The Anthropophagy-Rites
         of the Yamomami

The Yamomami tribe is indigenous to Venezuela and Brazil, and practices the odd funerary custom of ingesting the ashes of their dead in order to save their souls. It is prohibited to keep any part of the deceased person, and the body is cremated immediately. The ashes are then consumed. Strength, prosperity and bravery will then follow the spirit of the dead through the ordeals of the ever after.

The Ordeal of Leonid Rogozov

In 1960-1961, Leonid Rogozov was the only licensed doctor present on a Soviet Antarctic expedition. While stationed at the Novolazarevskaya Station, he developed appendicitis (inflammation of the appendix). The condition is a medical emergency and demands immediate attention. Trapped inside the station due to extremely hostile weather, with violent blizzards allowing no planes to either land or lift off, Rogozov had to perform the necessary appendectomy surgery on himself. The symptoms retreated and he later returned to his medical duty after 2 weeks.

 One of Beograd’s Many Angels

In the infamous Rhythm 0 piece, she delved deeper into the uncharted territory between audience and performer, resulting in arguably her most emotionally demanding but also best-known performance. She assigned to herself a passive role, with the public reaction to it being the artwork in itself. She placed a totality of 72 different objects on a table afore her: objects of potential pleasure; of potential harm; of potential murder. She then informed the people that for 6 full hours she would remain passive and indifferent to whatever the audience would do to her. The objects included a rose, a feather, honey, a whip, scissors, scalpels and even a gun loaded with one bullet. Initially, the audience reacted with caution, but as time went on, and the performer’s attitude remained passive and indifferent, people began to act as they pleased upon her body. She later commented:  
“What I learned was that… if you leave it up to the audience, they can kill you. I felt really violated: they cut up my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the audience. Everyone ran away, to escape an actual confrontation.”'

           That was, in itself, the artwork.

 The Secrets of the Himalayas

Lake Roopkund is located in the northern Indian state of Uttarakhand. Situated in the Himalayas at an altitude of about 5,000 meters (16,500 ft), it is a rather obscure, invisible, shallow (only 2 meters deep) and small lake in the middle of wilderness, except for one thing: hundreds of human skeletons have been recovered from it. No hypothesis has been scientifically supported, although there are numerous available, ranging from paranormal/anomalous ones to more rational-materialist ones. The remains date back to the 9th century according to scientific examination.

I cut the grains in half for all the children to eat... but I place the fire of mortality therein so as to rouse the beasts within them!

 The tongue of Zorza, the language isolate immemorial... and it is a weird but pretty language, obscure to me until the moment I fully understood it with the blink of a tiger’s eye: it is full of swaying diphthongs and triphthongs that flow about slowly and create ligament and tendon to long words ripe with many different meanings at once. It has a hissing, mysterious phonologic aura to it; vibrant and free-flowing... the speculations of the layman linguist such as myself would draw to the consonant-heavy harsh-soundingness of the Slavic tongues, particularly perhaps the western ones. It is reminiscent to some degree to old proto-Polish, although it is way denser with vowels, so it could not be that. As I mentioned, the triphthongal words are rather a standard variety than a hidden curious oddity – it is in this regard completely different from, say, Polish, or even Belarusian which I also considered… yet it definitely sounds Slavic. But it is different in some fundamental elements from everything I have heard before – the strange, random and loose syntax with which they construe their sentences was alien to me for the longest time, and the melodies and intonations they interweave into their speech are underpinned with a lot of emotion; it is almost as if emotion is a constitutional part of the language itself

Nowadays, we never settle for more than a night at the time. We do not say much at all; they have made it very clear to me that, respectfully, of course, that, to them, constant talking is not necessarily to be equated with valuable communication. They are not big talkers. Suits me fine, though it makes me nervous and self-aware, I can admit. They are of Zoryan blood and they have told me about the customs and the ways of their homeland, of their culture. The Zoryans use words as a means of intimacy. Only gutterfolk hug strangers with words, they say. Communication is very important to them, and to me as well, so we unite, dance around that little fire together. And it feels fine in my heart.  Every time they talk to me, I light up. It feels an honor now. A fine Zoryan woman will not spoil any man with many words at all, lest she fancies, respects him deeply. Cold, calculated pleasantries are reserved for folk they are estranged to. They would rather not waste a single beautiful word on an ugly person - and that is their way of business. I dare anyone to change their ways, or to propose another approach to them! Prepare to get struck by deadly lightning... she will be a Dracul to the Turks to those people, punishing them with joy... 

December 11, 2012

05:58

My cellphone shows 05:58. I just awoke. I had a very disturbing dream experience. It vanishes with every moment from my memory so I have decided to swiftly write it down to the best of my capability. This is by far, so far, the strangest and the most nightmarish experience I have had; I still shiver, my spine is freezing, and there is an aura of foreboding in the air around me, it feels. A feeling that something is not entirely right still; a nightmarish premonition almost. But it fades more and more with every second now.

