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We'd see the ghosts of christmas past again, walking against us slowly as we kept rushing from store to store to dodge the cold and buy plastic wrapped shit and they remind us that it's a chore, the buildup is work, there is no spontaneity in the action but we know in our hearts we want predictability when the season rolls over, we want the reliable and easy, we want the things that work even though they are mediocre, we want to stand with a coin and put it in a slot and out it comes, wrapped in the gay colours and come christmas we will feel the scent of dead trees as dad lights the paper ablaze to look at the pretty colours.

We made promises last year to ourselves, you're gathered around the family table, just come home from wherever and it's before the day itself and it's informal and people hold these small speeches about how christmas is the time when we should think about what jesus did for us and honour our families. The joy of things. Simple things. We do, play cards our with our nephews and nieses, watch reruns of the old disney classics, cook and clean, an age of ordnung not felt since we were all sixteen.

The chore starts to disappear, the joy is warming your body with aquavit, you dream again of places you usually are the things you shall do when you get back there but you lose your breath, you get a flashback from when this was a normal thing, when it was the most important part of the year, remembering the perfect presents and the filth from faraway aunts and uncles, you catch your breath as the last drops heat your belly, you are aching but filled and in your confusion it sinks it, the life you rebelled against, the ideas and the concepts and you realize you understand their point of view and you can't evade it anymore

It is the coming of age and you find it ironic that it happens when christmas sets in for there is a symmetry there, there is a golden line running through the picture as we pray around the table for this unknown man that died for us so long ago, it is not that we don't believe but belief has become something everyone has and so many believe the way they were taught to do, in school, they believe like people believe in their gut or their instincts, so seldomly acted upon. Jesus died for us, he died for our sins and we've heard it so many times, we know the speech by mind but not heart and it folds like every other commentary about these things that gather our dysfunctional families for a week or two and I keep buying copies of the corrections.

We heard the chains of marley that night, the last night before the day. We heard it rattle in the hallway as we woke up, dying of thirst and feeling the salty pork still lingering on our tongues, aquavit underneath, beer and sauerkraut mixed with charity commercials from africa, the kids with swollen bellies we all grew up on and we managed to distance it after our first bouts of nightmare because it was real but all were ever saw were the horrors, we saw dante's inferno on our telly and we were seven at the time and we made a scene like is our prerogative and we wailed and cried and ran screaming out at this injustice but then the sugarhigh wore off and we went back to our pile of gleaming plastic wrapped in acres of dead trees.

It seems hollow now like a fraternity of masons dissected, the magic is revealed but the routine, the tradition keeps us marching. It is what we have when the world turns colder and the year is about to end and we feel down, needing vacation, some time with our families, we know what will happen, we know the feelings we will get but not in what order or what kind, we sense what will happen and we know it will happen because it has happened before and we didn't act upon it then, we didn't do anything then while in the background we hear the crescendo coming, the tension rising in the theater and we think about it as a test and the only thing left is if we will pass it or not under the light of calvary.

we wake up and see that the tree is bleeding, the holy cup of christ is overfloweth and it feels like we're watching a picture of jesus burnt into a toast because our first reaction is to take a picture of it, we justify the miracles that never were corporeal to begin with by freezing them in time for all the world to see and we'll sell it to every tabloid and we'll put the daughter up on one of the pages and in the end they'll spin a reality off it and we're living like it's christmas all year and the soundtrack will be done by danny elfman and as we regress into our lives and live in our livingroom we'll huddle together like a family, sharing the warmth from the bodies like they did in the cave but that was before jesus was born and before we heard jacob marleys chains upstairs.

I am a moth of awkwardness. You are my lightbulbs and I will circle you until the day I die and I will vivisect your souls and hearts, I will see through the evidence of memory but all I shall find will be the awkward situations. You are probably a wonderful man in other ways, father, but when I see you there, chowing down sloppy westernized indian food complaining it's too hot before asking your daughter where she sits what she wants for christmas and it's like the 19th and she replies I wan a pair of converse and you reply with so you're into hiphop

The misunderstandings is the place I call home, it is my shelter, it is my cave. In defended ignorance I live my days as I peer at you, so strange it should be you to provide me with my definition. I always thought I was special, that god would find some task for me in madness or in clarity but I was much younger then when I believed all men could become god and if this revealation happened when I was younger, it would have fit, the most glorious of gods had given me the most daunting of tasks but now I know I'm just dependent.

I always thought I should have been my friends so the shoe fits, the signs were already there back when and back then. Did I learn it from a book like most of what I picked up then? Was I told and accepted with gullibility? We became what we hated though, we all become what we hate or fear the most or what we don't want to be, we're always there because it's all always changing and only the best of men don't learn from what they hate for they know what they love.

The world is random, partly run on synchronicity as peoples beliefs regarding hope still stands and it casts a violent light that has its own reflections and that is the hardness of our newfound hyper reality. The RNG becomes a new god in this place where old ones die and are seldomly born and the masses and multitudes (now) of nerds to the lonesome basement dwelling d&d nerds picking out their favourite die before impaling the evil wizard in his tower with a marlinspike where a tortured virgin once hang. What we did for shits and giggles while high or just wanting to do something else than drink back then became e—sports and the countries we inhabited when we were in college, so familiar from those days where we held the dice, these countries became bigger than most other countries and the world changed in the blink of an eye and we understood it retrospectively because at the time we didn't care, we were too busy having enough money to buy books, drink occasionally and a few joints while watching futurama and farming for hours on end in our country, not for insight but for the biggest dragon that there was.

Nietzsche once said something about the interesting always lies in examining or dissecting the normal but I never saw the normal. I never saw normal people except when I read about them or saw a movie or a play about them. They were usually never present in the opera too often and none of them sat in those seats. I know. You can't label people, stuff them into boxes etc but it is what we do, perhaps not a mental label but more of a mental arranging where they all sit like around the tables in your wedding.

I'll love you till the day you begin to live i told her, disappearing into the noise far behind us, coloured like players of chess, dreams undaunted on this perfect backdrop, this scheme so well fitting for a stage we'd only seen in our minds and it was the day we stopped condoning drugs as a means of self-discovery or self anything because we'd been taking it to seriously lately. The story is true though but we lied through our teeth when we proclaimed eachother into these heavenly dreams but they were not our last words, there was no fog rising save from our mouths, we were out in the cold and we didn't tell eachother that we had this feeling but I had it and you had it and I've grown like that, I used to hate it but now I'm it and all my memories seem so past.


You feel it, don't you?

In dreams we walk through tall barren grass, wiltering away neath our feet, dry sounds as stepping on glass. We try to make sense of it, we try to walk around with a sense of pride, let it be something we've created not, let it be a drowner. Time turns to a sudden halt and love is seen fleeting at the edges of reality like a butterfly with a chameleons properties. We hope that love and hope will be enough to give us something we can work with, something we can find in the dying seasons, something that will still work as we tug our hearts and blindfolds into something different, something else. A lie but still a full life, a thought and the harassed men and women wandering in a daze, catching the birds before we release them into the cold and into the hearts of the cold men, our lovers and trustees we've chosen simply because they were there in a time we needed them, several occasions where we're allowed to smile and weep, making it feel natural, making it feel holy even though we know it isn't, there's nothing that is holy in our situations or hearts, it gets created in our minds when our egoes shatter, when the dreams die and we wake up realizing we've been sleeping for so many years and we have to make a choice, we have to do something, someone has to do something, an act needs to seal the deal in blood, in spit and saliva, the ancient methods of grudge and dying hearts

We close the doors to the rooms we no longer wish to view, we've seen what they had to offer us and we drank it up but now we're moving away again, nomadic and african are our features, we've changed so many times we can't recall, we can't recall when we bought the things that litter our walk-in closet, we can't remember who we were when we wore ties daily, when we used chlorine to bleach what we had because everything tended to turn against offwhite, we were quickly fading like the snow on the ground, run over by the cars and buses, run over by the commuters, scrawled upon with clawing cocks in the winter cold, heat abiding by the second thermodynamic principle in the physics of the game but also, oh also and always in the social setting but we fail to see it as it happens and we breathe it in, the toxicity of the retrospective, the rotten core of the apple, the maggots still squirming, the plan that takes control of our lives and we let  it ride us, thinking we've made it, thinking it's happened like this, moving on towards something simpler and easier, esthetics catching the rays of the sun as we don the rat traps on our feet and walk into the snowy landscape

We can't help but think that it's true what we learnt as we took our toddling first steps, unaware and unsure in a world embraced for people bigger than us and as we saw them from our froggy perspectives, they were larger than all of us, we didn't see the complexities in their actions, the unfathomable of it and as we grew we thought that every person in existence is a snowflake, something unique but at the time we thought about it in a romantic way with romantic gestures, giving it something more than it was because it wasn't really that, when we were young the snowflakes were beatiful but now as we traverse the landscape littered with unique fates we've grown tired and weary, our bones are cold and we sit down

some of us to rest, some of us to think but most of us sit down to choose

To live is to war with trolls. - - Henrik Ibsen

The problem with the war was that we always waged it against the trolls. There is no victory against them, there is nothing that we can do to end it for the trolls of our world were the niggers of the last sun's world and any minority at all today. We've fought them all, well over the centuries, the bavarians, the barbarians, the yellow, the brown and the lazy, we've waged our wars with them and inside we have discovered their humanity, we've found them to be like us no matter what they look like so we've taken pity on them, we left the gramophone to forever tell them the master's voice.

We rattle the young in the morning, fake fire drills and icy water on the tundra, making them skittish and paranoid but more afraid of us than the trolls that lurk on the outside and as we supply them with the initial fear, they keep afraid by themselves, passing stories that saturn is alive and well, eating his children out behind the frozen horizon we can't ever see. Charon holds his oar silently, listening to us in our camps knowing that most will have what it takes to be carried. We can feel his gaze but we do not know what it is, we can feel something watching, we can experience it but as in a scene from carrie we don't know what happens when we bleed. We sit in our camps, awaiting the forgetful slumber, sharing stories and we remember a movie where they put pennies on their eyes. It is a wrong feeling, an uncorrected feeling as if the act itself is sacriledge. There is a sensation of deja vu, something we feel is simply unlived memories and we feel cold metal in our mouths, twice.

Sometimes we are remembered by the real world as we wait and fortify. They send seasonal food and drink, occasionally they send a bus with women and in the real world, that which governs our collective hallucination we would never have glanced on them but here, where everything is black and white and hard, we are the incorruptible filth. Drowned so far and so sudden that we are beneath any mans foot or heel but we give our apologies to none for we have seen part of a system that works like an old fraternite and even on the night of madame guillotine it spewed no lies, it was honest to us as we saw our symbols and ideas crumble, we became honest without caring. We'd seen the void rockstars used to revere as an ancient god, now a style, hollowed out husk residing in qlippoth.

Every day feels like a grim dark past, a story already been written about us and our jails. A cautionary tale perhaps. A cautionary tale none of us know how to interpret so we build novels, movies and plays on it. Every good story we ever experience was written in the bible, every good story is the visualization of dyatlov.

We reread the old books to keep up with the wisdom we once knew for truth, now mere echoes in our conversations and opinions. The truly clever we read when we were far too young to know what it meant, we remembered those words, we carried them with us and a year after we'd forgotten them we needed them, we were searching for them but they didn't come. The lovers, do they become better people when they are together or do they act like better people around eachother, the worst kind of fear for a backstab, is it driving with you in your shallowest of loves?

I believed we were dying, I though we were withering away. I looked at history and something broken inside me told me we were withering away, I was reading 1984/Brave New World/Kallocain/Darkness at Noon, waiting for it to happen. Waiting for a clearly defined opponent, waiting for what history told me I would inevitably encounter but I lived my life in the books and it took me a while to realize that it doesn't really matter if its truth or not, in hindsight things are irrevocably beautiful and this now we value so highly, that is truth

Semantics take a hold of your head and your mind when it loops, looking at definitions and labels into a pocketed eternity. I hoped we were dying, tired as we were. I hoped for an end station but I hoped for it in a literary context, I hoped for something that would be beautiful and make sense on some level and I knew I'd been wrong. I had gone from believing his words from when he told me how awesome it was to paint fences, how exquisite a joy it was before believing it, fully, with heart and fang and painting these here fences for so many years.

I was lost while you were wandering, into shadows and spots of bright light, I kept watching myself wanting me to do something but when I did something I got bored and I never thought I should do anything else and here is my flaw. I dreamt of it when I were a wee child and I was hunched over the toilet and I was vomiting, dry coughs and some liquid, feeling innocent before everything I hit the water and in the midst I saw a gleaming thing with lovecraftian dimensions, it looked like a machine and an octopus and I held it twixt my fingers and I remembered the future in a violent row of deja vu. I. I am.

Say I am and all that you are. Take your time, breathe, relax.

And johnny comes walking, moving through the park like a slithering snake, passing the greenery with a smile upon his face, dreaming of old but good memories, valuable memories. It is autumn and johnny takes a stroll in hyde park, stops by speaker's corner, is amused by the madmen and poets, see the world they talk about, know into the core of his soul he knows what is here, a fleeting memory passes through his consciousness, a girl in a bathrobe holding forth the cup of christ, asking him if he has any sugar. It happened then, it's happening now again in the meadows of youth, bottled in the past tense.

We know the history of men, we know the stories of our tribes for it's been written down, we know it is true when we ourselves descend and in our piss, blood, sweat and vomit we see the gory stories behind what we learn, what is written, we think it is a part of a bible for this is what they show us when we're pliable and when we're still gullible and our cynicism has not yet manifested, we learn the rose tinted story told to us in fashions we know from the telly, the plots are easy and there is no meat there, there is no substance, there is no marrow in the bones, all has dried up, shrivelling and withering, dying away as we do, burning towards the end because we're too bored with what's inbetween, we want to experience the last word and then hope only for a stillness, a sense of rest in our bones

as we forget everything and we hope emilys fog shrouds everything, we hope we forget as we die with an erection, breathing out what we don't know yet if is man or machine

If it matters. The shadows grow more real for each passing day, the months turn into years and we do what we can to escape the breath of death, we mangle our sense of time and we do what our instincts tell us and we keep occupied, we're running and we've been running for so long. There is no wish to stop, draw a breath and see, watch and reason about every aspect of our reality, we have no desire to truly see what we live, we have no desire to change it or manipulate it other than making it more convenient but we preach the word to the choir for we hope they will back when it matters.

