Standing outside the leaning old church, my dripping cloth tendrils twisted around my hands, reminding me of the many sins this house of death had birthed. I reflected on the purity it resembled, and then back on the bleak city, seeing with all-seeing eyes how it was corrupted by wrongful fornication, violence, disrespect and injustice. The holy stone coffin was no different in my damning sight.

I) I am of mixed descent, Norwegian and New Zealander.
II) I enjoy being sleep deprived as everything takes on a fascinating surreal quality.
III) I am a published (sort of) writer.
IV) My girlfriend makes my life more than an odd museum visit to life, and she is also known to some of you as the striking, brilliant, Alison Hell.
V) I speak Old French. You wouldn’t understand, je suis croissants - this means “you are all maggots”.

Figured I’d throw in an extra.

VI) I am excellent at singing R&B styles, and I am NOT proud of it.

A campfire meddley full of nostalgic glee,
The man and his shadow sang ghostly lyrics,
Through the myriad of mourning trees,
The voices would go unheard by folk.

A tart aroma of devastated boar,
Shook hands with the man’s scent,
Around it went on a hellish feris wheel,
Until the little bastard was no more.

The self-proclaimed bard,
Was an emperor of forlorn domains,
His hunting knife was his lover,
It was orgasmed to acuity.

His eyes were alight,
Via the flames and the night,
He thought back to older days,
When the world was young.

At once you are stuffed with hyper assiduity,
Your lungs beat with a darkly vehement verve,
With eyes burning with zealous vivacity,
Rip his fucking head off.

Let your muscles distend to alien elan,
The clouds shall obfuscate the ground,
Allow your hands to wring out his throat,
Nobody’s going to stand in your way.

In these moments of atavistic awe,
Every being trembles in your actuality,
Assimilate his anguish to your body,
Tear out the cunt’s guts.

Make it so his whole back is super-retroflexed,
Make it so his entire body moans a dark chorus,
Make it so his face is unrecognizable,
Just stamp and snuff his lights out.


- “experimental poetics”

I am not separate from anything. “I am that which is.” That is, I am Brahma, and Brahma is everything. But being in an illusionary world, I am surrounded by certain appearances that seem to make me separate. So I will proceed to mentally state and accept that I am all these illusions. I am my friends - and then I went to them in general and in particular. I am my enemies; then I felt them all. I am the poor and the wicked; I am the ignorant. Those moments of intellectual gloom are the moments when I am influenced by those ignorant ones who are myself. All this in my nation. But there are many nations, and to those I go in mind; I feel and I am them all, with what they hold of superstition or of wisdom or evil. All, all is myself. Unwisely, I was then about to stop, but the whole is Brahma, so I went to the Devas and Asuras (gods and demons): the elemental world, that too is myself. After pursuing this course awhile I found it easier to return to a contemplation of all men as myself. It is a good method and ought to be pursued, for it is a step toward getting into contemplation of the All. I tried last night to reach up to Brahma, but darkness is about his pavilion.