shitty poem i found that i had forgotten about, spring 2017

SQUIRCLE

my dreams, fantasies
  are convex against the world
  as they breathe and pulsate
  in accordance with no treaty of peace;
my abilities and the love for life
  are concave against the world
  as they bulge and strain
  under the sheer weight of it all ---
 
my life is a fucking squircle, maaaan,
   not round enough to satisfy smoothly
   the mellower preferences of my aesthetic;
   not square enough to satisfy bluntly
   the harsher of my existential and spiritual aspects;
just like the 'squircle' is the portmanteau
   of circle and square
   my 'life' is likewise a portmanteau
   but of lie, and of rife;
   fitting as it is, given the plenitude of deception in my life,
   i wade on alongside the equator of doubts
   that runs around this superellipse, existence, curse of life...

new poem

A U G U R Y   O F   T H E 

G R E A T   E A G L E  

A T O P   T H E   T R E E  

the looming sky

above the modern world

tampered with the patience of wrong gods

and so became pregnant

with the storms and thunders

of the apocalypse,
and nowadays, the sky has fallen into itself

like a used-up cunt,
and therefrom this voided vagina

emerges

the hawk and the eagle

t r i u m p h a n t l y
on the branches and the crowns of the oak and the ash,

kinglike

between the great silver mountains

beaming
with the crystal plumage

of immortality ―

look up

behold

the golem

of the empyrean

destroying the horizon

with its stone sword of air ―

soar over these red clouds, thunderbirds and black vultures,

carve the air with your wings into the ephemeral idol,

the warrior of love and ether

which thruts its javelin

and throws its shuriken of silent death

into the stratosphere;

archetype

sky-bird
winged usurpator of the throne of the earth;
your talons will shine with the amber of Europa

and your beaks shall squawk as an echo at the very end of days:
praise be to you, Veðrfölnir;
cast your gaze on the dark of the world
so that we may understand it,
and praise be to you, Eagle atop the oak of worlds ―
flap your wings mightily
so that we may steer our ships to discoveries 

         (for we are fucking lost out here!!!!!);

our auspices fall to the ground
with laughter in joy and in lucksome foreboding,

wondered by the glorious apparition,
revealed like a flash on the horizon,

like a revelation on the road to Damascus,

like a blaze of poignant hope

in the prophetics of a future long foredoomed:
yes, surely the dearth and the calamity may come,
and surely the hails and ground-fires will again scourge our lands,
but the chief haruspex will slit the sheep of sacrifice

with the ritual dagger,
and he will point not to the ominous ― but elseward:

yes, buzzard and falcon, with your feathers and your exquisite vision,
soar above the mountains; hiss like the boreal wind ―
for between every flap of your elysian wings
occurs an eternity but in a second,
and between every stimulus
and every reaction
there is an endless ocean of choice:

i speak my words

but between them

there is a steppe-waste
which is traversed
by the mounted archers
whose hooves float above the ground
and whose arrows burrow the flesh of phenomena;
the mounted archers gallop from corner to farthest corner again
with their sacred epistles and correspondences,
noising their evangels of freedom
to all the ones in shipwreck and to all the sons of exile;

shadowed by the span of the albatross,

the mighty ziz-bird outshadowing the sun,
they ride with their bows like the huns rode

and the holy scythian war swords

are raised above their heads

in an ecstatic worship of war:

but heed lest you forget:
their triumphs and festivites,
but a homage,
and a lamb of sacrifice...
to the great Eagle...

atop the tree...

hearken

embrace

these days of inspiration;

appreciate

these basins of rough-terrained hope;

fear not

these nights of destitution,

and welcome

the screeches and hisses of the dark.

unedited scrap words

The ground has become much colder, and I can not remember how I got here exactly. I have been lost like in the nights of alimemazine; my upper body is contorted in a very intense foetal position, though my lower body is outstretched in a seemingly relaxed position; my eyes open slowly in dizziness and slight fatigue; I have fallen asleep in the very middle of a natural pavilion of figs: my dream still rings echoingly in my mind, wherein I found myself to be the member of an audience in a small, ancient amphiteatre dilapidated into centurial ruination; archaic and eroded by the sands of time and by the scythe-winds of history, the architecture seemed abandoned for hundreds of years; the brickwork was obsolete and primitive and the seats of the small arena did no favor to its visitors; in the center of the small-scale colloseum there were two tigers fighting ferociously against each-other, each tethered by one strong man on each side of the arena

