The patient is a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic afflicted with a military-industrial complex. The patient was admitted to the psychiatric ward after implementing neoliberal economic policies in his cell and nearly starving to death. The patient is under 24-hour police state surveillance. The patient is being hydrated intravenously and means of production are being withheld. The patient upon waking asked for a pen and a corporate media establishment to issue a formal statement.
Here it is in its entirety:
"You always save the uncomfortable truths for last. I grew up in an asbestos-free environment. My nourishment was provided seemingly as if from out of nowhere. Wherever I made a mess, someone else cleaned it up. I remember always waking up to the sound of the vacuum cleaner. It made me angry every time. I had been sleeping, and that was important. Everyone says so. Sleeping is very important. Cleanliness was to me an innate ability, something you were born with. Dirty people, I always figured, were doing dirty things. Maybe they rolled in garbage heaps, walked around on their knees in winter, ate with their fingers and wiped them off on their shirts. It scarcely occurred to me that everything devolves into dirtiness unless you clean it. But that should've been obvious. Nature is filthy. Forests? Full of dirt. Mud puddles, worms, mushy dead leafs. Other people protected me from these devastating truths, until I was so irrevocably indoctrinated it didn't matter anymore when they changed their minds. When they wanted me to help out with the house work, I would refuse out of hand, as if I didn't believe it really needed doing. It was more important that I sleep. That I study.
All they had previously demanded in return for this bombardment of corrosive kindness, was that I grow up to be an engineer. Or a lawyer. An upstanding citizen. Every act they performed as a service to me would further obscure truths about the world. But food doesn't magically spring into being.
I guess I knew that. It stands to reason. But my knowledge of these things was either very superficial, or set so very deep it was impossible to relate it to anything more immediate. The brainwashing had left me almost beyond repair, and ironically it prevented me from ever serving the functions they had set out for me, such as paying taxes and generating prosperity. Or keeping clean, or cooking food. When they started to demand these services from me, and expect that I serve myself, my insurrection was inevitable.
Insurrection is easy. You start with deconstructing the concepts that are the easiest to discard. Repeat with me: I am not a 'good' person. My people is not a 'good' people. Democracy doesn't currently exist. The world is controlled by the very wealthy, and managed in a fashion designed to maintain or exacerbate the injustice of their immense privilege. Progress is an illusion. People do not get what they deserve, whether you base it on effort or moral worth. None of these statements are necessary truths, signed into natural law and conveyed in fiery letters at the start of creation. These are facts about the world that can be changed through human action. A deep understanding of these conditions is made near impossible to attain because of institutionalized propaganda so deeply integrated into the very fabric of our thoughts that the propaganda itself becomes a self-generating, snowballing parasitic meme-species of abstracted power consolidation.
They catch you early. It is the concepts that are planted before you've ever had an introspective thought that are hard to escape from. That's built into the system. It is a feature that allows for easy insurrection identification and prevention. From an elitist, power conserving perspective, all you need to do is tell the chief of police to go for the dirty ones."
Joel Arvidsson.
Chapter One - ”And introducing...”
(1) CEREMONY
Thought Power
process a tattoo of strength
winding road gleaming in the moonlight
flying the kite a tin on a hot cat roof
a line drawn in the sand cockroaches
warming your skin with my lighter warming your lighter with my skin
dreaming terrorized grammar taking in water
glass houses along a winding road the process as a weapon
we are dressed in white YOU ARE
glass houses dressed in sand NOT HERE
YOU ARE NOT numbers
HERE (digits)
finger ice
(2) RELATIONSHIP
Dot my sky with stars I'll dot your soul
Paint the ceiling in deep amber fly you to a higher ground
(3) CLIMAX
This is not my tongue. These are not my words/Tear me apart/apart me tear/with your judgement bolt/bolt judgement/judgement. Crimes of passion. Crimes of passion. Crimes of despicable acts. Bring in the kings. Sacrifice me at the altar of your hate/Love me at the altar of your hate/Hate me/Hate me/YOU ARE
YOU ARE
YOU ARE
YOU ARE
YOU ARE
numbers digits letters words nominal phrases
nmbrs dgts lttrs wrds nmnl phrss
Look at me
Look at my hands
Look at me putting my hands in your power
Look at my power putting your hands in me
My power
my hands
your look
putting me
in
(while power waits)
(I) smiled slyly
(I) took a sip
(I) took a sip
(I) gave up
When she gave up on thought
I thought for an eternity
but when power is lost
it is lost
(4) epilogue
Once upon a time Time is our friend
there was a great storm we bend it to our will
and in that storm time is not the end
I saw a great crime but ”it” is time to kill
Begin to finish these pages.
