I am a kind and soft soul and I, to my own dismay, would not slash any throat even in the blackest of thunderous tantrums; no disappoinment, no betrayal nor even the painful fading of love's 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

But this demands courage: life is not just a scheme to be followed inasmuch as a dance is not just a physical motion and inasmuch as love is not just a chemical randomness, some cluster of hormone... and furthermore, art is not just a chaotic disarray of pigment; music is not just tones sequenced together! A murder is not just the taking of a life, and poetry is more than just a long rope of words...

...only then might I renounce my faith in extremism, 

the polar star of radical individuality growing about on the firmament 

like a rainbow or a phantasm of hope 

after a hundred sombre moons...

from 2019's best book by a great margin

Beasts do not hang themselves over the body of a melancholic lover, nor do they drown themselves in the oceans of questions which emerge all around the human with every faulty move she makes. No, they can not value life, nor can they devalue it... at least not like we can. For them, it just is. They carry on being beasts, and we, we carry on being human… dogs are dogs; cows are cows; pigs are pigs, and sheep are sheep. Snakes are snakes, and falcons, they are always falcons. But humans are something becoming something.

THE TRADITIONALIST

The traditionalist is driven to the cliff's edge; no longer is he content with life in spirit for he is an adventurer by heart: when people are shot and killed on the street, he watches in confused content from his window, and when natural disasters hit, he laughs in pace with the whipping of flood-water; when wars break out across the globe, however far off or close, just he gets the whiff of them, there is a silly side to him, a silly person within him who could not be happier, for the traditionalist is a fish on land in modernity, and he is so bored by the current world that anything which might potentially throw it out of balance will be rejoiced and welcomed by principal. This is what it has become, our modernity: we have filled our heads to their brink but we have emptied our hearts in the meanwhile, and we have depleted our sense for wonder for the bargain of facts and for the adoption of ecumenical morality and the latrine-waste of scientism... it is easier that way.

 We scream so loud and we prosper and we develop in what we think is eternity, but we do so without realizing the inherent fallacy of endless growth; because we mock balance and we worship excess. We have become swine of bad standing, and we have lost the nobility of ancestry and of honor; we have replaced tradition with decadence; we have replaced modesty with whoredom; we have replaced strife with technology; we have replaced the adoration of heroism with the martyrization of victimage; every day our finances and our well-being grow in concord with the shrinking of our phalli and we boast our sophistication as our bellies swell in disgusting obesity, as our minds overflow with the weakness of self-pity and as our spines weaken in pathetic fatigue; the modern world has no muscle left, and the wolf is almost extinct here. We brag about philanthropy, humanism, egalitarianism but as we do just this, our children are clawed and ravaged in the darkness of its very negations; we have created a culture where people become "nice", "pleasant" and "decent citizens", but we have completely forsaken how to nurture and foster a hero. This is a culture of mediocrity, where mediocrity is lauded and awarded and where self-constraint and will-power have become some ideals of history better left in the mass graves of some past and primordial primitivity... and this disgusts me profoundly. 

War and love eternal. 

a lil outline for the polynesian gilga

GREAT MAUI

great maui
swing your stone sword as to cleave the earth
and let muck and soil bleed from the wound
rip it open and steal the fire there within
 as to give the powers of it to us humans
   when its cold
         and when its dark
           and when the freezing moon obsesses us

great maui
swing your magic fish-hook crafted from the jawbone
    given as a gift of initiation into manhood and into heroism
          by murirangawhenua
      the grandmother of the hero himsef

great maui
travel quickly like the sun used to do 
   across the sky kinglike
 before your fish-hook caught it 
  and caused it to slow down
  and nowadays tamanuitera the solar king
   is in captivity and in submission

great maui
show me the way to death
and let me die the very way you died
 my hero    
point me the way to the womb-gates of hinenuitepo
  the woman of the night and of the sunset

great maui
 allow me too to change into the shape of the worm
and enter her glorious vagina
 as to escape through her throat
 and leap forthwith out of her mouth
     as she dwelt the sleep of gods and goddesses

