existential poem #29 - self-worship/self-hatred

astrologers proclaim the year of the child-rapist
and newborn baby orifices await ravaging;
such are the ways,
   and all this
   in the honor of the sacred ---
   for the holy cause
   --- the holy, holy cause ---
   of self-enlightenment;
 
dung takes shape
in the hands of the sculptor
and rotten wood
build the hut of the hermit;
ugliness comes in pairs, in twins,
to a self-obsessed mother
and a volatile father, crown-prince of abuse:
all people are given disgusting and offensive hands
in a game of cards that will absolutely rape the world ---
but I, I swim splendidly
in the beauties and riches of life,
like a happy, happy, happy clown-fish.

also,
I beat myself with iron rods of irony
and walk about freely, Maldoror-like
through the sarcasm-chasm
this world really is (to me).

the awakening
    of the spirit ---
    stuck
in the static between oceans
in the midst
of the nothingness
bordering the thresholds
of all vertiginious abysses
beyond the waters
over the edge --
demands sacrifice;
    boundary-shattering;
    perversive indulgement
    and everything else
    I have consciously and unconsciously left out
    in this text
    due to the harrowing fear
    of myself
    and my own sullen moral-ethic, literary,
    and self-destructive capabilities.

Dying breaths

https://soundcloud.com/theendcommune/sets/phantasmagore

töntig dikt

en mardröm av spindelnät trasslar
horisonten som ger upp
och dör martyrdöden;
tiotusen vattenfall
med slingor av svärta och manodepressivitet ---
strömmar dödligt virus

det är förvisso känt att små eldar växer
till brinnande skogar
men de vidrigaste illdåd motiveras ändå av kärlek.
hjärtat är en enorm kvarn
som bara mal och mal och mal
tills din personlighet blivit till fint mjöl.

en grotta av eld och sten
skyddar änglarna från haglet
som öser ner från himmelen ---
horseberoende apostlar suger kuk för pengar ---
jag såg en fitta sälja sin dotter
för en säck ris.

döda barn gråter
och fula människor får upprättelse,
naturkatastroferna avlöser varandra,
grotesk utveckling
av människans historia ---
tragikomisk grande finale, lol

poem "like sati widows"

when the fields are abundant with rye sad as children,
    and the crops sing like Sati widows
    the most depressive tune of all.
when the rotting forage of all the ages
  bear witness
    to the coming of the hoarfrost holocaust,
one shall reap --- maybe ----

   or not.

    burn all bridges behind you ---
       scorch the earth
       and your dying fields 
    with ...lightning
    ...and with pesticides;
strike the mills
    and the guilds of workers
    with the furor of a tyrants' hand
and let loose the livestock
   to graze, mate, and walk about freely
   in the shadowlands of the world
   amongst the werewolves, the frowned lepers,
   and the gloomy spirits of the woodlands ---
       sweeping eerily,
       ravenous, and as fierce as the love for death. 
  
the reaping
the threshing
and the winnowing
   of this vast soil --- call it the plateau of life ---
   will be useless
   in the absence of an absolutely godlike effort
and this insight alone
   begs the question of the worthiness of it all,
   and puts on trial
   the notion  
   of the 'intrinsic' honorability of existence
   we have been fed
   with the milk of a mothers' love.

    your soil is yours ---

the murder of oneself
is surely a way to harvest ---
the reaping
   of yet another human life

existential poem #7 "inanna in the flesh"

 can i
     become the one
     leaving behind
     a mother in the clutches of grief
     and the psychotic darkness of a sister
     in dire need of direction---
  can i
     become the myth
     grandmothers tell
     to children
     at bedtime

when the fear of life
    outspans
    the fear of dying
in terms of spiritual terror
    one can but choose :::
when life's terror
    outweighs
    death's terror
one can but choose
   what one wants:
   the cholera of death or a syphilis of life?
   ( --- remember: not choosing is always a choice in itself --- )

   --- appendix ---    

     my sister and my mother is holding me back
     together we create a fierce feminine trinity:
     the insane, the strong, and the wise.
  TOGETHER
  WE FORM
  INANNA
  IN THE FLESH

"come in, i heard a voice from inside"

What Began As A Self-Portrait

Remake of an year old self-portrait, with the help of Marshall "Do" Applewhite, childhood heirlooms, Jämtland and the recurring whirligig.

