"Words"

parched lips were sewn together with speechlessness
as the teethless wanderer sold his silence for the price of a whore
and fed his children it in hoarse mouths raped to reticence
before he hung himself from the rope of regret
the wanderer got aroused from the black smoke of the sacrificial pyre
emerging from the scorching ruins of reason
that is cooling in the stench of the vapor of flaming words
in the ruinous basilica of no-thing-ness and truth
complete and utter hopelessness befalls the wanderer
and an unutterable sequence of words takes hold of his throat;
anti-clockwise and chaotic evolution of written and spoken language
ends in confusion at worst and total death at best

dark endless oceans of neglect and of pain
spill over to the shores of redemption  and logic
as the wanderer tore out the last pages of his thousand-year diary
his prayers became ashes left of the bonfire of speech
the revokation of literature becomes a cancer
and scribes become property in brothels and on the fields of cotton;
carved in the stele of dementia and abandon
is the concept of unable-ness of verbal expression
all known languages deteriorate from within
collapsing inward in vain with a taste of sarcasm
sentences dilapidate like fucking n.y. towers
and stumble on their own chinese-bound feet which is grammar

i am the changeling born of the mother of anti-tongues
tucked softly in the crib of phonetics and grammar
to stir revulsion and dissentment between man and language
and to put to exposure the fragility of it all
the hobo of existential sophistry veils life in static and noise
the golden rhymes distort as if heard through a raspy filter
the wanderer walked astray lost in psychotic monologue
with his feet splashing in a puddle of his own rancid piss

god can not carve words on your canvas of flesh and blood
why do you ask your him, or her, or it, to beshrew himself; herself; itself
over your worthless life; i do not think your god can speak at all
let alone understand english, or your sorry excuse for it
divine omnipotence is a hoax and a string without end
and solace is a land mine planted in the yard of the home of our upbringing
language is a bridge between yesterday and tomorrow
and i, the terrorist, plant bombs at its foundations

hearken:
it is a measure of coming of health to question the absolute truth with nausea
it is a criterion of autonomy to doubt the genuinity of language
it is a sign of confusion and disorientation
to take for granted the intrinsicality of the qualia of words
and it is the eternal feeling of perplexity contra the weirdness of language
that is the measuring rod of intellect and numinous potential.
language is as much the crucible of logic and emotion
as it is the washbord of our spiritual fabric
and it is with the boiling waters of this melting pot
the individuist transforms his muck into his cleanliness;

language will not be saved
lest i decide to do so´-
language has been turned upsidedown
and the womb of words prolapsed many days ago

i am the seer, i am sovereign i am nothing i am all
in death as in life i am nothing and all -
an analphabet hypergrapher on the brink to madness -
i am the bestial poet, the mungoose battling the jormund serpent
in a fierce, stubborn struggle over pride and prey
i am just a mosquito on the body of an obese world
sucking the old blood drawn from its achilles tendons
where the blood of the wound of the dagger of love
pours into a chalice crafted by amputees

the raison d'être of parasites is the being of an appropriate host
but in my case, the host lies dead in my backyard
shot in the back of the head in a very emotional execution;
the funeral is due, you should come.

much as the snake which once encircled the world
i throw my bait - words - into the shoreless sea
i bite my tail and when i let go, bad things will  happen.

i, the sovereign, the spiritual hermaphrodite
in a cloak of religious and linguistic fascism,
am nothing, and yet i am the culture that is becoming
the civilization in which my children would thrive - but I refuse.
how can we expect to find a word
to describe the everlasting nothing
from which every word in the beginning emerged?

We have no responsibilites; this is a fraud compelled unto us by authorities which, in fact, have no legitimacy in the heart of the free individual: we could talk about only one inherent, intrinsic human responsibility, which is that over one's own actions and choices. We are our choices, nothing more, nothing less. When people talk about responsibilites, they are just merely projecting the responsibilites they have chosen for themselves, unto other people. They project them, and call them absolute... this is a delusional falsehood. We are responsible over our own actions, for we are condemned to freedom; but one must ask oneself - is this freedom a blessing - a life of basking in the sun of God - or an exhausting challenge for autonomy, strife, independence that ends not a day before the moment of your passing?

if you answer that freedom is a blessing, you probably do not understand it. Either you're delusional, or just lacking comprehension of the concept, which is of course as abstract as warmth, or the divine, or love. It is hard to understand, but it is maybe the only philosophical truth one can attain, or atleast it is the prime mover of every other insight. The revelation of freedom, and what that brings about: we could not talk about freedom as a lovely thing, it is fucking torturous!!!!!!! don't forget it, asshole

ceramic alchemy

we lie decumbant
achilles tendons slit
eyes plucked like strawberries
on the first morning of summer's break
we bask like corpses on a bank of ganga
'neath the majestic horns of a crescent sun
drilling into the obese gut of heaven,
which ruptures, like a dam, out of it flows a mist:
the fog is so thick we carve figurines out therefrom
in bhang-haze, soma-drunk,
we breathe into that which we worship
we meditate in remembrance
upon the cranium of the world;
remember, hearken, the highest form of art
that we ever developed and set in motion:
the holy question ignites with the night:
is omnipotence a just a failed theorem?

an answer

"I think your contemplations are really, genuinely interesting. Do you consider yourself as having found any person that you can relate fully to? And bind a bond of a higher form of friendshup with?