We are thirtyfour, going thirtyfive but still twentytwo in our heads and we realize we're growing old and we feel so sorry for ourselves, we feel every regret washing upon ourselves and we grab our necks and we stuff our heads into the holy grail before we flush, wakening into another layer of a nightmare, continuing to the bar or the dealer by the river, both friendly faces in our crisis, both friends in oblivion. Not a stillness, not rest but oblivion. Blacking out. Waking up to yourself, to these hands which one do menial tasks with every day, watching them work, these hands. What have these hands done behind our back as we were in a drunken haze? What did our hands do when our mind wasn't thinking? Our hands show us the way, our hands tell us that any action, no matter how petty or how small counts more than the history of mankind, counts more than any book ever written and we curse our hands for this knowledge because it means

that we are free and we don't really want to be, there is a freedom singing in our hearts, bound neath a chastity belt, clamped in cold iron, locked away in the memories we never remember when we sit out in the meadows. It's you and a few friends of us and there's a barbecue going on, a chef who's already drunk is roasting a leg of lamb and he passes the bottle of fernet and someone brought brownies and the sun is beautiful in the skin and we the women, the girls walking past remind us that this is it, this is how life should taste, this is the flavour we were designed for, this is where it feels right and it felt right when he took you home and when you woke up you saw into his eyes, smiling and radiating something you had never seen, something you had never felt before ever, something that changed the entirety of the world, something that came to be lost in the heavenly radiance of a dirty pair of sheets, a filthy room reeking of cigarette butts and the tangy smell of pot, here is where it is, here is god filling your every orifice and bathing you in his light and for the first time since you can remember

you ascend and you are given and you remember your hands, you remember the bees, you see what it was all built upon. You see these hands and they climb mount ararat. We do not see this with you, we are not heavenly ascended like you are, we have been and will be, we will sit by his throne and we will see what you saw. We didn't see it because it was blocked by a pair of sunglasses and a splitting headache and all we read those days were the books of should

We go out in the hailstorms, we go out in the fire, we set it alight, we set it in motion as our feet grow heavier for each stone we pass, every memory flooding us now in the rain as it splashes on our glasses, we left the rose for the brown and we want to look like rockstars on coke because that's what we feel represent us best. We wanna be everything, we wanna be nothing, we want the false soft words to be spoken as you stroke our hair and we creep up into you and bathe in your skin, the safety of your radiance, the heavenly sensation which grips us

again

Things happen and we drown. This is an end. It is a word whispered in a microphone on a stage, with everyone paying attention. It is unhappening because we aren't women enough to see it. We are too dumb, stammering between sentences, loosing ourselves into what we vowed we shouldn't back when we were sixteen, when we were still stupid enough to be willing to learn, when we were the future. We're still the future but we're slowly becoming it, our consciousness spans enough now, that we are old, we are dying without having become a future.

We drank it up, we injected it between the toes, we talked it away, we left it dying in lies, we left it behind the counter at a waffles house, we didn't do what we should have done and we are damned with understanding in a general sense, we see these things but we do not act upon them, we let them perish along with us, a harvest of poppies to replace the roses. It's not about a guilt trip cuz we had that long ago, we made our peace with it, we became it. We understood and we did it, that is us. Here are your children, Sir William Gull, here is your deliverance, here is your catharsis.

You were a magician in a book once, Jack and the writer wrote you from bad conspiracy into the legitimate world, so many years after your demise we knew you again but like all our history we preferred you in the hollywood edition and we watched you as we had a toke of the future. We always knew like you always knew Jack. You knew there was something more to strive for, something else to want, something that you didn't dream for because you knew it was real, writhing in your stomach and we can feel it to, which is why we keep awake, we're sitting in your living room, drinking cheap wine because we're young, smoking joints and unravelling the world, holding the decent conversations, holding what's left of our memories as we paint it rosy, this perfect reality.

Once, in a while we will see how our lives turned out in our heads as we go alone to the biggest theatre, watching the latest romantic comedy and if we're lucky it's smart and we're found, we bask in the glory of being understood once more before the trip ends and we're walking the old pavement we've always walked, our feet numb and sore, our heads hurting. We become what we fear and what we hate as soon as we become what we love. Life is not lived with only love. Life is knowing hate, knowing fear, knowing love.

The future doesn't exist, the future is our hopes and dreams, sometimes fears. The things you can't explain but start up institutions that will one way or another save your life. Everything that happens in the future is based on what happened in the past. Similar cases in a court of law, dramatized poorly in the daytime, that's all there is. As we watch as we go unfulfilled we're kept non depressive by you, poppets, looking into the scrying glass to reveal only what is written in the tomes sitting in your shelves and it's the shitty end of the deal for us.

We drive the nails into their foreheads and hope they will see what we see. This is us and how we move, these are our reasons as we sit perched on top of the highest of mountains, waiting for oracles to speak to the wind. We wait for the knowledge of kings to pass through our veins, to let the blue blood pass through the red, to let them become a part of us as we are of them as we've always been mingled, as all of the blood from the earth has been a part of each and all of us, the lies become true because they are lies and we accept them, knowing the truth.

These are the muscles we flex. The muscles of mind, the muscles of heart, the muscles of flesh. Here we are, in the crossroads between a pound or several of flesh. We are not dying. We've never been dying but it makes sense when you do hallucinogens to end everything with death. What it took albie to teach us, old shaxberd knew, he saw it the way they see it , meditating, repeating their mantras, being enlightened, remembering it, remembering their own wake.

-Try to remember. How did your face look like before you were born?
-I can't. Life is too short, I need proper answers.
- - Freely from memory, The Filth written by grant morrison

We die in the hearts of men better than us. We tried, we're still striving to find it, that recognition of ourselves or those from our peers but we know it'll never happen, like we know that wars won't stop happen. Everything, Everything you've ever learnt about how to do your job better is applicable in how you view life, death, the big mysteries and lost answers amongst the questions, the mariachis playing for us but like lando told us we'd do, we forgot how to dance but we learned to build trenches and if you really want the simplistic approach, ask them

would you like to dance or would you like to dig a trench?

Ask them and wait for them to answer seriously and everyone will answer that they'd like to dance and they'll ask you up and this is where we are, we have men and women whom we ask serious questions and all that happens is that we wait for their serious face, the one they have at work and they answer and gullible as we are, we believe, we want to, we need to for we need to strive towards what we deem perfect. You'll dance and it will be fun, it will be one of the nights you remember as you smell the industrial soap as the machine besides you go silent and you know it's your time. You'll remember this but you'll remember them for the wrong reasons, it is memorial evidence that will not hold up to scrutiny.

Everyone likes to dance. Everyone has danced, everyone has felt it all go as the perfect beat drums and hits you where it hurts the most in the most beautiful of pains and you know you love dancing but this is the choice. It was you who told us first of the black and the white and you ensnared us as we became ensnared, we were as we are lazy, we were bored with the complexity of the situation but anyway, here it is if you want it, this is the seriousness you pretend to have when using that face when your mind begins to lie

That is not the seriousness we are looking for. Answer the question, truthfully.

Mother

You took our heart, left us to die in the snow and we heard your voice form inside the kitchen, to toughen up them youngsters some and we did ma, we learned our lesson that night in the snow with our faces towards the living room where the wood wasn't freezing but not warm neither, we learned what you had to tell us ma, we toughened up far beyond your dreams, we'd not freeze no more on the farm, we'd not be cold no more for you killed something inside us that night. We learned your ways ma and we ignored the ways you tried to teach us, we were observant and watched you instead, we saw the routines, we saw what was needed and we grew older and there was nothing keeping us together, us siblings but our hate for you and that was perhaps the most valuable lesson you gave us, you taught us how the world works and we grew older and more understanding, still lingering in what you thought were your skirts. We killed you when the youngest turned seventeen, when we would be able to work the farm, we cut you up and gave most of you to the pigs but we collected your bones and we made you anew in the woods, a small clearing they said witches used back in the dark ages when the light of godhood had not entered every man and womans psyche. When reason was not the prevailing emotion set into the world we built you with sticks and stones to support your bones and we made it so you should stand for years, we made it so that one day when we'd all grown old, they'd come for us. No son nor daughter will ever want to deny killing their mother.

Father

We saw you seldomly and the only thing we saw in you were your chin, nose and patience. We inherited this from you and we saw nothing else from you, silent man, little man. Standing forever in the shadow of those stronger than you, you took no hand in our upbringing because you didn't care. We were nothing to you and we've never been, the only emotion we saw from you was when you came home with your suitcases filled with shoes, travelling as you were we took you to the shrine where our mother stood, it had been months since we erected her and the forest had done hers to make sure she was being reclaimed and you looked upon us and said did you really do this? and we said yeah and your eyes sparkled from a different light, from a different life and the youngest hit you over the head with a shovel. We propped you up next to ma in the glade we would never refer to and we cut out your tongue and we cut off your balls for you never had them in our life, we never saw these parts of you and we sat around until you died. We listened to your guttural shrieks of agony, we were better than you, we stayed with you out in the cold before you collapsed, we left you at that.

Brothers and Sisters

We worked endlessly on the farm, we made it right again, the way it had been when our forefathers had run it, we still delievered the most beautiful prime, none of us older than twenty, we made this place the way it was supposed to, like the brothers and sisters we were, lost inside the deepest of woods, keeping up relations of the outside world with mr. marrow, the purveyor. We loved each other and we thought we'd done something right, we thought this was what we'd done, we thought this was what we were supposed to do but as we grew older, so did our minds, we came to the peace we thought we'd landed earlier in our lives and we grew older, eventually beginning to walk out to the glade in silence, each and one of us not hoping the others notices but we were a hive mind, one unit comprised of different individuals and as we grew older, nature caught up with us and we did the horrible deeds that no parent ever told us not to. We grew even older, we came to the stage where we wanted to find the meaning of life, we wanted to find our purpose but we found nothing and we did not know where to seek and more often we found ourselves in the glade, watching both of you, silently.

We are driven into the madness by ourselves, we strive not for perfection nor understanding, we merely strive. Strive to follow the letter of the law, strive to build the perfect castle before the tidal waves come rushing, we feel that there is no time, we feel time was something we used to have, sitting idle on our fingers as we were students or simply out of work, the time we had then we used to wake and bake before killing enough hours until it was socially acceptable to go out for drink for we were never drunks, we were never alcoholics we were just wasted youth with time on our hands.

We didn't understand the message, we didn't understand the seriousness of the situation before it was too late, we have become the gods of hindsight and none of it matters much any more because we hear the masses and we hear them cheer some man on a stage and we can hear the man tap his microphone nervously saying he didn't know what would happen and the people explode in cries of victory as the last ideas, the last concepts that required anyone to think or research or do some shit that wasn't filled with glamour decay in our hearts for this is the shift of paradigm they've all spoken about so many times, here is the new armor we shall wear with pride.

They say it's technology and society's fault that we're pressed for time, that we don't have the time to give our kids a proper upbringing, they say it was better before and as masters of hindsight we still forget that the portion of our lives that are past sparkle with a rosy tint. All we want is more excuses, which is what we invent, new excuses to sit on our arses every night of the week and the year and we really want it comfortable, everyone shy of conflicts or conscious of conflicts as we've delved into the heart of meta but no illumination is present but it's ok, we know that illumination is achievable.

We don't know what's eating us anymore but we keep hoping it's only the drugs so we will never have to change. We love change but we do not want to change, we love change as a concept because it finds new ways to entertain us, change changes for us, not us because we're already piehappy here, knowing how this shit finally works, seeing something on the horizon, not just in the weeds all the time we get white russians with cherries and an exquisitely cut orange, making you believe the bartender to be an artist. Which she is.

I feel my hands go numb as I sit down at the cafe to write, I feel I shouldn't be doing this for so many has done it before me but I understand why they did it, why they weren't holed up inside their attics and small apartments, everybody writes about humans everyone everyone writes about are just as anonymous as the man in the faux kashmir coat sits on the outside of a bar, smoking cigarettes, drinking manhattans and espressoes, writing poetry but I know this is just my image because everyone else don't give a shit this early in the day.

Of all feelings, hope is the one you can not depend on. Hope is easily triggered, hope is easily snared and hope does not set food on the table, hope is a castle in the sky, gleaming, hope is our laws, hope is our religions. Faith, something completely different. We would have to be robots to follow the law or we'd have to hope and hope's friend for countless eons have always been fear. We have it today, we hope for the best but fear the worst, when did hope begin to be the number one buzzword in northern american politics and since when did anyone care for hope unless they were in a boggled down war in eastern africa or were one of those who were led into the old killing fields with the cattle, this days killing for sport.

Here is where hope is free, here is where hope is untainted by the intellect, here is where hope lives in its truest form, it is not sleek nor silvery but it is a gut emotion, here it is primordial for here time stopped and we stopped hearing the people come screaming naked out of the trees showing us their thumbs and wanting explanations for what to do with them.

It should be like this. The beginning should be brittle, silent, a build-up only the people in the know realize is happening. They realize it happens but they do not think about it until later on, when life can be seen retrospectively, when time and space unfolds and let us watch our lives happen and we think ah, that was how it was and as we are lost in the now, forever thinking we are moths and the world is our perfect sun we find fate to ring true in every action we remember, everything that was ever seemingly larger than our own lives was meant to be for it is so flawless.

The churches toll for the men and women who are gathered in their houses, some are here by tradition, others by belief but most are confused but confusion has never been a positive trait in our civilization, confusion is something we hide underneath the garments that mask who everyone else think we are. Some of us pray as we sit in the house of the lord, some of us are profane by simply sitting there, listening to the greatest sacrifice ever made and simply wondering when they're going to be less conventional as all we yearn for is a beefed up speech, fitting for our time, something we can understand. We feel distanced and dying, in drunken stupors we cling to the last fragments of laughter to make us survive another day.

"It is not that life is depressing that makes it unbearable, it is that it's humorous." - Henrik Ibsen, paraphrased from memory

This was how it should have begun, this was the correct entrance, this was the way to begin it, this was the way to start it all so it would make sense from the now up until the then. The fury of our lives, the streaming torrents of the young man, 24, recently educated with a masters degree in biochemistry sits home in his parents basement, spends his days on mmos and weed, decaying and falling away from humanity. His parents see education spoilt, his friends see a man they wish they could reconnect with, a good man before he spent too much time infront of the books, gathering information and piecing together a thesis that gave him many opportunities for work but he was tired of working, he was tired of playing for their work and their play happened on their terms, he felt like the whitest nigger shooting hoops and after he attained his goal, the thing that had driven him, he realized this as he sat in the recliner, killing internet dragons and ripping the bong, both at the same time. Nobody told the young man that there existed possibilities of a different world, a different reality so he settled with the devil he knew so well.

The dance is slow in the beginning, the dancers aren't used to their partners, it's a rehearsal so there are no smiles, there are no distant gazes into the horizon, there is only the smell of chalk and old sweat. They look haunted where they move, practicing steps that will garner them applause and appraise as they travel to the sun, biting into the empty air, eyes abalze with the fire their forefathers put there, they put us here, the old gods is the whispers you hear from the stage from tufted feet and our angels are flying, the thrones are ascending to the physical heavens, the one that is not a part of every stone, log or human on the planet, some will say after it has happened that the angels were fleeing from the being of god, permeating everything we've dreamt, seen and touched, here it is, here it lies, here lies god, broken and shallow at our knees with his brightest stars running not with a smile upon their faces but a frown as if they're doing maintenance work on old equipment, a shit job for shit pay.

We quell the souls uprising, we take the rebellion and we dismantle it, fragment it from madness into logic and reasoning and as our urges grow into thoughts something is lost in the translation inside us and inside the wrinkles of our soul we find Ibsens devil, compromise, we do not fight it, nor do we think about it, we accept it as we flee, we run as fast as we can run, beads of sweat trickling down our foreheads, losing peripheral vision, multi or non coloured dots appear on our eyes and we think we're going to collapse but we bite the teeth and we run further, we run so far into the darkness that it becomes light again, time passes, aeons evolve through the mitochondrial dna and the story goes on without us as we emerge from the twilight. We feel we have been tested and found worthy, we return to where we came from, we emerge from the dark and the light and back into the fold, finding the dunes of our skin deserts barren and desolate.

