aphorism

I never won this war because there was never really a war, just two parties subconsciously knowing their rightful places without publically admitting it, out of shame on one hand, and out of dignity on the other.

Biblical studies occupied the dreary soul.
Thousands of hours in deepest state of nausea.
Manic commitment to the study of archaic texts.
Devout to apocryphal SATANO-GNOSTICISM.
Mad exegetes bereft of tongues, ears and sight.
Braying the testicles of thought in a stone mortar.
Erect genitalia releasing themselves.
Smaller bloodletted animals in sexualis.
…the wizards pipe their flutes and masturbate…

Ritual cunnilingus of the devil’s chalice.
Torrential spouts of black SOMA.
Nervous patterns release DIMETHYL TRYMPTAMINE.
Paradoxical revelations complete another.
Complex web of arteries form human artwork.
Gnawing the pulsating aorta of the Self.
A throbbing pulse slit and bleeding away.
The dark whips of discontent licking their hearts.
...their wands snap by means of telekinesis…

The dreary soul drowned in the white eyes of MESMER.
His pendulum captivating the young boy.
Giving away a modest but sincere smile in respect for his tutor.
As the lord of sleep rocks his pupil to coma.
They then wander about to an isolated tomb.
And lay down to sleep with each other.
The tutors tongue invading his disciple’s throat.
White stains of ejaculation were observed.
…afore them a foul weather gathers…

Awry clouds form atop the parapets of the sky.
Thundering forth like a majestic chariot.
Cloudings of locust blocking out their sun.
The benighted horizon cloves like a beautiful vulva.
The sun is melting in the furthest distance.
They give their CONDOLENCES toward the setting sun.
Everything shines in its awesome mystery.
Only this text makes sense to them.
…the wizards lulled themselves to sleep…

DET STORA HUSET VID VÄGENS SLUT

det stora huset vid vägens slut står tomt;
i huset vimla alla lagar i en häxvirvel av etiska bermudatrianglar
rummen och tiden överlista all känd fysik
väggarna vittna om ett minnestungt folkmord
och vråarna förvrängas av icke-euklidiska perspektiv.

totalitärt självstyre
över de parapsykologiska fakulteter
av det mänskliga tillståndet
som drar i egots trådar
är moroten framför varje åsnas mule
och portalen
som tar oss tillbaka till hem -
till det stora huset vid vägens slut.

"Spiritually Transmitted Doctrine"

Hearken, whores and beggars, the spiritually transmitted doctrine
Of love, hate, peace, war, life, death, in fusion
In fetters welded, apprehended, captured, locked in,
Tucked soft like a changeling in the crib of confusion.
Where's your hope? - in the furnace of life it is burning,
Ashen, with your culture as Oswald Spengler concluded,
Your utopian gospels and wet dreams and your yearning
Cried by children igniphobic mouthing prayers deluded;

Plow patient your fields; you'll find your Nag Hammadi
Treasures and chests under the throne of Great Athena
And though the West's still alive, I can already smell the rot of its body
And I scour in patience, hungry like the mother hyena;
Perplexing like life, yet clear as a hindsight
I unearth the apocalypse like fucking Tell el-Muqayyar,
Like an awkward social phobic caught in the limelight
But trembling with true will and scolding like fire...

You are Iraq, you are Syria - and I am the fury of ISIS
Carrying AK-47's, planting IED's of ideas
I am the randomness fated in the roll of the dices
The paradoxical conclusion; the essence of Theos
I am a Nietzsche and a horse in a yin-yang of nothing
Sobbing over each other on the back streets of Turin;
A child stillborn, arisen, leaving vacant its coffin
Canonized through hip hop and anointed with urine!

Life's an HIV syringe, and Sartre was right;
All humans are veins and I have gone lost in Bouville,
Hopelessness IntraVenous, angst, a slow burning kite
Against a backdrop of darkness, the horizon, nihil...
Spiritually Transmitted Doctrine, egalitarian hate speeches
Mixing like venom with the rancid blood that is seeping
From the wound left by the bite of the bloodsucking leeches
On the blemished skin of old Mother Europe weeping...

throwing a molotov cocktail
and genuflecting afore the cross;
cuddling with your newborn
and touching private parts of virgins;
vomiting alcoholic filth
and caressing the lamb's wool;
telling children not to play with knives
and thrust a blade through your flesh;
getting disgusted by other people's smell
while scraping the skin off of rotten elk's bones;
feeling the absolute euphoria of love
while harnessing the absolute chaos inside yourself:

these are the twelve sides
of the weird abstraction
we call the dodecahegon
of life and of death
whose vertices
are our experiences
and whose edges
are our actions

https://vimeo.com/157916578

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[DELETED POST]

törnekrona

happiness comes in small packages

ÄNNU EN SJÄLVUPPTAGEN DIKT OM MIG SJÄLV OCH MIN SÅ KALLADE EXISTENTIELLA KAMP

jag skäms att äta, jag skäms att ligga till sängs
jag skäms att le åt ett barns leende
jag skäms att skratta, jag skäms att må bra
jag skäms att rena min kropp från mitt vidriga avfall:

jag lagar livsmat i ett stormkök
på landsflykt från Eden,
dödssvulten i idéernas Sibirien -
     men skammen ger sig inte.

märglad som ett afrikabarn under en sol imorgon utbrunnen
söker jag min egen kvinna flicka hjältinna:
den maasaiska krigarinnan
   med sabeltänder
och ett diadem av blomster och taggtråd,
  hon som räddar allt
  som en poesi-orm av blod eld död
  som ringlar sitt pytonkött
  kring svaga rader av ord
  medan världen rämnar
  i bitar.

jag är en bortsprungen hund på ingenmansland
   mellan apatin och empatin
som utkämpar det eviga slaget
   någonstans innuti ett förbittrat hjärta
   som pulserar ännu svagt.

jag söker något som finns
   begraven på en dansk kyrkogård
någonstans mellan torino och bouville -
       jag har gått vilse.

jag är en duva utsänd ur en ark byggd av cederträ
  men som sedan förirrat sig
     över vidderna, de blå...
     och skammen ger sig inte.

krigarinnan ...
visar mig min väg.

his cock shone with a blinding radiance through the prism of hundred ravaged vaginas

"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?