I swallow my pride 

like i swallow my drugs; 

fast, and without cogitation...

enter colloseum of nihilism,

eagle warriors, egyptian horse chariots;

barbarians of the north, graceful lions and their bones of christians;

thraks, bulgars, teutons, goths, moors;

slaves, thralls, mad ones, sick ones; limp ones; blind ones;

gudit, ethiopian iconoclast queen,

itzpapalotl the fearsome skeleton woman,

lalleshwari the scribe at the brink of the earth

and the onna-bugeisha, with her seven blades and javelins;

simple peasants, wooden swords, swollen eyes,

godlike warriors on the trail of the jaguar ---

ENDLESS NEGATIVE THEOLOGY

the human experience, toilsome apophatic theology;

god is not...

god is not...

god is not...

ad infinitum.

we are lost in everything

that is transcendental reality;

we carve an idol out of it, and we call it god,

and salvation is where our passions point,

into the badlands, where all thesean threads vanish in the dark.

we are self-affirming creatures, weak with natural instinct

and infused with all the calibers of the animal:

given these circumstances

we like to think of ourselves as in control,

and we aspire the mythical dominance hierarchy, but

we do not exactly choose our passions, do we? ---

thus god is not subject to our canes' beating;

god is no dog cowering and cringing as we scream at it;

we are no masters in the house of worship,

but humble, lost kittens at best:

often it seems, passions even choose us,

and we do not even understand when and why it happens:

given their numinous power of influence,

one drops to ones' knees, and we worship them; they are all so important;

they direct you, and you follow them like the fish for bait ---

for what else could one do?

not worshipping your passions is the same thing

as turning your back against god, the hidden one,

and I do not even know if that is possible, or if it becomes

a contradiction of fundamental terms.

the anti-theists swing about

the intellect as a sword,

and like children

they dismiss what they do not understand,

they stress the believer into believing in not to believe,

a model of pedagogy failing with the every second it is utilized---

belief always precedes the acceptance of fact ---

before you can conceive the algorithm, you need to believe its numbers;

before you can feel god, you need to believe its transcendence;

the belief in transcendence is to religion

what the belief in numbers is to mathematics...

god is not just what we cherish the most --- a common misconception ---

god is not merely what you like to do, or what you dream of;

god is uncomfortable truth; intrusive truth; offensive truth;

if you want to be safe --- do not walk the path of the religious:

god has no person; no ego; no will;

to believe in any of it

is to hold, quite frankly, a retarded conception of the divine ---

that is what I choose to believe

(i can not know for sure but I exercise faith);

god does not --- can not, in paradox --- care about your human problems

and god is not to be conversed with;

rather ---

god is everything we do not know about the world;

the never-ending apophatic existentialism:

god is the physically unattainable; the incomprehensible;

the noumenon-dimension and all the knowable and unknowable unknown:

god is what the palamites sought in prayer

and what scared the shit out of barlaam of seminara;

laugh it away with mockery all you want ---

surely the tactic of a mole rat, fitting of you:

but remember this --- we are not

talking about some silly man on the clouds here,

but we talk of your future and your past; your essential identity;

your potential for happiness and your deepest shames and secrets;

the fundamental constituents of your personal life experience,

and your never-emptying potential of rape; murder; extinction...

but god is so much more than the dumping-site of your deep-psyche garbage;

it is transcendence; ecstasy; numinosity; magic;

it is love; murder; passion and mysticism;

god is ugliness; the absurd; the angst and the alienation

and whatever else captures your attention --- that is god.

god is the via negativa of everyday life;

god is god of the gaps,

as far as i am concerned, that is the very definition of it all ---

the endless negative theology;

kierkegaard was right ---

the essence of god is the unprovability of god.

that is the fucking point, duh.

this poem consists of half zolpidem

and half language.

i find myself in a mexican stand-off

between me, morality and society;

i stuck my fingers into the anus of existence

and now they stink of the refuse of freedom...

you take for granted that ''the universe'' wants good for you --- bad move.

you like to believe that something, somewhere, somehow

has got your back in the troublesome times of your life,

an existential stockholm syndrome:

you start to identify with that which rules you

and you rationalize through the filter of solace

the motif behind that which rules you

into being benevolent for you, or luckysome, and powerfully meaningful:

excerpt, "angels of resentment"