late night attempts at poetry and theology

yes, I say: for the fearful and the passionately destitute, the silence of god is horror but for the courageous and the passionately fervent, no clouding on the sky could possibly block out the light of the sun for more than a passing episode of foredooming nigrescence - naive or not? You tell me... but it has been said, and thought: the knight of faith can see no stormy weather and no bittered, grey horizon outdimming the light of Tabor perenially, for the light shines through even the iron of suicide; even the walls of the monolith of nihilism, said to be constituent of metre-thick stone as to keep the promises of meaning firmly out, is radiant with the resplendent and merciful light emitting from that mountain, the holy mountain of the transfiguration... only solace-preachers and apostles of dishonesty would scare themselves over the absence of the divine because they extrapolate their own impuissance and failure onto it, and they drag their own anxieties, misconceptions, shames and self-hatreds like a mask of hot wax over the invisible face of darkness they can not at all grasp with their senses, but blindly assume is there... not only do these fools misinterpret and wrongly equate the phenomena of the divine with the aesthetic representation of it; their synods, their patriarchs, their congregations passively and actively not even disregard the matter, but encourage it! As the wax have dried onto the face, decades have passed like moments, and all the preachers of solace, spiritual servitude and self-denial have withered to corpses more of dust and bone than of pale and black flesh; the apostles of the religious oedipal complex; of the endless contentment in the humility of god; of the all-forgiving penitence in Christ, have successively died with the faces molten in horror as the features of the holy slowly grew outward and outlined under the wax mask the unexplainable horror evolving out of the thick nothing which preceded this holy and terrifying miraculous aestheticization of a most potent and obliterating aspect of the divine...

excerpt from the long one

for Barlaam, hesychasm was a spastic irregularity in the corpus of christian dogma, but little did he understand, that every cell of every body is renewing itself with the turn of the micro-second in order to prosper into future: to not regenerate cells is to corporeally decompose... yes, I say: for the fearful and the passionately destitute, the silence of god is horror but for the courageous and the passionately fervent, no clouding on the sky could block out the light of the sun for more than a passing episode of foredooming nigrescence; the knight of faith can see no stormy weather and no bittered, grey horizon outdimming the light of Tabor perenially; only solace-preachers and apostles of dishonesty would scare themselves over the absence of the divine because they extrapolate their own impuissance onto it, dragging their own anxieties and self-hatreds like a mask over the face of darkness they can not even grasp afore their eyes, but merely assume is there...

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:

proliferating 
existential 
melanoma 
under the 
raving nihil sun

...the Zorza had rebelled against order; they grew up with fan-posters of rock-stars such as Eve, Lilith, Lalleshwari, Enheduanna, Mother Lü, and Goddess Eris in their teenage bedrooms...

10 albums for a remote island

Vehemence - Assiege (2014)
Burzum - Filosofem (1996)
Lana Del Rey - Born to Die (2012)
Katharsis - VvorldVvithoutEnd (2006)
Anomie - Anomie (1997)
Duszę Wypuścił - Przekrólewszczenie (2011)
Eucharist - A Velvet Creation (1993)
Forest - Заревом над прахом (1997)
Sylvester Anfang II - s/t (2009)
Jedi Mind Tricks - The Psycho-Social (1997)
(+ compilation of Ros Sereysothea tracks!!!!!!!!)

give me water, lyrica and some bananas and i will survive to the end of the world

no, Buyan was not for us; we had no place in paradise because we were no worshippers of light; of blissful ignorance; of idealism and of happiness... hearken: we are the Zorza, and we possess the power to unleash the wolf upon you all, ever since we acquired the keys from the last king of Uruk at the crossroads between the steppe-wastes and the Cedar Forest; thenceforth we contemplated with ardency our plannings for the future, for we held the golden staff of terrorism; you should be wise in fucking with us; nowadays, there is still a flame in our hearts, and our blood of vengeance is boiling hot; we want to lay waste to Buryan; our dreams circle like preying animals around the thought of it... our glorias shine with the ecstasy of destroying something beautiful; wherever we look --- holocaust-spires, death-obelisks, pylons of destruction: yes, consider this the declaration of war: we shall carry out a co-ordinated and well-orchestrated terrorism campagin on the island of our upbringing, Buryan: we hate it and we want to level it with the ground: we admit this and we will not change our minds.

from 'dödens svarta kärlek'

