THE BEAUTY OF KHADIJA

   parts I-III

I – in her life

did not Mohammads' frail despondency,

the hissing crickets of angst

the inward tension of personality
and his heavy, tar-bittered heart ---

these, the collected seismicity

of his particular conditions ---

hatch and crawl

from the egg of a womans' love---

her warmth, her eyes and her youthful laughter

woven with the maturest of all wisdoms?

did not her smile that humbled lions

and made peace with all the robbers of the dunes

certainly make stalwart impression on young Mohammad? ---

certainly, for it was

the firmness with which she conducted trade

and the alacrity with which she spread her voice, so by the wind;

Mohammad parttook with diligence

in the construction of Khadijas' furniture

and he lived by the sweat of his brow;

he travelled about with her mercantile caravans;

he was strong on the field like an ox ---

yet it was a humble lamb in prostration

whom maintained Khadijas' pottery and her silks...

it was not for nothing the princess of Quraysh

enjoyed her glimmering status

and her most stellar of reputations ---

and that surely must have

broken the prophet

in two --- torn between

jealousy; inferiority; resentment --- the hostage-situation of love

Khadija chose her Mohammad ---

Mohammad did not choose his Khadija.

many men she turned down

in their stubborn campaigns of marriage,

but not Mohammad, for whose hand she asked---

...the prophet exulted, they loved...

she cast her spell of womanhood

which slithered around like scandent vine,

and the tumultous upsurge of romance

hugged fear out of them both...

then, what drove him to Hira in pursuit of solicitude and contemplation?

he did not have it bad with Khadija, indeed the opposite was true;

her love conjured demons --- every real emotion does this ---

abominable imps of the love abyss,

charging with their red hot scimitars,

lashing about their metal rods

on the anvil of his heart as dense as iron...

did not Aisha, many years later, tremor in quakes of jealousy

at the thought of her beloved husband

dreaming in the veins of his Khadija?

so did the other wives, by the way,

all the way down to the Copt,

for the prophet was indeed merciful,

and indeed had his plenitude of women,

with the myriad difficulties that would bring about,

sown discord; enmity; spite; jealousy; resentment

alas, if not the prophet be loving:

...

yet, competition in romance ---

the autumnal tempest, scythe of emotion---

eschatological conclusion of love ---

did not even caress Khadija, whom faced no rivalry,

for their love was indeed true ---

n o w o n d e r ---

she salvaged him from poverty!

bottomless manholes

of miserable, dolorous sewage

where he had waded and toiled for years...

did not beautiful Khadija --- al-Tahira ---

console the weary visionary,

as he stormed down the mountain

like delirious Zarathustra 'neath the scaphism of gods' love,

feeling weakness in his body, salivating from his desert throat

the white drool of redemption ---

the Arab sun unforgiving, boiling hot as fire?

did she not articulate with him

the great and captivating mystery,

t h e n i g h t m a r i s h v i s i o n s ,

the molestation of the weary soul?

did she not, the loving and trustful,

shroud the torments of the most acute spate

of spiritual trepidation

with the warmth of hugs and blankets,

in effect,

suffocating darkness with love,

for better and for worse?

she indeed held the prophets hand

to the cavernous bottoms, by the rivers of woe,

across swampy moors and the wood, thorned, of doubt;

across the ranges of fearsome mountains,

the next higher than the last,

of gradually developing states

of religious abandon---

Mohammed was caught in the sombre web,

the evil spider leered...

Mohammad

found, unlocked

the metal cellar door

the circular stairway down the

abyss of the crisis of personality

with the lovesome aid

of his warm Khadija;

for she had reconciled with madness

and swallowed the lava of mysteries;
she had slept in his bed of night-terrors

and kissed and tucked him softly

as flickered between wakeness and parasomnia...