To show the sailors where they'd die, where they'd drown upon the breaking waves, sounds of sirens washing into their ears as the water would climb inside their lungs and telling them as they die with the lighthouse in view and the immortal sirens on your ears is the only way they could end it, the breaking of the hearts they'd found in different ports, they as us, caght in the life, the monotony and meaning of it all, the discernment of our experiences and the question that always rears its head, what do we do with it, where do we speck our glasses, paintings and faces, where is the life contorted to the degrees we see in floaters turned on the back?

We want to fight our way through life for we've read enough of the old-schoolers to believe that the struggle is eternal, that it builds us, we are founded on the seeping silent grey flesh, decaying into the oceans. We bite our teeth and some of us tell us to take pause, to wait for mother nature to heal before we slaughter it further but there is comfort knowing that when we end, the wounds we opened will heal, it will all be very different and what is dead will not come back, we will not be zombies eating dodo brains, for we left a mark and we are not masters and this esoteric knowledge is inside us all, some call it angelic, others want it pinned on the inverted god down below but this is us, fighting our way through it, wading kneedeep in what we think is blood but mud is thicker and we strive to leave a mark, to let some instance of history tell our tale but we will never be masters. We will never conquer our life like we will never conquer the planet we inhabit.

We will still hear chefs rave about ortolan buntings and a proper gavache but we were dead sailors once and we've tasted death, we've tasted the shameless death brought upon us in the terms of socially acceptable slavery and this is that death, this is the grey ashen taste in your mouth walking on dry yellow grass, broken glass in our hands as we sear off a ribeye in the ovens of auschwitz, watching guards falling down towers and the eternal struggle is played back on the back side of our minds and we see them, the host darting towards the earth, chasms in the heart of the broken timeless cities, silver, rome, babylon where man thrived and with him, satan's own, this is how we percieve it, this is how we view it but it all so much harder, there is so much more than this, the metaphors and allegories turn into mud, turn back into shit because we've ventured to where words hold no meaning, two lovers caught in bed post-coital watching eachothers glimmering eyes;

This is truth. This is the only truth you will ever see before the churning waves take you down to the bottom of where you came from, the swirling abyss, qlippoth, the great human impotence. The smell of myrrh comes first and you drown in the memories of women you drowned in the skin of and for the first time you are penetrated, great penetrator of life, this is the moment where you understand, this is the moment you are brought to understanding and is forced to think and all you can ask yourself is what way is up, what way is down for there is eternally the sensation of us versus them and that is what most of us feel before we see the lighthouse, hear the sirens and feel the cold watery grave.

"'m a rocket ship on my way to Mars
On a collision course
I am a satellite I'm out of control
I am a sex machine ready to reload
Like an atom bomb about to
Oh oh oh oh oh explode

I'm burning through the skies Yeah!
Two hundred degrees
That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I'm trav'ling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic woman out of you"  - - -   Queen


We climbed for you father, we've been climbing for you steadily, we've grown blunt in our understanding and we never climbed for ourselves, we climbed for since the day you told us that we fell. We've grown older now, father, we've been tasting the ashes you left in our mouths and we've felt the guilt you placed in our hearts or souls, we've touched the open sky with our fingerlids and we have seen so much of it all, more than what you designed it for and as we climbed we told eachother stories and we spoke often of you, always in reverence, always with a heartfelt gratitude towards what you taught us, our upbringing, the fatherly way of life we should adhere to become the good men the world needed.

As we climbed some of us realized that what you told us, that life is a well written story where everything is connected, is false. Life is not order. Reality is an attempt to create order from our minds souls or chakras but we are never bound by it, there is no sensation of impending doom for righteousness is on our side, the way you raised us, the way you taught us that no man is bound to any law unless he has written it himself. This is why life is chaos because this wasn't the way you sold it to us, this wasn't what our hearts were looking forward to, it was something else. In this abyss we built reality, this sprawling abortion of order as vile as fatherly advice govern us, some of us thought it was the fall, we thought this was the fall represented through our hearts, living with us still, evolving and developing in places we did not but we were always part of it.

We climbed for you father, we spent eons on that dry rock with our broken hands, we climbed the tower, knowing the fate that would eventually become us and this was the fatherly harshness, this was the strength that sent men into war, this was the strength we called forth from the top of delphi, these were the sacred mystical visions we had, this was where life became more than reality, this here is the eyes of the beast we killed, the fluttering of wings that brought us our discovery, the mind that saw the eye and was transfixed as we became transfigured, we became tar in the face of the sun, we lived through our childhood with you once more and our hearts were torn from our bodies and placed on marlinspikes.

We had always fallen, from the second of our conception you cleverly devised the fall, you only told us what would happen if we did fall so we stole your ideas after we fell and we tried to act like you, we mimiced your movements and copied your words and we thought this was what made us into the good men but it was only your voice we couldn't forget no matter how hard we tried, like unseeing the fedex arrow or a gentle whisper, a gentle command made by love. We thought all your teachings were tangled, we thought that if we changed or nullified something to fit us better, the education you gave us would collapse, everything was there for a reason, each bit and part of it made every other part work, we saw the world as a clockwork orange.

We saw the world from the belly of you father

We placed the virgins in their coffins as soon as the beat began, it was rock solid, like peaking on service, plating the last of the big covers of the shittiest day man will ever remember but standing there doing it and not noticing the ride of the valkyries from the ghettoblaster drenched in fat but your muscles harden and your mind focuses itself and for two minutes you are god and you are happy that it only lasted two minutes for you are exhausted but your head is on the level as you walk through the darkening streets and you greet the hookers on their way to their work for you know you're in the same line as them, providing basic needs and for the both of us, the legal or illegal of it is of no importance but as the skies darken we meet our kind and we shake hands and tales.

Soon there is a shadow. I know it will happen before my big revealation, I have seen the memories of future, my own and people I do not know yet and I have seen further into it, I have in truth gazed into the abyss but it did not gaze back, it ended. In Warhammer40k they say that In the grim and dark future there is only WAR but there is no war in the future, the future is silent, not like something dead but closer to slumbering, sleeping and waiting for the day the war ends, when it is eradicated as a concept and the old forgotten gods return to us to teach us what we can never forget but we run out of older gods and the one we feared to be the worst of them all waits for the final day of peace as he rockets towards the sky.

We live in constant fear of that day, we are plagued by visions of the terrible new eon. We know our delusional madmen which we keep in check is screaming to us in languages we used to understand but have forgotten but we have forgotten to heed their callings, truth was eradicated from religion as we threw our prophets and shamans into their padded cells and religion appeared streamlines with the new world carrying the torch of innovation as the old world held its' trophies of bestiality up high. We try to favour the gods, to favour the gut, listen to the intuition as they always say on movies when someone is to make an important decision. What does your gut tell you?

The gods are dead and not because we revolted, there was no revolution, there were no displays of power but our hearts hardened as the beat became tighter and with dirt neath our fingernails we gave into apathy, mourning or sacrificing to none the next year. Then the gods died and with them, our intuition, leaving us our minds to pick salvation. Intellect was confused with faith and charm was confused with greed.

They were only meant to let more light in, our dead gods but in the future there is no light at the end of space and time, it has been turned off.

I've heard it for many weeks now, even though I never listen to a radio, don't own a tv and only buy the weekend newspapers, I've seen the bold typefaces across the tabloids and I know it's that time again, it's election time. It is a disease in all our hearts, politics. Some of us follow it and believe in it, some of are agnostic or even atheistic. We're sitting in one of the bars that have heating lamps outside in the backyard where we drink beer and pernod as we chain lighters at a time, we're discussing, talking and we end up in politics but it would never be I who brought it up but somewhere in the conversation you say Well atleast it's not like america, I mean, we have more freedom than they'll ever have with their two-party system.

I walk through the streets of oslo as I hear the sound, as I realize that reality is so hard to anticipate, that it strikes like lightning but it strikes several times at the same spot and I'd forgotten for the time being how dumb we are. We've come a long way with our emotions but we're still kinda dumb. I see in all your eyes that you are telling the truth and you're obsessed with it, not the truth but the action of telling it to anyone who listens. We do not care if people hear for we are shallow creatures, we want to be heard, nothing more. You children, moving through the streets, I used to be you before except I didn't carry a flag but I've sung my stanzas from L'Internationale, often failingly, rhyming to a beat from the 19th century.  You still carry hope as a torch infront of you, hoping it will illuminate your path for you but you look like a little kid, fourteen and a man taking a puff from a cigarette, getting smoke in the eye.

We drag into these sleepy dreams and I try to scream and push and get away, I'm slumbering in a dead hour, I'm alone in my apartment and early autumn is seen through the window and I sit like a lotus, repeating a mantra that will undo the world infront of my eyes and we will all forget that we exist, timed bombs in a barren landscape and from our loins come the flowing forgiveness. These are what people are, we aren't angels and we'll never be angels, never be saints or heroes or kings for more than a day for we are all the fool and what space does the fool occupy? Is it the first, the last or both?

This girl was talking to me, we were sort of separated from the rest of the group but I didn't remember how it happened but now I was there, regaining some part of consciousness that fell away with the fourth fernet and she was talking to me about the swine flu, she had read these reports and there was this one case that was stuck in her head because it was a handsome young boy portrayed through the window of his home and she had become sad that also the beautiful people of our world could contract the flu and I stared at her in disbelief but she took another blank tequila and then she told me that when she read the interview with the boy she'd become horny and right then and there she'd gone to her room and brought forth her dildo and orgasmed thinking about getting infected with the swine flu. I saw her there in the bed, rummaging and squealing and the room was pink and there were stuffed animals everywhere and I knew she was the future.

The disease is growing in the room, it has taken hold in one of our old memories, one of the bad ones, one that the world or our loved one doesn't know about. Inside the memory is a dream we have occasionally and there are different settings and twists of the plot but one thing remains the same, sitting on your knees in front of the toilet and inside the vomit and shit is a gleaming geometrical figure and you never really remember how it looks, an inverted cube pulsating like a fractal but if you saw it in reality you would recognize it instantly, you know this silver object is a part of you and you think it might be a key or a question or an answer or something else than the bickering in the next door apartment, something else than a perpetual identity crisis, something else than what we know.

We're out of cigarettes and the shops are closed and the 24hr places are too far away so we end up just rolling the joints pure because we're students and we're broke as fuck, too young to be connoisseurs and doing this every time we crash into the silence of each other but today was different, we just sat there and listened to the music and spoke occasionally but we kept silent until you put on that dead kennedys tape we listened to when we were smaller and smoking whatever we could lay our hands on that was a bad brick and for an entire evening we know we both live and talk as we did then but our memory will not let us keep the truth, obscuring it behind references and metaphors, showing us what life truly is.

We thought the obscenity of it all would eventually quell the insurgency and while we waited for it to die out we were out on a downer, we were low and filled with the blues as steven seagal slid a broken bottle neck down his guitar and we felt sorry for ourselves because we knew it was what had to be done but we lied about why and we felt bad about it, like the elevator down after a day filled with amphetamine  working in a place you hate and which hates you, this was where we were. We forgot to look them in the eyes.

We forgot WHAT KEEPS MANKIND ALIVE and we came to be on a different vibe, we were different from the shadows for we'd seen something else than the light and as we grew older we grew more reckless for life and its worth kept declining and we ended up bungee jumping with a knife in our pocket just to be able to end it the proper way, our own way splashed on the windshield of mother earth, our testimony, our truth. Then the women came and we turned into barbarians again as we tried to find one we could have a connection with or failing that, someone who wasn't too ugly to look at for fourty years and whom possessed at least a smidgeon of intelligence and we met the other women who were looking for the same thing and some times we connected but we remained friends and we wished for asimovs foundation to be the truth of the world as we slipped into reality with pain on our face.

We play it cool, we play it fucking cool, we're so fucking cool that you get cold from watching us and that's what you are too, people shy away and we'll meet you people without a heart later in life when we've learnt what you learned before it happened and we'll be alright then but fuck you, fuck you now for telling us about your future, don't tell us that we'll end in the shit like you did and if one of you have thought enough to define time as something different than linear and you play that card, we will curbstomp you, we will march on a road made of your bones for you talk to us about life like we didn't know shit but those are old tales, like the bakers apprentice that is sent to the next bakery to pick up a bucket of steam, we've evolved past you, there was a generation of us who were silent but now we're here, the dominants in mothers basement, taking control and keeping the status quo for they still believe they are part of a subculture

but not society in itself

because none who are against society believe they are a part of it, they talk of it and how they loathe it but those on the barricades when election day comes are those, those are our future in politics or religion, these are our leaders because I hope none else are deranged enough and we are led by the monkies, the dumbest and wisest of us all and they will drown us in a sea of blood and it's ok, these are the people in control in our time and age, these are the new breed of those who preach morality instead of giving us bread.

They give us the circus and we dream about it, reality, as we sink into the last remaining pieces of art, that ancient whore open for interpretation, changing with the seasons. I can't see your beautiful face now because I didn't really pay attention and I was drunk but when I imagine your face it's beautiful but we didn't see eachother, we heard eachother and did that thing with our minds, we did the images of a ruined saturday night and we didn't say anything to eachother because we were at the same social conventions we criticized earlier the same evening and we left without a word in our mouths and your ass shaking drunkenly on towards somewhere else and me with my knees in a fountain and we can't recall your face but you're a beautiful creation where you wag and for the first time in a long time I want to ask someone out to a date and I want to impress, be larger than what surrounds us, creating magick.

We headed for the wilderness, never looking back

You tried to write a book once when you were young, it was the greatest plan, copy a shitty scifi or fantasy book and write an entire series in a week and then live off the cash when you'd gotten enough. Really, we've read those books and they are filth and anybody with half a mind can replicate anything hokey, using the same formulas and write over again like we've heard the tale of jesus so many times, the same story, the same flesh, the same ending. You can make the ending sad or you can make it happy and that will be what people remember from it and if you make the ending sad people will call it dark and broody and with the current populace of emokids around that might be what you're shooting for. Your hero must feel like it's him against the world, that his back is against the wall and his only option for survival are the six-shooters at his hips and that life truly is pain. This is what you should have written, this is what you should have done.

You wrote a book once when you were young, it was the greatest plan, take an old obscure writer who had a great cult following and take his prophecies at face value whilst interpreting it with post-modernism and tell people this at bars as they ask you what you do and think you'll get laid because what the fuck man, I'm a writer but fail miserably and go into a life of being a stoner and hang around there, blast your memory from here to hell and continue to live a life with less friction. You know this won't end happy but it won't end sad either, you want away from the traditional end, you want away from beautiful shakespeare's influence, you want to create something new because it's about bloody time someone did. You leave yourself open to interpretation by the unwashed masses as in your apocalypse everyone save three have died from spontaneous human combustion, a type of death which nullifies the entire human existence, levelling them to the status of roadkill, no honour, no valour, no bang. You leave the three remaining souls to be named Peter, Paul and Mary after those who performed puff the magic dragon, also alluding to the biblical characters and making it fucking edgy when the reader discovers that Paul is a preop male to female. Then you send in the Mad Arab to start some shit as you let your heroes wander through your version of america, none of it based on reality but everything on myth and you mix it all in with the coming visions of Cthulhu, the ending being that william s burroughs was close to right but he didn't think it in the scope of hp lovecraft but you're still not sure about the ending because you don't know how this era ends and you're not sure if it will end when you find an end to the book or whether or not the book itself will end it and you write it three or four times before you ask yourself, is this really a good plot and a good book?