The whole thing started with me taking multiple 25 mg pills of American over-the-counter sleep aid medication with the dissociative and highly psychoactive compound diphenhydramine as its active substance. In this case, “multiple pills” means that I took as many pills you need in order to feel the dissociative and hallucinogenic properties of the drug. Around midnight I feel extremely tired and a bit disturbed, so I decide to go to my bed. When in bed, I yet cannot sleep but I start to ruminate many things, and I twist and turn there in bed until I, after all, pretty swiftly falls silent, still and asleep. I am not sure about what the clock says when I finally fell asleep, but I remember I checked my cellphone a final time just before 1 o’clock.

In any case, when I fall asleep, something strange starts to happen. I have a dream – a nightmarish one. I stand in the middle of some sort of derelict playground. Obviously children’s playthings are here, but they are rusty and they look eerie for some specific reason I though can not put to words. Beyond the playground, maybe a hundred meters behind it, there is a farm. A family lives there. It is a troubled family; a father, a mother, some children and a giant, scary dog. Both parents are morbidly obese to the point of being disgusting. What is disturbingly eerie about this dream is that it proceeds in some kind of slow-motion; I can not move properly, or rather, every movement takes so much longer. I can not run; only walk very slowly. I must drag myself along, and to speak, and to use my tongue as a carrier for words, that is a very troublesome and hard thing to do. For some reason, the tongue sticks in ones throat; the words are formulated but when they slip out, they turn to indecipherable vociferations of sheer nonsense. And I remember that this horrible family had me in custody somehow; they, in some sense, were my superiors or even my own mother and father!

The family carried with them a foul atmosphere. There was a kind of loathsomeness about them; some oozing evil around them like clouds of flies buzzing; some fog, some dense spiritual attachment to them I did not at all like. It felt like they plotted my misery, conspired against me and wanted bad things to happen to me – especially the father. What a vile atrocity of a man he was. Surely he scared me profoundly, and his thick, fat body repulsed me to the core of my belly. And the dream seems to play out over multiple days. The time seems very drawn out and it feels, when I wake, as if I have been gone a long time. And fucking hell, just writing this now, as I just had this experience, is disturbing me. My spine trembles and the thought of what happened and I feel it still in my chest and in my head as I write this.

In any way – one day in the dream, I found myself walking down to the beach; the father had apparently decided we should. Because I am extremely uncomfortable in his presence I decide to walk ahead; I pick up my tempo and soon I am some meters ahead of him, even though everything runs so slowly. Time itself has stuck in thick honey! I hear his footsteps, though, come closer, and his ugly voice also, calling my name. I try to run as much as I possibly can, but it is rather impossible. Everything is sort of stuck in a great morass or some mud-flood or a puddle of viscous syrup and resin! When we have finally reached the beach he starts talking to me. In some diabolical, nightmarish turn of events he starts fellating himself, still with his massively fat body. He walks down to the ocean, while treating his own genitalia with something that looked like a very passionate act of fellatio. He falls on his back to the water, floats away while still sucking his own penis in an extremely grotesque and horrifying way I can not at all put to words. It is an experience no one will understand if not phenomenologically having been there. I was so afraid and so disrelished by the whole scene; my mind was full of distaste and strongest aversion for the way this father behaved, and how it all looked. It was a manifestation, a display of truly nightmarish aesthetics. I decide to flee. I start running the very fastest I can – I just want to leave, leave, leave. I seem to awake from the dream as I run from the scene at the beach.

Now the second phase of the experience starts, and I soon understand, that the first part was merely a precursor to the real terror. Very weird things start happening. I shiver at the merest thought of it. I wake up! I look at my alarm-clock: 06:09, it shows. I am still very scared. Something is wrong about it all.