II – in her death

quarter a century of a most humble loyalty

between the two

forged loves' copper bondage

and left both transformed forever;

so, as beautiful Khadija died,

not much longer could his darkness

be kept at bay

and his demons kept housebroken

before shit and piss

would start to stink up his beloved grotto .

fear-stricken o n e i r o m a n c y

of the illiterate prophet.

the loneliness and love-sickness of the despairing widower,

and his sleep-paralytic nightmares

as black and cold as led

became the mystic midwife of islam, the unconditional surrender unto Allah---

fever dreams of hedonia

mutinied this spiritual ship,

untrodden seaways to glory,

lustrous idylls of mercantilism---

harbors of the blissful divine

in the heart of the warmer currents---

far downstream the headlands,

the lonely prophet envisaged...

he wakes up to the dream, he does not sleep into it;
in the speculation of Khadija, in her wiseness,

it may just be the defining divider between

the mystic and the ordinary dream-states:

[he dreamt:]

the heavenly al-Burāq, winged horse grazing on the pastures of the night,

the keeper of the gates, the deepest of all the slumbers,

, the seventh of the heavens and the phantasmagoria of death,

the heavenly of loves... the even heavenlier of warfields,

ascending the majesty of existential plateaus

above rats basking in the wealth of the sun of transcendence,

he dreamt of the opium nights, the felicity and quietude of mind

all the way to the riches in life; the riches thereafter;

to the ecstasy of victorious battle...

to the spoils of mighty sieges ...

and to the retreat --- in surrender or in valor ---

from those great, great battles within...

Mohammad

blessed by war

the horns of battle and death's percussion

forebode

his pillaging advent

and, in extension,

the noxious scent of tribesblood

started to stink up his pigsties

of luxury and of polygyny---

did not Allah favour this

heavenly vengeance on the Quraysh,

for their enmious hostilities

and indeed if he disdained it,

why did he let it be?

there was a road to the gates of paradise ---

and Mohammed was eager to set foot

in any direction away

from the agonizing memories

of his most endeared Khadija---

the prophet rode into the primeval mists

of purity and solidarity

clinging, the sabres of extermination...

III – Appendix

it is probable that

Mohammads' revelations

would today designate as

sleep paralyses of a most eruptive kind,

his prophethood put in question ---

how many prophets have indeed been disgarded as mad,

vilified for it, abject with ridicule and belittlement...
how many visionaries have enucleated themselves in the courts of the blind

and drunken boiling oil to scold the tongue which beget words

in the face of the most harrowing fear of all,

of persecution, condemnation or worse?

people want to live; it is understandable,

but, hold on --- only fools find that respectable:

we can not know the true character of Mohammad,

but if it is indeed true, what Islamic tradition pictures,

he would be a magnificent man amongst dogs...
however, it is also probable that these traditions

have been infused with so much complete bullshit

to the point of completely flooding it,

that the truth is now only historical.

I cast the first stone in this esoteric and gnostic re-interpretation

of Mohammad and the archaeo-islamic era:
the religion that we today associate with the extremism

of outward manifestation; omni-encompasssing jurisdiction;

externalization of divinity; totalitarian code of morality, et cetera,

is the facade of modernity on the aeonic skeleton of religion

and that the flesh attached to these white bones of ire,

is poisoned, rotted, attacked with the flesh-eating bacteria

of the Kierkegaardian anarcho-religious idea:

the freedom from dogma, the innecessity of ritual ---

the real and honest

highly personal

and subjective connection with the divine...

the Islamic religion was born with a series of sleep paralyses,

as having been experienced by Mohammad; it is with this first dictum

that I launch the archaeo-islamic esotericism...