You wrote a book once when you were young, it was the greatest plan, for in the book you wrote the chapters of both should and would and made them coherent, made them work together, made them symbiotic in their revealation and you lived by the book and you did both things, you did what you should and what you would and life became happy, life become solid and something you cared for, something you wept for, something you celebrated. In the book you wrote an open ending but with clues and pointers on how it would end, embracing critics and the consumers equally. You become the one that none can rival and none can spite. You become the king of the hill and you are righteous and fair and you have lived life to the max, you have seen the ups and the downs but you followed your book, you followed your own story.

The words get lost in the ether the second that he speaks them, he proves to us the materialization of ideas but he does nothing more. He is human in the way they used to call barbarians back in the day and age where everything made sense and blood was a cheap currency. Blood has grown more and more expensive as the leaders of the world have understood that the lower class and the filth of the world will disappear if one tries to root it up and send it to war for all classes are ethereal. He is a savage swine but he is human, he fucks and he eats and he drinks and thusly here we come, the new race, the new class, the new
The new men and women that follow only the biological imperative, leaving everything else secondary

Here are the silent masses that do everything but stay silent every friday and saturday, here do we find the people responsible for the over-population of the globe, here is the nemesis of neglect. There is no 'we' anymore for we are dead, lying in dry trenches and riverbeds, dying from alcohol poisoning or rotten ideals, dreams and hopes, we are all broken, that we know but some of us try to do something with the brokenness, we've been there and we begun mending it but it fell apart, the ground it stood on rejected it, a dying body rejecting a fresh heart so we did what most people don't do, we tried to get something from it, something that lay behind or on the side or opposite the fucking road from it but we tried and we kept trying, part of our curse as your curse is what we find despicable

but

we're too tired of your words as they sink emptily into our bellies and swell them and we're tired of your flies and what the fuck does it really matter to you if we landed on the moon or not and why don't you try to just act the way you so obviously wants or not even that, just do something, please. Do something, anything and it makes my day so much better when I can talk to a human in three d instead of two d because that is what you are my princes, ye who will rule the world, ye who believe in someone elses idea of time, ye who likes your time to be linear

For princes you are and you hold a certain point in my heart but I've grown weary from you, grown weary from cataloguing your emotions ideas hopes and dreams and you are a story to me now, nothing else, nothing more involved and you're harry potter on the shelves. I'll buy you in new editions when my children are born and I will do it yet again when my grandchildren draw breath but you've been read, there is nothing in you now other than that which invites specialists and sadists.

An empty hourglass you are and it appears that the sand is running both ways simultaneously and while we hear the creaking points of linearity we hear your brains actions beyond the words we pick up from the ether as we sit on the moon and we just built a receiver and everyone of you is out there and i am here and we're all listening to the same commands and some of us drink because of it, some of us go into politics because of it and some do something about it and some others are just built that way but some of us believe it as gospel, as canon but it doesn't really matter because even how diehard solipsistic you are, we're still stuck here together and my hate for you will never end, nor will my love

I choose you away from my reality, I deny your existence for you have shown me nothing that lingers

We thought it mattered in the shadow. Where all is drained of their context, empty husks are what is left, we are peering into it every day we breathe the air as we go looking for the hipsters. The elusive angels that define so much we don't know but where we put no idea of power for their power is different, effective but working for the short haul, seeing the flesh for what it is and nothing more, nothing for nothing. We see them every day in their non authentic fashion, sparks of long ago dead matter in their eyes and they are hollow creatures for they shy away from life, they do not walk towards it. They dream it and hope for it but eventually when presented with the chance we will say no.

I thought there was a disease growing in all of us but it was only me. You know how these stories go for this is the medical story, the same story they tell around the fire as another camaro wraps itself around a phonepole, I'm sorry officer but I just didn't see it coming. I was in the later stages of it, they didn't know what it was and they tried to treat it and every time they did, the meds stopped working earlier and earlier. All the women are mad in this asylum, it is a putrid heart inside the holiest of churches, sunk in a deep trench. They were the magdalene sisters and we wanted to rid us of their blemish and this is our story, we destroyed what we deemed not fitting with the current trends and we built a new world on top of it.

With time, the anarchists among us lost hope, went into a communistic state of denial, verging on nazi terrain but those were always more different than the others of us but the anarchists wept with their v for vendetta in hand for they saw that the rubble others may build from is poisoned by the old ideals and magick, still written in the grisly stone. The truth was different though, for we expected miracles. We gave them the tools and the rubble but we did not train them, we did not leave a foundation other than cryptic words that only are valuable when  understood, like a flight instruction manual written in hindi.

The music is grating through the speakers one story up above, the words that leave the membrane is something old I haven't heard in a while and I remember a past I'd forgotten, realizing this I cry as I watch the postcards and photographs hanging on my wall, revealing the past I wish to take with me in the grave, what I want to be remembered as and with wanting is what I will be remembered as. When the loneliness creeps in, comfort is always the easiest of safeties. We are allowed to wallow in self-pity as we mourn, we are allowed to sit there in that old baroque chaiselounge with a blank expression on our face, the world sees us mourning a relative but all we can think about is ourself.

They say we're born into the light and we creep towards darkness before we find the light again. We must be tested, we must try to die before we see light, we must attempt to shuffle the deck and play our cards anew. It's going to get worse before it gets any better and it's always darkest before the sun rises and when we almost die and find some sort of illumination, it's not always that the weird turns pro. Do you recognize an epiphany? Do you care about it or act on it? Do you change or does the world? Is anything static? Is everything so dynamic that it appears to be static or the other way around and how did i even get here and should i just marry this beautiful-


The trains are always leaving nowadays, we see them glide off into the horizon, weary pilots and stewardesses, businessmen on their way to broker some deal, sleeping backpackers hoping that their next destination will be nirvana and some of us just made the jump. We leapt. Through the air we soared on feathered serpents till our eyes were bleeding and we almost died but we came back, all shook up and shattered, punished and heartless we were as they saw us, declining illumination, a part of the godhead. It wasn't our way, we needed something new, something fresher than the book of should and we co-existed with them as they felt let down, sorry for themselves and sorry for our treachery, frater frater, why do you sleep?

Should we wrest with our demons and angels and become what that war made us into or should we ignore them, co-exist with them in a symbiotic relationship, stealing from them as they steal from us? Does it matter how we do it as long as we get the job done? It does, doesn't it? The question that will always exist, the curse that will linger when all our bones have been buried, the same question that will torment us in the afterlife as we are ferried across the styx, reviewing our old lives, faded polaroids and postcards as we ask ourselves why

Some times, when the morning coffee hasn't yet seeped into the pores of my brain and the nicotine is still a shower away I look at myself in the mirror, imagining myself as a woman. Thinking about what choices I would have done earlier, how my life would have turned out and smelled, how the colours would look and how it would feel to give birth.

They try to tell us the truth through mangled lips, bubbles of blood and broken teeth give the words a certain ring of truth but we've heard it before, we're looking for a new truth whilst discarding the old truths, we're stepping on and moving through and as we step into the temple we see the veil already half-torn and there is shouting in the streets outside.

The truth is a fickle thing for the truth is like a story, like the small important parts of a story that builds the momentum and if the storyteller is good, these are the invisible parts, they pass through the night silently without us disturbing them with their cheshire grins. The truth is what isn't there, the truth is what is lacking, the things that have passed away and that we spend our entire lives looking for

Hoping for
Dreaming for
Fearing

The fear is always growing and as it's true as the adults say that you'll grow out of it, you'll grow into more, forgetting your mistakes time and time over, reliving, revisiting, rebecoming and there is a sensation of ascent, light wings flapping mildly in a tropical night and closer to the polar circle do we fly and the jazz is clear to us as it is written in the sky and as we fly, time does that thing it does sometimes and we see all the dead lovers below us, we see all what they have seen, gazing upon the world with hofmann improved vision and seeing the lie,

loving it.

The world will end when I die of heart failure in a diner in minnesota, the world will end when I inject myself with heroin the third time and most likely it will happen quite silently and I will smile to myself when it happens because we may have started in a bang but we will not end in one. I find comfort in my belief that everything that happens carries fruit, ripe or rotten doesn't matter but there is a measure of control regarding coincidence.

The music is peaking but the e isn't, I'm here between sweaty hippies, kids and white people with dreads and I need chemicals to enjoy this, I need something that isn't me to ride for the while, to take me through to something, an adventure into the belly of reality itself where the skies darken by the second and by the time you remember that sentence you should have used on that delicious woman back when you were too young for her you're already soon dead and you keep forgetting to keep focused, you loose yourself in the now and the drums are scattered and varied, making no sense but there is a sensation of the possibility of an harmony in the chaos they give you to see, slicing it up so it looks like a venn diagram and in truth it is. The room turns into love.

There is a child sitting in a graveyard by the headstone of her grandfather whom she loved dearly. She is smoking a joint but he had nothing to do with it. If he knew he might have shock his head lightly and said my dear child what are we to do to you before taking a puff. It doesn't really matter who her grandfather was or where he is, all that matters is that incorporated into the machine of the child lies every possibility, and that is the human curse.

"It's not about hard or easy and always about the job at hand"
   - - - Wylie Times, 100 Bullets

The mind is phluxing, trying to get a grip, trying to make it seem like something worthwhile. Do you see her eyes as clearly as I see them? I have let her down twice but only once as far as she is concerned and we're back at the bar, drinking, going classy, ordering the small beers and double ricards with one icecube and sometimes, when there's enough drugs and usually speed we tell the truth. Then, the pitch changes and we see this chef beat down the dj as he puts on some kyuss and then suddenly in its banality and simplicity, something becomes worthwhile.

The consequences for the dj are non-existant for this life is too short to be hindered by people that don't know what they do, life is way too short to not take some of rand with you. Earlier in my life I hated well meaning, well meaning sacrifices, people that either said they meant well or people who meant it with tears in their eyes but it still didn't matter and now I know why, now I've understood it and my eyes grow blacker for every night. Time becomes irrelevant when you meet the people that are older than your parents but will still drink you under the table three times and do more drugs in a night than you did in a day, when you see the gold diggers digging for the heart of saturday night when you see your friends at the pub and you get a sensation of a familiar feeling, you've heard it a hundred times but here's what I see as the kicker because I really think that deja vus are memories from the future.

Time is only the now but it isn't really the now the hippies talked about, time is a completely different beast, curved along the edges of fourth-dimensional space. We walk and talk in the rain but there's nothing perfect about it, like time shows us again and again so that we may learn and create seven new stories but we are still children, talking about things we do not know or have any information on but it made us feel big back then, telling a lie about fucking this older chick when we were really camping with our parents in the mountains, something of shame. We are still talking about the same things, we are still walking through the old streets but they have changed more than us but we feel we've changed, we feel we're onto something here, we're on our way, there is light or atleast something interesting in the end of the tunnel but then we take a look at something else than the mirror and we go back into our depression and deal with it in the best way.

We're golden like cinderella still, our walk-in closet filled with one of each shoe because we have littered our planet with one of each shoe, planting seeds. The world will end when every living person realize that sex sells.

It's all about death you know, the days we count untill we are lost in oscurity. Ask a child what is old, ask a college student what is old and ask your father, ask your mother. Where do we grow into the silence and obscurity of oldhood? Even those with the most grand and eternal plans do not know at what station they will get off at. They try to ask for a connection but they are unsure about the words for they haven't spoken them earlier and never heard them, like nervousness in class, the young madamoiselle so hot that you had to take it but when she looks at you with her stern eyes and your jailbait cock swells, you are unsure on how to pronounce it and you drop into chaos and take a chance and in secret you'd wish she would give you a spanking, nothing more, just her breasts rubbing towards your back and your thighs creating friction against hers and nothing more and you think about the students of old who had to take a physical beating and as your cock shrivels of impotence, envy fills your heart.

Did you listen for the truth? Did you hear your heart beat in synchronicity with your lover as they began the vivisection or was it all dead
The streets cry our names, so many names that everyone hears their own, the language of the angels is found in the dirt, seven feet down twixt the older men and roses once with beads of salty water and we are misunderstanding as we walk through the corridors of our life and try to find where to knock but we get lost in the freezer and we die. The next day we are staff food for the restaurant on the first floor.

This is how it works, this is where death takes us and this where life leads us and we're here, stuck between the shit, the dirt, the goo and the filth. I no longer hope for a messiah or an anti messiah, I'm just in the know that you and I will dwindle away because it's what we do, it is the lead we follow, the clue we're seeing so clear infront of us and every friend we have now will dwindle away as we move or they move and in the beginning we're at their cottage but after a year or so the phones die too and something has passed. That is all. It is an observation, nothing more. This is how we will fade away for we do not deserve a savior, we do not need a savior for we have each other and that is all we can hope to understand.

The hate is dying in my stomach. I don't have time anymore for hate and I miss it, I miss the edge it gave me. I miss it when I want to batter skulls or go on a rumbling rampage brandishing japanese ceramics through a restaurant populated with the people I will spend my time in hell with. It is dying but it will not die, I don't think it can, I don't think I can let it rest for I will need it again and until then I cherish the memories we've had together, hate and me.

They feathered her and then they tarred her because they were kinda dumb and backwards over there on the other side of the ridge. We saw it from a distance up in the trees and we were as a collective depressed and we all thought best if it ended with this, their lair having women chained up, robbed from ours and we're back in college, we're whistling while we're pissing to the american dream and somewhere in the back of our minds we hear iggy pop and elvis doing a duet. We see the women in the late autumn's red air, the sun is filling the streets and every park is illuminated, making every hour spent grinding seem unreal somehow, disconnected.

We know it is a lie, we know reality isn't approved by society or we wish to believe it and never question anyone about it, living in one of the last pockets of hope. We see the men too, no selfconsciousness to trace anywhere in their sixpacks, their eyes glinting with youthful charm, aeons for them still to realize you don't see anything through the bottom of a beer glass. We hear the camaros as they die in the night, we press our thumbs lightly on our closed eyes and we see the stars and the world and a feeling of truth, knowing it is death.

Death was what we saw as the old hag drowned in the tar, too old to breed and the world had to grow. This is our disease, this is the burden we wear with a smile, this is what makes the world extend beyond eat drink man woman, this is an apple between two perfect tits and we want it to say kallisti but usually it doesn't but it's ok, it's still beautiful tits and it is still radiating with a weird holy light. Like the light that hits you in your belly after the first shot you had of decent tequila with no salt in sight, seeing this girl doing the same and smiling at you, your life becomes one of the what happened earlier scenes in a romantic comedy and it works ok, it's a nice feel to it.

It begins to snow

It all turns into a cloud, it all turns into dust when the day has ended and it's already dark, salutations to the sun falling on deaf ears. The darkness chews away at the city, werewolf snarls heard throughout the streets together with the lamentation of the death of the city itself, mad prophets walking through the streets trying to find a meaning in them ending in a cell because if you're doing a shit job you need decent drugs and decent drugs aren't allowed with haute couture.

Reality smells of wet asphalt, wet dirt, wet filth and hope and we sample it as we sample everything once and then move on to a different sphere where men in jackets make caviar from coulis and we realize so much about our life as we do something completely different and time disappears from the equation and as we stand in the shit we realize something, a truth and for many people the truth but we're too busy to think and analyze we're just there in the moment, the only thing that has ever existed and we push away all doubt and ego and we dig into it, we swim in the chaos and we dance ballet and we smile as everyones worlds ends but we have seen a light, formed of chaos and born in dementia and a sort of madness, a faux madness, controlled most of the times but sometimes Crowleys old beast rears his head and amidst medium minus and medium plus that old whore, the terrible beauty is born and we flow with it, get dragged into it, seeing from every conceivable angle at the same time, twisting into the birth

The day ends and everyone leaves, the moment is gone and it feels like you didn't get what you desired, you feel cheated and one hot summers day you realize it and you fall to your knees and we are truly enlightened, an entire ship of pirate-monks waiting for the rush to arrive

and were still waiting

Because you are a man.


At this moment I'll pardon any man or woman who thinks otherwise but I tried to inquire on the why but I am still a man, why I asked am I a man, is it because I have a cock? No she replied and went silent and if I hadn't been drunk and she hadn't had a nice pair of tits and a beautiful face I'd have left but I didn't and I asked her why I was a man and she smiled a retarded smile and I said well, I have a shirt on and I'm wearing a tie and a stetson and everything matches but how am I a man? Then she told me in a sullen sexy voice, you're going to order me what to do.

I said, we're all going to die here. Mellow in the tone, confusion bordering on whether to take me seriously or simply giggle. I would have giggled but then I would have begun the discussion, were we really going to die here? I'd found someone to dance and we'd begin with defining both "here" and "death" and we'd dance on something akin to ecstasy and we'd only slip out of the shoes and into the skin as the sun set. We don't realize but everything everyone do is part of their soul, part of their system and how they work, there is pride taken in every breath of air and every flick of a wrist.

We're laughing as we're gagging as we walk through life and we call it shitty, we call it barren, we call it the names we gave it in dreams but we're still here, still breathing, death has happened, death has come and claimed us and our friend but we don't believe it, we don't really see it and it's not because we weep of their death but simply because we are ignorant, we are dumb and you were a star.

You are dead now and I hope you know I loved you even though I didn't tell it to you, I hope you understood me as I understood you and I hope you saw the light before the darkness, not the other way around. Here we sit, the filth, the over educated with no hope, I sat with you often for you were the most interesting of us and you dream still, we peer past the horizon with port in our hands, glancing back at the place we know from childhood and I see you still there but you've gone with the others, into memory.

I will tell you the lies of the world, I will make you watch the history of mankind, I will make me see the end before it comes and I will make it matter, you will make it matter, elevate it into meaning for we are nothing on this cold earth unless we are meaning. We are the dead men, dreaming the giants back into oblivion. We are the sickened larva, discontent with annihilation but still trudging, still moving. The initial moment when you realize you fall in love, the second you understand you did something wrong, you did something you shouldn't. When you realize you've grown old, you've become an adult. Bøygen stands there still, forever waiting, forever breathing life into our creations and watching them as they disappear along with us.

We are waiting but we're still breathing but perspective is the only thing that separates us for time, time isn't what it used to be.

I am drowning. The world flickers off and then flickers back on again, a fault in the leds that illuminate reality. I can feel the smell of blood and the gravel in my mouth, I can feel the hope running out from under my feet and I can feel myself getting lost in the earth. I can feel myself drowning down towards the molten core, I can feel myself tossing in sleep, I can feel the empire still breathing, still waiting and yearning, I can feel the machine in my belly going slower as we stripmined the oil and I get the feeling that time is moving way too fast and the war never began, it was a coup that started in our brains but ended in our hearts.

The cigarettes burn our throats and there's no more weed to make us shake it, we've grown tired from the drink and the pills, we've grown tired of the life we are living, we've grown tired of all our hopes that entail a better life, we're weary to our stomachs because of all our failures, everything we didn't act upon and everything we acted upon but wrongly because we as a whole and as an individual didn't know better but we felt it when we felt the machine in our bellies hum in a different key, when we felt the abyss open up in there, the black star shining inside our intestines, showing us how puny we are as we descend into the fire underneath the earth

We feel the skin hunger grappling us, chaining us down and taking us apart, we feel the burdens of our lives tax heavy on our shoulders, vexing our skin and like they were marks of cain, the rash spreads throughout us as we drown for none of us is trying to reach another, no one is trying to grasp for something that would make it worthwhile, a distant thought on distant shoulders in a faraway land. The fingers bleed as we touch the world but we shut our wounds on the stovetop, burning our memories into the skin where all of life is fixated, the terrible nightmare, the horrible symphony, the backdrop of which all great stories are plaid out upon, seven in the number

We are clawing for reason and understanding, thinking them to be the virtues we should all possess but they are too small gods, too impotent to work in reality where we slide downwards through the skin of everything, the deserts are screaming the names of the lost in our voice and the heat is going back up, the föhn bringing madness to the city, all the men and women walking sweating, forgetting who they were when the weather was cold, living only now in this place inbetween, this twilight twixt where the asphalt develops pores and nerves and we see it as we watch our feet, we see the blood from the wailing city when we get lost in it

We weep in silence as we dream. Our dreams are flooded with the memories of the perfect, the people and the world we have built and met. Forget the tingling sensation that there is something more out there, forget the signs and forget the silent hope, a dagger of finest damascus forever embedded in your spine. Do not try to see the gods as real and do not think there is a calling, it is only your heart yearning for what it hasn't been given lately. Every night we weep as we dream of it, floating around in an orbit but the radio is silent even though we are screaming but we are only an image, a mirage, a fata morgana and from these slivers do we every day wake up to construct our reality.

There is only the metaphor, the ragged edge of communication, the tool to bring both gods and illusions alive. Do you see icarus there, climbing? Don't you think he looks sorta like harry potter? Have you read the seven stories and have you at times woven them into your life, have you read enough philip k dick to realize that rome is always superimposed over la and do you truly believe that there are only seven stories? What will happen once you break the fourth wall? Will it all come tumbling down or are you too late for work already

the clock ticking as you're on the bus and today is an important day but you took the bus after the one you should have taken and sweat is on your forehead and you can feel the windbreaker building up static, you know you could have walked faster and it just feels like the heart of the world is dying because we fucked it too hard, as we in our icarian fashion sought to drink the wisdom of the sun but found rather the asshole of reality and in our desire to be fulfilled we cracked its rectum and the ancient cock, the obelisk and phallos penetrated the heart of us all and we felt sick

sick to our stomachs like when you feel something more important the the sum of our beings is shattered, something bigger than us dies or simply isn't born, an initiation that never ends ends and the rules of the game change and we see these buildings with new eyes and we are something more for a short second before we are reminded that the illusion that keeps us alive is the same that keeps us chained

It takes a special kind of man to skin an elephant and even if you find a man with the skills to do it, you still have to go looking for the one with a soul to do it. We drive around town looking for dealers out on the streets, everyone we know is in prison or quit or died and the cops have been busting asses all summer and everyone who used to bust kneecaps round friday night aren't where they used to be, they aren't in their haunts and the lack of these people make the city feel haunted. It's hot and summer and we here can't take the sun too well, we drown inside our skin in a scandinavian madness as we long for the autumn, dreaming we're somewhere else.

We need to meet her now, we need to do what we haven't done. We must put it into practice and see how it works. All of life is a series of experiments and when you're down and depressed just remember that for the time being your manual is written in a secret code and all you have to work with is depleted uranium and one of those small toysets you got as a kid. We need to see her again, perhaps touch her or sample her hair for proof of what our eyes have seen but which our mind will doubt at a later stage

which is a miracle but it was only we who saw it, it was only us that realized what this was, to us, to the world and to everything we are connected through and we ended singing, stranded on a rock somewhere in the ocean and a god saw upon us and laughed and cursed us so that everyone who saw us would see what he desired the most and all communication and thinking had to be done while singing and we rode the ships into the rocks and we were the doomed but we saw those who drowned there and grandfather death became like a brother to us and we felt the same way about the children which washed upon our shores and it wasn't apathy but we had seen this before so many times

and the catacombs reeked of death, reeked of the filth and the shit we smelled and drank, what we were as we sat on the graveyard, the only place we could drink and smoke in quiet in our late teens and respect was something we didn't have even though old people died like flies, death wasn't even a concept as we celebrated oscar wilde. there was a stench there in that graveyard but one time when we had gotten our hands of some mushrooms I realized the stench didn't come from the place, it came from us and what I saw that moment is something I'll never see again but what I felt

The city transforms, growing skin and orificies over the asphalts and the buildings and we're walking inside her now but we still can't see her but we feel broken glass being dragged through our marrow and time feels right

We seek to live in the land of the dead. We try to free ourselves from the shackles of the dead, our dead heroes, poets and pundits. Our writers and actors, our doers and our thinkers. They live now in the land of the dead whilst we try to find the way to the land of the living. To feel it, feel the shape of it, feel the life seeping into our every pore and our minds are clear, like darts of silver through the darkened wilderness of spirituality. Some of the times you truly and really live and it happens by accident. You write something that feels perfect or you suddenly realize how everything comes together or apart, it's the same, it is just dependent on mood or beliefs. The first time you say I love you and mean it like only you yourself can mean it for you are the only one that knows your complete interpration or like the first time you taste elderflower.

"Auricularia auricula-judae (syn. Auricularia auricula, Hirneola auricula-judae) is commonly known as Judas's ear fungus or Jew's Ear, the name from which it derives the "judae" in its scientific name, or as the jelly ear fungus. It was said that Judas hanged himself on an elder tree, which is the origin of the name.[2] The term 'Jew's Meat' was a deprecatory term used for all fungi in the Middle Ages[1][2] Snow fungus, another edible fungus which is white in color, is a separate species, Tremella fuciformis." - Wikipedia, retrieved 22.06.09 0045.

Here hangs Judas. Was he one of the living or was he one of the dead? Do we drink to his memory or do we spit after saying his name out loud? Was he as biggie smalls put it, a winner or a sinner? Did he eat anchovies fo' dinna and did he even like anchovies? If he was ordering a pizza in a nice place, would he go for the napoletana? Would he even go eat italian pizza or would you find him down by the kebab shops, screaming at the owner for the sauce being weak shit and what would the difference be between Judas and Jesus? They died by a tree, they consciously chose and while their legacy is different for the time being, what is the difference between all our dead inspirators? Our facilitators, growing us into our skin, lying rotting, transcending. They knew what they were headed for, they were alive. Or was this whole charade just the other way around?

Is this where hope should lie and rest? Is this the shining city we see every day after work, catching glimpses of it in passing subway trains or dark buses? Did you dream me here and where is the operations manual, where is up and where is down? Time fluctuates as a child sits in the flesh of an old man on a distant beach in thailand, reading borges as two ladyboys blow him and fondle him and love him in their way like we love our jobs and the magician makes the connection to the faraway land, another dimension or reality or simply a different thought

is passing as a breeze through the tree in the yard, our lovely bush smelling of the faraway land

You wake up this day and you feel completely normal. You know it's not going to be a shit day but it's not going to be a good day, it's just going to be a day. There will be a desire present to kill the hours of that day, like waiting for a plane or waiting for her to be satisfied in some way so you can take your cock out of her because it doesn't feel like anything and you should have been numb but you're still on x. It's a normal day and you're disappointed for you wanted a day that would feel right from the start, something that took you and shook you and made you feel alive, something that was so different from every other day that you've had for as long as you can remember and you don't want to know what day was the last you remembered, you just want something to take you and shake you and make you feel alive. It's not this day for you feel it from the start, you do not feel like time machine go you feel like you're trying to figure out how to describe the fourth dimension using only a rubiks cube. This is your day and I'm sad to say it but this is your life.

The keeper of the marigolds say that Love is not the strongest emotion, it is Longing. If you've ever been in love and divided by something archaic like time, space or geography, this rings a certain truth in your heart. The person or icon you build in your mind with memories from the past and sometimes from the future, you automatically build something that is bigger than life. You cry when you see sleepless in seattle on a wednesday night or perhaps you read shakespeare for the first time but you've already forgotten that you should still walk before you ride a bike. Is it about upbringing? There is no story. Wait. That's wrong. There are no good endings. Do you know why? You think it might have to do with interpretation and you invoke magic and you begin talking about gysin before heading into burroughs terrain and telling us that language is a virus and we'll tell you no, existence as we perceive it is a virus, everything is a virus, a system, a concept of truth or order, everything is everything and the way you are able to handle day to day basics by waking up on your normals days is because you have attached the labels to everything even though you don't believe in labels but every day there is a man in a kitchen longing for the dishwasher that quit, there is a woman longing for the times when she was not stuck in this life and there is a man longing for the perfect end which will make everyone understand, not agree.

Then there's the other days. The remarkable days, the memories that help define you instead of being blurred snapshots in the eye in the back of your mind. I will tell you of two things now, I will tell you of women and I will tell you of writing and since writing is short and women are long, writing comes first. Some female writer once said that giving out a book is like delivering a child and I feel the same way, almost. I have no possibility to experience childbirth like that but every time I write something I know is not just filling, I feel the same way I do as when I wake up on normal days and take a shit and the shit is perfect. Perfect amount, perfect smell and perfect percentage of farts, perfect weight and perfect disgust in the face of the next user of the toilet. Something child like, schadenfreude as when it was natural and not trained. That is writing. Writing is a biological necessity and you have to do it regularly or it will fuck me up.

So I write about the women. For they are beautiful. Come spring where everything shows more of themselves and while I haven't yet found arousal by watching at the men, I have of the women. The sexual attraction, the sheer retardedness of it all, the biological imperative yet again screaming in the back of your head and you've always been a good boy, you've basically been a slut but no one is calling you that and you could fill in a std form in your sleep but even though you coveted another man's wife you never went that path, never to break or make, skipping to and fro, chickenshit if the road was to take you to the crossroads where old Bøygen sat with his spoon and his plans. You were a good boy and you treated the world like glass, forever a painted white elephant in that one store and here stagger lee, is your life. Do you recognize it?
Then. You met a woman. She was ordinary at first but she lashed out and gave you a desire for the very same biological need and you drank her in as you would close to drown in her stories, her skin, her eyes and her bed. She was everything you ever dreamed of but found in the last place you'd go looking. Funny how some of these old plotlines keep returning even though we are aware of them? Anyway, you'd find her there and you'd see beyond the veil of someone and cupid had his flaming arrow in your heart and you were left shivering on the couch, dreaming of the end of the world. Every good love story begins with a no. Everything interesting begins with a no. Love the word, for it is a catalyst of destruction. Love the women for they are in their own right.

