old, aeolian rauks! a rugged cliffy coast...
foamy splash of the sea azure in tumult, uproarious tide!
tentacular visions i behold
  from deep Charybdis depths...

the eyestalks of giant ocean-snails
broadcast watery apocalypse
a halatinous parching of viperfish throats
murmur thick vibrations
from abyssal floor

a fast one

upon the hill
a circle of dead faeries
strangled

there is a skin woven
over and around
the sun

and in the center of that skin
there is a miniscule hole,
from which a piercing ray of light
emerges violently

it strikes me
and i have become
epicentral to the world,
the receptacle
of a violent collision
of earthly and unearthly energies.
 

With a thick, smothering shroud of many billions of people covering the surface of the earth, with all their wills and voices joining in discontent murmurs of dissatisfaction and their thirst for leisure and standard, pacifism has gone extinct before it really even started to breathe. There is no way this will end, or even continue about, peacefully. 

just from a flow-state

Don't speak to me about courage or valual priorities! I do not want to hear of the anatomies from the dock-worker; i do not want to hear of the butchering of sheep from some priest somewhere; i do not want to hear the lectures of self-important new-age preachers about exploring inner darkness and i certainly do not want some swollen, pork-skinned scholar from the phrontistery to reproach me on matters of honor and valor! You can teach me nothing of bravery, or friendship or about how to love a woman. Your words and your theses and your idealism works only here - here may be peace, here may be hegemony under your rotten vexilology, but nowhere else. You are sanctimonious in your opposition to violence regardless of the crime of the perpetrator. Frolicking in peace and love, caressing one another with dumb idealist illusions must be sweet and cosy - no doubt about that. Yet it is a weak way of life, a most human pestilence of thoughts and acts, a disastrous and respondent attitude. There is no matter about it, no debate to be had! 

i want to build
a magnificent physique
holding in, thwarting
a great deluge of heart and soul
roaring, tumbling, clashing
therein;

crushing waves of creativity
held back only by the bulwarks -
of will and of grace and of muscle!

this is still most most A) disturbing, and B) poetically technical piece. which creates a very bizarre wholeness.

 Down with its cart and off with its plough;
to become neutered all cattle must!
Because deep from the tripe of a hideous cow,
the throat coughs but vapours of dust!
And gaze down the hole of the tubular tract
of the beast-stinking, astrobleme anus;
Devoid of faeces, like some Rome it is sacked,
But from there drips semen - how heinous!

With tar in their veins and salt on their tongues,
their stomachs are barren, no womb;
called by the kulning, with soot in their lungs,
in tethers toward an abbatoir tomb!
These horrible sins! This veneral crime,
the keenness to experience flesh!
And astray they were lost in Bachanallian grime -
and ancient wounds opened afresh!

The spaying, while gross, of the slut-cattle starts
as sentenced, to much sob and whelm;
the cow-bells are silenced! And soon, no more carts
will travel the roads of our realm!
And mighty the King of the Oxen reveals,
its fur; reddish, beautiful, coarse;
and mighty, its calls and passions and zeals,
to all destitute cattle-fuck whores!

The salt has been licked and the oxen still rape,
the pasture succumbed to a war!
the dung is fermenting, ground and hill quake,
the earth purged with blood and manure!
In wanton revealed, with pleasure obsessed
the cows rest, so bloated and full;
anointed, crowned prince, martyred and blessed
by the dung of the Bonnacon bull...

i never found two people to be perfectly equal;
neither in the eyes of myself nor in the eyes of the world;
God may see it so that we are honestly and really equal -
that, when the day comes, we be measured by the same rod,
and judged in accord with consistent principals
of existential, moral and spiritual law;
but that is the work of the Divine tribunal,
and I shall leave it up to God to show that never do God do mock trials;
for I believe that God believes that Justice is Divine.

but neither I nor the world, nor any other individual,
can properly and plausibly inculcate
the equality of men as some natural or moral law,
and when she does, she tells a lie;
only in the tribunals of Heaven are we pure;
only in the tribunals of Heaven will character, and character alone,
be on trial;
down here, nothing is equal and everything matters.
because down here we are more than souls,
and down here, the world is constituent of more parts
than merely the spiritual -
 

There is no doubt that, in this world, there are all sorts of
people who seem succesful, look beautiful, dress well,
and have a myriad many followers and subjects to whom
their influence becomes a focal point of almost saintlike adulation;
and it is almost to be treated as a natural law,
that the clueless admirer will likely end up admiring
something equally, or even more clueless.

