nightmare follows

what is love

MAIAM

meandering tributaries to the great subterranean ocean
whose ends are obscured forever,
are we all.

in continual, sempiternal becoming
without ends, without fixed courses,
are we like rivers
whirling with the waters
of disquiet.




a world with no purpose
no meaning
nor truth,
and an existence
so absurd, and cruel,
and incomprehensible
are we
vomitted forth into.

rape, murder, dominance, oppression,
utopia, democracy, egalitarianism
genocide and solidarity
are all extensions, and results,
of the same whelming force.

saluted are those
who entrust their passions
to no one
but themselves:
from your own alienation and angst
you must act
and from your own actions
you shall die
with the prospect of unconditional happiness
as an unattainable idea
smeared like dirt
under the heel of your boot.

we all aspire
to nothing
but the passion
we feel
when we feel.

we all amount
to nothing
but the actions
we form
out of the formlessness
that is our passion.





passion
is the only signpost
with worth:
find what you love
and let it destroy you;
it has been said before.
what else could one do?

a passion is something worth
suffering for;
thus, in extension,
suffering bear meaning.

he who fears suffering
fear also life,
and in the storm of that insight,
we carve ourselves a totem.

the intrinsic worthlessness of all action
every thought, and every impulse of compassion
should be known beforehand,
so that we not fall into
the bottomless and uproarious swirl
of idealism, hedonism, and utopia.

he who fails to understand
the communal and ecumenical values
that bind together
the human family
will be revelated
the final vision;
that of god
weeping like a changeling
in a strait-jacket
with his eyes fixed
on the becoming horizon
of a tomorrow
blooming with the death and darkness
of true freedom.

There is the sensible world, and the spiritual, or metaphysical world: they are negations to each-other, but they are likewise indeed complementary to each-other, as they are mended in wholeness, the mysterium coniunctionis. Everything that is not made up of stuff has within its geneaology the energy of the numinous, that is, the abstraction we call divine: the soul, love, angst, passion, and God are all sprung out of the great paradoxical sinkhole that is engulfing the sensible, in other words, physical, world. But it is not limited to the confines of the physical world, nor is it halted by the bulwarks of the modern world, which we can observe amongst their kin the conceit and the arrogance of science, the culture of extraversion and hedonism, and the religion of the Jews and all its offspring, exercises, zealous, in thralldom... for sometimes, waters will stir in the sinkhole and rise to the thresholds, and maelstroms will whirl from beneath, the tsunamies of the incomprehensible whipping the coasts and shores of the physical world: when such a thing occurs, the fool will close his eyes, the smug will try to weigh it on a scale, and the ecstatic will call it revelation. Metaphysics are always original to physics; the void original to the space, war original to peace, and death original to life. Did not Tiamat, the glistening and the chaotic one, gnaw her tongue in the depths primordially, and at her death have her scales and her flesh assembled as the heavens and the earth? Did not her beloved son, Great Kingu, have his blood drawn at the fierce blade of Marduk, giving life to the first of the human beings?

 

 

FÅGEL FENIX (OSAMMANHÄNGANDE)

ur askan från värdighetens och självrespektens bål   reser sig en fenix genom tid och rum
   buren över en himmel av eld och blod
   och med ögon av spegelglas
som brinna av guds osynliga reflexion.

på dubbla vingpar insmorda i tjära
   och brunna sedan av bensin stulen
   slangad
   från en militärkonvojs lastbilar
   som färdas
   bakom fiendes kontrollpositioner
       svävar hon
över strömmar av storm
   och hav
     vars eget salt
     uttorkat dem.

kärlek är aldrig ett falsarium
     har jag hört
en ganska svag, unken människa
   någon gång säga
låt oss nu slänga denna
     villfarelse
   i existentialisternas köttkvarnar,

för jag är kackerlackan
   som slutligen vant sig
   vid solens ljus
   och krälat ut ur
     språkets kloak
däri jag lekt med träck och ord,
ord som smädats, bespottats;
     hora, fitta, kuk, knulla,
     existentialism...
    
ur en stenkross
   har tystnaden och klandrandet
   gentemot egensjälvet
   som damm och stoft
       återigen
som en fenix,
en död barnkropp på en främmande strand,
   uppstigit...
   i
   himmelen.

kriget är en skör ros med rötter ända in i själen,
        har det sagts.

my little animal graveyard is possibly the most valuable thing in my life at the moment

ha-etk at,e tt - 32, 32, 32 HcL.

almost stream of consciousness; written between 21:22-21:41 PM, 30th Nov 2015 in the year of some messiah

i am the seer, i am sovereign i am nothing i am all
in death as in life i am nothing and all

i am the bestial poet, the mungoose battling the jormund serpent
in a fierce, stubborn struggle over pride and prey

i am just a mosquito on the body of an obese world
sucking the old blood drawn from its achilles tendons
where the wound inflicted with the dagger of ________
streams into a chalice woven with the fiber of nothingness

the raison d'être of parasites is the being of an appropriate host
but in my case, the host lies dead in my backyard
shot in the back of the head in a very emotional execution;
the funeral is due, you should come.

much as the snake which once encircled the world
i bite my tail and when i let go, bad things will  happen.

i, the sovereign, the spiritual hermaphrodite in a cloak of religious fascism,
am nothing, and yet i am the culture that is becoming
the civilization in which my children would thrive - but I refuse.