det måste ha varit åtminstone ett hundra alnar högt, tornet,
och många skulle säga till och med ännu högre än så.
så det sägs, och så har sagts.
i vilket fall som helst står slottet där det står.
rätt i ett runstenslandskap
i uppländsk augusti
står denna majestät
i solen bland träden och gräset och löven.
morgonrodnad, febrig dagg
omhuldar kallt,
sen varmt,
sen kallt igen.
en kylig fuktighet, eller en fuktig kyla.
det är väta i gräset längs med slottet
och runtom i den vackra trädgården.
gamla benpipor, kraniespillror, hastigt rivna dagboksblad, spilld bläck.
olyckskorps maskätna vingar. dikter om kärlek och ridderlighet.
något visir från någon gammal tapper krigares hjälm.
allt detta och hundra andra saker och ting.
knäktars kvarglömda artefakter och sådant
kan med enkelhet träffas på, om man bara skulle leta lite omkring.
slottet är enormt och ligger som i en vagga
i en dunge med mörka, hängande träd och ansat buskage.
trevliga bruksmiljöer och öppna uppländska fält med raps
breder ut sig i landskapet runtom.
Östra Aros, ett större samhälle tillika traktens hjärta, ligger bara en kort bit bort.

 

pretty much done. soon atleast.

 BILLOWING PURPLE FIRE

velvet and brimstone,
a crown and a wreath
to the lava-throne

billowing purple fire
rancid breaths from open mouths breathing hell
exhale insidious tar-storm, mordant flame

 red fangs in the brume funereal protrude
 beneath shimmering eyes judgemental

crepuscular beast of no moon!

consciousness rapidly oxidates
in the immediate surroundings
of this revelatory conflagration

abrasions tear across the earth and the sky!

close-mouthed devil pig appears

the devil always breathes through his nose!

I want to ask myself "why am I here?"
instead of the general "why are we here?" –
the latter, the way I see it,
constituting a total irrelevance
in face of the former.

the question of "why are we here?" is void and null, irrelvant, philosophically dead. only God can know a thing about it, and if there is even a "why". 

this is the trademark of my religious existentialism.

     sin is sin and sweet is sweet and salt is salt and truth is truth,
     no matter how piss-minded feeble freaks of this world
     try to drag and drown it in the stinky offal muck
     out of which they themselves arose
     as envious, woeful beings
     filled with rage; exasperation.  

    only human interpretations can be of a relative nature;
    never the substrate which feeds them.
    this is my basic apprehension;
    an immature conjecture on the ontology of things, i concede that,
    and i can call it immature myself, i concede that too,
    but i can never call it inauthentic -
    calling it inauthentic would be inauthentic -
    and God would never concede that!
 

there is a great Holy bliss
in willfully undertaken labor,
and discipline makes freedom,
struggle is required, sacrifice ordained...
no matter what the hedonists, the nihilists,
and the indescriminate fatties and self-lovers
would otherwise suggest.

personal, existential singularity
is a sorry delusion
if life is not lived fiercely
in the breath of the living God.

only in spiritual warfare
God grants uniqueness,
character, distinction, true Selfhood.

in religious radicalization
the individual is forged.
 

Pacifism
will always be conquered
by that which wants to conquer it.

you may bind my hands with twine, you dog,
but I exist under different jurisdiction:
i work under Truth and Holy Justice,
and i try to the highest of my human ability
to promulgate on barren earths
the Divine law, by which all other, written, laws
are put aflame!!!!!

toiling upward without much choice under heavy yokes of addiction,
constrained by copper fetters, masked with the blackest, a most coarse leather as not to speak, not to impress with humility and destitution whatever folk will pity them along their way.

masters of the various arts of morphinism and alcoholism,
of every kind of vice and addiction under this sun,
 hungover from the unearned privilege, choleric and spiritually malnourished, hollowed out, like voided shells, from the empty ejaculations of many sad, bestial moments
and from the spiritual destitution present in the hearts of every person construing the eternal as temporal; the Sacred as Profane, the sinful as liberating, and the fear of God as some form of superstitious decrepitude or impotence.

from the foothills of the world to nauseous heights of elation the procession proceeds, along the vertiginious trails of failed hedonia snaking upward through velvet fields and through the gate of diamonds, only to fall from grace, from the top, and to repeat the chore again and again and again,
as soon as they hit the ground.

a procession of Sisyphean morons stuck like the hamster in its loop,
like slavefolk pining for their bondage to be eternal...

 en bädd av färglös mark. granar avbarrade
    och skjutandes som spiror ur en mullbädd:  
            naturens basilika.

         s k o g a r n a    s j u n g e r

          h a v e n    g å r    i    b ö l j e g å n g

     geting rusdrucken yrvaken stridsformerad redo klar !
   mörkret blir allt tätare, allt tidigare, allt kyligare.
   en kämpande uppländsk skog på sommarens yttersta brant.
   hösten hugger med giftpilständer.

hökens uppspända jaktöga stirrar tjusigt på det veka bytet.

   björkstammarna viner och bäckarna och myrarna
   yrvaknar som årsgångsmorgnar
   till en vintrig, allt vintrigare stillhet.

     f j o r d a r n a    g r å t e r    v a t t e n f a l l

          f j ä l l e n    s k r a t t a r    g o t t

sav droppar alltid blod under höstens första skymning.
nattens storm är full av tvestjärt, mygg och silverfisk.

svarta vindar drar genom ett solsköte uppe i skyn.
en törnroshimmel röd och spräckt, slagen blå.

astrala klippors örnbo, menarken som regnar från ovan,
vintergatans djupa andning, dess böljande, rytmiska bröst.

en smaragdtunga lapar flytande brons från det stilla sjövattnets spänning
i augustisolens rödbrända gryning stigandes så vackert idag.  
 

 old, aeolian rauks! a rugged cliffy coast...
foamy splash of the sea azure in tumult, uproarious tide!
tentacular visions i behold
  from deep Charybdis depths...

the eyestalks of giant ocean-snails
broadcast watery apocalypse
a halatinous parching of viperfish throats
murmur thick vibrations
from abyssal floor

a fast one

upon the hill
a circle of dead faeries
strangled

there is a skin woven
over and around
the sun

and in the center of that skin
there is a miniscule hole,
from which a piercing ray of light
emerges violently

it strikes me
and i have become
epicentral to the world,
the receptacle
of a violent collision
of earthly and unearthly energies.
 

With a thick, smothering shroud of many billions of people covering the surface of the earth, with all their wills and voices joining in discontent murmurs of dissatisfaction and their thirst for leisure and standard, pacifism has gone extinct before it really even started to breathe. There is no way this will end, or even continue about, peacefully. 

just from a flow-state

Don't speak to me about courage or valual priorities! I do not want to hear of the anatomies from the dock-worker; i do not want to hear of the butchering of sheep from some priest somewhere; i do not want to hear the lectures of self-important new-age preachers about exploring inner darkness and i certainly do not want some swollen, pork-skinned scholar from the phrontistery to reproach me on matters of honor and valor! You can teach me nothing of bravery, or friendship or about how to love a woman. Your words and your theses and your idealism works only here - here may be peace, here may be hegemony under your rotten vexilology, but nowhere else. You are sanctimonious in your opposition to violence regardless of the crime of the perpetrator. Frolicking in peace and love, caressing one another with dumb idealist illusions must be sweet and cosy - no doubt about that. Yet it is a weak way of life, a most human pestilence of thoughts and acts, a disastrous and respondent attitude. There is no matter about it, no debate to be had!