...as a pathetic measure of jealousy and revenge

they abuse their heavenly powers

and bend and twist them

to make them fit the cages of morale

they have built from the spines

of all the needless human beings

that disappointed them;

the imps and the trolls bring it in with their apple-carts

all the way from the hills of crucifixion

and from the chambers of torment in the north

and from the gallows on the hillocks to the south,

where all the people die

the useless, endless death ---

for people who care; PC lobby facebook shut our page down due to some kind of terror endorsement (false) and sexual content claims. way to go, great stuff. fuck you all; life is not about safe-spaces; life is about confronting the dragon every god damn day and facebook and similar platforms should mirror that. but whatever. we still do what we do at bandcamp and blogspot. we can't bother with the facebook and tumblr shit anymore. fucking bitchz.

july 2: death is near and love kills without mercy

i know neither well these fresh waters nor this dew of clouds, though beautiful as they all are. the umbelliferous flower shakes and twists afore me, dancing almost humanlike... which is alluring... i can feel the mushroom take hostage my senses. the medusae sing the sorrow of ancient pylons, which, by the way, reach heaven; these girls built what babylonians could not muster, and now they converse with the divine.

first childish attempt at a polish poem

     "Noc egzystencjalna, świt samobójstwa"

miłość z pewnością uwolni cię, to prawda!
      ale jeśli nie nienawidzisz,
      nigdy nie będziesz miał najmniejszego pojęcia, co
      zostaliście uwolnieni.
  ognisty miłość, ekstatyczny szewska pasja,
      i subiektywny trwający całe życie logoterapia
      jeżeli jest prawdziwa, wytrzyma każdą
      egzystencjalny gorączka i mdłości.

unedited draft 30 min sexiness

my knife has been kept sharpened at all times, and my sheath is crafted with a strong leather, sewn with robust threads; my knife has not been a tool of murder --- situations have rarely digressed to such perilous violence ---, nor has it been in its primary functions a tool of hunting; flaying; butchering: i lack the skills, and besides, i am starting to fear i am not capable of killing something that lives outside of slowly killing myself, spoiled with riches and conveniences as i have become softly over the lapse of years; more so my knife has been one of self-harm; my camping-fire have rarely seen the meat of a killed animal --- mostly i have gathered my foods from the ground and from the bush; out of cowardice on one hand, out of laziness on another: no, i am no killer, not yet, but i am one who cuts; there is where my experience nests; how many times have i not armoured the coward gladiator in me the spatha of burning passions, the sword that cuts right through the bloodlines and memories of all passed things, before entering the jubilant colloseum of my body; arena of human flesh? have i not still, puny and pathetic as my trembling cuts have often been, revelled in the sense of rebellion with my drug-fiery eyes fixed on the small gutters the blade leaves in its wake, flooding with the brightest blood, glowing with a spiteful requital of renunciation; i have held the dagger firmly and its numinous qualities have entranced me manyfold; i have meditated deeply on necro-phenomenology, and how all flesh is so eager to come apart like the red sea at the command of the prophet... it has invited me to consult with the all reveries of the graveyard and it has battered perspectives into my frontal lobe, whipping about like hell-storms; i have been listening to the oracles, for whom i came in distress, heeding the intuition i had of future being comforting and rewarding --- wrong. the foretellers have been mean and cruel and they have lectured me harshly; they have been scathing me like the Lord scathed Cain and they have taught me the classes in the ethos of war and love: i have been brought afore the Great Elk, Deathly Scholar, for he is all-powerful, and he has spoken to me; i have been caught in the rancidity of his breath, for which i have genuflected: he has spoken and I have written down. So have I learned a very complicated lesson of life, and so have i understood the golden rule amongst a hundred others... that suicidal ideation is a tool less of practical self-death than it is one of affirming absolute freedom...

https://vimeo.com/157916578

this one just deserves to be emphasized

I do not want to be where I am, when I turn the world away from me.
And fold myself, into myself.

Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?
Where is it I go to, when I am not here with you?

I've been here all along. So where did I go to? Did here go too?

She was easy.

He was hard,
stiff and resentful.

She was easy

He was hard,
bitter and poison.

She is here to eat your excrement.
And to present
the anal birth
of a world less decadent: