in honesty,

can we not all see what is happening,

just we open these eyes?

the hypnotic spell of this modernity,

the egalitarian and solidaric idealism,

the sisyphean task of equalling every human life standard,

this collapsing experiment; the incorrigible failures of its predictions,

its idealistic sophistry as methodology

and the apparent dissatisfaction and embarassment of outcome,

surely must be harrowing to us all? just we looked.

life is weird and mysterious,

i burned myself on gods' stove ---

now i try to alm the burning sensation

with the aloe vera of self-deceit.

revised dhumavati intro #3

my attack withstands; my storms endure;

the trebuchets hurl, the walls collapse ---

i am a conqueror with the nimbus of smoke;

i hold the staff that shoot panspermia into the burning galaxies;

my breath is the burning mist and my weapon, Asura-forged...

welcome, prince of rape and ruin...

day, night, my siege unrelenting...

emotional war of attrition against the way stronger enemy;

but my hostile neutrality; my victimless terror;

my kalasjnikovs shooting blanks like failed men

and my bleak indifference towards the world

will shiver my enemies with trepidation,

for i am the sorrow of Dhumavati,

and i wish to be to my own sensibilities, urges,

weaknesses and temptations,

what Kali is to Shiva;

consort; lover; friend; advicer ---

but never ever subordinate:

hand in hand I have leapt over small rivers and climbed hillocks with the beautiful woman, the woman inside me, anima --- I have called her Vasilisa, or Lalleshwari, or Enheduanna, Mirabai, or maybe Edith or Rani of Jhansi... they have all gazed with me from the crenelated terrace of love out over the steppes out there, down there, unexplored, dangerous... Did not Lalleshwari, ferocious Lal Ded, the wolfess in the shroud of a woman, tear the modest rags off her body and give her away thoughtlessly to the burning woodlands, the nigrescent horizon, the terror of the unknown, having renounced the fixed marriage of her honor-obsessed family, having suffered under patriarchal suppression like a fucking hound, having warded off rape and desecration since childhood... Did not Enheduanna, the high priestess, cry and wail at the thought and sight of Lugalbanda destroying her temple in Ur? Or Edith, as she fought off the imps of tubercolosis with rusty scimitars, stubbornly, passionately... As did Rani with her British invaders... And I have fallen handlessly into the web of love for these wolverines, I have enucleated the gods and goddesses of causality... they have not been able to see me in my arrogant tamperings with space and time, the continuum is no longer continuous... for I have loved all the way through it... Such was the power of my passionate love!

the Islamic religion was born with a series of sleep paralyses,

as having been experienced by Mohammad; it is with this first dictum that I launch the archaeo-islamic esotericism...

POEM ON THE STOCKHOLM TERRORIST ATTACK

many days have passed and we no longer care;

no more crying children and no more crying parents ---

so what happens

when all the blood has been washed away;

when all the tears have dried in our suns' eternal indifference,

and when all the limbs have been repatriated at best or thrown to the dogs at worst,

when you can no longer cut the atmosphere in half with a knife;

when you can no longer separate the the ones who pretend to care

from those who aren't even bothered to play along with the act? ---

the asphalt never forgets; it remembers everything ---

do not mistake the shortness of your own ridiculous attention-span

with the resentment with which the world swallows its tragedies;

the ornery with which it conduct its negotiations

and the spiteful vicissitude with which it variate its cruelties...

no-one ever believes the warning; no-one ever assumes responsibility;

cry wolf, cry wolf, cry wolf, no, cry apocalypse ---

it is all fucked --- no-one knows how it will end ---

but from where i am standing, it does not look good.

the street lies empty for some days

after the catastrophe...

out of some kind of respect, they figure---

out of some kind of shame, i say.

THE LEGACY OF ABRAHAM (revised version)

THE LEGACY OF ABRAHAM

emigrant of mighty Ur, city of fortitude;

longevity; grandeur; city of heavenly architecture ---

the resplendence of the mightiest of gods;

abode of ancient ancestries;

kings sunken in quicksands of turning time---

in the blaze of the mighty sun,

and in the shadow that great, great ziqqurat,

whose flesh is kissed by Nanna, the moon,

Abraham contemplated the theorem of monotheism,

the tenets of such a proposition,

and the psycho-philosophical freight

such a massive train of thought would carry:

over the lapse of

one hundred and seventy five years

this rugged man tried, and thought, and wandered,

and sought god--

there is, however, a disruption of concensus, over whether

god was ever found,

and we to this day

try to deduce concluding arguments

from the ever-morphing, thousand-tentacled

monstrosity of religion, all the questions it asks,

and the eternal inward pathos they trigger...

what does the example of faith,

the abrahamic servitude,

present us with, save from its cultural anchorage

and the sheer weight of history?

can we find within ourselves

legitimization … can we subsidize

a religion built on the blind faith

and the personal surrender of will?