I can hear my mother’s voice on the other side my bedroom door. What is she doing up? I try to look at the time but for some paranormal reason I cannot understand, I can’t muster to move. A feeling of panic beckons. I do not know the time but it feels so very strange that she would be awake at this hour; outside there is darkness and I do not think the world has woken up yet. But I am very confused – I simply do not know. It scares me, not knowing. I start reminiscing my dream and what I have been through over the last couple of hours, and I feel a sense of alarm, quite direly, but I cannot phenomenologically locate my anxieties. It is just wrong, this whole lot! I feel it in my bones and in my skin that I am still stuck in some dream-state or something else of that sort. Yet I am in my bed, in my room. And I can hear my mother outside my bedroom door. I cannot control my limbs the way a functioning human being should be able to. They are foggy somehow, and gelatinous, and stuck in some dreary dimension with different rules for time and space – that’s how it feels like. This is a frightening trepidation I feel, and I start worrying I have ultimately turned psychotic – possibly from the cocktail of cannabis and diphenhydramine (“sleep aid”) I have been utilizing with some regularity. Somehow, I rise from my bed and I go to the kitchen, where seemingly my mother is. I start talking to her, but she is there and not there at the same time. It is one of those dream things that are, almost by definition, inexplicable; unexplainable. What I feel right away is a quite ominous feeling from her, and I have always attached warm and kind features to her; this aura she was giving off was something entirely new for her. Everything happens very weirdly and I struggle to maintain some fragmentary understanding of my memories from this phase of the experience. It is hard, though, and most recollections fade away; I cannot remember whether I felt it was my mom there in the kitchen, or if it was something entirely other, but what I strongly realized was my ever presence in the dream-state and not in the “real world”. The slow-motion everything moved in was a harrowing thing for it reminded me of this prison and it reminded me altogether more that I have no clue how to exit it! I realize strongly that I have not woken up yet. I am stuck in the limbo, in dream purgatory. I think I walk around a bit in our apartment, and I am scared. I remember that, the darker a room got, to the larger extent I had trouble separating what I felt as “reality” from what I felt as “dream” or even “wrong”. For example, when I gazed into the living room, I found myself almost falling asleep standing; the darkness of that room almost seduced me back to sleep. How many days I have spent in that living room! But this night, and in this state, it was not our living room. It was a portal to something I could not understand at all, not even in the slightest. What is interesting is that I have no idea if I am really walking around in our apartment at this point, or if everything actually happens in my head. The thoughts of psychosis are growing strong, the worries are burrowing like worms into my head.

Suddenly I awake in cold sweat, scared out of my heart, slowly realizing I can move ordinarily. Everything feels again like “life” and I succumb to a feeling of great, great relief. I start to smile and even to laugh at the sheer absurdity of what I have been through.

I slowly realize that this whole ordeal I have experienced as a nightmare playing itself out over 4, 5, 6 days and nights, happened in my head somewhere between ca 01:00 and ca 05:50.

 

October 11, 2012.

08:22

I live together with three women.

Two of them seem treacherous and mendacious, but the third has a warmth about her.

We are in my father’s apartment in Luthagen.

All of a sudden, Malin and my father is present in the room.

I ask Malin if she will join me on the bus to Vänge.

She says no.

My father remains silent.

The three women apparently admire me. That is the feeling I get.

They look at me dearly now, but I am very skeptical about this.

I am on the lookout.

All of a sudden, I behead one of the two untruthful sisters, and I put her head on the ceiling fan.

She betrayed me!

The other one wants to kill me for my money.

She shoots me in the back with a shotgun rifle three times on an open, calm summer field.

The grass turns red slowly, from the blood.

I make a run towards her and manages to attack her, biting into her neck with sharp fangs, and I eat her trachea, which slowly kills her.

There are amazing amounts of blood before me. As she slowly dies, I die too. Because I have flesh wounds in my back, from the shotgun.

A mere meters away from the third woman, I die.

She always wanted what is best for me but as I die, she is silent and seemingly apathetic. I think she is in shock. But she always wanted what’s best.

 

an old, unreleased (discarded) SLUTET interview from last summer (2020)

1- What is the End Commune?

 
"Good question; no one really knows or can put their finger on it. At its most abstract, it is a loosely tied art collective type operation, and at its most concrete, it is a few individuals writing, painting, making art, thinking about the mysteries of the human and of God and the world, and - of course - creating music. Most of all, and on a personal note, The End Commune is a kind of philosophical and artistic "universe" wherein i can do whatever seems appropriate in accord with my artistic and religious self-becoming. I have hoped The End Commune will be, in the future, somehow engaged in or affiliated with some kind of militancy or terrorism, but perhaps that is just an idealistic teenage dream of mine I should let go – and I have. Luckily, I am not 22 anymore. In any case, my ambition with The End Commune is to expand it and make a completely self-reliable record label out of it. Potentially also some kind of book publishing thing. We will see. As for now, all it is, is some weirdos – great friends and existential allies – doing music. It does not have to be any more pretentious than that.

Nej: It is a common expression of a several people that attempt to claim intimacy to individuality, how paradoxical that may seem. No one really knows. Anyone who claims to, doesn't. It is the mutual understanding that chaos reigns and also order rules supreme. Names, names, names. It is communion that reminds me of my isolation. It is fuckyou fuckme holy heresy.  It is the social security of the declaration of war. It makes nonsense, if that makes sense. It is a group of people with a tattoo that means a group of people with a tattoo. Regret and sorrow and pride and whatever may come tomorrow it is THE END COMMUNE.

Malkus 9: since I joined the end commune my relationship to it has changed with me. So to say that it is one particular thing is impossible, but looking back, knowing what I know now it has been continuously learning from mistakes. The End Commune is both the mistakes and the learning.

