Geometer of Sleep
March 7th, 2014
Doubling of dreams – one for the night, another – for the future. Keeping oneself sane by risking to know the borders of madness. Dozen, or so, modes of truth exceeded by ways it is said.
Skies falling as they ever were, making sure the trade of beds stays in constant busyness.
Count not the times of night you found yourself wake, just having escaped becoming somebody’s eyes. There is no set of all possible dreams, each withering away at its own pace.
Car crashes, fatal wounds, worms forgotten behind. Till blindness.
You’re nobody’s vision, don’t kid yourself, even less one of God.
Dreams are like petrol for bicycles – burning them down. Going out in flames, the precise frame left to meditate on.
Best done this while lying horizontally.
Architect of noise
February 20th, 2014
He’s dead! Shes’ dead! Everyone’s dead – nothing makes a sound. Thousands trees falling in silence, no matter how close you get, nothing.
You cut the silent wood, gather all the drunken glass, and start building. A hut to scream so as to make the ghost of your voice inhabit soundless insides. And you do (scream).
Then leave it in periphery of the mute land ”till somebody comes down, comes in.
Now this can be the time of great terror or an impossible joy.
And so, as is one’s duty, you hope for the latter.
Bridges
January 31st, 2014
With every passing bridge one comes closer to have never have to experience death. The passage from one bridge to another is an event of grace and silent courage (though all courage is silent).
Passing over a bridge is a doubling of life. The old Heracleitian problem of stepping into a river is of another logic than the one of crossing a river by way of a bridge. Technically, every passing over a bridge brings another you into life. And so the count of total number of beings during certain passage of time can be derived by multiplying beings, bridges and the times they (beings) have passed over bridges, which exponentially approaches infinity, since once you have passed over a bridge, the next time you do it, you and your double double.
This gentle desire of getting closer to infinity is clearly exemplified in a locks married couples put on bridges – though probably unbeknownst to them, this signifies not a passage from single life to a one of being together (being two), but to being as many as possible – and by sheer power of expansion of this sequence – becoming immortal.
Bridges don’t bridge the gap and cannot be burned – bridges are places of birth: of a desire and a love for infinity, which every being is a shrine of.
And so the lives multiply, the places change and everyone that has ever bridged , is now beautifully spectred.
The time when there were no bridges is the only time, when exact and finite number of beings could have been counted, and when stepping into a river was of philosophical and existential importance.
The time when the oceans can become bridged will be the time, when one will be able to say that there are gods among us.
Whether or not it is a time of hope and celebration, it is beyond the scope of this humble try to pass over the impassable.
Cinema
January 22nd, 2014
The city without a cinema is devoid of place for the real. The sheer resonance, size and precise movements the cinema provides all participating in it with, cannot be substituted by anything else. The sense of illusion and insignificance one experiences having left the cinema, the compassionate sadness towards all too small and uncertain characters walking outside is overwhelming. The melancholy of the theater of life sets in, the reality of cinema having faded for time being.
The city that closes its cinemas, effectively wages the war on the real and thus – beauty, truth and freedom.
The corruption of life marches on more so assuredly, drowning its characters in ugly delusions of determined randomness.
To close a cinema is to rip out the heart of the real from the city, leaving its fate to the petty and insatiable desires of the everyday.
Fortress
January 10th, 2014
Somebody’s changed the old bricks, added new mortar. The blackened iron fence closes her off. She stands there knowing not what she has become. Death deceived, funeral faked. The specter of Aristotle, dumbfounded amid her walls, rests in chaos.
But if you take enough time, just enough to become humble alright, you might get to sense, that in her old heart of stone, she knows what she is.
The silent wails of her mutilated mouth terrifies you into making a promise of never forgetting that. The promise that you are sure to break one of those days, when the world goes violet mad, and oracles at Delphi, filled with laughter and disbelief, get drunk from the barrel of shame.
There was never a head to crack the wall plenty open. Just a semblance of strength and a headless body in the end.
The battlefield
November 25th, 2013
The desert weapon cracked with the silence pouring out. You should cry less, sister. You should be more patient, brother. The trees colour the bodies sucked empty of passion. The field, voided of battle, mourns. The wind blowing through scattered pipes. The sand dust covers the blood. Never the satisfaction of the last fight, save passing illusion.
