynandes ur händerna stunden innan du stryker den mot pälsen. Hoppet om tröst är en eskatologi med moderns livmoder som slöja, men med intets avgrund som upplysning.    



14.
Hjärnans formbarhet är en skrämmande verklighet som ger tid en ny befattning. 

15.
Jag inser att mitt förra inlägg var en profetia, eller ämnad att följas upp och återupptäcka. Vilken gris jag är idag: rädd för att tugga på nötter men gör det ändå, av frosseri. Mitt hjärta har varit nära att skena, det måste dokumenteras.  





 ---------------------------------------------------------

19.
Jag vaknar plötsligt, som i amnesi, varpå jag… Varpå, jag… han? Jag vaknar plötsligt, som i amnesi, och drar in atmosfären i min omgivning; den är något helt annat än vanligt. Varpå jag vaknat vet jag inte. Det är som om något i mig driver en stafettpinne framåt, den lämnas över till nästa person och glömmer i samma skede sin tidigare bärare. Vem runkade av mig i duschen, nyss? Tack, det var skönt. Vem var han som precis sjöng några rader högt för sig själv? Varför räds han inte omdömet? Varför kröps det på knäna igår, men på fötterna idag? Hur kunde jag fröjdas igår, men kräkas över gårdagen? Hur kan jag möta morgonen utan att lura mig själv?
Varpå, ordet saknar mening. Inget åberopar det andra, ty att entiteter kommunicerar är endast illusion, en illusion för vadå? 
Kan en man våldföra sig på en annan människa, för att sedan driva rättsprocess mot samma gärningsman?
Vilka är amnesiska och vilka är friska? Skulle en frisk människa definieras utefter hur väl denne känner begrepp så som ’varpå’, eller ’sammanhang’? Är amnesi endast en akt av ansvarslöshet, omognad?
Var det samma tanke, den tanke som satte sig ner för att anteckna?

Vi går som barn med händerna och ansiktet mot glasrutan till en avgrund; aldrig skall vi komma åt det, aldrig skall vi förstå det, men än dock måste vi fortsätta försöka att lösa gåtan. De pellets vi får måste vi tugga – det är de enda som erbjuds.