2- What is the relation between Slutet and End Commune? Can you give a brief history of Slutet?

Shabrang Behzad: Slutet is just the primary musical project of the End Commune. It is its greatest, and, thus far, most important and also most appreciated work of art. The "flagship", if you will. The End Commune and Slutet should not be understood as inseparable entities; Slutet can be a cool rock band and nothing else should that be the way you wish to view things. In any case, Slutet was formed in the summer of 2013 after having been conceptualized and dreamt about from around 2010 or so. We started rehearsing in September of the same year, shitting out three demo tapes over the lapse of a year (mostly due to the fact that 80% of the music had already been composed over the years 2011-2013). A guitarist left in 2015; we found a new one. We created "Jihad", and then we created "Love & Beauty". Of course, in the meantime, a lot of curious, depressive, interesting, adventurous, passionate and fucked up things happened along the way, but those stories are for the future (I intend on writing a short book on these matters; in fact, i have already started with it since I just finished my previous filthy excuse for literature – the "Sword of Angst" anthology).

Nej: To put it briefly, MOTHERS CRY BECAUSE THEIR CHILD IS TAKEN BY THE ENDLESS WILD, CHILDREN HAVE GONE OUT TO PLAY IN THE FIELD WHERE TROUBLES LAY.

3. Slutet to me is quite an unique project even within the vast confines of Black Metal genre. Are you into black metal (you can namedrop some faves or not)/ are you connected to the Swedish (or international) black metal scene overall? If not, how did you happen to start expressing yourself through this musical lens.

Malkus 9: Peste Noire, Reverorum ib Malacht, Celtic Frost and Reveal.

Nej: I remember practicing before for our first rehearsals by "singing along" with songs from Burzum's Filosofem in an apartment while in high school. Other than that, an early introduction to Katharsis and Master's Hammer is all that really sticks with me. So much for the namedropping. Association by marriage yes and by screams of the thing in trees that does the growing grasping inside.

Shabrang Behzad: Black metal has been the most important music for me personally ever since my father showed me Bathory, Celtic Frost and Mercyful Fate back when i was a kid. I still remember vividly when I first heard the first riff of "Total Destruction" by Bathory. I think that is the moment when i first "got it". I felt a kind of power and darkness from the music I had not appreciated in anything else before it. However, these days, I listen to at least as much music of completely different genres as I do black metal. I've grown tired with much of it. I consciously distance myself from any "scene" or "community" with regards to black metal. I have contact with only a few other black or death metal artists; I can literally count them on one hand. It doesn't interest me, the whole "community" aspect of it. Generally I find folks to be narrow-minded, quite boring, and often ideologically possessed. And besides, I hate gigs and I am not a fan of getting drunk. And the fake posturing and "Satanic" and misanthropic virtue signaling  from many of these people give me a banging headache.

Since Slutet is centered around authenticity (authenticity being sacred a virtue for the whole Endcommunean enterprise), I have waded about in the black metal swamp with the hopes of finding authenticity for a long time now... on some days I find it, but mostly, I really don't. What one encounters instead is often an extreme form of collectivist groupthink and tribalism (the worst part being that they often conceptualize themselves as being free and ranging wolves, mighty predators, strong-willed Nietzschean individualists, misanthropic Satanists against "the whole fucking world", etc.)

I think this nonsense is prevalent even more so in black metal than in other sub-cultures or counter-cultures or whatever. Just their average attitude to life is extremely boring and often irritating to me. I do not hate the world, and neither do I intrinsically hate humanity. So I guess i'm life-loving poser to the truest necro-warriors within the genre. And I find much of this culture to be decadent, Godless, filthy and fucking dishonest – yes, i say it: most of it is pathetic and makes me cringe. That said, I concede that there is a very fiery core, much alive, at the center of the genre, and that core to me is highly important even to this day. Except for Slutet, which is obviously the best and most interesting and unique black metal band today, I would like to mention Nimbifer, Yohualli, Skravl, El-Ahrairah, Forgotten Spell, Këkht Aräkh, Rivers Like Veins, Axis of Light, Duszę Wypuścił, Maquahuitl and Voidcraeft as some rather new and rather unknown bands I think really makes something worthwhile, standing out in this ever-self-devouring cesspool of contemporary black metal music and culture, rising, I think, like some obelisks above the forsaken rest. 