Lay with slow infrequent breaths – a sky left to marvel. No voice, no intonation, what travels, travels without a trace. The land ruined plain, waters polluted. Shut down the machine, fuck trying. Truth enter the scene. Can’t fight it, can’t break that. The beauty stands small, even less in duration.
Close your eyes, friend. Shit’s over.
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The map
November 5th, 2013
Finish with black. Start with dust. Make an invisible passage between. Leaking white, English red, Old red, usual grey – add channels for infinite rains. Lose your belongings on a way. Lose the scriptures of your mind, exchange the heart for a bunch of stars and some grass. Fill your stomach with silence and fluorescent void. Lengthen your legs, rubber your arms. Bind your hair into seventeen knots. Uncover all scars, even the ones you are ashamed of. Collect the waste bits, trash parts, empty the folds. Don’t be scared of ensuing weightlessness, don’t be afraid of getting blown away. Make mountain your equal. A water – your model of moving. A night – your way of seeing. A forest – your way of talking.
Don’t think, think off.
Open the gates of the city.
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The weapon
October 23rd, 2013
Forge the weapon from brass. Brass of inscribed plates, second hand instruments, statues pulled down by changing regimes. Brass of indefinite ages, indiscernible dedications, soaked with sounds, that could not quite make it, abused by birdshit, whether noble or monstrous.
Keep the pieces in a barn or some other undivided house space. Let them taste each other. So as to make the great poet who lived on the street of Paris feel the cold of the plate that a homeless woman used as a rug when begging. So as to let the notes of Coltrane wannabe, who ended up as a an underpaid carpenter, rush out through the holes of unfinished series of cups. Let them mingle. Hell! Put them by the nearest river on a wet grass. Till they shiver, till they shine. Bang them by throwing pieces off the rocks. Pile them into the trailer and pour out in a city square, wait a time it takes you to finish off couple shots of whisky. Don’t force it. Let them open up as they come.
A scientist can wait, a trumpet can signal the place of their transformation. be patient, be passionate. Resilient in your work, joyous in a night vision. Let the pieces form a net, a brotherhood.
They will let you know, when they are warm enough to join together, without dissolving in the excess of the heat.
Watch saxophone slowly acquiring fingers, a head turning into the table. Laugh, if you feel like, at the childish amusement of the pieces as they make love to each other, get to be each other.
Don’t hold anything back, let the ones, which happen to be on a way of leaving, go .
Watch closely as they form cells of various kinds, learn the formlessness of its path. The degree of success will depend on your knowledge of the life it took the brass pieces to become flexible and stealthy.
Have a beer, for the speed of fluttering builds up. Shake the rust off. Breathe the skies. Comes the time, when you won’t be alone, ever. Enjoy the approaching cool.
Smile, sister, it senses what you mean.
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J(e)une Oslo
October 17th, 2013
An old homeless man clipping his nails
on the park bench,
observed carefully by a one eyed
dog chewing on a stick
of a birch
A dirty, close to carnal death,
woman slumbers past first
warm beams of the year,
a mongrel pigeon picking the remnants
of last night, scattered on the
cracked pavement
Collect the ghosts, spectres, heart pieces
Assemble lost ones, never have been ones,
random obscure ones,
sacred in bullshit ones
Have them disorder the pace
of the water,
build a power(of )less plant on banks
of a forgotten river,
have them pour their liquids out
on the joint screws
Have them group their spills
into the buckets of inception
Uncheck the locks
and let it roll
May the flow produced incite
all the church organs of the city
to start at nine,
peak at noon,
hold the drone for the rest of
the day,
open up a sky
at midnight,
so that the stolen parts of
their lives, their dreams,
the stolen spirit of their
heartbeat
comes flowing down the
roaming pipes
Let the city drink it
Let them get soaked to the edges of their skin
Give them all the night
to celebrate
Move away at six in the morning
Here – three immeasurable hours
for the unbeen of the world
to come and take a chance.
M(a)y Oslo
October 4th, 2013
Thoughts that will be forgotten in a glass of bitter beer
Sentiments never, almost, felt again as whisky
warms up between your palms
Words deleted, wine turning to acid
Chosmos and the river running through
the heart of the city – as dead as the anger, the river -
absent of fish, bugs or plants,
only the lame duck stupid duck
crossing it
above and besides the waste floating
while joggers pass by, oblivious to the
end of the day,
that has already sprung
already spread its wings
Bite off the fat, crunch the onion,
swallow the vodka,
digesting nostalgia with a piece
of black bread
Let the water become silent