I compare the birth-pangs of christianity with the nuclear catastrophe at Chernobyl;

boom, and everything goes sour;

this world; this society; this culture,

this spiritual landscape has become

so ravaged by the nuclear waste

of the Abrahamic meltdown

and the precipitating acid holocaust

bombarding entires cities with disease and decline,

that the people soon fall for solace; surrender; utopianism;
fawn lie down never to stand again; strong men fall to their knees;

crops grow downward in social angst and decide to never grow again;

weak ideals take shape like dung in the hands of a master sculptor;

birds fall to the ground hundredfold, the ethos of surrender plays with society like a puppy,

and all the swaths of land around

soon corrupt as well --- nothing is safe at all.

we should not forget that Abraham wilfully

sacrificed his son

to the glory of the hidden god --- with dear love!

supposedly god prevented this by sending his best angel to stop the ritual filicide,

as a measure, on god's part, of mercy (it is told anyway...)

but nothing can be said of Abrahams' motif, crystal as it is!

no apologetic defense legitimate enough can been presented;

god hungered for the blood of a child, it is true;
such is the arrogance, self-importance, psychopathology,

egomania, sadism and power-hungriness of this god---

and, not only that---

what does all of this tell of Abraham, the meek fucker?

is this a proper way to manage the legacy of Mesannepada? ---

in the face of the living god the opium of solace may seem nice,

and now i feel myself sometimes such sensibilities;

now i sit myself on the prayer mat

that have seen so many dishonest genuflexions

and have been wettened so many times

by all the forced tears of remorse:

the agonizing anathemata

to a god that never even fucking sobbed

over our miseries; our grievances; all our monumental sufferings;

he watches silently the pains that could surmount even the love of life;

i pray into the void --- the hopelessness that is embedding us,

and i see a

god of insolence and laziness;

god of hallow promises; god of tyranny through a deception

colder than anything measurable

on earth, in heaven, or in hell ---

hypocritical, self-important god of human sewage ---

semitic spiritual tumor, ugly and feeble---

i do not know much, but what i do know

is that i smell a rat

on Abrahams' pungent breath.

i am cleansed of abrahamic venom.

and my barbs sting at modesty.

i worship nothing

and nothing shall worship me.

A DEAD END

may i be just one

among a milliard others

waiting in line

for my turn

to dance

awkwardly

with doubt and with anxiety

into death, the final portal ---

as the individual.... nothing more nothing less...

i wish to be

an evolutionary dead end ---

all relations abandoned;,

all families cracked;

all soil dried out

and all blood miscoloured with the arsenic of renunciation

no children

no heritage

no fucking pet even,

no anything ---

just finality, the genetic entropy

of my own life-strain

speeded up just a little

with the help of my bandit soul---

confusion, my heredity;

I would not want to bring about confused children to this world

because I aspire not to be mean

and I do not wish to lead a petty life;

thus I ask you --- what is a greater pettiness;

what is a a greater existential parsimony;

a more shameful surrender unto dull averageness,

than having children...

all life on earth shares a common ancestor --- which is nothing ---

and precisely that will be the only fossil of our existence.

i am a dead man trapped in a near-life experience ---

that is all life seems to amount to;

despair

nothingness

abjection ---

the dna of the human spirit.

let us reverse the principle of

never attributing to needless complexity

what adequate banality may evidentially explain;

let us take this Occams' razor ---

and cut our wrists open with it;

life might be explained by evolutionary, reproductive necessities

but that is a fucking cop-out!!!

we approach the last station of the tram ride humanity started to undertake with the birth and work of jesus the nazarene, and it is not at all looking pretty from where i am standing.

 good luck, sweetest children
 good luck
 god is greater.