All this said, i must concede that black metal art is extremely important to me, and that is very contributing as to why i become so mad and annoyed when i find it to be done in a "wrong" manner. In fact, i have been meticulously monitoring black metal for about 15 years now, and I have probed its past with ardency and focused passion to find the hidden gems; I still go through lots and lots of the new releases and most of it i find to be soulless, untalented garbage. Most of it looks and sounds... uninspired.  If i have to see one more band photo with Finnish teenagers in leather vests making hand-triangles and singing about "Luciferianism" and the "Left Hand Path", I think I have to kill myself. God fucking damn I despise these people, to be honest. I am spiritually allergic to this trending. These kids, while portrating themselves as some illuminated "go your own way" Satanist militant wolf-men, would not be able to fucking wait to kiss the boots of Watain, Deathspell Omega and their likes should the chance appear before them! "Are we doing a good job replicating you, masters?". "Please, affirm us!". I do not understand this behavior; it angers me. Why do they choose to look exactly the same?! No soul, no personality! And Black metal without soul, what is that exactly? God damn. I think these people should maybe try to put their soul into creating something authentic, instead of fanboying around a candle and a table, cosplaying Hells Angels. Just answering this question brings annoyance and spite to my mind, haha. And oh, while at it, black metal warriors around the world, heed my words: Jesus Christ of Nazareth was more of a strong-willed individual badboy subversive rebel than you will ever come to be. So take your fucking plastic spellbook, light up your eBay incense, sit back in your favorite chair, pretend to read Hebrew occultism you do not really understand nor care about, and invoke Wikipedia demons. The "social club" aspect of black metal is so ugly to me. Spewing anti-cosmic curses against the universe from your Instagram account does not impress me at all. My countrymen in Mephorash I dislike exceptionally much (they perfect a kind of black metal I despise), but basically everyone LARPing their way through black metal as some kind of elevated lvl 218 Qliphotic Wizard can suck some very average-sized but authentic Endcommunean dick. You are fake! Fake, fake, fake. 99.8 % of you at least. I know serious people are out there, and I respect them with heart and with spirit, as I do with every truly religious individual, but they do not very often pose with their tomes and grimoires on Facebook, do they? So get the fuck out. I have no respect nor patience for these things, and it is a huge part as to why I am not really engaging with the black metal subculture. It is not a culture for me, but it is art(!), which is different and a much more solitary pursuit. Culture is about belonging... but I do not belong to black metal - I create it. Big difference there.  So naturally, with this being said, Slutet is a huge dong in the face of these bands and these people.

I like bands who show humanity and personality. Because it does not matter how much you say you want to be an anti-cosmic fairy buzzing around some red dragon in some forbidden dimension somewhere - you are still human, and you have a personality, haven't you? So why do you continue the corruption, commercialization and homogeneization of this potentially boundlessly powerful genre of art and style of music? I shall never understand it... I stand on the outside as if watching a house burning down, I have already saved my shit from there - let the rest fend for the house itself, I do not care anymore.

I would say right now, the most played black metal albums are: "Заревом над прахом" (1997) by Forest, "Teocalli of the Sacred War" (2017) by Maquahuitl, "Le Fleau de ton Existence" (2009) by Quintessence, "Mocking the Philanthropist" (1997) by Grand Belial's Key and "Assiége" (2014) by Véhémence  That is my top five this summer at least, but it often changes

4. One of the stand-out features of Slutet are the magnificent lyrics. How's your lyric writing process?Are they pure stream of consciousness pouring out or carefully thought out poetic craftmanship? Are there poets / writers that you could name as a source of inspiration?

Nej: I have attempted to craft a language of language, language about language and the teasing unsatisfactory event in every word I add to the story. But this is only recently relevant. For the past I leave it to another to answer.

Shabrang Behzad: First of all, thank you. No, they are far from stream of consciousness actually. I started writing more or less seriously around about 2009-2010 after discovering Edith Södergran (we are still married and we love each-other). Later I discovered the Les Poètes Maudits of France, folk like Rimbaud,  Baudelaire and Artaud, but especially Comte de Lautreamont whom changed my life. I do not think any book has had a greater effect on my writing than "Les Chants de Maldoror". I can not praise that filthy, slimy book enough. But no, they are rather carefully crafted and a decent degree of time has been put into them. Slutet rests on three legs - music, words and aesthetics (as most bands, to be honest), so it is naturally important that the lyrics are on par with everything else. The lyrics for Slutet between 2014-2017 are just a mere percentage of everything I wrote back in those days. You can find the rest in the "Sword of Angst" book if you would be curious. For "Love & Beauty" though, we have shifted focus with the lyrics and I no longer write them, but our vocalist do. Certainly, there is a great degree of difference between our styles, which I absolutely love. The new stuff is way more abstract, dreamy, metaphorically personal and stream-of-consciousness-like, but not quite. Find out for yourself.

5. To continue with the lyrics are there recurring lyrical themes? I don't want to input too much of my own reading, but to me there seems to be quite often a violent, even brutal expression of femininity within the words, quite uncommon in most things Black.

