depressing shit

Encased into the stone of history I am as an immortal pig amongst men: immortal, yes, but what pork does not rot sour in infinity?

I am unreliable in the outcome of my attempts of chastising myself. My mind and my flesh and my thoughts are all melted together into a new substance foreign even to myself, and I can not recognize it as human. I command my evil thoughts to cease but they simply do not. I doubt and I wail. I hold no mastery over the self. I try to abdicate my crown and spire, but my throne has no pretenders. My cape and robe and my purple shirt are all coal in the fire of my homestead. I evoke malignant psychic material. Memorial cadavers, remnants of some trauma. The feeling of giving up on future itself. A length of days I shall not acquire, and fortitude of spirit remains but an ideal in my heart. Nerve, guts, gallantry – ghastly spectres haunting my house! The gaze of a hero I have…but on my back, burning, as I turn away from challenges! By way of sins and spoiled chances, I shall be led to an abyss of fire, and I shall be contained therein until but coal and shame remain there down! I have met and I spoke with the harpies of the night! They are nasty creatures. Together we wandered aloof through the whistling vapors of hell. We were harassed by the madness of  hungers – religious hunger; amorous hunger; emotional hunger and all the rest of them. We drank from the sullage of heaven and leapt then forthwith into hellmouths. I am shit, I am flesh, I am mud. Dirt, rubble, ruin. A naked fetus I am – in front of the Lord but none else. I am fallen and destitute and to my own ruin I am doomed. My skin boils and my heart, a weird and gloomy thing: a fortress as useless keeping things in as it is keeping things out, it has become. Its moat is shallow and a sewer. Its gates are crumbling and dusting. Its stonework is rickety and unstable and the peasantry all around it is stricken with drought, poisonous wells and the devilish hunger for food. Things here need work and things here need care: with the exception of honey and art, left to its own devices, everything goes from okay to bad to worse. And this is a rule which applies to the existentialism of man also.

Mammon and Belial in me I cannot seem to evict. In sudden rages of confusion, I try to unroot from matter as to float like some fairy in the aether. I try desperately to forget my body but my body refuses to forget me back. To enter the storm one person and to walk out another, I try.  And I cry, I shiver, I moan! Shemihazah... I am you. I am possessed by the spirit of you – but possess I like you the resolve to forswear heaven? Indeed, I am naked and I throb like Shemihazah – but then, do we not all in front of the Lord

DE   SISTA  ORDEN
     
     denna dikt är ett kurhus !

     en renande, kraftfull antibiotika...

     ett självkännedomens sanatorium
     för människor som andas fel andedräkt.

        andas genom näsan ! spring så långt du kan !
        lyft så tungt du kan ! tänk och känn dig fram !
        arbeta hårdare än resten ! kämpa, njut av smärtan du förtjänat !
´
        Sätt hög standard, höga krav.

        tävla mot dig själv och mot frivilliga andra.

        sätt dig och tänk igenom dina dagar.
        
        ät broccoli, havreris, lax och kycklingbröst.

          ät spenat, morötter, grönkål, rågbröd
          nötter, rött kött och avocado som en kung.
 
          lyrica och hasch är nattvard !  
        
        k ä m p a .  
 
        stå emot synd, det moderna hedonistiska.

        s t å   e m o t !

       var ett morallejon.

        eller bli en reduktion, en återvändsgränd,
        en bearbetad människas tystnads eviga eko !

en tystnad som så försvinnande lätt kan misstas för feghet, och som förmodligen också överlappar med just feghet. en tystnad som fastnat i stängslens taggiga järntrådar och som förblödit och tvingats omkomma i en malande spirituell kakofoni av "vad var det jag sa?" gånger hundratusen.   

      sluta aldrig tro på ditt hårda arbete.

      nihilismens grenadjärer
      gör sig var morgon redo
      att störta dig.

        det är det som denna dikt vill förtälja.

              länge leve hjälten i människan.

              GUD prisa henne !

länge leve modern och den ensamma krigarinnan !

  länge leve det manliga heroiska
  och länge leve varenda soldat
  som någonsin offrats åt krigets gudar !

        länge leve våra fiender och motgångar !

        utan dem kan vi förvisso aldrig resa oss.

   ja, hedra din besegrade fiende
   som en ödmjuk gest till Gud, en tacksamhetsgåva.

    det var Gud som gav dig makt, mod och medel
    att triumfa din fiende.

     med Gud och segrande vapen !