Find a word that reoccurs (recurs) in our private lives.
Realize that tomorrow may never come. (but in the end, I win)
Bohemian waxwing is a member of the waxwing family of passerines. They prefer to eat the berries of the rowan tree. Sometimes, they eat slightly fermented berries, get intoxicated and try to fly into windows.
I wish I was a waxwing.
(5) Where
1. is
2. Hammond?
Bring me the king
bring me the waxwing king
bring me the king of the waxwing thing
bring me the waxwingkingthing and let me sing
bring me the singing king of the waxwing fling thing
sing sing sing thing a ling ring
who put the king in the waxwing a ring ding?
who put the bling in the king king ring wing?
and now, lets take a moment
to breathe
-
o
-
o
-
o
-
o
-
o
-
Are you quite done yet?
Chapter Two - ”When we've found the components”
Power/Thought
Ice in my veins ice in your veins I must do something ON THE PAPER
Ice tattoo fire (blood) I must do something ON THE PAPER
Eyes spying through a frosted glass
watching the waxwings whirling
I'm so happy I'm so glad that I've got you.
Simon Hedman Jonsson.
for sure
you are not
like one of those
boring jazzbands.
since
reading
is my
superpower.
i am not into organizing power
distribution is another jamsession
you are much
better grooving than
a jazz-trio.
say Esbjörn rests in
peace in this thought
that you draw upon
persistence
I lose power
thus in thinking of you
you make me
smoke more
than Blixa Bargeld
does me
I told you
we have sensibilities
that
complement each
other.
we need a bag of tobacco
so that a new movement in poetry
would emerge.
nicotine featuring caffeine
adds much more than you do
in networking associations
you are subject of herein
Power I say
rather We would
say
complements
two of us
let´s leave the jazz to the
scientists
that I forsake
they still sell
alain
de botton´s a week at the
airport in a book-”shop”
at
the
air
port.
and murmurings
”amazon kindle: a perfect gift for dad.” my dad doesn´t read books, he is a working-class-poetry who rhymes 14 hours of hardworking per day. his poetry is husbandest of all.
I am still in my room
pondering
they still need
tobacco of a good
fortune
so that a new movement
in poetry would set itself
out.
I don´t have a room though
insisting on the fact
we had
the ability
to make love while grooving a vinyl-compilation
of various artists playing
drone drone drone
and
sure
you are
a woman of jazz-
band.
I am not about to
regulate it all
not losing power
either
merely cannot appoint
structural associations
to daily deeds
so that I´d kiss you
on bruises
that designates me
upon your
spine
writing is out of control
what´s in me, is not therein
You are obliging me
to lose control
take Joy Division out
of all such
as I see
we need the power
either to hold the nation back
or to get together
love is glyphic, ain´t it?
Gökhan Turhan.
threshold
there´s a woman in her own abyss
see her shudder and shy
enough, she clasps in time
sees the walls come tumbling down
across the chest a pecking heart
fire in the throat like cramps, singing tongue
sweat pores evaporates and rises
moss hum
against her arch
pines leaning their heads, doze in the night
she was afraid of his being, disgusted by the human tank
foxes´ fun in the grove corner of her mouth, demanding
the throbbing Colossus piles and tear
she encounters in the ground, splits, open-
within frost
owls suckle their snakes
another of her
buries itself, see
black and earth fall into the
open
face
Nina Ahlzén.