and great maui
 allow me too to fail in this plan
  and allow me too to be crushed by the obsidian teeth
    littered all across the labia
         surrounding the collapsed quasar
            the ultramassive black hole
              that is her beautiful vagina
             the cunt from where night itself came
               the awesome darkness of hinenuitepo

lonely saturday night batch of zolpies

TWO DAGGERS

mists of vampyric fumes i walk through
with poison-dart and the mana of fire
two daggers are in my belt
  and the key and the lock rests in my separate hands
separate like the sun and the moon
          or like flesh and man
                 or like love and romance
                       but conjoined
                            except for the last one

THE SEMIEN KINGDOM
the semienite kings erected stelae
to the kingdom of the struggle with god
ethiopian lands
         under the flag of the star

judit war command
 the queen casts her leather noose
   and steers the forces of beta israel
         into a battle of redemption and of honor
conducted in a strong and hebraic iron tradition
   not even a holocaust could ever quell

WAR AND WILL

war and will
statues of heroism
bronze and terracotta
   the hero-gaze of lapis lazuli 
           or coast-blue
             or menses-red

the light emitted from
   the unshamed worship of masculinity
cooled in the shadows cast
by great eagles with amber wings
 and their beaks as diamond and pearl 
held together the manichaean ubiquity of life

steel and marble dedications below their flapping wings
edelweiss and kruppstahl shine above in the horizon
the walpurgis fire luminating it
 from down below

NOT ONCE

not once have my body become under attack
and not once blood have spilled to the ground
without I having exercuted proper reprimand
and not once it shall ever ever happen

war and will
   retaliation
      conquest
the valor of revenge
is a cultural-historical constant
and it is in the core interest of every healthy culture
to perserve it
  and to nurture it

FOLD MY SOUL
if i could fold my soul just a thousand times
 it would be as thick or thicker
   than the conventional dimensions of space-time



TRIAL BY PUBLIC OPINION

female collaborator
passionate romantic lover
 total and unforgivable traitor
or cringing victim of horrendous rape
  they know not

shave her head
   in a grotesque ceremony of humiliation
     they do
         nevertheless

2019_1

         86 – SPINALONGA       POETRY FROM A LEPER COLONY
                   PARTS I-V
    I

the lighthouse outside Spinalonga
  how it collapsed a moon ago
   or maybe many moons ago
   not one person can remember


      (not even the harbors nor the trees remember)

as the city of the lepers had fallen,
        those with arms and hands left
           and those whose legs still retained some function
  founded and tended an Eden-garden
    where weed and thistle first grew out of the towerfall rubble
    and in the very middle of that garden
    the lepers erected  a  d o l m e n 
    as in honour, an epitaph
           in sacred and endless remembrance
    of the mythic pharos which once stood there

    they spellbound it with some hokus pokus magic
    during forty days and nights of arduous ritual-work,
    as to alchemically render it a watchtower anew -
     and sometimes apparently magic fucking works
      so nowadays
     it emanates a light so strong
      that even Leviathan becomes grumpy from it
       as its rays penetrate the shallower waters
       and rouses her from the deeps
       a hundred-thousand fathoms beneath
        the jasmin veil of night
              s w a y i n g
                 like the dark eternity
                    a b o v e .

      II

   there was once a duchess on Spinalonga
   a burdened widow of remorse    yes
       her duke had died from dysentery
         and he had left beautiful paintings
     which he had made from the the emetic eruptions
        (which is to say, his vomit)
           caused by the dysentery

    and some of them still hang in the tower stairway
  and once in this very tower had i a vision imbued by them
  and it was a vision of the duchess herself

      she was naked
      and had an ancient woman's body
      as if she had laid in a bog for centuries
         and also she had very long black hair
             which was kind of beautiful
         had not her face been the face of a bloated human corpse
      with eyes pushing out of their sockets
        and her skin black as coal      and leathery