It is known she has a boyfriend but he seems so dull. Then, your mind processes it and you interpret it and there is no conclusion. Like standing on your knees with a semiboner wanking yourself, thinking that you as a human being is impotent. You shall not covet another mans wife. It's one of the things you don't do same as you don't go drink at work when you know they're going to be busy and you don't steal stuff that others need to be professional. You're not an ass, you're a good boy. Scared shitless but a good boy none the less. Now you're at a crossroads. Do you grow out of your narrowmindedness and into something else? Into reality, into adulthood, into facing the facts? Do you take what you feel you have no claim to, do you twist proudhons words in your mind, do you remember our good old mascot hassan i sabbah? How he was so drunk that one intermission that he stumbled and fell and his tights ripped open and he had this gigantic cock turning into

Do you go deeper or do you deny these allegations? You see these women on the walls and they're both smiling, both wonderful and when you see them like this, two different kinds of wonderful perfection, you wonder if there is an alternative to pancetta in a carbonara. I think it's important to talk about food when talking about women, like it is talking about wine when talking about women. I'm writing this from perspective so any kind of deviation from my perspective as you would interpret it, completely openminded, like that dude you hang out with sometimes because you know he's a liar and he'll have a few good yarns before going to the next pub. These are all lies. I have always written lies and will always do. What others call it differs but for me they will always be lies like the man on the telly when you realize you can't touch him or the kid from home alone being taken for sniffing cocaine at eleven or something, the death of santa. I'm writing lies and the funniest lies are the obituaries. Sorry.

Women can get away with following tacky trends or being retards when there is little clothing involved. I hope the same goes for men but I'm not betting on it. Here sits Bøygen in your crossroads good boy, here you meet him and while you think it's about the soul, that's only a faint memory from the future. For he's here and he has a special spoon for you and you can see in his eyes that he's not fucking around. Here, little boy, sit, as I will tell the tale.  Good old Tristan, good old Isolde, this is a truth. You lie in your garden as you did when you were a little and good boy and you watched the clouds through the apple tree and as an apple fell you dodged and repositioned yourself, you jumped away from all of life's miracles, you jumped away from the war and the battle, you skipped over the fray and why was it? Did you seek your perfect ending for too long?

There are no endings. Initiation never ends.

This is what you tell yourself when you sleep, isn't it? This is the truth and  hope you cling to, never explaining it to others, exploding in tantrums saying you wouldn't understand and one day a prince on a fucking unicorn will fuck you with its horn. Until then you are lost in your own bog of self-pity. Fret not, self-loathing is where it all begins so there's just one more drop until the bottom where you break or make something because everybodys always watching the end of the abyss like everyones always looking up at the sky. Now, you hate yourself but you still have problems and jay-z was wrong and you can feel your world caving in because this is something that should have been worked out weeks ago but you're still here, desiring to break hearts in the darkness.

The piano plays for us, a drunken man sitting next to it singing the piano has been drinking as the elderly man plays beethoven. Everything turns into a cliche from when the doors were hip and we see spacetime bend, watching aldous huxley write this new manifesto. Heaven and hell, nothing less. Tom O' Bedlam, the worlds greatest magician went mad as he opened the doors to both heaven and hell but that's a different universe albeit so much the same for there's a piano there too and there's coke on it and songs of love are being sung.

The violin enters, peacefully, supporting, creating, the good nurse making us remember why it's important with decent people wanting to do it right not real but after our stay there they said I was hallucinating most of the time and hey

that's okay

for the doors to heaven and the doors to hell are all open, judgment day is coming, the end is nigh and soon you'll be able to buy small packages of human salt in your closest gourmet shop for every apocalypse that ever was will also be repeated once and they're shooting this movie up on the moon and it's about this elite squad of space marines and they're watching apocalypses in other dimensions, steering our world clear, keeping us from bodily harm

A man sits by the organ in spain with shostakovich in his lap and we can hear the bell toll

We follow the tits as we shuck the oysters and scallops, talk shit while we're scratching our hair and the boss comes in and he doesn't know what's going on but he's in our face and want three of our french fucking plateaus with kamchatka, mussels, scallops, oysters, crab, salmon and halibut. Wakame decorating the thing like some foul seaweed creeping up the harbour in innsmouth until you taste it and that  might distract you from the two beady eyes of ponzo and vinegar and as this happens I get a sensation of deja vu, a dream and a memory superimposed and lived at the same time, felt and thought in the exact same moment and hitler's in my dream where I stand in line, picking up the perfect chicken from the sous vide, feeling dirty before slabbing it onto some romano, drowning it in dressing, the chef standing there smiling saying

There! That's the way to do it. Think of a Caesar soup, you probably haven't made a vichyssoise but a good Caesar is like that ok, it's like the gazpacho but it's white and it's french so yeah, let the romano swim, know what I mean? The romano is like a fucking skinny bitch and you wanna make her swim before she starts sucking your goddamned hard cock fuck I'm hard now, you're not gay are you?

It's like you realize you're alone all life or if you realize you have someone you know will be there for the rest of your life and then suddenly you realize you're the wrong shape, the wrong colour, the wrong concept and idea but there's this feeling that it isn't really you. It's them but you secondguess yourself all the time, burning the grilled mayonnaise the chef picked up on on this big here internet and as soon as he heard he added it to the menu

as a starter

and there was nothing else on the plate and it didn't matter how many complaints or how much people whined and we tweaked the recipe and amount every day but you took the shit and you yelled back, a tiger in your cage and after twenty three days it was off the menu, returning crusted in nuts as a bar room snack

Then you get out, meet normal people and you understand that it's reality that's crazy, not you and when the sun rises you're in some student kitchen doing the improvised vichysoisse and you don't know what you're doing anymore because you're amped up on amph and the acid gives you a connection with the ingredients, you talk with them and the weed just gives you a sense of paranoia and suddenly you realize you're still on the line and somewhere you can hear it

Men cocking their guns for a salute

Do not judge a book by the cover, the judge said as he presented the heinous crimes the young handsome man had been charged with and we were just kids then and we thought we'd thought it out, figured it all out, understood it but we grew up and we fell in love and we saved for a month to take it out, a nice restaurant, this one I know about, this silent little place in an old winecellar which was also used by the nazis during second world war and in the back of the kitchen by the fridge for milk there's this eagle with a swastika still written in stone but that's a different story, still, everything leaves a mark and time doesn't really work like you percieve it, it's like not judging books by the cover but we're still in love and we're in the restaurant, a shitty table towards the bathrooms but we felt at ease back here, at peace and none could hear what we spoke of and that was pleasing for we spoke of treason. We were presented to the food by the sous because he used to sell me assorted drugs and sometimes we hung but anyhow, he came out to us and he told us Don't judge the book by the cover and he gave us our first course, a soup that looked and smelled like shit with assorted parts of baby vomit dipping around and we ate it and it was good but I was left with this nagging thought and I haven't been able to shake it since and that was, was it good because it looked like shit? Would it have been better if it didn't look like shit? Was the presentation important for my tongue? Where does perfection end and where does personality begin?

The superpersonality is emerging, has begun emerging because he's in the comics in the movies and if you believe klostermann, the superpersonality is coming. The Joker is coming in every incarnation to live every life and die every death but still return and it won't be the pretty chaos you think you beg for some times when you're  high or meeting other discordians, this will be the howling fury, it will feel like you're on acid and your mind's inner eye read Promethea from tpb one to five but it leaves this bad feeling, getting caught as a kid for shoplifting or if that gun actually went off. God forgot but then remembered and then he saw upon us and this was what he gave us, an inner destruction or a necessary change, depending on perspective. Here he comes now, old heath.

You are slave. You are, slave. You, are slave.
Never forget that. Never forget you are a slave, remind yourself that you are a slave and at least some part of your life will be in touch with a general truth. You'll forget it, we all do from time to time but when it hits you again, be prepared, know how to retaliate, know how the system works and how you can overload it, how you can hurt those whom usually needs hurt, the upper command. The upper command, where the drooling idiots with cash and connections follow blindly their one-eyed king and those are the people who lead us, those are the people who lead our lives and even if they're you're bloodbrother or you are your own boss, you are still a slave.

I fell into one of the traps all men have fallen into, a common ground where we meet when we have nothing left to say or discuss and we go back there, to the hot chick we thought we'd never be able to get but got, clumsy hands stuck in the strap on the back and we heard ourselves grind our teeth as we slept away the days and hours, went into some other part of us, devouring ourselves from the inside, we were both dead and numb, feeling nothing, connecting to nowhere and we felt it as nihilism standing infront of us watching but it was the abyss and we went at it armed with a bottle of baby oil

She was shiva in a sari saying sorry, out and about on the streets where everyone have no name for they bear that social mark and that is the reason for shiva standing out here with ganesha. We have lost perception of time, time is something everyone else talks about and we are losing our perception of space for this is the world where the shadows never wane, this is the heart of the discontented

It's not minimum wage in the name but it's the same game wrapped inside the illusion of fine dining but every night if you get one of the right tables you hear the sounds coming from the kitchen, you hear the line cooks emptying their souls as they empty their gallons of poison and that is the neverending wail, those overworked and underpaid, trying to create art when they can but all of them wants the filét well done with fries instead of the small french ones and this is where we lose all faith we had in any system, those who believe in a system have not worked in a restaurant, a bar, a library or any place at all where the egos of the small chefs are those most important to please. We work in the tarot card of the tower and we're roommates with the fool and the only thing we want out of life when we've been to work, been to life is a tit to fall asleep on.

The working class voted tory that year. They thought the british communism to win more power but it was the conservatives that won, won the heart and wallet of any self-respecting man, seeing nothing of the poncy shit, seeing nothing that he doesn't see with his own two eyes and he's growing old and frail, too many hours at the steel mill, welding his eyes away and the blindness completes him as he sits in his rocking chair with his pipe, the tragic hero.

Here we were staring at our freedom, here we were building up hope in the dormant minds. We discussed whether or not we were in love, whether we should be in love and we saw these other people discussing why he didn't love her back and they were talking kinda loud, as if they mistook the music for being louder than it was and humanity was unfolding in front of our eyes. This wasn't the life they prepared us for, we were living in what they told us had gone into the history books, open blisters making crackling sounds, children running from the candy store with pockets filled with loot.

The beast sets its teeth into the world, the bared fangs glinting in the sun, like the yellow teeth of the filth of the world. We are out of track, we aren't where we should be, we keep dreaming about the simple solutions, we keep seeing the rapier held high against that old fashioned knot and seven men in black suits stand around us, half windsor on each thin black tie. Here is the beast born, in Slaughter Swamp and in Richard Nixons brain it is given both form and purpose. Our eyes are elevated but our minds are still back there where we were born.

It is the beast that cut our chord as we climb screaming into the world and it is the beast that provides for us, the beast sleeps in every school, prison and mall, we think it is under our beds but it was never there, never in our homes because it is the beast that also provides the security found between the four walls and it is the beast we find when we cross the fourth wall. Godhood lies waiting for us and we see it some times but our hands aren't what they should be, we are lacking thumbs, reverted back to where we were born.

Our lips are weary from smiling and sucking on cigarettes, weary from sipping coffee and talking about nothing as we chip our lives away, as each day vanes into obscurity and we are left here with what we can feel, what we can smell and see, our intellect isn't here now, we're thoroughly bred humans again and we can see the teeth smile, we can see them bite at reality, we can listen to their sounds as we take a shit, take that dump we've been wanting to take for a week now, our stomachs are broken, seeping liquid with pieces of glass and we see the beast climb the kilimanjaro and we read it in the papers when we sit on the bus on the way back there, to where we were born.

Our roots, our feelings clinging to us like discarded smiles. We walk down the old streets and we see them there, former classmates, former bartenders that'd serve you aslong as you gave a blowjob afterwards, age never mattered but when they told me that line I thought it was about love, I thought it a taboo only to be broken in the most extreme situations but I was naive then because I believed that the world was the way I grew up believing and my was I a stubborn child. I know the beast is in my heart, I know the beast is in my brains, I know I am a part of it and we all are. It feels like it began as an idea, a concept which laid down the foundations for each and every culture and then sprung several ideas, our beast, my Thalia.

Nothing is more powerful than an idea whose time has come said Victor Hugo and we see it in a new light now as we lob grenades from our e-trenches and every grenade holds the emblem of the beast, every grain of rice we eat has our stamp of approval on it.


you

you're a beast, she said
your big white belly
and those hairy feet.
you never cut your nails
and you have fat hands
paws like a cat
your bright red nose
and the biggest balls
I've ever seen.
you shoot sperm like a
whale shoots water out of the
hole in its back.

beast beast beast,
she kissed me,
what do you want for
breakfast?

           -- Charles Bukowski

Here they hang, here they died for you, here was where you lost yourself to it, here was the place you deemed us all not worthy of understanding what you have understood. Here are the images of the dead niggers whom you spat upon in life but they hang there, our brethren, so that you shan't pick the stars from the sky for there are too few of them left.

I have seen it, in my godsight which they now call hindsight and we lost a star already. We have lost many stars but none as bright as this one. Fiery with talons that could shape worlds but we got lost in the squabble like we get lost in the fight or the game when our love vanes and reality is what we have left. When the butterflies fly from your stomach and when you can no longer handle three hours of sleep after fifteen hours working, shoving burgers, pizzas and caesars in the mouths of those who will inherit our world. We have no longer time for meekness and our love has changed. We have no longer time for meekness, we demand results, we demand figures going into the black because when you've seen someone ride a hearse, you know what the hearse feels like, you know its' vibrations and you can see it there, in the front of the motorcade.

I have seen you climb to what you yourself deem stars, I have seen you climb into the gutter when that world threw you away, I have seen you returning to it in glamour and I have seen the others getting jobs, getting paid getting what they call honest and that is a star which everyone plucks down atleast once in their life. I have seen your shadows leave a mark upon the wall, I have seen you whimper in the corner and going out bold, armed with nothing but yourself. I have seen you crumble, I have seen you fall. Sometimes you pick yourself up, other times not, but it's okay. It's only human and it's the most delightful story of them all.

What is the price of your star? What is the price of the slave hanging from the tree?

The tomatoes are ripe. Their smell is clinging in the air, you know when you pick up some plum tomatoes or nice cherry ones, still attached to their vine like an umbilical chord and you smell it and reality stops and dies for a while and there is only you and that smell and when you feel it, all is right again, you smell her skin and you always smell her neck because that's the way you want it, you smell his beard and his chest, the hair a neverending fascination. We smell the love when spring comes, the first dreadful rain giving the asphalt colour, texture and life again. We shy away from love because we go out to pick down the stars, to pick it all down and that is where we will end, standing baking infront of the oven, shoving the coal to fuel the titanic as they serve their caesars on the upper deck

And they were magnificent. They were beautiful upon their own darkness, their own loss of control, the truth in the light house. We saw it that night and we understood, we understood what we thought we had been understanding. Did you peer upon the sun until your eyes seethed with tears? Did you see the black hole coming from the sky? Did you see death walk out that night? What did you see in his heels?

