Tekijä: Jimi

In songs they sing that silence is louder than bombs
like the moments when dust settles in the tombs
We see no evil, we hear no evil, we speak no evil
and we try but little good can we deliver
our mouths are silenced and our hands are bound
by our own inability to comprehend a growing mound
of the injustice of violence and cloaks and daggers
and machine gun fire from drones’ automatic triggers
we refuse to try because we believe in a way of the world
that’s been for thousands of years like God’s word
and so the millstone rotates and grinds the human condition
us privileged few unwittingly keeping it all in motion

I write queer letters in sand
trying to make my mark in this land
my alphabet comes into existence
from an external floating presence
who is something other from mine
yet it is me from a different time
the feeling changes minute by minute
making my very soul rather dilute
so I make this conversation with it
talking to myself in the soul pit
this is the dreaded Anti-Christ
who opposes the great Christ
which can not be nothing but me
from which I sometimes wanna flee
they both want what’s in my best interest
and neither will never ever let me rest
the me-me wants to be born again
the anti-me wants the world to gain
and the talk indubitably goes nowhere
I surrender and let him take me there
where the stones and dead trees are gilded
and drunkenness and happenstance are mixed
and to this day I continue writing these letters
my other-selfness removing all my tethers
telling me that he is the chosen one
and that only by him the day is won
he is the lack of concepts and meanings
yet he is everything a man ever needs
everything my conscious self ever does
the unconscious me always does finish
who am I talking to?

I am a collection of bumps in the night
sweat forms beads that snake down me
making sure nothing will sit at all right
twisting knives molding my disturbed frame

I found a bump, a second one, third to last
me a good while, while I try not to think about it
there’s a good chance it’s cancer and not just
a bodily oddity that is not the so-called perfect fit

I had a fit of cough without a rhyme or a reason
and the iris of my other eye wanted to beat the other
hair growth was found out of place and out of season
symptoms never seem to quit and there’s always another

Each bloody rash is a field of brimstone straight from hell
that will melt my meat and burn my life away
Each unhealing gash is a reminder of a battle
that is eventually probably going to come this way

that’s how it goes: the illusion is all that we have
and the meat that attaches itself to the illusion
is just a side effect, a stream of colorless waves
that results in the vision’s momentary cold fusion

Let’s double check:

You have an illness in your soul?
Where does it hurt?
When does it hurt?
WHY
does it hurt?

You can’t describe it?
Oh well, don’t be depressed, in the modern age
we have the rigorous help of the scientific method
and it can tell us everything we need to know about your illness!

We need this tube device and some spiritual lube
and clinical light to shed on the dark corners of your soul

next we are going to put this thing inside your soul
-you will FEEL-
try to relax and think a little less of yourself

there could be side effects, like tears and vomiting of personal residue
and you might find yourself and lose yourself
remember, it is just temporary so don’t be fooled by yourself or the lack thereof

now then we are going to take some samples from your soul:
you could feel a slight pinch, nothing more
if you feel different after the procedure rest assured
your soul is still intact
the soulologist will check your samples and will come back with the results within a month

There, all done; that wasn’t so bad was it? You just needed to relax a bit

See, with the modern scientific method we can give precise diagnoses
even to the illnesses of the spirit; something people once thought
”material science” could never penetrate. As always though
science triumphs and advances our understanding of the human creature!

I’m writing this letter to you from a place others call my home
surrounded by my old dusty tomes and souvenirs from alien places
a freeform sadness usually overtakes, rendering the glow
of the evening into a dirty hue of red that just twists people’s faces:

there is nothing new under the sun, and nothing new to the fun
we had with the old things, with those sad pathetic kinks
that should already have been ironed out or rocketed to the moon
since the moon can still use some craters to go with the pinks that shade
that nightly swiss cheese during those extreme wine evenings
when the Blood Moon festival comes to town to have a jolly slaughter
with those people that live out vibes that are slightly depressing
who cry in pain during the red hours, drowning out all laughter

well, now I’ve done it: I’ve gone to a total nonsense place
where freedom of expression can make everything darker
this letter is something that cuts too deep, releasing my face
from the idea of personhood that acts as my personal marker;
the one I’ve grown attached to through pain and mythical hellfire
which I’ve cultivated with sanctified microdoses of ideals,
expectations and dreams which I’ve watered with the mire
called the ”holy trinity of alcohol, cigarettes and junk meals”

here is a thought, for a clarity of purpose, or some shit
often we expect things, not thinking about complications
and the current taking us elsewhere and we get used to it
and when the crap hits the Frappé at first it’s just disruptions
until they’re no longer setbacks but murder attempts on your person
and now the assassin is on your back and you go into exile
like any sane person would since who wants to lose their ideal soul?
it just cannot be a thing that ”You” would ever go out of style

finally, you end up in the place, which you wouldn’t really call a home
surrounded by jaded despair and memories that are grayscale
with a directed sadness that has overtaken you to render the glow
of the evening into a dirty shade of blue that twists your face

writing a silly letter about giving up while not really going to do that

(For once, something in english 🙂 )

This is my big dick moment, my supreme ego revival
something that allows me to transcend mere survival
Filled by holy hubris and an extremely superb will
and the personal truth that I will take my fill
I tell no lies, and if I do they turn into absolute truths
that grow deep roots beneath my larger-than-life boots

I’ve defeated every enemy before I even met them
meth heads and politicians and the runners in a marathon
and secured a glorious golden future, unto eternity
with no place for mediocrity thus bringing serenity
as in me, so in everything else: I will be a legend
that is never content and does not have an end
as in me, so in everything else: there will be no end
to the legend that is an endless source of content

as above, so below
spirit does matter
as in me, so in everything else
fulfill my will