It reminds me. There is a runestone in the forest around where I came from, a great menhir. It is the stele of existentialism, and it reads:

PASSIONS DEFINE WHO WE ARE / PASSIONS STIR THOUGHT INTO ACTION / WE ARE OUR PASSIONS / PASSIONS ARE MYSTICAL IN ORIGIN AND NATURE / YET PASSIONS ARE POWERFUL AS TO SMASH THE MOUNTAIN / THEY ARE INDEED THE ONLY COMPASS I HAVE YET FOUND WHEN IT COMES TO ORIENTING ONESELF IN THIS WORLD, THIS LIFE, THIS EXISTENCE / DONT BE A PATHETIC DOG / ROUSE THE SURGE OF EXTREMISM WITHIN / FOLLOW THAT WEIRD, STRANGE CAVE SYSTEM INSIDE YOURSELF / THAT WHOSE ENTERING HOLES ARE BELOW THRESHOLDS / ABOLISH LAWS FOR YOURSELF EXCEPT FOR THE ONES YOU HAVE CHOSEN / THERE IS A LAWLESSNESS THRIVING IN INCUBATION WITHIN YOU / SOON THE EGG SHALL HATCH, THAT EGG WHICH IS EMBEDDED SOFTLY BUT RESTLESSLY IN YOUR PASSIONS, AND IN THE VERY DEEPEST VALVES OF THEM / RADICALIZE YOURSELF / ARM YOURSELF / LIVE OUT YOURSELF / LOVE THE OTHER YOU HAVE CHOSEN / KILL YOURSELF IN ECSTASY.

excerpts from after berlin

*i erased this one because it was incomplete, too personal and also it sucked* 

fuck you 
come back later

from August the first

Ku pamięci Armia Krajowa...

I would like to announce a commemoration; it is up to you, reader, whether to care or to not care. I do this not on behalf of every member of The End Commune, but I do this only on the behalf of my own sincere passions. At 17:00 on this date, the first of August, something of great personal as well as historical significance took place a long time ago, and at precisely 17:00 I will, but for a moment, submerge in silent respect for it. On August 1, 1944, the Warsaw Uprising commenced, and I think it is in a proper moral spirit for me to salute it. I salute not only the heroes of it, I wish not to paint this desperate battle for survival in any apologetic, exoticising or glorifying manner; for it was a morbid and diabolical struggle, and it was ruthless, brutal, cold and abysmal in ways neither I nor any of you who will read can understand. What happened in Poland (but absolutely not exclusively in Poland) during those cursed years in general, and during those 63 days of rebellion in particular, is literally beyond our comprehension. Suffering must be truly felt in order to be truly understood, and I claim no insight in the trepidations and torments of the combatants and of the civilian victims of this almost apocalyptic terror. This fight for integrity; autonomy; self-worth, fueled by the bitterest fires of anti-Nazi and anti-Soviet resentment was a doomed fight, yet it was fought. And I think there is a lot in that fact to be analysed, ruminated over, integrated into the self. They fought out of self-respect surely, but, ultimately, the fight was about sheer corporeal and spiritual survival, for the Nazis exterminated you otherwise. Therefore, I wish not to paint my homage with a brush of shallow and lazily appropriating glorification of some past event, but I pay my dues to the ones who waded through the excremental sewers; I pay my dues to the girls and boys losing their mothers to traumatic rape and execution, and I pay my dues to the young men storming the enemy with not even a rifle in their courageous but trembling hands! To me, anyways, a summit of resistance, of retaliation and of heroic humanity is, for example, to mockingly spit in the face of Nazi and Soviet tyranny and brutalizing repression, as they did, the A. K. and their affiliated combatant organizations. And forevermore, this spirit has carved into my heart a nest, and it is doubtful if it ever will leave this abode within me. Yes, I pay my dues to the extravagant ugliness of this brutal happening and I do not wish to romanticize the grotesque terror of it (I shall refrain from digging too much into grisly and destitute detail; much has been written about these things and it is of utmost importance to ruminate them, but it is not my mission today), but not only that. To me, it is a paragon of rebellion, the Warsaw Uprising, and in essence and in spirit, I claim that but a miniscule fraction of the essence which became foundational to this uprising is present also in the work that we do, me and my beautiful and beloved friends, and that it is also foundational in some abstract sense to the philosophical-existential foundations of the Endcommunean world as a whole.