    Gud skapade din fiende.
    Gud skapade din förmåga att krossa din fiende.
    Guds skapelser är förvisso Heliga !

    och prisa GUD var än du känner
    att där och då bör prisas GUD ! ! !

        du ska veta att det bor en fågel
        fångad i denna långa dikt.

        en fågel som sjunger vemodigt
        och som längtar efter öppna skyar.

        och skyn öppnar sig och solen ler till sist !

               jag vet !

              denna dikt är ett vakttorn
              av järn och tankar.

              denna dikt är en kalk av            
          drakblod !

      och
      nu
      är
      den
      slut. 

Insomnia / Crazy people from my youth, part I

 during my youth in Uppsala, there was a dude simply going by the name 'Psycho'. he had passed the age o 18 already; we were minors. This means he was the guy you went to, if you wanted beer bought out from the store. He bought a six pack of beer for us, and kept one of them. It was kind of his "business model" lol. He was also a profilic shoplifter/thief, specializing in stealing expensive meats to sell to less serious restaurant establishments. he also slept under a bridge during the summer months, like a legit troll. crazy guy, Psycho.

I have hated many parts of myself, of course. For the longest time, I cherished Gnosticism, and perceived it to be, so to say, “my" strain of Christianity. I adulated its insistence on the spiritual, and I still do that. I admired its inherent asceticism, still do. However, I am not as boneheadedly sure anymore. I have coerced myself to ponder: did Gnosticism initially speak to me because I was physically weak and unhealthy myself, and the Gnostic spirit-body dichotomy fanaticism allowed me to “legitimize” a furthering, a worsening of that physical ineptitude and general unhealth, weakness? ¨

I must understand that we, as human souls, can not drink, laugh and fuck our way into heaven. I can try that, I can buy that product, that lifestyle choice so many folks these days commercialize, glamorize and put on mass media shelves. Yes, I can fall for the lie and the apparent glamour of it, just like a sad person might do for heroin, but just because it gleams, it is not valuable! We are not crows – remember that. Humans. Humans. Do not chase whatever shines. We are human beings! We are, and we become. We do not float in the aether like some paranormal vapor. We highly exist in the flesh. Your fullest capacity is always anchored – and at least in some way related to – your corporality. And that is not an argument against transcendence either. I must understand that before I continue on the journey towards salvation.

I will say this: my personal "discovery" of nutrition, bodily health and my subsequent adoration of athleticism came with a newfound respect for St. Irenaeus, along with parts of the heresiology I youthfully and so stubbornly discarded as ridiculous just some half-decade ago. Now, rather, I want to develop a kind of kickboxer existentialism! A runner's faith! I echo the insistency of Irenaeus: body, body, body! It is important. We must train the body in order to be able to rule it. True devotion is managing to direct it at both faith and health. Salvation is a matter of the whole person – body and soul! I think the mysterious tribology between Man & God happens inside the human body, through the distinctly human experience of that body, along with the human soul which solicits all that.

And I will not allow myself to fully sink into either of the two; soul or body. I do not think I like this fervent dichotomization anymore! I am I. I am fullness, a circle, a pre-programmed system waiting for code. I am not either-or, not in the slightest. I am a man of flesh and I strive to become Aurelian in my stoicism; Kierkegaardian in my introspection; Nietzschean in my existentialism – and Shevchenko-esque in my discipline and athleticism! These are my ideals. And no enemy will steal that from my heart.

 

AVE MARIA

Eve introduced sin into mankind; injected, inferred it
the Immaculate Conception of Mary rectified it

Mary is the salvation of Eve !

Mary is, hamartiologically speaking, the reversal and undoing of Eve

The 'Ave' in 'Ave Maria' is the literal reversal of Eva (Eve)

Eve is the mother of our sin !
Mary is the mother of our salvation !

    Eve is the original sinner,
    while Mary was conceived without sin

Mary, poetically expressed,
represents the stellar vitrification of human spirituality

she elongates God's reach on earth and in our hearts
by way of unspoiled innocence and glorious motherly femininity

QUEEN OF ABSINTHINE MADNESS

 cloud-pylons, anti-matter, aether, absinthe

       outer-cosmic imperialism
       from unknown life forms

          across eternal times and spaces
          bacteria-inhabitants grow
          into the quanta of the universe

          a queen is crowned
          in a laurel-wreath
          of galactic ergot
          and holding two bottles of Parisian absinthe
          in her two black witches hands

          luminous she sits
          atop the firmament
          spewing holies upon holies
          as if a whore of cosmos
          spitting out panspermia
          into the evervoids

             bitter hag of the star-sky !

             goddess of the cosmos-disease...

             reluctant to participate in anything
             but the ever entropy of worlds !

         the cosmic queen retracts her psalmata...