In Existenz
I saw two moons
One was cardboard-grey
And the dish ran away with the spoon
The other was piercing, yellow and bright-
A unisex cross of an eye-blinding light
And on a street corner
Between two tall trees
Kneeled two black angels
With massive white wings
They bowed on a plateau
Before a gumby-like shadow
With broad-even shoulders
And dangling limbs
And for a moment
I understood closure
What it means not to know
And never to see --
-- But back to the shades
Lacking glimmer, a glisten
I wonder why they don't talk
When I'm willing to listen
Why don't they state the rules
In the chance they'll be broken
Unless they didn't count
On one poor lost token
What I wouldn't give
To just make them pleased
They wanted oil and water
But I gave them fire and ice-
How much more can I tell them
I don't hold the keys --
-- Back to Existenz
Where fake plastic looks pretty
Wool-gathering and rubber gods-
Birds do come out at night
Amidst petty shudders
And dreams in plight

Pavements sparkle
Asphalt glistens
Like a warm rain that just washed everything over
And a dream hit your head when the rain hit your roof
And you've just walked outside at 3AM to buy smokes
It's the weekend, you're free and it's ok you're all alone
You slept through the night's rallies and tallies
But it's ok- the streets are empty and beautiful and they're yours
Evergreens look like fake rubber plastic palm trees at a serene luau
Graves of white houses omit a strange glow that makes them look pretty all in a row
Grass is soft Astroturf to roll around on in moonlight
Like a well-paced acid-trip comedown
The world is your playground of wonder
You're in control but just as willing to give it up at any moment
Stores are closed and streetlamps guide you through invisible neon signs which seem far more friendly when out of the daylight
Dirt, grime and teeth-stomped bubblegum take backstage to glittering cement and rock elements
Intoxicated by everything and you're on nothing
You're on nothing

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Reinigung
Ich sehe die Veränderung
Ich will es
Ohne es kann ich nicht leben
Meine Existenz ist nichts
Ich weiss dies

Purifying
I see the change
I want it
I can't live without it
My existence is nothing
I know this

Erinnerst du dich an einem letzten Regen im August?
Sein leidvolles Aroma grassiert in meinen fallenden Tränen,
Warum bleibt die Liebe im Kurzen wie sein Aroma?
JedesTropfchen manifestiert sich einen stilles Leid im Frühling.
Die geringe Momente können auswendig gelernt werden;
Wird aber die Zeit vollgeschätzt?
Wie kannst du vergessen werden?
Wenn alles über dir mit meinem Leben bereits verkörpert hat;
Ein Versprechen kann man vergessen;
Wirst du trotzdem meine Existenz vergessen?
In Ewigkeit bist du der Regen im August;
Mit deinem Tropfchen von meinen Augen erreiche ich dich.

for some reason, i never seriously branched away from american rock / metal into the alternative of black metal or viking metal of scandinavian... the finnish music scene gave me an appeal for their music... given the folk tale of herr mannelig... well... it's come down to: either hedningarna or gjallarhorn, when drinking, you really want to mellow out... you still like classical music, but you just can't keep up with the shrieks and the heavy guitars anymore... you want to return to the roots of melody, above ferocity... god, i hate the strauß family... i can't stand that sort of music... the non-contemplative type... it doesn't allow any meditation... because you imagine yourself constantly dancing... dying from st. vitus' dance / sydenham's chorea... there's nothing contemplative from their music, their waltzes are cannot entertain thinking, only dancing, or clapping to the rhythm.

existentia (existence)
     "existence" (existenz)
   ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")
strutting among non-beings:
            
  cogito - sum   (i am thinking - i am)
   the simultaneous answer,
      
the vector guiding the cartesian sum
   is to provide conversation

the vector guiding the cartesian cogito
is to provide an anti-claustrophobia
   (you can really become claustrophobic
  in a conversation... i.e. be put on the spot /
    high heels, of uncomfortableness).

ah... *ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")...
isn't that the western mantra for
individualism?
                   how can it not be?
why is individualism so sacred,
        so nauseating? this segregation of
one's own, from the ownership of all and
no one?
              it took king solomon to look at
an ant, which didn't exactly transcribe into
a humbling... just an crying out of
what individualism leads to: vanity! all is vanity!
                   vanus! vanus est omni!
ah, but no day is void of its content,
   as being the vessel of emptiness,
  the day, is a vessel brimming, full,
   a dam about to collapse, that fills me
with at least something that otherwise makes
me devoid, of entertaining it, in the first place.

but all these "political" conversations...
    these conversations might as well
start off with a sticker:
   hi, my name is...          bob.
i listen to these political discussion and
think...
         wow! the cartesian libra
       weighs so much toward the "i am"
side of the measures...
     such is the scenario of poly-identifactions...
i'm a liberal, i'm a conservative, i'm a progressive,
i'm into alt. right, i'm i'm i'm this that and the other...
given the conversation, and a complete
lack of silence i.e. thought,
           i'm also about to create a collage
of identificators...
   but i'll begin with: hi, my name is...      bob;
like any goldfish might.
        
  to me these people are talking presuppostions,
they are presupposing they are what they "are"...
     which suggests their thinking aligns itself
to suppositions, that they "are"
                          what they "think" they are...
they're not thinking, they're talking...
   non-stop, ad nauseam...
               i gather that people who are
       vox-philic, are also musica-phobic...
sometimes i think about knocking on a door
for about 10 years and not have it open
than listen to these people talk "politics".
       sometimes listening to hammering
in nails on a building site sounds more entertaining;
oh wait, should that be dico-philic / sermo-philic?
      whatever.
     i found that the people who love talking,
have no passion for music.