Shabrang Behzad: In the first era of the band, it was much centered around my personal angst, hatred for the modern world, passion for militancy and terrorism, spite against the perceived weakness of humans, etc. They are very personal in the sense that it emanates directly from dearly held values, ideals and thoughts of mine. I do not feel at all distanced to the early lyricism - rather the opposite; they are indeed a part of me. And the femininity aspect is interesting. I think a large aspect of it is in the fact that our vocalist happen to have a cunt and not a cock, so i think people will almost with automation ascribe to our overall "feel" as feminine. I have personally no problem with this whatsoever; I am quite passionate about femininity and the strength and beauty of women. What that really means you can think about for yourself. As I have stated, we are authentic, and as we have femininty in the band - not only in one member but in all of us - naturally that will seep out and contribute to our band personality and our aura. All good, it is how it should be.

Nej: I am a violent and brutal expression of femininity. That is my theme. My vagina is real and I make it a point just for shits and giggles to claim that it is realer than your identity.

6. Your existence seems to be quite inspired by the superior nordic cinematic master Bergman. Can you describe your feelings towards his work? Which films are your favorites?

Well, for me, together with Andrzej Żuławski and Gaspar Noé, he is the master of cinema. The religious existentialism of "Det Sjunde Inseglet" and "Nattvardsgästerna", the almost Jungian and experimental exploration of relationships, psychology and femininity in "Persona", and so on. Masterful. I would rank them as follows: "Det Sjunde Inseglet", "Persona", "Nattvardsgästerna", "Jungfrukällan", "Så Som i en Spegel" and "Vargtimmen". The rest I have not seen. I can't stand Bergman in colour.

7. What is your relationship with drugs?

Shabrang Behzad: Earlier, a more destructive relationshop, although never anything catastrophical, just coupled with a generally bad lifestyle, it was a hazard and not mature or responsible. A few emergency room visits made me reconsider my ways. Nowadays, conservative but with bad discipline on many days. I have an allowing attitude when it comes to certain cases of rather serious, routined, well-researched self-medicating practices. Also, drugs for positivity. I do not romanticize or glorify drug ause and drug sickness, addiction and the nightmarish plights of recovery. Drugs as spiritual and psycho-motivational "performance enhancers" to take on life, I am about. Not so much about self-pitying or hedonistic abuse of drugs. That is not something I condone or am interested in at all. I condemn it and I would like to encourage a positive, constructive use. God bless the men and women wrestling those demons, though. God bless their struggles. For me, all the youth party drugs and basically all the psychedelics is in the past . Basically no more alcohol, no more coke or speed, no more ecstasy or LSD. Fuck that shit. It got old, to be honest. And its not good for you. Nowadays, health is the most important thing. Running on pregabalin for example, is great. Or weight training on a mild dose of any opiate combined with weed. (I don't know if that is just me or why that feels so great?). Or using drugs for creative endeavors I might cede as positive, but everything can of course be overdone pretty easily. One must delimit oneself. But sometimes I am just a pig, I will admit. I welter in sin and indulgence on some days, God knows it and I know it too. I still smoke way too much cannabis, for example - thats a fact. 

Nej: High and low. Experimental and conservative.

Malkus 9: I don't do them anymore and I am opposed to drug use.

8. Your feelings about cats?

Shabrang Behzad: I really don't like them and house cats are extremely overrated. They are cunts and I do not understand the hype around them. Dogs I can understand, they have been our ears and eyes for ten thousand years. They actually like you. I am a huge fan of cats in nature though. I just don’t understand why you would want one in your house at all times. Each to their own, I guess. I wouldn’t hurt one, and I have many friends who love them dearly, and I am not a cunt about it.

Nej: Aaha! My feelings about cats are traumatic and severe. Cats are everywhere in excellent narratives. Cats remind me that I am an animal. I have engaged myself in several heartfelt excursions into the truly WILD nature of nature. Each one of these stories has made me feel entirely animal and horny, alongside very ethereal and asexual. Personally, cats always remind me of the gazing eye of godintrees staring at me. They force me to contemplete the body, the eye the outlook, the irate and wholly independent, the on humanity dependent. My feelings about cats are fuck you for keeping them indoors to protect them, let them kill themselves with curiosity.

9. Side Varg or Side Euronymous?

Shabrang Behzad: Burzum is arguably the most important band of my life.

Nej: AH go fuck yourself.

10. Is there a future for humanity? If so how do you vision it?

Malkus 9: I believe there is. But I think we have to rediscover what it means to be human and I think the only way to do that is through God.
 
Shabrang Behzad: No idea. I'll focus on myself and the ones I love. The others can play it out for all I care.

11. As *********** is a cultural journal, educating people about the finer, or at least different, aspects of human existence is there any kind of experience you would recommend for our readers to try out (work of literature, cinema, food recipe, mind altering substance or any that sort of thing)?