There are likewise no doubt that many of these are empty inside,
canisters of shrieking colors but emptied, who do not feel either
moral or spiritual aspirations in addition, or in balance even,
to the undeserved respect and admiration with which
society and modern culture blesses them

the prophecy speaks of draught,
of death and of doom.

their prodigal hearts were wounded
from the lance of self-critique,
striking hard from the left side of histories!

and they bled the black muck
of their own reprobate wanton.
that is all it came to amount to:

a history of failure and destitution;
tirades of empty moralism, exhibitions
in shallowness, contests in vice and vanity;
glorifications of hedonistic inhibition...

coyness, resolve, constraint, mystery:
all abandoned!―

here is no strife!
here is no sacrifice!

“just we fuck, drink and laugh enough!”

in the end times, only the surface nuisances
of a planet burning at its core seemed interesting―
nothing was real in those last days.
 

Excerpt from Dialogue with the Two Sisters (April 2021); work in progress

"If enlightenment meant tulips and sunshine, then everyone would be enlightened, but everyone is not. If hard work was easy, it wouldn't be called hard. If the human spirit was weak, we wouldn't conceptualize strength as an ideal universal. If the meaning of existence means "follow your bliss", I do not want to be here anymore. Bliss is a dead end. Meaning is the pathway forward. Meaning, power, beauty and the Glory of God. Go to hell with your hedonism and your "bliss" and your "it makes me happy" hippie bullshit. Crawl through the gutter; there is knowledge in dirt and grime, too. The accomplished human is happy, yes, but only as a secondary effect of being accomplished. Happiness can not come before accomplishment. Bliss is a dead end. I promise that. And if you don't believe me - try it. Pursue "happiness" for 10 years and see where you find yourself. If enlightenment meant bliss and pleasure, everyone would be enlightened. Because it would be so easy. Why are not everyone happy, then? Where is that fucking utopia? Why is there atrocity, resentment, murder, rape, madness, angst and the harrowing, millenial accumulation of evil sin and malignancy in this world? Because bliss and pleasure will not set your free - it will entrap. I say again: if hard work was easy, it wouldn't be called hard. The search for meaning goes through many dimlit caverns, believe that. And there is religious truth in the very shadow you try to banish and evict from your heart futily! God is surely a terror for the feeble-minded. That is why they pretend God does not exist. Easier that way, perhaps. However, it is an existential and spiritual falsity, a human error, a self-imposed indemnity, this ever-search for carnal and sensual satisfaction and of material acquisition. And to that I can only leer mockingly. I have no respect for it, because God commands it not, never."

hyperbolic thoughts arisen after a 15km morning run

It is not the proper function of the arts to make statements about politics, and I never like it when it does. It is not the function of arts to inculcate political ideology; it is is called propaganda when aesthetics and political agenda merge, not art.

The law of art is not the law of anything else, it can not be appropriated, for it is a law of beauty and beauty is a pool in which we can feel no bottom. And it has the pretention to spiritualize, elevate the human being, not to politicize her, for that would be to weaken her. And it is a law always proper and true to itself.

No matter what man does to man, however vile and abominable the atrocity, beauty persists. Even in the heat of history's most notorious battles, beauty is present, beauty persists.

Yes. Art is always true to itself. And what exactly is itself? ... What is art, then, really? I think it is the attempt of interpreting God and mystery by man, and it is the futile attempt of communication by the insect to something altogether greater, something supremely important though very hard to pin, to realize, to catch a glimpse of.

But how much can the insect really realize her predisposition in this world? That is the question. And how much can the human realize hers? Well. We try to paint us a picture and we try to channel it through poetry, literature and theatre. We try to figure out our own limitations, and, by the same token, our potential as receivers of otherwordly frequencies. We can not just be flesh and blood; I can not buy that. Animals do not develop psychology and theology and art over millenia. We are guardians of beauty in this world, and that beauty, to understand it, requires a certain mystical sense the human being evidently has. When you detect beauty, you detect beauty. You feel it, you know it, you admire it. That is not even something you choose; you just do.  And what else in the world cares about beauty? And of the beauty of insight, knowledge, the will to change, the will to strife? None. No life-form whatsoever. At least that is what I, with hefty humility, speculate.

Art is a strong fir and politics but mere winds, ever-changing, without fixed direction, and in the mighty crown of the fir, aeon-old, the sun warms the egg of a great eagle. Between the eyes of this great eagle sits Veðrfölnir, casting fires and blazes of wrath upon those who believe art is always political and that the human condition is inseparable from the politics with which we try to govern this absolute mess of a world dilapidating slowly, surely, around us.