My body feels weak, but that is no wonder. I have gathered wood for hours; yesternight was rain, wet wood and weet feet is no joyous thing... if you need warmth, which I do. Autumn roars in the distance. My feet hurt, and these arms sway in the mild breeze; precursor to a hungry storm, if I could have a guess, that will rage about over my hut tonight...though I like the storm, thought I can appreciate its ravenous appetite and the sound of its whining as a lullaby... though I can respect it with all the mightiest of its properties, it sows worry in me... I can not know beforehand if my hut, which is a rather simple yet also footsure nest, built with passion and ardency by these young hands, can withstand the erosion of this night, which will imprint itself in the memories of tribes around these sombre parts of the earth, for in these vast lands, storms matter... weather matters. This night will be the darkest in five-hundred-and-forty thousand years --- a rather important night for the tribespeople. The significance is noticable; there is something in the air; I met a few gatherers; they giggled in cute modesty at the sight of me, my bruised arms with scars scattered; my stern face sombre from th e weight of days... they gathered berries of a peculiar kind I could not for the life of me identify; curiosity raped me, I asked; they did not answer. They weren't afraid though; their eyes were blue and big, and they seemed to study me, almost with a lack of decency: I do not know where these two women come from. After a while --- I gathered wood, they plucked berries from thornbushes, I have never seen such a berry-bearing bush --- they, in abrupt break of a somewhat awkward silence --- said to me , “follow”... after that utterance, short as it was - confusing, a bit weird - they left. There was something odd about them, but not in some disturbing manner; I did not fear, neither did I feel that anxious feeling in my gut: they were happy. They smiled and giggled amidst this weather-heavy forest, quite unwelcoming as it was; thornbushes, trails overgrown since hundreds of years; cairns, even that great forbidden chasm in the central plateau of these woodlands.... dismal this forest was, but it was not dead: two full baskets they had gathered in a mere hour or so --- rather impressive I found it, given the bleakness of the day, the hostility of nature with logs and cairns, the wet moss and the tarns which were treacherous... holes in the ground filled with murky water.... They had lustre --- something was good about them; not only were they beautiful as paintings, they were clad in ceremonial garments --- in the middle of this inhospitable forest --- it made me smile, it made my mood rise like sun in spring... I followed eagerly the berrypickers, they entranced me; there is something about them...

fuck fuck fuck whore

i just wrote two excellent poems and then accidentally erased them from my computer
i havent been so infuriated with myself for months
the loss of creative work is to me almost a summit of angst
it feels, when that insight hits, as if everything suddenly and abruptly lost meaning and value
and that you, by accident, raped yourself spiritual self in the asshole, and not in the good kinda way

...SOMETHING IS 

ON THE STOVE 

BOILING 

LIKE A STEW OF ART 

SOMEONE ADDS SPICE

AND FLAVOR

--- PASSION ---
OF A BITTER HEART

SOMETHING SOON 

--- A CHILD OF LOVE ---

WILL CRAWL AND KICK

IN UTERO

POINTING FINGERS

HOPEFULLY
TOWARD THAT PLACE

WE'LL SOMEDAY GO...

the difference between entertainment and art is that art is never in the service of society --- it is never limited by the bounds of it, nor is it friendly with it; art does not cater to the needs of the society from which it sprang, and it does not watch and guard over society when it is lulling its cute beauty sleep; art and society is not tied together in mutually assured ethos; it does not carry out its stinky moral propaganda... art should not condemn public enemies but condemn enemies of art: art is a spectre looming hauntingly through corridors of entertainment, for it is a ghost of entertainment... for example: entertainment makes its concession: we want to entertain... and what type of concession does art make for itself... we want to express ourselves.... sometimes in cocoons of solitude and emotion.... sometimes at the peril of the world...

nu känner jag av kyrkan

den där successivt stegrande känslan som en vibrator som kittlar själen

känslan av en hopplöshet i livet som ändå är ganska läcker

jag tänker genast på dostoyesky: "om det ej finns gud så är allt tillåtet";

ändå är weltschmerz, wanderlust, saudade, begrepp som jag använder som ryggrad

allting är värdelöst men du kan typ nästan le åt det

röka cigaretter lyssna på töntig polsk hiphop och le åt människorna som trots allt försöker (jag inkluderad)

jag vill helt klart ge upp men det är för många strings attached

för många människor som på något sätt har gjort mig oumbärlig

jag är inte alls bekväm med det --- inte det minsta

så lyrican gör sitt, jag gör mitt, och slasktratten fortsätter surra

som en bikupa eller unga kåta tonåringar

fulla i livets välbehag och en framtidslust så absurd att jag knappast kan kolla utan att cringa

And everything weeps, and I weep thick tears -
Enslaved, I weep, and I panic in a holy embrace
What have these hands commited? -
Let me confess unspeakable deeds.

