involuntary memory v

Well well, this rectitude of a reality is begging for a reboot, craving a caress of cacophony to stymie its self-indulgent stagnancy. Now, this stagnancy, ironically, is nothing but the utter lack of spiritual self-compliance and as such, judgement against it is bequeathed in real time and the charge brought up against a reality pregnant with careless conformity is immediate. The measure of spirit is the unity which it presents for itself, in itself, sort of like a baker kneading his dough and folding it back upon itself. As such, the dough provides eo ipso its own court of law, and even under oath the baker would be hard pressed to justify kneading and folding in mid-air. Conversely the loaf will never become and the dough always remain, if not for his hands' divine retribution. 'You are become life, the creator of worlds'. As to the verdict on the fanciful feud with flour, both 'hand and glove' admits culpability in lieu of each other. Thus justice consists equally in an internalization of the external and an externalization of the internal: as seen from the dough, justice is served in the kneading and seen from the kneading of the baker, justice is served with the dough itself. And therefore absolution consists in reality being in communion with itself, instigated with the breath of life. Heck, even going on the lash possess its own immanent rhythm granted by the contingent Bacchanalian revel and resulting necessary rearrangement of brick and mortar. According to Corinthians 15:39-45: "The first man Adam became a living being; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit." and we, Lilim, are the absolute progeny of this instrumental interplay and the Lance of Longinus our manifest sacrament. Destiny is two-pronged in execution and infinite in institution, but in our hand it becomes Eucharist.

Ripples of love

In this stubborn concentration my eyes run a marathon between sentences;

my mind thoroughly edging out faulty judgements in a meta-narrative sprint.

All of a sudden my world is flooded by a vast streaming sensation of pure longing;

my intense be-longing rivalled by the extension of perplexity when you’re be-gone.

But soon I will hear a panting trepidation and turn to face our earnest infatuation;

And from the pitch-black grease of doubt will shine a beacon of floating trust.

Hitched in her throat are all the words that paint the expression on her face;

We will talk about it later, but tonight we lie naked at the riverbed of our deluge.

As we walk hand in hand I turn to see in the horizon the sanctuary of an industrial sky;

And here, fire-imbibed, I promise to remain at home dwelling below the starry canopy.

3 retter

Du er rettet mod mig, men retter aldrig ind

Du har retten, selvom du ikke altid har ret

Du er ganske ensrettet i din modsatrettethed

Du har dog også modsatrettet din ensrettethed

Du retfærdiggør altid rettidigt din ret

Du tager til efterretning enhver uret

Du flyver smilende med din sjæl lodret

Du vandrer berettiget og bestemt vandret

Du udretter og opretter og tilretter

Du indretter i kasser, men anretter dig selv

Du er min forret, hovedret og efterret.

involuntary memory part IV

I certainly did enter the labyrinthine beauty of the powerful now's palpitations; my mind a virtual instrument for the palpation of pure presence. Funny thing this 'now', it seems tenseless but carry within the withering ripe fruit of a bygone past and the budding seed of a future to come. Come late summer in amber orchards the entire human condition is revealed in the prophetic fall of an apple; but what of its landing? This seemingly hollow thump never gets any fucking credit and Eve's favourite for emergence from self-incurred immaturity is left on the ground in self-fermentation: stupefied in wanton self-consciousness we slither away from the richness of its subtractive sensibility into self-immolation. But in this instant no such discard concerns me. My now is within the firmament spewing snow over the deep silence of the forest; I imagine these flakes of contingency cover the pine-trees much like fresh, white sheets touched by starlight honour her naked curves completely. Sometimes the most truthful unveiling is an envelopment. As we penetrate further into the precipice of civilization this awareness ricochets on the back of my skull and I realize that the present itself is a ridge between revelation and concealment: this 'now' is an investigation into the apparent contradiction and these shards of internal time travelling track along the apex providing a limit to time itself. Suddenly time's tides seem to have turned and finding myself in nature is replaced with losing myself in civilization. But this voyage demands a new beginning.