So let me revere this day as in remembrance, a holy and absolutely significant remembrance. I honour today the memory of the Warsaw Uprising and in utmost opposition to the pathetic tyrants of authoritarianism. And also, while we are at it, FUCK Armia Ludowa (I do not care at all for Soviet proxies, no matter how "Polish" they were in their ranks), FUCK Stalin (for being one of the shittiest assholes to ever live), FUCK the Soviet Union (for being the failed, pathological, self-deceptive, false and bloodletted vision of ridiculous utopia that it was), FUCK Oskar Dirlewanger (for being positively the worst of almost all Nazis; if I could, I would torture him with delight), FUCKthe Western betrayal (you could have done more, do not lie), and FUCK all the Stalin-apologetic maggots still squirming in the gutters of our contemporary society. You have no fucking idea about what you are playing with.

Ku pamięci Akcja "Burza"
Ku pamięci Żydowska Organizacja Bojowa
Ku pamięci Rzeź Woli
I wszystkie inne.


Let me close with one of the most poignant pieces of poetry I ever read, from my sacred love and the most beautiful Anna Świrszczyńska;

"Choć nikt nas nie zmuszał,
zbudowaliśmy barykadę
pod ostrzałem." 

cataclysmic astroquakes change the course of whole worlds;

upsurges of dark energy clip the strings of all fucking theories

and the hand of God redraw the aesthetics of our beloved constellations;

planets die off with the snapping of fingers

and the space around us expands ― indifferently; 

 

galaxies wither like old vase flowers

and the stars collapse into a swallet where even light drowns;

majestically incomprehensible in grandeur, all this is.

No, rather - I propose: belief is the quark of fact acceptance - an epistemology on the brink of madness!

this is genious but i dunno if anyone will get it

And just as an addict of nicotine may successfully put down his last cigarette only to resume a latent gambling addiction he has been brewing on feeble flames for a decade may state that he is no longer a nicotinist, an atheist may successfully negate the phenomena of religion in his own conscious realm, only to pick up another bundle; humanism, scientism, anti-theism, varyings forms of ideological possession, etc. The atheist will never call these, however, by their proper name, which would be - idolatries... and he would never call these God in the first place; as much as the nicotinist will no longer call himself a smoker, the atheist will no longer call himself a religious person - but indeed both men are still chewed in a destructive maw of addiction - for without addiction, something starts to go sour. Remember - the leap from addiction to passion is not long, and, by the way, more often than not, it is a matter of valual perspective more so than one of concrete distance.

e k s i s t e n t i a l i s m e C C C L X V I

You are not a mere victim of physics, as say, the ball becoming hit by the racket. is - you do not get to play that game.You do not have the excuse the ball becoming hit by the racket has. When the ball is hit by the racket, it becomes subject to the aerodynamic physical predicaments of nature: the ball, whose movement will be absolutely determined by the prior event of being hit by a racket, will fly with a fundamentally foreseeable trajectory. This is a direct consequence of manifold factors, such as, but absolutely not limited to, the material and density of the racket, the power with which the racket has been swung, and the aerial weather conditions through which the ball will steer its trajectory. The ball in itself could never decide in any way to undertake this trajectory, for it is inanimate and it is the mere pawn on a board of chess - the hand that is playing we know as natural reality, nothing more, nothing less... I think of the human as a breacher of this relationship between physical reality and the laws and dicta that govern it, for the human has in himself the power to outplay natural reality on the chessboard, ours is the hand that play the king and queen, and the rook, and bishop, with wit and with ignorance, as if combined - yes, that is humanity: human beings are no rackets and they are no balls, but they hold rackets and they throw the balls up into the air and they then swing their rackets onto them, hitting them with various degrees of force: yes, this is it: the human being has in its capacity to initiate sequences of events - it is with this observation of human reality that we may understand the concept of freedom, as it throbs and pulsates at the heart of its outer shell, we call it existentialism. We are humans and we initiate causal sequences - the racket, however, does not, for it merely is part of the initiated sequence: yes, we have a very distinct, and as far as I can outline, unique way of being in this world. The essential task of philosophy is to embody and to stir, as from the shadows, the violent uproar of the personality, unique as it is, which is dormant in you. This is the spiritual extreme of philosophy, and the finality of it, a concluding epitaph to it: yes, I say: the vein of existentialism runs through the body of the individual, which electrifies the violent subjectivity of the individual against everything else - and that is art!

When philosophy aspires to soften the conditions of nature over man, and therethrough aspiring to a position of responsibility in order to enhance mans place in it, it is a castration of philosophy, it has gone awry, for it is not the task of philosophy but of politics to render mans relationship with nature easier.