Gamla texter

SPÄDBARNETS LIDANDE:

Man kunde tro att spädbarnet icke varit medveten de första åren av sin livstid, att det allt eftersom planteras små fläckar av medvetande i tillvaron som sedan blommar ut till ett fullvuxet och medvetet djur - men trots detta ska man inte tro att spädbarnet är befriat ifrån lidande och amoralism. Tvärt om.

Spädbarnet upplever under sin första tid som människa det största kval som finnes eftersom dennes livmodersdrömmar om det fria valet och sinnenas njutningar krossas och liknar numera en mardröm. Det oskyldiga och rena barnet kan inte annat göra än att svälja de lögner och piskrapp som väntar. Därför gråter modern och skötet eftersom ännu en ristning ärrat jordskorpan, medan fadern och lemmen skrattar krampaktigt åt att olyckan endast hört startskottet. 

Mina lustar tar över mig! Om jag skriver kanske jag skäms och tvingar sirenerna till reträtt. 
'Jo' säger min penis, 'Nej' säger jag.

 

Shed not tears in awe of my dying, ye daughters of a barren earth;
But weep instead for yourself and ye daughters and sons.
Blessed are the wombs that never bore and teats that never nursed;
Surely must even death die before we can glance at salvation?

when i was 18, i listened a lot to deathspell omega. (personal cringe)

The eyes of man are stirred, their hands tied backwards, like the limbs of a hog.
The skin is fattened, the intestines clogged, the teeth are black.
Religious lepers praying for water, sundried lips and downcast gaze,
The eyelids could no longer be separated from the eyes themselves.
Tunnels without a sun of hope, eyes sewn shut with obtuse thread.
That distant silhouette dying amongst the blemished clouds…

The blessing hand retracts and the fingers close,
The doves no longer peck from their palms
The Cunt of origin does no longer bear the blessing of Shekhinah
A virgin mocks herself with her own fingers,
Nymphaes open and breathe at the end of days
Her festive garments dripping with stale menarche,
Crust black fluid leathered the silk…

Temples of the earth destroyed to their foundation,
Puzzles of the mind infected with dementia
The womb of Eve subject to an awry abortion
The bosoms of whores untouched for millennia…

… Do those gleaming irises vigil over our sleep?

The eyes of Cherubim blinded by cadaveric dust, the ashes of the burnt bones
They wash their praying hands in the sluice of their own meconium,
Adorned with Elizabethan collars, like hounds,
So engulfed in desperation as to forget the uncurled tunnels
Mazes of vacant graves, these walls are coffins...
They blot the name of the Lord - Logos raped, drenched...
The effigy lies expounded amongst the black stones of sacrifice.

Lo, a lord of lords with a thousand halos, its Self reveals,
Abysses, the heinous chorus of life, the fields of failed harvest
The rats in the walls and those set of eyes, elated, with an aura of foreboding...
The hissing of the verdures, the purling holy poison smeared on the plumage of every bird,
The serpentine skin molted afore their every step.
Here lies the absence and completion of peace, these gardens rot and they grow,
They breathe in the absence of life, and they rot in the absence of DEATH
And of those poignant bacteria, and its adversive effects, they have no inkling;
Where all common distinctions fall unto their ultimate deaths,
where all combined Ecumenical values are shattered against the rocks.