     silverchair - freak:
lyrics -
               no more maybes, the baby's got rabies,
       in the middle of the andies... yeah, heh!
i'm a freak. nature!
   yeah, heh!e
    if only i could be as cool as you.
   ****** and soul, i'm a freak, i'm a freak...
           trying to be different...
   whatever different disease...

   yep.... index finger moving against the motorboat
effect of the lips vibrating...
       hey presto! a mongolian harmonica.
              
ex omne diem
                  (out of every day)
               out of every moment...
    there is a driving momentum,
              to counter the shackles of systematic
clarification of what existence actually is,
or can be, or will or never will be,
            for what existence was...
                         is an selective memorisation...
a memory drives my curiosity more than
a spontaneous thought...
                 the thought is in the now,
a memory is in the what was...
           when walking in the desert of thought,
you must certainly stumble against
   the mirage oasis of a memory, suddenly arising...
i count memory, to have a higher status
     in the hierarchy of mental faculties
as that of dreams...
             for one... memory is attacked by
institutionalised learning, say,
       the pythagoras...
                                    i rather respect memory,
and keep as much of it as i can,
   than demand an interpretation of dreams...
i literally, have no respect for dreams...
                      none...
        memory though?
        memoriam est grata, somnio est non grata
(memory is welcome, dreaming is not welcome).

Als die abgekühlten, verschwendeten Träume des Unterbewusstseins
langsam ihre Farbe verlieren,
werden seine verwaisten Hände übertastig,
greifen blind nach dem Fleisch,
neben dem seinen,
das weltverloren aus der verweiblichten Realität atmet.

Im Niemandsland halbwacher Gedanken,
erscheint jene Schaufensterpuppe,
die ihn an einem ganz gewöhnlichen Wochentag,
mit ihrem leeren Blick fixiert.
Plastische Existenz im gedankenlosen Körper,
zum Schweigen gebracht,
damit sie ihr Selbst nicht verleugnen muss,
wenn ihr der rechte Arm auf links gedreht wird.
Im Vorbeistehn schenkt sie ihm ein unbewohntes
Lächeln.
Oder ist es doch sein eigenes,
das sich im Fenster spiegelt?

An den Venusgürtel der Blauen Stunde gekrallt,
hält er die Augen fest geschlossen
Unsichtbar für das Lichte,
nicht sehen,
nicht gesehen werden,
ein Sich-den-Sinnen-verweigern,
im unbemerkten Raum innerhalb der Zeit

Wie der Blaue Blumendichter,
so weiß auch er,
um die Notwendigkeit der Verschiebung,
wenn die ätherische Illusion berührt,
wenn das Subjekt zum Objekt geworden,
in die Nichtwirklichkeit zurückgeschoben werden muss,
damit das lyrische Heimweh aus der
Überlebensverhinderung befreit wird

Wäre sie immer noch das,
was er am meisten bewundert,
wenn er jetzt,
jetzt,
in diesem blutleeren Augenblick,
sein linkes Oberlid öffnete,
nur einen kleinen Spalt breit
?
Wäre sie nur eine der liebreizenden
Schmetterlingspflanzen,
deren sinnliche Blüten begierig mit seinem Unterleib
tanzen,
und die Töne aus seinen Lenden presst,
bis die Musik verstummt
??
Würde er in seinen Weißhaarzeiten auf einer Bank
sitzen,
unten am See,
eine verschlissene, offene Aktentasche auf dem Schoß,
den Kopf tief vergraben im ranzigen Leder
und mit zittrigen Händen

nach einer fragmentierten Erinnerungsspur suchend,
die längst in die Bedeutungslosigkeit geflohen war
???

Er wagt einen halboffenen Blick,
hinüber zur lichtblauen Sehnsucht,
dem gestern noch so gefräßigen Verlangen,
das sich nun,
in gnadenloser Sattheit,
in seiner Fleisches-Unlust ausbreitet.

Ausgelangweilt kratzen seine gierigen Finger an der fiktiven Verkleidung,
bis ihr schamhaftes Blut in seine eigene Selbsttäuschung tropft
und ihre Brüste aus den blaubepuderten Versprechungen bersten,
die er nicht ihr, sondern sich selbst gab.

Im Schein des Morgensterns
glänzt bereits der melancholische Trauertau,
als sich beider Seufzer ein letztes Mal berühren.
Hastig wickelt er prosaische Bandagen
um ihre offenen Wunden

und schiebt das Gestern in (s)eine neue Zukunft.

No celestial being will ever descend the misty ether
to complement my wishing and seeking
for its eternal presence.

None who are worthy of such adoration will ever chance
to stoop to move me out beyond myself,
to send me hurtling down the long, contemplative spiral
of the Self toward the focal point of Existenz.

Identity is elusive; for me there is no focal point, no center
of recognition and acceptance with which to make my defense.

Identity is infectious, a problem that plagues. Like the Fall,
the Delphic Oracle must remain unheeded.

Perhaps I am too tainted; perhaps I am impure.
Perhaps I would be blinded by the brightness of their glory.

No, I am quite certain that those who sit among the stars
will never be moved by pity or by suffering to breathe
the breath of Eros that flings me out
beyond this solitude; none will ever come to bestow me with
the presence and embrace I so passionately seek and desire.

None