QUEEN OF NON MATTER // JULY 18

           a blood sacrifice oration to the cosmic queen
           goes awry in its sincere mission of purification
            and the hands that made it with such ardour
              now, in shame and in regret,
              dig the earth desperately for nutrients, but there is only clay there,
            and this sincere mission of purification
           stumbles, falls instead
                in tremoring spinal paralysis
            downward the slope of filthy and irrevocable depravation.

   a heinous tempest of final wrath
               unlocks the dirtiest secret from its vault
             and the funeral procession of the world becomes interferred
                  by the formless djinn of entropy
                    drawn out, an energy as if a venom
                     from the most dangerous and distant star systems.

        nine primordial strongholds to the north;
        and twelve tribes of aryans to the south;
        all but one eclipse under the oldest of all old fire crescents
              and a holy vexation of spiritual disease
           salutes with typhonian macht
                 the final and very apocalypse,
                 which leaves only the tribe of 
                        The End Commune.

          the empire of anti-matter
           out there in space
            with its bacteria inhabitants
           grows into the quanta of the universe
            and a queen is crowned
              in a laurel-wreath of galactic ergot;
           luminous she sits
            atop the firmament
          spewing holies upon holies
               as if a whore of cosmos
                 spitting out panspermia
                    with bitter regret and resentment;

            bitter hag of the star-sky,
             God of infected cosmos,
             reluctant to participate in anything
               but the ever entropy of worlds.
       the cosmic queen retracts her psalmata!
               but they were fraudulent even to begin with,
                     but that is the part of the story she never told anyone about.  

NINKILIM & NINGIRAMA // JULY 18

       N I N K I L I M !
    vector of all pests to man 
     with his iron blood and his grey fang-teeth,
      he is vomiting his malediction from his sole eye!

            and it grows like a child, that malediction, '
               and it gnaws like a rat
           through the fibre of what separate worlds!

              a malignant earthworm burrowing its way outward
              and into an eternal void without soil!

   and to put a seed into this soilless soil
   and to fumigate the air of these fields
      with the censer of ergot and rotten juniper
         is to rouse the demon-king of locust-plague:
      rodent-lord Ninkilim!

                         Ninkilim -
              kingly apointee of drought and field-pests
              arising from a a circle of fiery weevils
            with his anti-clockwise anus
              opening up to the dung-hills of the world
            as if a fecal sun, the rectum borealis...

         seek shelter in the heart of Ningirama
         protect from the rabid hunger of gluttonous nature
          with the ancient incantation against Ninkilim:

     "get rid of the great dogs of Ninkilim,
         locusts whose mouths are a Deluge, a tempest,
         mice whose mouths are a Deluge, a tempest!
      seize them by the hand, take them away
            to the latch of the heavens!
      roast them by command of Marduk, lord of exorcism,
           by command of Adad, king of plenty,
      and by command of Ninurta, foremost one of E-kur!"
    (the afore segment "incantation against Ninkilim"
    is drawn from the "Zu-buru-dabbeda",
    the Neo-Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian compendium of incantations
    against field-pests such as locusts, grasshoppers,
    insect, larvae, weevils and other vermin,
    the creatures known as the "great dogs of Ninkilim")

      N I N G I R A M A !
 
      apotropaic mungoose spirit of the air and the earth!
      Ningirama is he who protects the farm-lands from the cobra,
      and Ningirama is the patron of the fierce mungoose, yes, for they are his children.
         but tread carefully and at your fatal peril
               because Ningirama is just in his judgements, and he weighs in his scales of truth,  
                     but he is nevertheless ruthless on the complaining ones
                  and verily, he will slay the great dogs of Ninkilim
                    wherever they are to be found! that is,
                          if a proper sacrifice has been offered unto him;
                  but, by the same token, when Ningirama decides
                   that one deserves nothing better than cobras and field-pests,
                   then nothing better than cobras and field-pests
                       shall verily
                          come one's way.

ERIF NI STIS OHW ENO EHT // JULY 18

THE ONE WHO SITS IN FIRE
  (poetic madness inspired by "to the depths... in degradation" LP by INFESTER)

a saprophytic mist of parasite
   surrounds he who sits in fire
      leprous and forlorn
    on the throne of dead calliphoridae
   and from his mouth
      a vortex births a storm
    through the throat tunnel of something vertiginous
  and the tidal current of the sea-worm
          unhinges over the dark ocean
          which sleeps like a child in utero
             before the rape of its bearing mother

            the one who sits in fire
                boils with the blood of doom
       and a vomit-cyclone bursts
              from the storm-eye of belial.

                   everything ends
                            without pride

...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!

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?