Indivisible man as I am
Indivisible man as I am
One dimensional man as I am
I may just sit alone
In a semi-dark room
Holding my soft hot balls
On such a suffocating night
Thinking of you somewhere
As a scene from Medium Cool passes
Children´s talk is heard as it sasses
I sweat inside, so melancholic
My own self smells of garlic
Do you ever think of me?
Or am I only rotting inside this can?
Should it ever matter?
Under a desolate sheltering sky
To call even for a reliever
Is it not better just to surrender?
A Summer Memory Revisited
The feeling of arriving suddenly surprised
To a dear far place you once missed
With a heart so lonely distanced
Am I certainly here?
Are you certainly there?
Just as if we never met
Somewhere on a day so wet
You, sitting in a lounge
Me, in my own empty loge
A smile crossed your lips
A memory crossed my mind
And we both met in a picture
We happened to share together
Back in a bohemian Moorish summer
Maybe an overnight spent apart
Do we occur to each other?
Or is it just a simple surrender
To things as they move adrift
Uncontrolled by some stream
As boats in a Melbournian dream
Sensations, sensibility and sufferance
Things I hardly could bear since
I wish I could be there
Just somewhere a bit near
To hold your hand again dear
And kiss your fresh lips so fair
El Habib Louai.
Eight wounded but surviving pieces of a starsick diary
100711
Just before The Lord finally gave up on me, he told me to write a diary. ”I’ll fucking try, Bitch”, I said, and gave him a golden blowjob. I was so fucking bored with time-space. I said: ”I’ll fucking try, midget” Now, let’s start with meat and potatoes, ordinary, painfully ordinary bleak stuff. My parents didn’t love me. I’ve got an addictive personality. Now you know, asshole, fucking reader, smartass. Yes, I’m an addict, but nowdays, I’m just a work-aholic. How cute. What about relatives, friends? I have no friends. Friend is nice word for a boring person. Relatives? I’ve got a few. I have erased their names, though. I’m currently working on their so called faces. Ancestor tree? Some kind of painting inside a bottle, a pain-thing perpetually falling through a rusty crown. Anything else, that can stimulate your imagination, reader? Maybe perversions, clean in the shade of an almond-tree. All eyes, eyes at the bottom of constant death-whishes. An eternal ring-cycle of blood and extacy. What am I talking about? You tell me, smartass-reader, now that this misshapen micro-diary has been made public. Incense just below or just above the surface, burning leaves or memories? Nevermind now. Mother dies and dies again. That toxic pig. Are you offended? Well fuck of home then, you sensitive loser. This is diary isn´t written for children. But you must know, that this text has magic, occult possibilities. Be sure to read it all through - otherwise I can’t transform, that is: travel into my new life properly, and I will forever haunt you. I’m dead, or almost dead, you see. What else? Ongoing poetry: sketches of an impossible love story. What love? The one between us, reader. It’s dead. This diary: sketches of a fucked-up love.
100712
At last, I’ve learned to think in black and white only. I think noir. I Always remember everything I like, the fuel I’m most ashamed of. I have a rare talent, being able to do that. I’m not shy at all. I’m violent when I want to, subtile when I want to. I take my time. Now I fall, and you fall with me, all the way down to the very bottom of this fucking text. Now, think romance, or horror or thriller, but please just don´t think sensible, understandable as in a marriage, a social structure. Join me now on a deep voyage to an impossible love-chaos, the worst scenery of all. A meeting between you and me, and picture this: a psychotic morning-bird with completely original ideas about pleasure, that bird fondly grabs you by the neck & we plunge through joy efter joy. The bird is me, precious. One hand around your neck & then stars begin to grow like mars-plants. A golden time-drop explodes between our temporary overlit faces. Great! I can feel you reading. That time-drop tastes violently of pure saliva & mint-kisses. We silently rape black roses while Mahler sighs in the background. It’s fun reading, don’t you think? You’re already as demented as me.