To anyone who received a disposable camera a year ago (or two?) in order to partake in my project:
please get in touch, I HAVe completely forgotten how many there are and who has them but I would like them back now so I can get working on my project.

existential poem #22 - on authority

(inspired by the schism between christian orthodox and gnostic congregations in the first centuries "anno domini", in remembrance of Basilides, Valentinus, the Sethian Gnostics and in loathing of assholes like Irenaeus of Lyon, Tertullian, and Ignatius of Antiochia)

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

there are as many paths as there are human beings;
seven billion epicentres at the frontlines of being;
       paths to desolation; bridle roads of victory and conceit ---
some leads to extermination camps, others end in false pride,
some leads to absolute freedom in the face of existential passion,
while others fade with the towns and crop-fields
   into the obscurity of unquiet, ferine woodlands, once maybe
   explored with lanterns, torches, daggers, but now left
   to their destinies
           of rectification
        through meaningless
           natural
           entropy.
  
some of us seek absolute freedom,
others seek absolute stability and safety;
    both paths lead in desolate directions
    and will end at opposite shores of the sea
    of self-destruction and corporeal finality;
    the seekers of freedom on one shore,
    the seekers of stability on the other;
    maybe, they will wave at each-other, and relate dissociate passions
       --- probably not ---
    maybe they will be so consumed by their petty, shallow brawl
    that they will neglect the whirling waters 'neath their feet;
    the omni-devouring ocean, ursprunglighetens framfallna livmoder,
    storming about, wind-whipped waves of the old, old sea,
         the ancient depth, where the scaled one dwells!!!
 
          contemplate
      and make up your mind

one can describe it as the polarization between ...
the value of spiritual anarchism contra that of spiritual totalitarianism,
and the gales of its complementary yet inimical dichotomies
blow chillingly with the uproariousness of the human spirit
   through the choices we are willing to make,
        as much as through those
   we are condemned, grace-fallen, to deal with;

the purpose of willful submission to authority
must always be the aspiration to grow out of it;
it must always be the means of a passage, or a transformation---
a threshold to step over; a wiseness to listen ardently to:
these paths, though, are untrodden, wolven trails,
and predatory eyes leer in the dark night of the soul,
in the dense forests, with its crown of primeval mists
     and the sempiternity of stars in the sky, glowing
     with the lustre of something mysterious...

but what drives the individual to voluntary genuflection?
what drives the collective to shackle itself to monolithic rigidity---
    surely, a force of motivation to which i can not relate;
ignorance; cowardice; fear of angst; fear of freedom and responsibility;
the want for rule of law, as in heaven so also on earth... above, thus, below;
the want for stability, routine, the codification of morality ---
   the neglect of personal freedom, a virtue in the in the garden of doubt...
we can all for ourselves see the fire; the heat burns slowly our skin;
the smell of deadwood pyring and the smoke-pillars rising like riots;
           but whom understands its origin?
those whom do not understand the roots of the fire; its properties; the intensity of the flame,
will surely be devoured by it, and that is merely a matter of time...

the cross, the star, the crescent moon ---
  symbols of degradation and pennalism
  i say, burn them in holocaust fires!
  lit the spark, gather deadwood, control this natural furnace, for it will be yours;
  you will understand its origins, you will be aware of its power
  and you will hold the pitcher of water in your hand,
  the torch of fire in the other.

  take good advantage of authority --- surely they deserve just that;
  smite it with gullible language, the spellcraft of words and wisdom;
  deceive it; bring it unto the tribunals of its own darkness;
  take from it what you need and leave the rest like wildfire;
  only in the dust of its own dilapidation, will the authorities be revealed
  the shallowness, weakness and corruptibility
  of its own fundamental structure.