tyst

IDÉER STRÖMMANDES FRAMKNULLADER FRÅN LOGOS TILL HENES SKÄLVANDE KROPP MEN HAN TILL HENNE ÄR HON TILL HON MEN INGET
IDÉER FRÅN INGENTING en skälvande kvinno kropp vari jag kokade mätte mått tills hon intet blått
ATT MÅSTE VETA
I SPEGELN LETA
ATT FINNS! FINNS! FINNS! NÄR TUNGAN EN ÖKEN NÄSAN VITTRAD I VINDEN DÄR: BRINNER EN BUSKE, LEVER LIK UR SEMANTIK OCH IHÅLIGA, GENOMSKINLIGA GESTALTER ...???...
mitt mord av mitt ord jag vibrerar jag är inte din syster jag är inte din syster jag är inte din syster jag är inte din syster
JAG ÄR SPEGELN
JAG ÄR NARREN
BYDÅRENS ORD: ORDET HAR INGEN SANS, AKTA ER FÖRSIKTIGT -- JAG HAR GÖMT DEN NÅGONSTANS. JAG GER DIG 52 JOKRAR OCH DU SÄGER: DE ÄR ALLA HJÄRTER KUNG JAG ÄR I N T E D I N S Y S T E R JAG ÄR HAN I HON MYCKET GAMMAL ÄNDLÖST NY.

JAG ÄR EN VATTENDROPPE KROSSAD OCH SPRÄCKT MELLAN HÄFTIGA STORMVÅGOR. JAG ÄLSKAR OCH JAAAAA DET ÄR I M I N MOTHERFUCKING MAKT ATT HÄVDA ÄLSKANDET JAG ÄLSKAR DESSA VATTEN VI FLYTER:::::: STELNA INTE LIKT NATURVÄSEN I BETONGSKOGAR INFÖR DET DISIGA EPILEPSISKENET I VÅR FÖRMÖRKNADE VÄRLD. NI SKALL SE ATT NI SER MED ETT OLUSTIGT SYNANDE EFTER FELET; DET SER ER!!! DET SER ER!!!!NI FALLER HANDLÖST TILL MARKEN OCH GREPPAR TAG I S J Ä L V A S T E JORDEN, HIVER KLOTET MOT SKYARNA OCH FASTNAR I EN STELNAD RÖRELSE AV ETT SPIRALSLUNGANDE DU-JORDEN DU-JORDEN O ZIEMIA O ZIEMIA O ZIEMIA

HÄR VAR VI ÄR
HÄR VAR VI ÄR
VI VAR VI VAR
NÄR HÄR VAR HÄR
JAG ÄR JAG ÄR
JAG ÄR JAG ÄR
JAG ÄR JAG ÄR
I
MITT
EJ
LÄNGRE

(DET SOM BINDER SAMMAN -- SAMMA ANNAT SAMMA ANNAT SAMA ANNAT SAMMA ANAT. HÄNDERNAS STRÄCKANDE, HUDENS STOPP. FÅNGANDE, FÅNGANDE, FÅNGANDE, FÅNGANDE"

"THE SORROW OF DHUMAVATI"

my attack withstands; my storms endure;

the trebuchets hurl; ballistas beg for this war to be over...

day, night, my siege unrelenting...

emotional war of attrition...

my hostile neutrality; my victimless terror;

my kalasjnikovs shooting blanks like failed men

and my harrowing indifference towards the world

will shiver my enemies with trepidation,

for i am the sorrow of Dhumavati,

and i wish to be to my own sensibilities,

urges, weaknesses, temptations,

what Kali is to Shiva;

consort; lover; friend; advicer ---

but never ever subordinate;

this is an embargo on the dignity of human life ---

revenge is a drop of blood on my tongue

tasting bitter of wet, cold iron;

i can see

the pulsations of the earth-worm

roiling about in its wormcasts

that lead all the way to Irkalla...

i can see its tongue

sucking the blood of passion

and i can see

its eyes

glowing like magpies' silver

in the light of the solar anus;

i can see

the dried blood

speaking whole languages

from the cuts on Dhumavatis' wrists

which she gave to herself,

striking her flesh with razors--

i can see Dhumavati

in front of the firesquads; locked in the pillories;

immured in the ancient moats and forced to her knees

at the mercy of bloodthirsty pollaxes;

i can see her

speaking with the failed Sadhu

now plucking nutrience from dung

left by visitors behind whore-houses;

i can see her laughing cynically

with drug-addicted bards; with the lepers of the forests;

with the thralls of guilt, and those of conscience;

with them, she sobs ---

caught in the foreboding stare of Shiva, her loved one, acrimonious...

the torturous whipping, stoning, and lashing of self-hatred

befell Dhumavati surely, for a yoke was hung

on her old, sore shoulders:

Shiva gazed with judgement;

and Dhumavati became the food of worms ---

her picturesque beauty eroded in the great monsoon

as the loo of all things pretty turned against her;

the precipitation of acid and spousal abuse...

her face no longer smiles ---

shredded it became; torn,

with the iron dagger of failed morality ---

and even her crow wept the tears of abjection...

the samudra manthan of the human condition...

on the brink of very death

she crawled

through long-endured starvation,

the thorned bush of desperation...

having chewed and swallowed Shivas' flesh,

her misery was surely rooted in her weakness;

she could not forgive herself

for her surrender unto her own hungry lusts

and her unability to muster decent courage; discipline...

and i can relate her sorrows...

i am myself the prisoner of addiction and of thralldom;

my life is the knitting of the tapestry of failures and impuissances,

but i understand so far:

a thousand failures followed by one tremendous victory

is a thing more important than that one victory alone could ever be.

Dhumavati surely is beautiful in the garments of rotted corpses---

she moves about, spectre-like, in the rags of cremation grounds,

her dwelling-place is every Ghat

from Varanasi to Kanyakumari;

within them she finds felicity; serenity;

she smears the ashes of the dead on her pale body;

she bathes in the chaos-waters and falls asleep to the ship-wrecks as lullabies;

she struggles sword to sword with the Kshatriya knights of dissociation ---

for she is my sister; ugly-beautiful Dhumavati...

the ocean of milk is barren, her cynicism drank it to its last drop,

and like dairy left in the sun, the memory of kṣīra sāgara itself indeed grew sour...

she descends --- Ghandarva of grief --- riding her black-winged crow;

harbinger of bitter and contagious melancholies,

steer-woman of the horseless chariot;

eternal widow,

old, sorrowful widow ---

the architectress of saudade builds on and on and on

and on and on

her heartsick, wailful tower...

can she find her way out of the corpse-white labyrinth

of psychosis and schizophrenia?

I awoke with your name dancing on these cracked lips,

I give my thanks; i genuflect in gratitude.

most egregious of the Mahavidya, become my consort;

i ask you in marriage,

for I need understanding of my grievances;

i need care for my wounds; hugs for my loneliness;

i need friends to ward off demons --- these lands are not safe...

i need food when starving; drink when parching ---

Dhumavati, i offer to hug you

and lay with you as i lay with the harlots;

my sitar is fingered by an orphaned Asura

and without music life is just an empty sad mistake

dancing slowly backwards into stagnation

to the shrill wine of silence and of absence---

so groove with me, please ---

it revealed unto me,

it is my vision,

and my sword is psychedelia;

i have become the scorpion of religious meta-truth,

and my barbs sting at modesty; custom; tradition; dogma...

the mnemonic mist of drugs and depression ---

i no longer can remember why i am alive ---

but i'll find out.

 

EN SKOCK NAKNA FLICKOR

en skock nakna flickor dansa
   kring
  kolsvarta ebenholtstempel;
  de dansa runt  
  mardrömmarnas blommande lotus,
  lysandes som ett valborgsbål
  eller som ett fyrverkeri
  i en alldeles mörk natt.

en skock nakna flickor spränga
   sin kropp
   till atomer och damm
   och atomerna blöder tårar av guld ---
         i skam och i pina.

vilsekomna flickor gråta
   med dolken mot den stora magen;
   abortens gudinnor klinka sin märkliga klaviatur
   och fingra sin harpa --- som är en fitta.

skräckslagna flickor gråta,
   djävulens öga vidga sin brutala pupill ---
   en strålkastare utan motstycke ---
   och ångestens genetik
   falsifieras
     och omstruktureras
      i sanningens mest ädla
      och omvandlande empiri.