100713
Another time, even heavier. We kiss. You, the reader, and me, the occult child. A hand holding your neck again. You’re weightless as you fall towards some kind of basin filled with sandy tears, tears that catch fire when wind makes them all shake. Time, carefully encapsulated in a smoky studio, sheltered behind a non-baptized suburban temple, yes, time has four wings while we build coffins of frozen love. I know what I need to not see you count them. Love is good for some, but for some it´s just impossible, subtile, hopeless, temporary. Sublime. These late days squeak like predators from outer space, and owls give us oral sex and high-tech narcotics. Skies empty dogs. Empty buses of autumn weightlessly vanish, but clouds are papered with bright eye-colors, anorexic letter-torn finger-nails or just plain scandinavian dirt, dirt that’s brown black as night. Yes, I know you love me. The more bizarre & psychotic I get, the more you love me. No, you don’t have to tell me that you’re engulfed. I know, you Can’t, just Can’t stop reading. You’re doomed. Want more?
Just before The Lord finally gave up on me, he told me to write a diary. ”I’ll fucking try, Bitch”, I said, and gave him a golden blowjob. I was so fucking bored with time-space. I said: ”I’ll fucking try, midget” Now, let’s start with meat and potatoes, ordinary, painfully ordinary bleak stuff. My parents didn’t love me. I’ve got an addictive personality. Now you know, asshole, fucking reader, smartass. Yes, I’m an addict, but nowdays, I’m just a work-aholic. How cute. What about relatives, friends? I have no friends. Friend is nice word for a boring person. Relatives? I’ve got a few. I have erased their names, though. I’m currently working on their so called faces. Ancestor tree? Some kind of painting inside a bottle, a pain-thing perpetually falling through a rusty crown. Anything else, that can stimulate your imagination, reader? Maybe perversions, clean in the shade of an almond-tree. All eyes, eyes at the bottom of constant death-whishes. An eternal ring-cycle of blood and extacy. What am I talking about? You tell me, smartass-reader, now that this misshapen micro-diary has been made public. Incense just below or just above the surface, burning leaves or memories? Nevermind now. Mother dies and dies again. That toxic pig. Are you offended? Well fuck of home then, you sensitive loser. This is diary isn´t written for children. But you must know, that this text has magic, occult possibilities. Be sure to read it all through - otherwise I can’t transform, that is: travel into my new life properly, and I will forever haunt you. I’m dead, or almost dead, you see. What else? Ongoing poetry: sketches of an impossible love story. What love? The one between us, reader. It’s dead. This diary: sketches of a fucked-up love.
100712
At last, I’ve learned to think in black and white only. I think noir. I Always remember everything I like, the fuel I’m most ashamed of. I have a rare talent, being able to do that. I’m not shy at all. I’m violent when I want to, subtile when I want to. I take my time. Now I fall, and you fall with me, all the way down to the very bottom of this fucking text. Now, think romance, or horror or thriller, but please just don´t think sensible, understandable as in a marriage, a social structure. Join me now on a deep voyage to an impossible love-chaos, the worst scenery of all. A meeting between you and me, and picture this: a psychotic morning-bird with completely original ideas about pleasure, that bird fondly grabs you by the neck & we plunge through joy efter joy. The bird is me, precious. One hand around your neck & then stars begin to grow like mars-plants. A golden time-drop explodes between our temporary overlit faces. Great! I can feel you reading. That time-drop tastes violently of pure saliva & mint-kisses. We silently rape black roses while Mahler sighs in the background. It’s fun reading, don’t you think? You’re already as demented as me.