It was stupidity. Daughter of your goddess, my goddess, that goddess. The bastard child, the new demented prince, the face that saw what humanity was and defined so far away in both space and time. She was in our gloves, she was in our feet. We saw upon her face, we gazed upon the dream, the miracle but they and it always told us the same thing. They told us that we were the millionth customer and we believed it. We wanted to believe in something and here we were, here we saw and realized what happened to us and as we accepted it we understood how fucking stupid we were,

It's a game Mr. Snow and you and yours have become to good at it

We didn't even read that comic, we passed that age in time and we weren't devouring anymore, we were dreaming, we were sullen and we felt sorry for ourselves and we saw beauty turn into apathy, we saw heroes turning into cowards, we saw the dreams they thought were true about us and we went the other way

We woke up in the valleys when the sun sat

We were living at night

We were living in the twilight and we did for the rest of our lives, we evaded them, their dreams and hopes for us, we weren't infected with what they were infected with but people came knocking at our door asking for ted kazinsky junior and we usually hit them with our glove and we unleashed it upon humanity, upon them all, upon those and them

We were seething with hatred but we didn't know

We were not aware of this situation, we didn't think it would be like this, we would believe you when you told us that it wouldn't happen today because that was over fifty years ago and nazism was defunct and then we read on our own and we knew you were lying or you were too lazy, too dumb to bother


We saw you, we understood you but you never even thought of us, we didn't exist and that is your crime, humanity, that is your everlasting crime and it is what fuels the eternity machine

It ended in the woods, in that forest. We were out looking for silver bullets but we ran out of cigarettes, we ran out of coffee, we ran out what builds part of our personality and it began there, small and hard to notice. We came from the city but we hailed from here, we'd been here before, sometimes looking for bullets, other times looking for the scrap the bullets left. The fur was usually intact so we sold them on the markets and many were the rich people who bought it and put it as a trophy on the wall. We always thought it should end with a whimper, we always thought that was the way things were, the way it worked out but it went off, hard and violent, that last gunshot which they said started the war but the truth is, there was no war.

Our bellies swelled as we ate in the middle-eastern diners, the hummus making us go around all day, farting nervously. We knew something else was beginning, we felt it in our bones and we'd see it tomorrow. We went out into the woods a second time, left our drugs behind, felt the rain and the coldness without a filter, without a veil and we felt more religious than ever. The trees weren't alive but they didn't need to be alive and stretching for the stars like a newborn starchild to be interesting, they were simply trees or black monoliths.

We felt holy and filled as we entered the city again, as we walked where we walked, old down-trodden footsteps and memories and we didn't visit our memories to try to make new ones, we went past, there was nothing here for us. We wake up at times an invalidate every memory we have about something, we find them irrelevant now. Happy that we did execute them but the past is still past, mistakes are still mistakes and time has taken its toll upon the heavenly radiant city.

We were walking as angels among the inhabitants yet no light seeped from our pores

"Reason is treason."
         - -  Olaus Wormius, preface to Unaussprechlichen Kulten


He left again, a life that was dead, something diseased fell off along the way and he felt like a butterfly. Time was annihilating who we were, what we thought. We'd forgotten so long ago, we'd forgotten the day they began mourning it, we'd forgotten that all of it ended while we were still watching. People in saris were walking by and singing in a language we couldn't really comprehend. It was rhytmic, it was wonderful. We were hearing the beauty, the vibrating joy within those words, something primal recognizable in it, we didn't understand but we saw it.

Like we saw the radiating sun bathe the city, watching a birth happening, watching everything falling into place, the jigsaw we began picking at with our toddler's hands. We're slow on the uptake, the people have climbed the mountain earlier, they have stood upon the peak to which we climb. They have seen what we will see and they have filled tomes with it, they have produced laws and they have made the world a different place, they have filled us like the vials we are with the salty water we're all made up of, from where we came is where we're heading. We were always best with tracks, with systems. We were best when we had the law, we were always best when we were chained.

It was us and them. There were no other people here, there were no other shades of gray, no other shades of black and we saw the white every day. We needed that war like we need every war like we need a reason to get up from bed, like we've always needed a reason to put on the coffee and take a shower before we go out into the rain, seeing life in a form that allows to accept the sadness reaching upon us, to love the darkness falling twixt the buildings and as it felt like we were walking to our doom it felt like everyone else was walking to theirs also.

It's grown dark outside but there are still lights on inside. There are sounds of lamps switching, dividing the circuits, dividing the world between us. We see the darkness and we are reminded of the old fears, we're reminded of the old battles, when the werewolves roamed in the night, the trolls and the sasquatches, their demented feet moving slowly, as if their shoes were made of broken glass. We are reminded of the safety we found the first time we erected the Fourth Wall of our home and we sit down, we're marlon brando too old in this flick, we're seeing the world imploding, we're feeling it exploding, we're seeing the wrong things, we're seeing the faces of those which we didn't really hope to see, we're down here, restricting ourselves, collecting straps of leather and parts from the chainmails of those killed in battle, standing kneedeep in water, punishing ourselves in a fashion that would make Masoch feel at home.

The ashtrays are piling and we're still talking. Dirt cheap red wine is what keeps us going, what keeps us moving. There was never a need for the amarone this night for we need nothing when we tell the truth. It is when we lie between our teeth that we fill the world with delicacies and wonders. It is then we adorn the world, when we make buildings, paintings, books and science. Religion. Everything we dress this world up in, we lie.

Some call it a lie, others call it a truth. Some call it a white lie, others a harsh truth. It is that which strips us of us, leaving only the singular mind, caught in obsession and emotions, void of intellect, logic and reason.
We return to the grave of primordial soup, the end is still the beginning folks, sorry about that and the above is still the same shit as the below. Nothing changes and time ain't linear but we began somewhere. We began here. That was god. The sea. The ocean, the place where we came from. A virus, evolving into the dreams of sentience. Infecting and spreading, touching everything.

As they were touched by god.

We could have thought it through some of you might think as you revise history, we should have spent some extra time, understanding the seriousness of the situation but we're still here. We're still here doing the same things now as then. The mechanisms of the enlightened king or the old dictator still lives with us. We have seen them many times and we have seen and see the them every day, the theocracy
the democracy
the technocracy
the religion
the EXIT manifesto

He's sitting somewhere now. Old Man Koestler. While Orwell tried to find the emotional part of the soul and Huxley found the practicalities of technology and the weakness of our beings, Koestler saw us and wrote us down. Distilled us into a scene where the royalist talks to the communist about tits.

White like milk and red as the rose in late spring, fitting into a champagne glass.

(Sorry, Jack Kirby!)


Ayn Rand was sitting in her chair, smoking. She had this ghastly wheeze about her, everything she did was hard for her, she took nothing for granted but she complained about everything. She had a nasty cough and her voice was like a newborn baby horse being dragged by her mother through a field of barbwire and broken glass. She was death, personified. She looked at you with her beady eyes, she analyzed you like you were an insect, something you felt like.

Then came Maggie along. She was a breeze of air from the sea, drifting past the oil and the docks, over the power plant, soot covering every crevice and she felt like that sensation you have sometimes when you're about to sneeze but you don't and your senses are heightened and then she's there in front of you, old ma Thatcher. She never saw you as an insect, she believed in you. She saw the clay and she could form it and she would make you something she could use, she was an old king, reborn.

Old King Mark on the other hand, he pardoned Tristan and Iseult and sent them into the world. He saw the future and he was not a part of it but he did what we used to do back then in Casablanca, we thought for all of us before we escaped into the night, building a tower of ivory and watching the sun rise every day, throwing gold over the fields, showing the reflections of the beautiful reality, we sat and mused over it over a cup of coffee and a cigarette in the morning hours, everyone else asleep and we wanted something to change us so bad so we thought it did until we blinked and there was only

Richard Nixon practicing his contingency speech for the dead astronauts, those brave men who died for us, died for what we thought was the death of god but rather the birth of another god and there is a man behind the layers, behind the mask, behind the powder, behind the skin, behind the blood, behind the bones, behind the soul

As Elvis sings of it and there's a commotion in the streets, someone in a future telling the past that he stole it, he stole it and put a white face on it, something they'd learn for the next time, when hiphop was brought upon the masses and through time we hear his hips shake, we hear the pill bottle and the fat slapping itself and we hear a man who saw Hunter S Thompsons edge and went flying over it with a bike made out like a unicorn, clad in white gold, glinting in the sun

Like Hunter did. There, this version of James Dean driving more desperately, he knew the edge, went past it and observed it, it was the axis of reality as Horselover Fat describes his reality and we see the world from so many different angles and we see the laser, superimposing rome onto los angeles

and the sun is climbing, the sun is coming up over the horizon before it all turns black, old man Koestler will have his darkness for we always understand martyrs after some time has lapsed

and the sun is climbing

The world will crown itself the idiot king, the blind tyrant waiting for Odin to find a way through the forests of bloated memories, passing by Baba Yaga and her house on chicken legs. They will walk for years through the desolate parts of the world, where no mortal has tread, where the grass is made of hope and the sky of despair, the world that converges with ours, where reality meets emotion, where reality meets intuition but never the intellect, the rationality nor the logic.

The ecosystem is failing. Pieces of ice the size of Jamaica are freeing themselves from the southern ice in the name of entropy. Most of the garbage we have left above our atmosphere are dead bananaflies, chimps and dogs. The world is ending in 2012 and we can't get our hands on some decent koolaid. Afghanistan would be a worse place if it wasn't for opium.

I have two buttons. On one it says I believe in Harvey Dent and the other says Take me to Jonestown. I do not know which one to wear, I do not know which one represents my emotions in the best way. I live on emotions now, I live on intuition, I have rejected the ideals of rational thought and I reject every teaching I do not find myself. I have become a solipsist of sorts but instead of believing you to be figments of my imagination, I don't. I don't care about the signal to noise ratio for among you I could seek and search for something of meaning but I'd never find it, I'd never discover it until years after I began because there's so many of you, so many corpses to sift through because every street and every place is Jonestown.

We will huddle in our deathbeds, we will seek out the warmth of our brethren and we will do with love like we did in life, plunge at someone that is atleast anyone and we will live this shallow life as we think it won't get better, we're on the top of the pops, us. Life could only get shittier, atleast we still have our health and as those among us drink the koolaid we think, atleast we have more health than them. They, our aspirations, the men and women we look down on, in our minds, prejudice deems them unworthy but we love them. In our fashion, we love them. We remember the days of war and the nights of love as we hear the crickets and the sun seems like an orange, bathing us in what used to be a holy radiance but the sun is broken now, we don't see it from where we lie in our bunks and beds

thinking of Eliots Wasteland

We are at war. We have always been at war but the war hasn't always been as dull as this. There has always been strife, campaigns and crusades making the rounds, we have always won or lost battles but the columns of history have always survived the grand war itself. We are at war in our homes, we are at war in our love, we are at war in our hate and we believe still that there is a war going on inside our minds, our heads, hearts and souls the battlefield where the fall of Sammael rages on in an eternal instant, the war with good on one side and evil on the other will rage on forever as we try to define who we ourselves are.

The new Buddha teaches us that war is inevitable but also war must be revolutionized, tactics and strategies must be changed. From the echoes of Créchy and Thermopylae to the screams still heard in the killing fields in Cambodia, war must be revised. In Neil Gaimans vision of the marvel universe in 1602, that incarnation of Charles Xavier proclaims omnia mutantur, everything changes.
The new Buddha teaches us that if we are to conquer our enemies we must throw away our traditions, we must make a bonfire of every idea and concept that didn't work in this life, we must begin anew. As the new Buddha put it, "We will make friends with them and we will be so good friends with them that they will beg us to leave them alone."

It is a path of war only made possible with passion, with the essence of patos and the desire for schadenfreude. It carries with it many nooks and crooked veins and for everyone to believe in the charade, you must believe in it yourself, you must put your thoughts into action, leaving nothing in a translation to be lost. You must believe in this illusion of friendship, you must believe that it is not an illusion of friendship but the warmth of friendship one feels to one another in profundity. You will have to become devious, dirty and like the games of love often played between lovers that would never be star-cross'd, you must know that it is a game as much as it isn't a game, you must know that you play with invisible cards and translucent motives.

You have to be your own cell, made up of the angels and demons that ponder and wage war inside yourself. Take off your armor for it brings you only weakness as it lulls you into a false illusion of godhood. You are not invulnerable and you should not strive to be, you should strive and yearn for the opposite, you should go into the war without a fear of death as much as you do not fear life, illumination will be found in the twilight intersection, there, where everything that had a meaning to your intellect is cast away and you awaken the ancient beast, the monster in the cave and like the lance of Longinus, its name was always Love and Vengeance.

Initiation will both end and begin as the assassins trail you, for you will understand war as they understood war. Each of them will have one dagger and each of them will cut once in your flesh. In broad daylight they will be found, all with equal blood upon their hands and clothes and an echo will be heard in the halls where you died and you will have said it with all the love in the world, no more defenses, no more barriers to be broken, pure unconditional love as you will have smiled with joy in your heart, saying Even you, Brutus?

You were certain about the words when you spoke them loud for an audience for the first time, we saw in your eyes the possibility of changing the future, we felt that we could be behind the wheel in that yellow bus and we'd control it for the first time in our small lives, we would be deciding on when to turn left or right, when to stop and after a while we might have gone offpiste.

Down slopes and riding mesas, crashing with ourselves in every possible way, every possible direction. Our thoughts were with us the whole time, the thoughts we grew when we were still sitting in the back of the bus, clenching our fists and dreaming of a future where we wouldn't ride a bus like the future we dreamt about when we stood infront of the mirror with an electric razor, seeing it as a microphone and seeing as the tiles were superimposed over the crowds of people that were gathered here and we knew we had been born to deliver this speech, it was our fate to act as we had acted. Like we would act.

Like the words you would tell me, beautiful they were and I'd always wanted them to be like that, to be pretty like they were but still
rough, still containing a grain of truth, illusory or not and when you told me I was in doubt, paranoia crept in and settled on my spine like a baby falling prey to entropy, rotting and dying as the cancerous flesh grew around me but I saw you then

for the first time

I saw that you were very beautiful, that my words would come out garbled and probably true and I knew I had missed something, knew I had left something out, something that would torment me untill my days ended

yet you

You would not end, you would live your life even if I passed by in mine but I had been struck to the ground by the bolts of zeus or the fist heaving mighty mjølnir and there were no more plans, there was only improvization and I was left to myself for a while with your words and your meanings fading, an echo in my mind and like how nationalism grows the strongest in the hearts of those exiled, the echo grew and every night before I went to bed I would see your face and hear your voice, a führer of love coming to tell us all that it's ok to grow chaplin 'staches now

I wanted you to lie because I knew you were good at lying, you had that face with those eyes and you knew how to lie, how to lie well but we'd lie in bed and you'd torture me with your questions and I loved the sheer chaos of it, the feeling of an abyss close by tugging objects closer, not of will but simply of nature.
We were drunk then and we were high and there had been something else in those shots too and it was moving its way from our stomachs to our heads, from our heads to our hearts and from our hearts it escaped into words and we would tell the truth and I'd be stuck on you as I no longer remembered you as a human being but an echo, growing harder and heavier in my mind, gaining crescendo as you pinned me down and bit me on my upper lip and you asked would you kill for me would you die for me and I realized you didn't know me at all and that was so beautiful that I only answered

I'd live for you and words from there on grew more certain, they weren't rehearsed from a mirror, they were born from the sprawling chaos that of life which we always think is a hole in our soul but it was always because we didn't understand their function as we carried them in our hearts and in our brains and we got on the bus and watched the sun set over the mesas.