TYSTA

https://soundcloud.com/theendcommune/svarta-parla

my little diamond in the rough; planned release august 2040

I followed eagerly the berrypickers, and we followed now each-other --- they shook me, hopefully, I them; there is something about these girls, I can not pin-point it, but --- I have entered the citadel of weirdest emotions; for now, I am its denizen, I put the whip on the backs of its slaves, and I wipe tears from the corners of my eyes while doing so... The sky continued to fall out of its womb, the heavenly prolapse... The wetness is everywhere and no avail is spared us, atleast not for this moment, but that feels quite fine, given the situation I find myself in, consorted by two lovely girls into the fearsome, adventurous, unknown... the dream of every honest man... There is an upheaval in mood; time; being... that numinous feeling of setting foot upon thresholds of lucidity in nightmares you by sheer weight of terror never have been able to master or even approach spinefully: I am aware I exist, the forest seem more real than ever, the foliage of the pines itch my face as we cower through thornbush... we slide down mud slopes and rest our battered bodies on the founding stones of ancient and mighty cairns; I have never seen these oceans of oak before, a feeling of adventure befalls me... the dresses of the two girls are now stained with mud and muck: they do not seem to care as long as we are together... half my age, still they feel like mothers in their warm and loving tenderness... laughs and giggles warm my lonely heart... in fact, they look even more beautiful now, shredded as their clothes are, with their fucked-up hair, blue, cold fingers, snot and stains of mushed berries... they look at home, this is their spiritual habitat, and it is so beautiful, the thought of it all... as we rest, something changes... the landscape transforms, anxiety rises like whipping waves to the dam, my reservoirs revolt, but in a cowering, pathetic manner, like children contracting aids from incestuous abuse, disgusting malpractice without end nor beginning, the ultimate perversion, the corruption of innocence... anxiety bend my jaws open in degradation, this is how Eve must have felt, feeling Adam's bitter rancor like the intrusiveness of the rapist, the blasphemous betrayal... even God must have laughed in pity, surely he cringed... I must have ingested some alkaloid; some toxic, inedible berry; some naturally occuring deliriant --- have they poisoned me? Paranoia breeds with excitement, weird mix, I recommend it with spite... I have seen it many times, the raving sun of amphetamine did burn with delirium and blisters many of the people I have called comrades in the past... have they poisoned me? The sun seems more like a judgemental eye now, burning with fiery sarcasm, even though I can not see it --- it is too clogged, the sky --- the grey parapets of the heavens are so dismal, gloomy, sombre I can not for the life of me imagine what lies behind them is any more uplifting... celestial Berlin wall...and the graffitti says 'stay away'.... I do not know... my Theban is rusty... I stare into the unhinged storm of calm --- the face of paradise contorts like children in the furnace waving goodbye to mothers having traded sorrow, desperation and ineptitude for resentment so malignant no return to former shape can even be imagined... this loathsomeness, the overall trepidation, the loss of focus and hope.... I feel sick. Vomit gropes my vellum --- my vellum does not answer with the same intimacy, at least not with consent, so maybe coerced with hostility...a reaction has been provoked: I puke, belch, throw up; I regurgitate gall and berries. I barf like the miserable victims of permanent upheaval of proprioception forced at gun-point onto the decks of ships in midsts of treacherous headlands... my vestibular system, my visual system, the sub-structures of my sense of identity, the sum of my neurobiochemical predicaments throw molotov cocktails against me; everything I have ever believed, everything I have ever held as true, even possible... intellectual toxoplasma gondii paralyzes every subjective truth I claim, and, like a lemmel to the cliff, I wander, in throes of death, toward the ferocity of the feline, its shining teeth, its gluttonous maw, its rancid breath --- old sardines and pure, unadulteraded sadomania... every axiom of my existence grab their purses and keys firmly as they walk through the park of life, at night: my sense of self is locked in the great pillory of despair on some damned hillock lost and forgotten in an ocean of a thousand shark-fins wobbling at the surface... my consorts, the beautiful girls, do not seem to mind, however --- it is a trick. Is it a trick? Enmious, evil quackery... I know it is. Clearly they must be attentive enough as to seem what wreckage I have become over just the lapse of mere minutes! However... I can not lie to myself, childish ridiculousness... I do not know this... how can I take this for granted, I think... on another note, maybe only futile moments have passed... seconds... even less than that... maybe I have lost also this sense of reality: derealization; depersonalization... I fall without rope into the cavern of doubt, I have no friends on the outside and I am sexually assaulted by imps of demoniac psychedelia... small as they are, their sexual ferocity is primatial; only the premier of human rapists could give these fuckers a challenge --- I can not believe any animal would tear a prey apart so roughly as these malevolent forces batter this body --- I swirl like Gods' flushed toilet paper in a vortex engaged in total warfare with the space-time continuum itself... nothing I can take for granted except for the seemingly innate beauty of the smiles I have above me, like two opulent suns showering me in the grace of aesthetic otherwordliness... they utter words now...


having described themselves as the Zorza, or more commonly, perhaps, known as the Zorya --- I feel calmer, for I know what I have encountered.