      her face was that of a sorceress
       and her heart was black as the soot of life
        and when she so opened her bewitching mouth
         a serpent came from thereout
         and bore speech to all the lepers of the colony
            but as one of them did not smile and greet in glory the duchess,
            she changed her mind abruptly
               and the serpent retracted throatward

                  the duchess uttered not a word more
                  but only a haunting stare of death shook them

               and - she remained silent;
                        she has not spoken since

     III

 the arch of Lazarus hangs welcoming
  over the entrance to the brothel of lynched children
     and as the rotting ones pass this gateway of sighs,
     all the oubliettes beneath
          which are hidden in the bedrock all around the island
     smile in the sullen undergrowth
    for we find in them, in the soil thereunder,
    failed but courageous heroines,
    the skeletal and obsequial remains of them,
     their tombs and their old ossuaries...
    and scratches from their nails adorn the walls ...
   for not any wrath can outcompare the wrath of a leprous harlot

   indeed there is no corpse which exudes
   a sulphur-gas of odium more vitriolic
    than the corpse of a wronged, hurt and vengeful woman.

        may these spirits reach the angstloch
              as to release themselves?

  we need getting into the catacombs of Spinalonga
    as to save them! or rather, what is left of these mazeways,
the ones which are buried under an age of rubble and ruin,
 sleeping under ash and the golden pumice
  from that forlorn time when the heavens had opened up
      like childrens' mouths
       and volcanic rock poured out therefrom
            and cracked and broke thunderously
         in a most wonderful play
                        of the gods

     IV

     i had a dream.
     i understand now:
          i am it
     this tower! the lighthouse.

    and i have fallen - but still
    i guard the coast with hawk's eye,
    and strike do i with beak and with claw
    and terror shall not stop me in my tracks - if i am strong!
    and i piss also in the ocean like gods do
      with nonchalance and with bravado

    i am i    
     in opia
    with the devil's eye of storms
    i am locked with it
      as if punishment,
      inside it, immured into it,
      and the light i emit
 is a light which leers like a sore
   around which
      beetles crawl
         and botflies swarm
        V

   Spingalonga - island of death and rot:
     concentration camp of human refuse,
     citadel of the defeat of the human body
              fortress of failed flesh

       everywhere, rotten faces like faces of black haunting dogs,
    maschalized infant botchings are scattered like drops of rain, and
    young girls have been left in pits after their rapes and murders;
      their mothers could no longer defend their daughters
      for they themselves had perished in a morbid and self-inflicted marasmus

        the world is built out of syringes, white powders, small plastic bags
         and old lighters which do not work anymore;
     the pazuzu-fever-plague of death and suffering,
             all the molested and murdered 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
                            from Łódź to Lwów  to Wilno to Warszawa
                                     (peace be upon you all)
             and the wailing spectres of pained ghosts
                           over the taiga of the eastern front

        leprosy colony Spingalonga
                  welcomes all

   Spinalonga is
      like a brave new world
                 but a failed new world
                  a world reduced
         to an exhibition of dirt and of excrement -
         a world where coprolith
           outvalues amber
           and is regarded with higher aesthetic esteem

             and it has become a world
              a scolding earth
             crisp from lava and flame,
               scorched and burnt,
                but confused still,
             scared, and lonely, abject and aloof
                              indeed,
                                       like
                                          the human

2019

what will happen in 2019?

- a new N.S.B. kurdish electro technocratic sonic war ecstasy assault
- a brand fucking new SLUTET lp
- a definite SLUTET back catalogue (2014-2017) compilation through our ally Behest
- a LOVEBOY magnum opus interpreting the Holocaust through ambient sonic terror in reverence to its victims and the events, a final 2 hour piece wrapping this shit project up for good
- the definite completion of the "sword of angst" poetry anthology
- hopefully some other projects will release shit too, like SOUTHERN SPRUCE and AVGÅNG

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Pipes that suck and gurgle,

are they choking on sick spit?

Did you wash the world off,

and cleanse this room with filth?

The ducts are stuffed with stuff

grime hair and sweat and shit

and clogged frothy greenish piss.