Entheo-genus is a Cunt!
Motherwhore Chalice, womb of life and death
The fruit of your whoredom, an inner war for every temple
Where siblings spite each other with venomous swords,
And howl mockery with contagious tongues
A breathing phallus roils amidst the damp leaves:
This serpent shall spew holy poison, and make you with child,
And in every of that child's veins shall flow that poison…

Iam enim securis ad radicem arborum posita est
omnis ergo arbor quae non facit fructum bonum
exciditur et in ignem mittitur...*

Ephphatha!
Mote that radiant light shine where his sun fails to reach
Dive deep into the Eye in which you are the phosphene
Explore its tunnels and you shall get a glance of salvation
Keep not your eyes but gouge them with violence
Surely must that widen your horizon merely a little!
Burst your veins and flesh to dust and let loose scavengers therein
Holocaust of Worms and the Rape of Dignity
Ares is he, to Hawwah, the bringer of War.

Dissonance devours the silence, the tranquility lies broken.
Let the hobo of the serpents tongue bring war upon war.
Let the echo of his sermon bring plague upon plague.
Sow in the morasses of manure, compelled by these abominable bowels!
Breathe with gay grin amongst these horrendous cesspools.
…Eve in convulsion, yawning from the abysses of massacred providence…

Ephphatha! Funeral firmament...
And the nymphaes sweep like wings, the heavens clove like an abominous vulva
And the moist of its menarche stain the soil, drenched in the paltry failure of its labor
Let flow the amnios of its foul parturition: Tabula Rasa smeared in gaudy vulgarism –
Excrement clots this canvas
The Abortion of the Dream of Heavenly Utopia...

Woeful astroblemes, chasms of the Earth
The Garden of Eden writhe amongst stench and gall
Ecstatic Cherubim seek refuge in the bosom of their LORD
And necrotic tears blur their pure white eyes
But instead of consolation and the marsupe's warmth
They are smothered to death ---
Black gall churn in the dreary womb of light,
To clog the fissures of man, and run in the veins of the world

Hawwah raises her hands towards that burning sky
Consumed by the venom of the Earth
And chanting, rambling Logos through sharpened teeth
With tongues contagious with disease
Carried beneath wings smitten by leprous filth
Death, the bitter aftertaste of an awry harvest
The ordure of life falling over the Beloved Paradise
Traitors nurture the holy teats
And sow in the soil of a LORD dethroned
O ye cherubim trembling in ye ghastly white garments,
swords of fire and faces wan with moribund joy
Verily, say unto me, why dost thou breath gay-heartedly amongst these gardens?

The truth stagnates without differing paths,
And of that ye must have an inkling!
...The virgin womb is fecundated...

Drink deep from the gravy of death's wretched vagins
The amniomancy of the first begotten...

Tear the ribs out of the chests of the Cherubim
And ravish their precious wombs
O Guardians of the Holy Garden
We bear your swords of fire...

...The circle of dead children rolls their eyes to the skull -
Was there not a sordid triumph at Eden's verdures?

some pictures from our everyday lives

EXISTENTIAL POEM #18

as you despise solitude
so you despise freedom
for only in the stabwounds of absence
your life will bleed free
a flowing ichor - smelling of valor - a bright red blood;
and only in the loneliness
and in the palace of mirrored walls
     can you be yourself
truly, without even the pettiest of exceptions.

as you avoid solitude
so you avoid freedom ---
a life
in the shackles
   of the world
      as it is ---

you subscribe
    to the dictum
     of intrinsic morality
and will die a loser's death.

does not a great bulk of our sorrows;
personal failures; disappointments;
betrayals; worthless efforts and the chronicality of spiritual suffering
  depend on the sociableness
  of our behavioral patterns
  and the human relationships
  that it springs forth?

loneliness is suffering
in the absence of human comfort ---
  sociability is suffering
  in the absence of loneliness and freedom;
  insoluble equation and paradox.

renunciate life ---
     it is yours to abandon;
repudiate the proposed intrinsic value
of its depressive and harrowing properties.

have you ever been told
that suicide is the
the summit of cowardice
   and that its apparent egotism
   negates and per se illegitimizes
     itself?

then let us call it the apogee
of freedom, and the personal terrorism
of responsibility;
   the hand
   that which breaks middle fingers 
          upward
   in mockery and renunciation.

the apparent immorality
of self-death,
   a cigarette butt 'neath
   our heels
suicide
is the most basic right
   of all---the voluntary death
     of the hero.