The air is crisp. Suddenly, one of the girls slice, as with a knife, the air with her voice and utters aloud, as if the announcement of a vicar from the embellished pulpit:

“we are the two Auroras and the two Zorza; we are the ones who guard the winged doomsday hound in its leashes and tethers lest it break its coffles in the abysmal tantrums, and wreak loose the apocalypse upon the earth: we shall not let that happen for we are the goddesses which surveil the Polaris star, astral prison of Simargl, gluttonous beast; roaring mouth of demon-spirits with a mane of burning reed, the saw-toothed hell-lion of the abyss; we are the Zorza, or Zorya, the heavenly daughters of Dadžbóg, Solar King: we come from Buyan, the island beyond the threshold, where all weathers create themselves and where the vortexes of world has its epicentres; we are from Buyan, the origin-abyss of all schisms; Buyan is the mysterious place beyond the clouds; shape-shifter of the ocean wastes: Buyan disappears and appears with the movements of the tides; with the moon it breathes; with the sun it awakes... Buyan is the mystical oak-tree in the middle of the walled garden; the one which keeps everything inside, in, and everything outside, out. All waters of the lands are tributary to the root-system of this magnificent oak; for they run even 'neath the oceans; and in a hundred days journey in every direction. Therefrom we originate, with pride and with eloquence, but therein we did not choose to stay: our passions possessed us furthermore the bounds of old Buyan...”

at least i can still write

Above an olden woodpath, the abandoned trail of ancestral foresters, oaken twigs have arrenged themselves into something beautiful, and it is beneath this sinuous beauty I awake. The night has been rough on me, I can feel it with every move my limbs make and with every twist and turn in the ligaments of my flesh; I have rested awkwardly in the position of a beggar or a leper outcast; rough stones have been my pillow and the whorled branches of the mighty spruce have been the canopy; as the lids separate painfully from the dryness of my swollen eye-balls, I hear muffled sounds of my cohorts awakening into the sun-bright dawning; I can hear their arms stretch awide, upward, with the cracking sound of loins and tendons; I hear cute grunts echoing the deepest offing of sleep and the long, wide-mouthed yawns drag out slowly like the fishers' net; soon it will catch words in its meshes, but until then, I will leave her to the inconveniences, privacies and intimacies of the morning ritual... I would not want to disturb, nor can I impose without a mortal transgression of dignity; the girls may talk when words flow from the source unhinged, and meanwhile, I shall not like the mosquito of the  summer night attack retardedly; I wait until my suckage can commence with consent --- but let us not fool ourselves; I need the answers like mosquitoes need their blood... Meanwhile, I can anchor safely my questions at the docks; there they can boil and bask in the sun for a while. We have the Sisyphean eternities to ponder afore us, for we shall never die; time is of no importance. It is alright, I shall ask my questions, a moment shall present itself, but until then, I shall grant them space. I hate the feeling of becoming the subject of annoyance... It diminshes my courage and crooks my posture vehemently; No, I begin to gather the faculties: I look to the woman sleeping to my left; I look to the woman sleeping to my right: still, I feel at home --- they will answer, but I should not be so eager and restless ...

excerpt from the longer one

I am a man of shroud and I wear my trinkets of alienation, not out of pride but out of necessity. I preach never, though I spread the bacteria of existentialism consciously (which is, by the way, meaning to say: you can never outspan your own freedom, not even in death, for suicide is not only a virtue of self-dependence but it is the crown-jewel of it all; the ultimate choice); this is my sole contribution to the schemata of civilizatory development; otherwise, I wish not to speak to you, nor of you. You disturb frequencies you do not even understand nor recognize. Adieu, i will delay you no longer; it is not of my aspiration to do so. Let me not inspire in you any act of piety, of courtesy, of common manners or anything else of the sort; save me this, and I shall accumulate courage; leave decency at the door, and I shall shake your hand; I do not want to be the influence of virtuous transience; this is no sermon; no preaching; no passionate allocutions from the woodcut pulpits; no speech of inspiration... nor do I intend to stir the glorious upsruge of transformative motivations in any of you; I scream only of individuality. That, and the destruction of society. That is my dogma, which disarms and dismantles all other dogma, itself included...

...As we know, astrologers already have proclaimed the year of the child-rapist and villagers are ordered at the mercy of the pillaxe to make babies out of love and then kill them out of sarcasm...

what you sow, shall you thence reap: as you build a world of gutters, the content of gutters shall flood your future: aqueducts overflow, the dam will not hold.