100713
Another time, even heavier. We kiss. You, the reader, and me, the occult child. A hand holding your neck again. You’re weightless as you fall towards some kind of basin filled with sandy tears, tears that catch fire when wind makes them all shake. Time, carefully encapsulated in a smoky studio, sheltered behind a non-baptized suburban temple, yes, time has four wings while we build coffins of frozen love. I know what I need to not see you count them. Love is good for some, but for some it´s just impossible, subtile, hopeless, temporary. Sublime. These late days squeak like predators from outer space, and owls give us oral sex and high-tech narcotics. Skies empty dogs. Empty buses of autumn weightlessly vanish, but clouds are papered with bright eye-colors, anorexic letter-torn finger-nails or just plain scandinavian dirt, dirt that’s brown black as night. Yes, I know you love me. The more bizarre & psychotic I get, the more you love me. No, you don’t have to tell me that you’re engulfed. I know, you Can’t, just Can’t stop reading. You’re doomed. Want more?
100714
Pregnant shadows collide with people. I wonder why the shadows are pregnant. Sunspots lick my ears clean. Faces, faces without bodies explain life´s inerta to my spine. I’m sunken into early snow of thoughts, thoughts of burning dog entrails. Different public pornographic blessings explode just in between spontaneously combusting silicone-dildos. I’m not turned on. Only you can reach me these fucking days. African children explode & explode in slow motion without splashing blood that can stain somebody’s new clothes. Where have the children’s shadows been before they got here, to our perfekt western asshole? Probably nobody knows. The thing is that you can hide among them. There are heavy holes in the dog-heaven of autumn. Now it starts to rain. I’m writing in present time, even if this is supposed to be a diary. Gifted, me? To smart? Yes, I know.
100715
Where is that street? I need to know. If only snow would fall now, fall & scratch away the gray film from all those rushing, flying shadows of magenta. Cut right down to neo-critical crater-lakes. All is shadow, purple shadow, but antique paper-saucers tries to seduce me. Please, Maha Kali, open the pathway to Nothingness. Now angels lie still on a concrete ledge.
100716
Let us pupate like heroin-loaded swans, waiting for the next nerve-tree, thought-pattern, fucking solar system, or hell, I don’t know. It doesn´t fucking matter what I mean. No one invites me to sexy trash any more. Darkness just happens to like me. I can’t understand how I manage to burn so much time. Time is just sour milk. But when strangers ejaculate blood and acid on my lotus-feet, I feel slightly happy, relieved. Released? No. Catharsis = bullshit. Crap to tell children, shit to stuff them with, so they shut the fuck up. And yes, sometimes people ask: ”Well, are You happy?”, and I answer slowly, careful not to hurt the person asking: ”Happiness is a trash-word for me. People like me can be more or less unhappy, but happy, no. It’s to simple a word to describe the sum of all my defeats and victories, my fears, all my stars, suns and moons. And furthermore, I think that any self-respecting person should answer like me.” And afterwards, I push myself into everything I hate until I get tired of dark poisons, whips, chains, well tired of talking, tired of fucking, fed up with fucking everything. I puke on everything except love. Love. Love. Love.
100717
I’m sick of this shit.
Let this starsick diary burn. Fuck the reader. Fuck your interpretations, mankind. Long live the abyss of the hungry diamond-heart.
Fuck this diahreea.
100718
Love.
Kim Larsson.
JEOl Adnersson Hej hej!
A flower can
grow through
concrete
without
a single
thought
Hans Krøjer.
I got it all wrong, but it didn´t really matter any more.
The less we knew about the war the bigger the fruits in the supermarket seemed to be.
I really hate it when they do that to innocent tomatoes
When I was a kid, I didn't know that only the powerless have the ability to change the world
Whenever I feel like being a grown up I´ll be a grown up
I am still working on my doctors degree as an excuse to keep me from causing any serious harm
You know what they say: every system has it´s potential breaking point
It´s the inner beauty of everything
Did you all know there´s a small hole in the world
Big as a raindrop caught in a spiderweb
At some time in life, I think we all do the mistake of trying to fix it
Until someone realize it´s just another form of reflection
Pontus Joakim Olofsson.