I strongly repudiate the claim that art is ever-political. Art, beauty and the love for God's glory crushes politics in the hearts of greater men and women. Always and forever, until the end of time.

Do not come with your politics; I do not care. Call me naive, call me selfish, call me spoiled and privileged. I concur! I am all those things! But my peace is more important than your opinion.

O Holy Lord wash the sins off my white body and guard me from these evil poisons! Infect me not with these viruses of a mundane world!!!! I fix my eyes on a higher goal and your critique of that simply rinses off my beautiful body!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam.
 

 05:19

 I HAVE NO PEACE BUT I WANNA SLEEP

When Kawkwylla ascends in a mist of pungence, a cloud-mantle grey and smouldering, convolved in pall of thick smoke, with her body swarming with mice and rats biting her, scratching her, and holding the speech-scrolls of the hidden Apocalypse in her firm, white hands... only then may I rest. 

 When the world has ended, I shall lie down to rest... and then I can die into a peace eternal. But! I am afraid I have forgotten to bring an obol for the ferry-man. Or, forgotten... rather I am too poor. I have not an obol. And how may I solve this problem, a decisive issue: how may I cross this river without jobbery? Because I have no coin, I really have not. And I am not too good of a thief... my nerves twitch easily. I had to use my very last ones to bribe my way down here, to these cavernous lands and dead subterranean marshes. I had found a passageway through a system of catacomba purposefully hidden in the sylvan country somewhere in the land of Arcas, but to my great dismay I found that it was also controlled by bandits who conventiently charged every traveller and pilgrim zealous enough to have found the tunnels... And whatever the reason, the mission, the rationale for their departure down there, a coin was to be paid. And that was how they made a living, they said. They would never hurt you or even harass you. Either you pay and descend to the river, or you do not pay, and then you will be forcibly but respectfully ejected from the mysterious burrows, and forget that anything of it even ever happened. So, I paid. But what now? Can I talk my way with Charon, the ferryman? Will he listen?  Is it impossible for me to bypass somehow, to evade and elude, or am I doomed to the shore forever? Am I and my pennyless pockets to be rejected by even the boatkeeper of death? Is this what monstrous language money talks? It is, seemingly. Maybe I can lure behind the stones of the ragged Styx-beaches as if a lion in ambush? And painted in camouflage with the war-paints, the ochre of Dysnomian menses! Might I drown enraptured Narcissus in his own mirror cowardly, to search his purse and his cloak for any last single coinage?

VI : An Obol for the Ferry-Man

Sometimes I want a respite from the ever awareness of death. I want a hole to retreat to, an opium embrace, a careless void in which to ever take refuge. n these moments I want to become a hermit of emotional reclusiveness, a stranger to angst, a prodigal son of hedonism. But that is a strange enterprise of a life, and certainly no healthy approach to dying. Sometimes it is so easy to become the cistern of human sin, to drink from oneself, to host feasts of indulgences in one's own very personal honor... to suck, taste the marrow of virtue, but to spit it out. To become disgusting and weak but for a moment, to incarnate the spirit of lazy, uncultured gluttony, and to give oneself the luxurious, self-coddling privilege of simply ignoring what should not be ignored. Sometimes I want shout as if a child: “you, go away, wicked one!”, for I don't want to be reminded all the time that human life is weird and absurd and, on top of that, dark and nefarious and mischievous... I am very well aware already, and I just want a breather, a break, a short pause sometimes. But a short break easily becomes long then longer, when you despise what you ought to return to. But however much this inclination of escape and this vulnerable call to spiritual shelter pumps my heart and coarses through my veins, explodes in my mind, I cannot close my eyes to what I want hiding from, however much I want it closing these eyes. Truly, one has to find a cave obscure, a Hira of one's own, in order to flee the ever presence of the false kings, the doxies for celebrity and power, the thieves and those cold of heart, the dishonest jesters, the propagators of sin and evil, the molesters and tormentors, the wicked influencers and corruptors sermoning their pugnacious histrionics, and all the floggers and strikers and intruders and attackers moving about in the dead of our nights. But whenever I feel this need to escape, and when I so do, when I allow myself to get stuck in these morasses of self-pity and sloth masqueraded as moral indignation, afterwards I feel a heavy feeling of guilt, of shame and of vitriolic self-contempt. Because I am not some lazy, torpid person or some promulgator of limp, idle ideals - my eye is fixed on the sun! And as a pinch of salt into the sores of a world stricken aburst, I continue my rogue spiritual terrorism: God condemned me hereto, and I shall raise a living hell just for that very reason.