Shabrang Behzad: I would like to recommend Clifford Brown & Max Roach's "Study in Brown", recorded in 1955. Swingin’ and boppin’ jazz from the legends themselves. Also, the songs "Ill Mind of Hopsin 5" and "Ill Mind of Hopsin 7". Also everything Tristan Tzara (the band, not the guy) ever made. Oh, and you should read "Kallocain" by Karin Boye. And while I’m at it, "Divine Darkness" by Damnation is arguably the best black metal demo cassette of the whole 90's. These are my recommendations; a few things I have been obsessing over the last weeks. Oh, I can not forget, “I am Servant of Your Voice”, the complete recordings of Armenian singer Zabelle Panosian from 1917 (Some of the earliest music recorded; it is immeasurably beautiful and serene I think).

Nej: Exercise and explore your body. Learn what it is to be in the body. This is my recommendation "as a woman". FEEL THAT YOU ARE IN A BODY: THIS OPPOSES COMPLACENCY. I know it is digusting. Have some cancer. Eat and shit. Hail TLAZOLTEOTL forgiver of sex offenders; eater of filth. Pay attention to synchronicities. Pay heed to the passing of time and hard work of woemen before you. Enjoy the fuck out of your fear of death. Spread your legs and deliver.

Malkus 9: Celibacy, a workout routine and inner and outer silence.

12. Your first demo recordings were only available by sending blood, hair or things like that. Did you make some kind of use of these personal human pieces you received, or was it just a thing to show some true commitment?

Shabrang Behzad: It is all saved and stored in various ways, but yes, you are right. We wanted to separate the wheat from the chaff, you know. Getting a piece of hair from fucking Indonesia of all places what a blast to us. Still have it in my room.

13. Any last words / statements etc.?  

Shabrang Behzad: "Be strong and of good courage, do not fear nor be afraid of them; for the Lord your God, He is the One who goes with you. He will not leave you nor forsake you." - Deuteronomy 31:6

Malkus 9: Be ever watchful because the end will not be what you think it will be and you might miss out.

Nej: Not yet.

the holy ghost covered its eyes
with the palms of murdered children:
behold! said I
and the holy ghost spake
ex cathedra.
my heart, my blessed temple
and the holy ghost sounded
the horn and lure of the Lord
there
within.
what a beautiful clangor
there was.
and suddenly dropped―
a noose from the beam of the earth!
two hands tore holes in the earth
and at holy behest
and I too spake soon with vapor
out into there, into the cold realm,
the dying world of nights.
so i did for the sake of my Lord.
Yes,
an echo framed the night-sky
and like a burglar in the night of zodiac
i disappear
with the pitcher of Aquarius!
poured did i the water therein
into the stream of worlds' all mouths
and
the holy ghost vanished
under rain and hail and
sulphur of the soul.
boiled to broth and fat
in the aether-cauldron
the holy ghost became
the sustenance of the djinn!
and they threw their balls of fire
over taiga, steppe and storm;
no longer reign i
ex cathedra,
the holy ghost abandoned.
and so it did for the
sake of its Lord.

The people toil upwards without much choice under heavy
yokes of addiction, constrained by copper fetters, masked
with the blackest, a most coarse leather as not to speak, not
to impress with humility and destitution whatever folk will
pity them along their pitiful way. Masters of the various arts
of morphinism and alcoholism, of every kind of vice and
addiction under this sun, hungover from the unearned
privilege, choleric and spiritually malnourished, hollowed
out, like voided shells, from the empty ejaculations of many
sad, bestial moments and from the spiritual destitution
present in the hearts of every person construing the eternal
as temporal; the Sacred as Profane, the sinful as liberating,
and the fear of God as some form of superstitious
decrepitude or impotence. From the foothills of the world to
nauseous heights of elation the procession proceeds, along
vertiginious trails of failed hedonia snaking upward through
velvet fields and through the gate of diamonds only to fall
from grace, from the top, and to repeat the chore again and
again and again, as soon as they hit the ground.
A procession of Sisyphean morons stuck like the hamster in
its loop, like slavefolk pining for their very bondage to be
eternal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

vilka försmädelser hon får utstå av folket !
krigarinnan.
av folket, som är så dumma och förtappade
att de inte ens kan begripa att det är att darra och jämra sig de ska
vid blotta åsyn av den stora förskräckliga uppenbarelse
som nu ligger framför deras fötter!
hennes liv kom som en flackande låga
någonstans från ur i mitten av en enorm rökdimma
vars kraft avlar de vackraste former ingen kan se !
halvmåneläppar, gyllene brynja av brons.
en hagelstorm av kastspjut, ett svärmande kaos runtom.
ugnsglödgat malm, Nimbus guldbekransad,
dansande svärdsegg, härdat stål.
tjusningen i ett övervunnet motstånd
är allt
för henne.
att utvidga Guds domkrets på jorden !
en fjärils tro på vinden
och en getings tro på sötma
är en människas tro på nåd,
en cynikers på alla tings sjukhet och fulhet,
och en krigarinnas, på hennes extatiska kraft.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