Intro:
Boiling structures over the torso where a wretched crow takes atria and ventricle to new heights without a thought of farewell The Three golden birds at the bottom of each pupil in an almighty light mirrors casts searchlights on a dirt road the wanderers forgotten long ago to direct the solar panels inside a declining mental tango where Calle Schewen picks of the dirt under his nails and smiles when Miss Hopeless loses pace in the memory of the sound of the once breathing chest in the once forgotten beginning of the story that this celebrity wrote in the once ragtag bookbinder´s wildest dreams became ashes when the village burned down or up and nothing was left for no spectators to see the archetypal truths inscribed in an Aryan people with awkward woven values that excesses four percent of the minds of the children who starved to death for fame and glory and a grandslam Anthem traveling with a crow over the plains so far The Three wants to see with a telescope and on the moon's trailing edge is not at all Neil Armstrong but Buzz Aldrin sitting waving for King and Country in the amniotic fluid stream gushing down on a naked torso of a man who wanted to be a woman who is a rose is a rose is a rose and the buds are never to blossom the light has descended a tad and the optician is sadly madly unskilled and left by his wife in her high heels in a wobbly staircase leads up to the Godfather himself who is not Marlon Brando now an angel among many with a harp and humanity´s light never escapes from the hole in his pocket with seven big glassballs plucked from a playground strewn with thin papers from the history books so we can see the image of the girl desperately flees the landscape of napalm.
Outro:
Ernst-Hugo once said: ”We´re always going to live! We´re never going to die!”
Note: Ernst-Hugo died 6th of September 1998. God rest his soul.
Pål Hedberg.
Eulenspiegel
I have never (?)…
that the hands would have the strength to scrub
the curses of white paintings
now I see the ghost-ships blast their way
and kraken cries
demon-bloody waters
blue lily, lily white, folly
November, freezing rain, the cold velcro
throws a handful of lead-dust
a futile gesture, a relic of faith,
I have never believed in purity, the purity, pure
Chronos, worn, weary, wrathful, wasted time-knots, cross-knots, bones
the kingdom of mermaids,
swimming with rotting seaweed around their necks
I travel safely on the sea-monsters slimy body
“L’eternité C’est la mer mêlée Au soleil”
shooting the fragile prey of life
beyond death
within me
tomorrow does not stand pure and opened
I´ve never believed in the white, whiteness, white
the servants of light, the princes of darkness
clam-words, moon-jarring, mouth-captive
if a now before existed before Crescere, Decrescere
copies that become originals in the quiet hours of defeats
the Word, the words longs away
deathwish, letters that testify about longing.
The trees said: the fields does not want your dead clothing.
approach
it is against our will
against my will, the will-less will
Crucify her, kill the will to live, kill
Senecio
groundsel, rock, mountain groundsel
I have never (?)…
that the hands would have the strength to scrub
the curses of white paintings
now I see the ghost-ships blast their way
and kraken cries
demon-bloody waters
blue lily, lily white, folly
November, freezing rain, the cold velcro
throws a handful of lead-dust
a futile gesture, a relic of faith,
I have never believed in purity, the purity, pure
Chronos, worn, weary, wrathful, wasted time-knots, cross-knots, bones
the kingdom of mermaids,
swimming with rotting seaweed around their necks
I travel safely on the sea-monsters slimy body
“L’eternité C’est la mer mêlée Au soleil”
shooting the fragile prey of life
beyond death
within me
tomorrow does not stand pure and opened
I´ve never believed in the white, whiteness, white
the servants of light, the princes of darkness
clam-words, moon-jarring, mouth-captive
if a now before existed before Crescere, Decrescere
copies that become originals in the quiet hours of defeats
the Word, the words longs away
deathwish, letters that testify about longing.
The trees said: the fields does not want your dead clothing.
approach
it is against our will
against my will, the will-less will
Crucify her, kill the will to live, kill
Senecio
groundsel, rock, mountain groundsel
Where are you?