existential poem #29 - self-worship/self-hatred

astrologers proclaim the year of the child-rapist
and newborn baby orifices await ravaging;
such are the ways,
   and all this
   in the honor of the sacred ---
   for the holy cause
   --- the holy, holy cause ---
   of self-enlightenment;
 
dung takes shape
in the hands of the sculptor
and rotten wood
build the hut of the hermit;
ugliness comes in pairs, in twins,
to a self-obsessed mother
and a volatile father, crown-prince of abuse:
all people are given disgusting and offensive hands
in a game of cards that will absolutely rape the world ---
but I, I swim splendidly
in the beauties and riches of life,
like a happy, happy, happy clown-fish.

also,
I beat myself with iron rods of irony
and walk about freely, Maldoror-like
through the sarcasm-chasm
this world really is (to me).

the awakening
    of the spirit ---
    stuck
in the static between oceans
in the midst
of the nothingness
bordering the thresholds
of all vertiginious abysses
beyond the waters
over the edge --
demands sacrifice;
    boundary-shattering;
    perversive indulgement
    and everything else
    I have consciously and unconsciously left out
    in this text
    due to the harrowing fear
    of myself
    and my own sullen moral-ethic, literary,
    and self-destructive capabilities.

Dying breaths

https://soundcloud.com/theendcommune/sets/phantasmagore

töntig dikt

en mardröm av spindelnät trasslar
horisonten som ger upp
och dör martyrdöden;
tiotusen vattenfall
med slingor av svärta och manodepressivitet ---
strömmar dödligt virus

det är förvisso känt att små eldar växer
till brinnande skogar
men de vidrigaste illdåd motiveras ändå av kärlek.
hjärtat är en enorm kvarn
som bara mal och mal och mal
tills din personlighet blivit till fint mjöl.

en grotta av eld och sten
skyddar änglarna från haglet
som öser ner från himmelen ---
horseberoende apostlar suger kuk för pengar ---
jag såg en fitta sälja sin dotter
för en säck ris.

döda barn gråter
och fula människor får upprättelse,
naturkatastroferna avlöser varandra,
grotesk utveckling
av människans historia ---
tragikomisk grande finale, lol

poem "like sati widows"

when the fields are abundant with rye sad as children,
    and the crops sing like Sati widows
    the most depressive tune of all.
when the rotting forage of all the ages
  bear witness
    to the coming of the hoarfrost holocaust,
one shall reap --- maybe ----

   or not.

    burn all bridges behind you ---
       scorch the earth
       and your dying fields 
    with ...lightning
    ...and with pesticides;
strike the mills
    and the guilds of workers
    with the furor of a tyrants' hand
and let loose the livestock
   to graze, mate, and walk about freely
   in the shadowlands of the world
   amongst the werewolves, the frowned lepers,
   and the gloomy spirits of the woodlands ---
       sweeping eerily,
       ravenous, and as fierce as the love for death. 
  
the reaping
the threshing
and the winnowing
   of this vast soil --- call it the plateau of life ---
   will be useless
   in the absence of an absolutely godlike effort
and this insight alone
   begs the question of the worthiness of it all,
   and puts on trial
   the notion  
   of the 'intrinsic' honorability of existence
   we have been fed
   with the milk of a mothers' love.

    your soil is yours ---

the murder of oneself
is surely a way to harvest ---
the reaping
   of yet another human life

existential poem #7 "inanna in the flesh"

 can i
     become the one
     leaving behind
     a mother in the clutches of grief
     and the psychotic darkness of a sister
     in dire need of direction---
  can i
     become the myth
     grandmothers tell
     to children
     at bedtime

when the fear of life
    outspans
    the fear of dying
in terms of spiritual terror
    one can but choose :::
when life's terror
    outweighs
    death's terror
one can but choose
   what one wants:
   the cholera of death or a syphilis of life?
   ( --- remember: not choosing is always a choice in itself --- )

   --- appendix ---    

     my sister and my mother is holding me back
     together we create a fierce feminine trinity:
     the insane, the strong, and the wise.
  TOGETHER
  WE FORM
  INANNA
  IN THE FLESH

"come in, i heard a voice from inside"