denna extatiska kraft har vissnat bittert,
som en trött augustimaskros,
till något som mest liknar grått och tragiskt stoft.
det känns nästan hopplöst och meningslöst
att numera fortsätta be för hennes tillbakakomst
och för hennes mytologiska upprättelse.
den extatisk kraft, som i händerna på krigarinnan
en gång i tiden omstörtade världar i plural,
har nu omvärvts besviket i en bakvänd förbannelsevirvel.
...och likt ett nyfött barn lindat hårt i den varma filt
som långsamt men säkert även kväver det,
gjorde den inget ljud ifrån sig när den försvann...
den bara tyst, och enkelt, försvann.
. ...eller kan vi ännu hoppas
att något någonstans fortfarande brinner
på svaga blågröna flammor
där, inuti det hjärta
som till synes förbittrat all sin glöd?
hennes liv spänns mellan fyra stora hingstar
som står alla vända mot varsitt av de fyra väderstreck,
och som snart ska komma att iaktta sin rasande gallopp.

r a k b l a d s v i n d a r .
översvämningar av havets salta lödder.
det ödelägger oss och bäddar oss för den sista natten.
delar av bortglömda foster, dess rester,
på d e t s t o r a h å l e t s köttväggar.
öknens slöja gömmer döden i sandhavet.
svartmålade minareter,
förstörda kupoler,
koraner trasade,
skägg satta på eld.
blodregn och änglafjädrar,
guld från glorior smälta;
det heliga giftets gasdöd
och djävulens kokande olja
som strilar ner
från himmelen!
allt ogräs och alla tistlar och nässlor sammanstrålar i hemlig konspiration
för att planera och koordinera sitt uppror mot skönhetens despotiska tyranni.
ett plågat barn är låst i bojor
som är svetsade till skorpan av en värld
ännu ej mogen att kräla ur sin moders inre.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 jag ser vargen i brynet,
vår värld går under snart.
men inte i eld, svavel, blod och storm,
utan lindad mjukt i tystnad.
ungefär som en skrumpnande växt.
så kommer det se ut:
förstörelsens ödespöken har redan börjat
trampa blåklockorna tillbaka till helvetet.
saker och ting som inte ännu borde dö
slocknar och dör ut som bordsljus
på ett väldigt odramatiskt
och förtvivlande sätt…
nu stinker vårens grönska surt
som nåt alldeles för länge kvarglömt
och en söt liten lönn gråter våldtäktstårar
med monstrets sperma tjockt där nere
i det som förut varit orört.
en distinkt doft av lavendel och ruttna vaktelägg
smeker hennes näsvingar som inandas
med vidaste gavlar ångestens likblomma
som slagit upp i tusentals diken runtom.
dimman skingrar över alla skogens tjärn.
något enormt gäspar och jämrar sig.
mjölken har lapats under nattens tysta timmar
av något oinbjudet och ovälkommet.
kattorna har irrat sig bortkomna i törnbuskar
och ögon är stuckna och trädda på strån
som smultron i april.
det rinner in saltvatten
i våra sjöar och åar utifrån.

Juni brinner i grönska.

häradshövdings asblod droppa 

från ansträngda, stränga, översträngda strängar

och ett vackert spel på längtans lyra dansa. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

den enorma spenen dinglar från himmelska parapeters kolonner, och så sker det:

livets och skapelsens varma vita mjölk

dränker sommarens Sverige det ljusa, det gröna, det våta och blå.

en mild bris av rutten tång och tjära.

vägar som ormar av eld och blod

ringlar genom berg av järn och dimma.

vildmark, snåriga tjärn och vitmaskarnas

eviga fittmarker. tiotusen eviga tunnlar

och heder och myrar runt byarna.

tiotusen vattenfall som brusar

frihetens söta storm.

torka, hetta, grödors död.

en svart igel suger landets blod från jorden.

en dödsröd ros är en dödstrött

och höstsvulten och dödsdömd ros.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

vindblåst, ruvande tomhet.

en vidsträckt tystnads innersta öga.

en tystnad som inte ännu vet just varför den är tyst,

ett gråt som inte ännu vet just varför det gråter.

stekheta, vita kulingar och stötar av värme, helvetets avgaser.

hökens uppspända jaktöga stirrar tjusigt på det veka bytet.

fåglar kucklar i det nära och i det avlägsna,

och ekorrar klättrar trädens bark.

ett flammigt kvalm

drar över

torkat halm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

och där! poff!

det sker på en sekund och på ett ögonblick –

gnistan tänds, skogsbrand!

det enda som kan höras är ljudet av svaga flammor som sprakar.

"ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister.

varför skulle annars våren tveka?"

(ingen vacker människa kan gärna förneka

sin egen skönhets reflexion i Karin Boye.)