WNL 3

I am not sure how far I am going to push things, but atleast I project that some passages of morally disgusting humiliation and malevolence parallelled only by the human history will come about, as we move through and further probe this text (a text that should probably just be burned, in accord, really, with all cosmic and evolutionary sense – for I am a true enemy and a poisoner of mankind; a corruptor, and I am possessed by imps and devils and they tear me to bits and pieces). Angst, malevolence, beauty, love, God: I aim to capture the essence of its phenomena to the best of my writing abilities. I challenge myself on this task, I break myself asunder bit by bit in pursuit of its completion; I lower my fangs of vampirism into the blotted neck of my own empathies and I tear my flesh, break my skin; I vandalize my own barricades of morality... I aim to leave few stones unturned and I shall attack myself where I know it hurts the most, because I am a terrorist of literature and of art – not a creator, purveyor, or maintainer of it. I am an enthusiast of it, not a philanthropist of it.

WNL 2

This world, this book, this responsibility serves no higher purpose for the betterment of the world as a whole, no – to hell with all that! I am not here for activism nor for some charitable cause; I do not want to save the world and I am not here to make some kind of favor or concession to anyone but myself. From the perspective of this book I am willing to say: fuck the world. Fuck this world, fuck your world. The fact of the matter is that it serves my world and it serves my world only… and it does so with untiring diligence and fervor! I am the author of my own world, and this book is a sum distillation of it. Am I hyperbolic? Well, what do you think of this statement: this book will change the life of every one willing to read it, and that is to say: if you are not changed from reading it, you do not understand it, and you are too stupid to process or ponder its viscera... or, on the other hand, perhaps you are just pointlessly uninterested by the contents of these pages of lugubrium (I am not sure any person of intellectual stature could see this book as unintereseting, nor could I imagine any serious psychologist or psychiatrist not taking interest in the captivating case of its author, but I suppose there are people for everything)...

WNL 1

"And it is precisely for reasons of this boundless love that I choose to ascribe to her name and honor this brutal piece of attacking literature! Because just like her, this book is a long and winding road, and it has meandered through many battle-fields, over dark and cold taigas of sullen silence and over the corpses of both lovers and enemies... and moreover, this book is my spiritual blood and it has become the standard of quality and authenticity by which I measure all my other works, be them musical, aesthetic or literary..."

POEM TO ÆTHELFLÆD (870 - 917)

Æthelflæd, your breasts are mountains!
the spirit of resistance in you,
    how it may never rest, or withdraw, or cease to hope the good hope!
 hurry, you matrix of resilience, the patroness of the already dead!
     take up your sword, that which kills the norsemen...
hungry storms yawn on the horizon;
the ocean has teeth of steel and vengeance...
Æthelflæd: kiss our swords, for we are weary;
the waves are short and vomitous this dusk,
how they wage a war on the mudrock and the moonstone of our shores;
you, saint, foresee the dark night:
shall the dragons of the north arrive from the heathenlands,
or may we sleep a single hour?
tell us to prepare and we shall die for you.

O Warrioress Queen Æthelflæd,
you are all that you never wanted to be,
yet you are all that you ever could be...
come, you: feel beneath your skin the uprush of wilder, jubilant energies;
shoot the religious phenethylline into your veins;
burst out with war, lead the way, tonight they come:
 we can see it in your eyes! tonight, war. And love. For you. 

the most depressive shit i have ever read /// a new zolpie

two disgusting eggs hatch with the cracking sound

of a beggars' lips separating

after a sleep of heroin

out of the eggs crawl his past

from one of the eggs his daughter emerges

but as a filthy insect with long wings and antennas

and she says: fuck you daddy

fuck you for destroying both me and my life

and from the other egg his old wife hatches

and she looks like a scarab or some king of dung bettle

and she tells him how much she wants him dead

for all the suffering he has inflicted on them

the beggar reaches for the heroin

and he is crying like a fucking girl

i did my best i did my best

and his broken heart sings on the very final note

and the endless cycle starts again

shattered hearts and the mist of drugs

took this beggar home to God