[The radio is silent like the radio always is silent, an old living room, an old memory and an old parent, someone's mother or father smelling of death, six feet of dirt and dust and from this experience sommeliers are born as they begin their walk into life, sniffing the roses as they pass from childhood to manhood before heading over to adulthood, forever attempting to find that scent again,]

The radio is silent like the radio always is silent, an old living room, an old memory and an old parent, someone's mother or father smelling of death, six feet of dirt and dust and from this experience sommeliers are born as they begin their walk into life, sniffing the roses as they pass from childhood to manhood before heading over to adulthood, forever attempting to find that scent again,

Everyone else. Us. You. Do you feel the stifling hand of time's annihilation? Do you see the world as it should be seen, is it technicolor at your location? Or is it still grey? Do you still write on blocks of stone? Do you still build pyramids? Do you still try to eradicate socalled races in the ovens of sexual frustration? Do you still deem yourselves worthy? Are you still fostering vegetarian artists that crack?

Are you still stuck in your daydreams when you should be stuck in your dreams?

We grow up and learn the darkness our parents knew and felt, the warmth of growing old and the insights gained with nothing but time and we give birth, turn old and we'll get small ones and name them after our forefathers or our favourite movie or porn star depending on how many drugs we took and still take and we see them every day, we watch them on their webcam sites, the small entrepeneurs, as we celebrate their holidays and parties, paying 3.75 with our family discount and we know we lost it so long ago.

The future is emerging for a changed society and it is a black swan growing into beauty, we've always carried this future with us but it is only with the introduction of global economies that they have gained momentum for it's not a man in

"take away our playstations
and it's just third world nation" - Ani DiFranco

land, we created a copy of the world's oldest line of work because we didn't have the cash for the original and the brands are fading, a dream, an illusion, a different reality is coming over us and we've ridiculed it for so long, talked about it only in hushed whispers as its' battle with our reality has had wars its lost but now it is coming and we see the generals surveying the fields and all we see are our sons and daughters dressed in military outfits before we have to pay to see how the future will unravel.

The air smells like shit and down in Paris sits Karl Lagerfeld some time in the eighties or perhaps nineties fanning because he knows something few others know and even fewer use. Like him we see it as magic, we're all touched by it from time to time but there is no reason to see beyond it,  no reason to hold the blanket tighter, there is no frost. The fan is beating faster now as we think it's the heart of mother earth, beloved gaia, eden, we hear the thumps of your heart as the Shai-Hulud hear the thumpers that move the ground, the story of the good rebel, heading for a good cause, doing the good things, backed by the promise of justice and fairness, vengeance will be made for there's a war brewing, it's coming from the east and god moves among men again

The chosen one walks into life and is backed by religion, backed by politics and backed by the will of the people. We feel positive surges in our bodies, pride swelling our bellies as we cry, as our tears drop upon our thighs when the god-king brings justice to the universe and the movie ends as we watch Horselover Fat seeing ancient rome and seeing a truth

The sommeliers sniff the world, ignores the fanning of master Lagerfeld and the dying heart, smelling the shit nearing. There, you see that? Put on your glasses and look at the sun, nah it's okay, just look at it. See it there? Those small spots is change and we don't know how we'll like this. Here it is, growing from ugly into beauty, forever locked in a love that keeps everything interesting


,a scent that would be found upon the masters of the nose themselves as a new living room turned into an old living room

"I got the spirit
but loose the feeling" - Joy Division

We'd wish we were in bonds, we wish there were chains across our necks and up our backs. We'd wish there were political doctrines that told us what we could or couldn't do and everyone who ever read 1984 is dreaming of that world. The simplicity and the elegance is what we want, the bad gin and the unhappiness we can find is what we want for at least then, we'd have a reason to sulk every day, we'd have a reason to whine every chance we got and most importantly, what made us unhappy couldn't be pinned on us.

When the first suit hit the pavement on wall street, sighs of delight went across the globe. We knew that when the new country crashed, so would we and we could point our fingers, ladled in fat from our microwave dinners at the tv screens and every hick in every country in the world would smile and be satisfied, they'd fuck that night for the first time in ages, not counting any attempts of domestic rape but they'd fuck good, like after a fight or like the day after their honeymoon started.

Now, my friends, your fingers are pointing. Somewhere. I congratulate you, I congratulate every conservative shitfucker and every radical shitfucker and every shitfucker standing in the middle, fiddling with your thumbs and your children, you've managed to form an opinion. Yes, it was forcefed and yes, the only thing you really had to do was to lay your spork down and raise your arm enough to form an almost horizontal line against the new azathoth but you managed and my god, it only took an international economic crisis to do it.

Lately, I've been thinking about my hobbies, my interests. It came one moment when a dear friend of mine got bitten by a severe case of feminism and while I support the cause, always have and always will as I'm having difficulties seeing the relevance of sexes in the terms of politics, religion or whatever else you can cram that shit into, those who have just found a light are usually more zealous and have more to prove as it's a new thing to them and they're unsure on how everyone else will react to it.

We discussed feminism, to and fro over a few bottles of port and when we reached the somewhat same conclusions, she asked me to join their little movement and I said no thank you, but politics like that aren't what I'd like to spend my time on. Politics aren't really interesting and she asked me why not and I replied that I'd rather be interested in religion as the people there are usually more interesting and religion aren't usually based off of cooperation, religion is based off of the individual. The way I see it of course.
We had the standard argument one has when one encounters someone that is completely disinterested in the game and the mechanics of politik and while I've had that argument with many people over the years, this was the first time I was on the other side of the fence and frankly, it was amusing.

"You have to be interested in politics, it's everywhere you look and in everything you do"

Yeah. So is soccer with the season coming closer, every newspaper filled with athletes that coughed yesterday at 15:37, commercials are more visible now than the meanings and feelings of the ordinary man in the street, the various aspects of the economic crisis is everywhere, the weather is everywhere, religion is everywhere, good people are everywhere, shitfuckers are everywhere, religion is everywhere. Everything is everywhere. They said it best those old men, as above so below.

My biggest problem with politics is that it depends on people to cooperate to create a better society and this could have worked if enough were into BDSM and a handful of people were dominant while the rest were submissive but from what I see as I read the "news" to see what's going on in the world, permeated by the "politics" I have this feeling that begins to build in my stomach to paint my face white with big red lips, to dye my hair green and dress in a purple suit and see the world burn.

Here. It was here it happened. It was here that we saw what would make us, what would shape us in the silver spoon, as the devil himself is standing there, pressing souls into molds, creating every crevice, every orifice and every thought, every flaw and every perfection. We saw Ibsens old devil and he'd glance around and see us, noticing us like we used to notice the ants that crawled on our table on a clear and vivid summer's day as we drank port, gazing into the gardens where we saw future/past showing us the ants crawling from our skin in a locked room, forgetting for the first time our fear of life.

It watched us as the hawks soaring for the sky watched the fox farm, gluttony rising on the scale of sins as we licked our fingers and watched the seventeen year olds growing up in the summer, admiring the beauty that comes before bitterness, the shadow from the trees showing us the dead as they walk, their entire lives superimposed over our minds. Our hearts race eachother and die, there is the feeling of a tentacle grasping the mind, something losing before we ourselves lost. There is a child being born from the old molds and he has been born more than once but the monkeys never remember the trees.

At the pond, Narcissus aged sixteen sits, watching his mirrored image among the dead leaves and thinking about reality bites, thinking about the loneliness of his own, his release from every duty and he knows it with his body now that freedom has always had a price and none will hear of this story, there is no chronicler, nothing is arranged, this is personal. It is not a story for the history books, the realm where the librarians are aiding and abetting creating a different reality, perceivable only in what seems like two dimensions, there is always something lacking and we leave the words out, the tetragrammaton something too old to be a use for us for there are too many true gods for any of them to gain any power

We are born in the bickering sound of zealots, scholars who bicker on principle and of power, god died and he was born into man, enlightenment had been achieved and we had all gone that long walk, we had seen it the way you believed it to be as some of us walked on the roof of indiras net, gazing beyond with godsight and touching reality once more, an easy mold in the backs of our hands

"Sunday is gloomy,
My hours are slumberless
Dearest the shadows
I live with are numberless"

Our lips touch the tune, we hear it suddenly, there is an elevation in perception, time is feeling non existant, time is feeling like a black hole around the edges of our fingers, we're at the crossroads where our minds bleed into eachother with the truth flowing off at the edge, a reality formed like a disk where the ships never sail towards the edge, where daredevils are born drinking rum and laughing at death waiting and they have always been the people who have seen the truth or the worst of humanity but they have seen something, those who stand there are our oldest minds and some are the wisest minds.

We hear the scholars and priests at their refuges, barren rocks climbing from the murky depths of the sea and underneath it, hell. Life was easier then, life wasn't an oppressive burden, life was tasting like a fresh mango and prison wine, life was repulsive and beautiful before we lost ourselves to our memories, passed a threshold not in time but in mind and we turned into cabbages, carrots and brussel sprouts. Diseased fingers picked us up in the markets before they put us in the micro or buried us under synthetic products that was made for the first travellers to outer space and now celebrated in the new church where the world resides

That chapel, at the heart of the world where everyone knew, everyone saw it, these men even felt it, the strains of it all upon the skin of their minds and like the men driving the trains across poland they kept their silence and spent their money on drink, drowning themselves alive as everything was revealed to them, the canvas stripped from the frame and behind the frame the model sits with his thighs open and we see the stars and suns in his loins, we see hell in his heart and we see the flesh decaying, boils filled with puss bursting, cellar doors filled with mediocre murders and murderers, open throats filled with scripture and none even trying to dance, everyone always trying to observe

the heart of those that pass them by

trying to see truth or a new answer or a new question, something new born from the forms of the old, a revolution being described in a pre language, transmitted like a virus through the heads of the dead, the pigs squeal when the prods hit their skin and we blind ourselves so we may discuss, we sacrificed our eyes to see if something new can be gained in vivisecting the ideas of old, re visiting the perspectives of old but most of the discussers get stuck in places where nothing changes and all they  have are the details where walt disneys devil sits on a three-legged stool, waiting to milk us

Human life is two dimensional, social animals like we are we refer to things in the past tense that have made us what we are, never what we're doing or will do, time is viewed as a linear entity and thusly, time becomes linear and the story is omnipotent and history is the tome where everything is revealed save the truth

As the Good Reverend notes in his texts, Elvis had seen it, Elvis had seen the new truth, contained mostly within the states where the illuminated ones were born with more ferocity, in Europe they dabbled to more traditional careers for people of that bent and they were the kings of the broken wastelands, they were the pictures of ma and pa by the world's biggest teflon covered frying pan hanging from an old tree where they used to hang niggers, a world still used in every day practice down there, a magic being ended. If you wish to be famous all you ever need to do is to create three lousy singles or paintings or stories, get a fit and pretty body where one should tattoo the word "NIGGER" as big and loud as possible and strip down.

Here. Here was where it were, here was it we shot that fourteen year old nazi in the head. In his pockets we found gold fillings and a battered copy of the talmud sown into her gear and her long blonde hair was concealed by the helmet. She was beautiful and we wept as we understood what we had done before we put her on a stack of hay and fucked her

We went back to our homes, our wives and daughters, our sons growing up with wooden lee enfields, wishing a sten for christmas and we smiled at them and ate that delicious pie cooling in the window sill, technicolor dreams showing us reality working its way back beyond the borders of the black iron prison, superimpositions growing wild in every direction like sentient plants, spiralling up our dna as everything mimics the snakes

where shadows dwell, we stand. Narcissus thought of it for a long time, it happened before the known story and he contemplated that question, it had such a violent true ring to it, it felt slippery like liquid silver being poured down the ear of the good king, the one we buried with a heavy heart and in our minds we were alone and we would always be completely alone as none could really find every aspect of us, like we would never find that aspect with anyone else unless luck was had or a stronger god

Narcissus knew he was, he knew that was the truth as he donned his cape and did the v sign with nixon

"Well all you need is just one more excuse" -   Faith no more, the gentle art of making enemies


You were standing by the bridge, the three of you, deeming yourself a terrible trio as the bubbles of air stopped appearing at the spot where rasputin sank. You feel high with murder and for the first time you feel that something different is on the wind, an alternate plane of reality which you've unlocked as you killed, the solemnity of the grave touching you with its truth and it feels good for the first time in a funeral. You proceed down the bridge and over into the streets, heading for an illegal pub you all know where you drink and toast to the health of the czar.

You are invited to a masquerade by the czar and the czarina, venetian in style as they have made their venetian ballroom in their palace with the last remaining pieces, the windows, arriving one day before the feast. You flirt with the lovely ladies of the court and mingle with heads of state and people who just like to give head and as you listen to their introductions with their defensive stances as to why they are here, you feel untouchable as the lies exit your teeth, the coming revolution and every republic in the world will not stop the hierarchy of monarchy. There is indeed an invisible brotherhood and your trio, it's presidents.

Monarchy, a bolshevik philosopher muses, can never be rooted out. The republic itself is doomed or in a wrong time for people remember who did them good, who did them bad and everyone knows that the apple don't fall too far out. We will be made to forget with an iron fist understands george orwell in a dirty room in a cold attic in paris while aldous huxley sees that the ultimate control is the seemingly lack of control or a society so free that it doesn't really matter.

As it didn't matter when you heard the porcelain drop and shatter on the floor, white innocence stepped on by the muddy shoes of magic as the dead have walked again and will once more and the torment of your eyes is not the torment of three individuals but the torment of generations to come as we clamour to understand that the world is nothing but mud and flame.

We'll grow the children in the shadows, they'll watch the world outside and scream for mommy dearest but as we, the children, live in vats and are bred in vats, mommy dearest can not hear us and in reality, we aren't screaming, we're only thinking we are. The problem is that the problem only exists in our minds, just like our screams.

They blinded them all when their brains erupted, volcanoes of disintegration spread through the landscape like rats before the black plague but there were no answers, there were no additional questions on which we could build some sort of life upon, we were left in the rubble with a hammer and a chisel and arms for legs. They tried to tell us that we should build from this rubble, we should create that magical something from nothing.

As we did, we broke our hands and broke a sweat and while we saw the change upon the fields and the change upon ourselves it was not enough for where we wanted to be, where we wanted to linger and old memories were still there, deeds done in the field that none knew of save ourselves. We wanted to be cain and we wanted his punishment for killing abel, we wanted that thing which lurks inside our heads to tell us who we were, who we had been and where we were going, paddling upstream in a beat up old kayak

while the world was a vortex far away from our minds and nothing would have made more sense if they popped out, showed us what was going on, televisions in hands and we'd be starstruck when we learned our best friends were respectable actors and actresses, patting us on the back and telling us that what they did

was only a job

There shouldn't be but there were dreams in our cryotanks, like something in the blood had spread that ancient plague, something in the water was spreading us, parts of us memetic as we were, suspended in belief that the future would save us, something we believed untill our minds went dead one day, centuries after our second birth as a chisel penetrated the vat


Good luck Cram, myself and everyone else.