Yes, i believe people who really embrace and confront the harrowing reality of human loneliness, will suffer periods of bitterness, crisis, angst and hopelessness throughout their life. It is reasonably a measure, a criterion, of human worth for me - can this person accept the loneliness of human existence or not?

that's why - i think - people hold on to collective institutions and sociological phenomena like nationalism, patrotism, pride, collective guilt, abrahamic religion, empty solace, etc, etc, etc. people do not dare let them go - because that would expose the underlying loneliness of their existences. people are unwantedly born to an absurd, absolutely incomprehensible world in a state of total existential solitude - we are condemned  utterly to freedom, we can not choose to put our freedom aside, save for in death and through suicide, which, I, by the way, sometimes would encourage and support... our every second is a moment of active and passive mechanisms of decision-making, our life's work, our soul cast like a can of colour on an empty wall that is life.

people retort to shitty things like patriotism and "ethnic pride" or even collective guilt because they want, as you say, belong to the context, be a part of it, i a mechanism of vitality in the industries of the human condition.

nevertheless, the are people out there - there must be! - whom are battling the reality of existentialism and nihilism courageously and victoriously, and those people we must find, I suppose."

nightmare follows

what is love

MAIAM

meandering tributaries to the great subterranean ocean
whose ends are obscured forever,
are we all.

in continual, sempiternal becoming
without ends, without fixed courses,
are we like rivers
whirling with the waters
of disquiet.




a world with no purpose
no meaning
nor truth,
and an existence
so absurd, and cruel,
and incomprehensible
are we
vomitted forth into.

rape, murder, dominance, oppression,
utopia, democracy, egalitarianism
genocide and solidarity
are all extensions, and results,
of the same whelming force.

saluted are those
who entrust their passions
to no one
but themselves:
from your own alienation and angst
you must act
and from your own actions
you shall die
with the prospect of unconditional happiness
as an unattainable idea
smeared like dirt
under the heel of your boot.

we all aspire
to nothing
but the passion
we feel
when we feel.

we all amount
to nothing
but the actions
we form
out of the formlessness
that is our passion.





passion
is the only signpost
with worth:
find what you love
and let it destroy you;
it has been said before.
what else could one do?

a passion is something worth
suffering for;
thus, in extension,
suffering bear meaning.

he who fears suffering
fear also life,
and in the storm of that insight,
we carve ourselves a totem.

the intrinsic worthlessness of all action
every thought, and every impulse of compassion
should be known beforehand,
so that we not fall into
the bottomless and uproarious swirl
of idealism, hedonism, and utopia.

he who fails to understand
the communal and ecumenical values
that bind together
the human family
will be revelated
the final vision;
that of god
weeping like a changeling
in a strait-jacket
with his eyes fixed
on the becoming horizon
of a tomorrow
blooming with the death and darkness
of true freedom.

There is the sensible world, and the spiritual, or metaphysical world: they are negations to each-other, but they are likewise indeed complementary to each-other, as they are mended in wholeness, the mysterium coniunctionis. Everything that is not made up of stuff has within its geneaology the energy of the numinous, that is, the abstraction we call divine: the soul, love, angst, passion, and God are all sprung out of the great paradoxical sinkhole that is engulfing the sensible, in other words, physical, world. But it is not limited to the confines of the physical world, nor is it halted by the bulwarks of the modern world, which we can observe amongst their kin the conceit and the arrogance of science, the culture of extraversion and hedonism, and the religion of the Jews and all its offspring, exercises, zealous, in thralldom... for sometimes, waters will stir in the sinkhole and rise to the thresholds, and maelstroms will whirl from beneath, the tsunamies of the incomprehensible whipping the coasts and shores of the physical world: when such a thing occurs, the fool will close his eyes, the smug will try to weigh it on a scale, and the ecstatic will call it revelation. Metaphysics are always original to physics; the void original to the space, war original to peace, and death original to life. Did not Tiamat, the glistening and the chaotic one, gnaw her tongue in the depths primordially, and at her death have her scales and her flesh assembled as the heavens and the earth? Did not her beloved son, Great Kingu, have his blood drawn at the fierce blade of Marduk, giving life to the first of the human beings?