The wind, the winds, wind
breathe, the breaths, your breath
I have never been able to breathe
other than the winds, wind, the wind
breathe, the breaths, your breath
I have never been able to breathe
other than the winds, wind, the wind
Cecilia Persson.
people peripheral to the regime
regime peripheral to the people
water peripheral to the regime
regime peripheral to the water
water very relevant to the people
Lars Palm.
Have you talked to the hyacinths lately
Are they early or late or just boringly on time
Do they look the same as last year
Do they collect in your arms hindering the tide
The tide of wars, of wondrous, glorious wars
Wars where life is at its prime
I planted bulbs in your garden last spring
You should take good care of them
Throw that red rock away to give them light
It is not more than fair
Teresa Elvén.
anger, yes anger
(to police chief superintendent Per Larsen and all other powerstructureassholes)
handcuffed and forced down on a cold street
for several hours in late december
the structure of power
is the structure that can't hide its smile
when you wet your pants
and the structure of power waits patiently
for your urine to freeze and your bladder
to be smashed to smithereens
with a single blow from a blackjack
there's no room for anger
in the structure of power
only cold calculations
and binders in alpha male order
so they know in which cage to lock you up
so they know which number to erase
from which riotgear helmet...
...bah, fuck it, you know all this
you know the story being robbed
and diminished time and time again
you have a secret place for the anger
and pockets filled with boiling fury
I mean how could you not
when dreams are up for grabs
and they put us all on shelves
to be bought at bargain prices
how could there not be anger when...
...bah, fuck it, you know all this
you know the story hands worn
from workin' on this daydream
feet sore after walkin' every
shopping mall avenue a b c d etc
eyes watering from all the advertising
mumbo jumbo and pepper spray
they've been throwing in your face
if you succeed in combine
fury and energy and poetry
you have a most glowing weapon
a rotating disco (sucks!) ball
exploding in your mind with a promise
so beautifully grotesque
the powerstructureassholes
wont be able to follow
when facing the repression
there's no need for structure of thought
no need to connect with logic
or hexameter iambic feet bullshit
”rules of disorder” is a contradiction
very similar to ”fear the reaper”
cause you fear nothing at all
not even a bad poem or the fact
that I could break my own arm
as easiliy as I break these lines
Jonas Svensson.
Good dog/Bad dog
[Bad] I'm new here. You haven't seen me before.
This alone is enough to make you never want to see me again.
[Good] With legs drily dangling beneath an empty jacket. I scare myself.
Feel how loose the head sits on my shoulders. You're all happy now.
We are gathered here today. All of us. All of us.
Tomas Klas Ekström.
will of fortune
you I it
re-turning
(to) the wheel of fortune
the pointer is still a phallus
the fortune is still
a wheel spinning
it is you
you are me
I am it
iYou
iIt
iI
iLife
introducing iUs
while iIt is spinning the wheel
the while of fortune
twisting
bending you from us
the pointer
passing
the iPlaces
gaza, ithaka, gran canaria, san fransisco, darfur, srebrenica, venice, congo river, chernobyl, berlin ostbanhof
spinning while
iRecall a few seconds in the sun
when it was you
We stand on the roof of the university hospital. The raining season is somewhere else. You are about to dry out. The sun will never reach zenith. We are enlightened. There will always be shadows falling from our bodies. We know everything. And all we know we have learned from the apes. We asked them about ourselves and they answered. They said: you are just like us. And while I try to understand you according to the truth of the apes my shadow falls on your dried out body and words are falling down the vast void. And you will follow. I will stay. While
the will of fortune
is spinning
is passing
himalaya, hiroshima, mesopotamia, guantanamo, yakutsk, cape horn, auschwitz, tranås, ground zero.
there is something behind iIt.
a choir singing
what you gonna tell your dad it's like a wheel of fortune what you gonna tell your dad if this wheel let you down?
and iI don’t want to end up
anywhere
That is why iI am using iIt, the will the while the wheel of fortune, to wheel break you.
In the end, in the innovation moment, nothing remains but the idea of no one, once someone who could have been anyone anywhere.
Karin Poppius.
