Further distant


I want to go even more distant
but believe me, when I, with my back fading
try yelling that it isn’t an escape

I seek the disolution of the distant
to find the nearness in everything
And not just in the flash of an eye glimpsing
or the colour of the voice.
In thousands of pictures and colours
Like when a child or an elder
suddenly loses themselves in the self
in the middle of the worlds decay
and a moments certainty
falls over the universe


Remember treehouses? — The place where you’d go when you were in a fight with your parents, played cards with your first friends or took your first friend — who was a girl. The great thing with a treehouse was being able to be secluded in the middle of everything. I’m pretty sure that growing up I had big plans on having my own submarine — a yellow one. It didn’t have anything to do with the Beatles song, I think that I wanted one because I had a yellow Lego submarine that I could picture myself living in. Well, turned out Lego didn’t make actual yellow submarines so I had to settle for a magic tree house. I think I still remember what I kept there  — The collected fairy tales of H.C. Andersen, my Batman doll, a blanket, some playing cards and a book where I’d write stories — that I’ve since forgotten. The fact that I had a concrete place that summarizes the magic of childhood is fascinating — and just as much as I’d like to be a child again — I’d like another treehouse.

That I discarded. Even though it contained some spot on remarks about my enemies, and a few of pretty lines that’s typical to the way I write. But with the settling dark outside my window and the the blossoming of the flowers when I awake from reality, and strangely being almost half as old as my grandfather ever got to be. So  wearing his wrinkled old jacket and hat, I take a walk in the modern world — which obscurity is trite– compared to crossing the boarder from the obvious of being alive to the strange of not being dead.

Ever since the twilight of my childhood and about 12 years old in time, I’ve been addicted. I’m sure that a lot of You out there have experienced the same kind of addiction — that advances with the acknowledgement that we are the generation of replicas. We realize — or will realize — that the greatest things happened before we were born. The best songs, the finest melodies. most haunting books and most honest art was creations of past time and most likely dead people. So I’ve grown up with an infatuation for greatness so immense that my memory has decided that it can range to times before I exsisted. I don’t know why, and quite frankly my imaginary memories trumphs my knownledge and whichever analytical skills i’ve acquired. Maybe our memory’s ability to fool itself is really natural. Maybe I get nostalgic about times before my time is because I view a highlighted past — through art, music and any type of rough expression. I think we keep all of our memories that way — the real ones as well. We remember events through the feeling they left us with and not the way they actually happened.

That could be why we get caught up in the past and our breath gest stolen: because we don’t view the past as it was, but as it was felt. And since I wasn’t actually a part of it, I can make it whatever I want. It’s an ambiguous feeling, because in most ways we find comfort in the melalncholy that there once was a time where the great stories wasn’t told before, the greatest themes had yet to become themeparks and every idea or feeling I get couldn’t be broken down to an -ism. But mostly It tells me that I need something that reality can’t bring. So we escape from the present into a time where time doesn’t pass and we get to sleep into onecelled organisms armed with wings.

I saw this girl I wanted real bad. Shit; she those white — like bleached and like snow. Vasporing, tumbling — moving through the earth like  solar energy and spirit. I wanted that broad real bad. Dreamworthy. Where you dream inside of her guts picturing images of awesomeness numbing your balls like cement. Fuck this broad.. I hate her. I hate you dreamworthy ones with unstopable exterior — making sound go vague and silence seeming like awkwardness melting through shrouds like azure clouds. Fuck you. I’ve seen your before and I did you before — turning you into flesh.

Cliché #1


Clichés annoy me terribly. Whether they are worn, spoken or comitted – I hate them. I hate the fact that drunken people have a tendency to deform into a few no-brain values that every animal can easily agree with. Becoming more and more monkey-like with gestures — defending unknown women from unknown women from unkown men with unknown intentions; starting feuds over beer and turning it into a fight of morally right and wrong — get the fuck outta here..


I decided to make an update atleast once a week on the most self-righteous, annoying, pretentious bullshit clichés. As stated previously: they can be both worn, spoken and comitted.


The saying: “The only thing I can’t tolerate is intolerance”

First of all this oxymoron of a saying can’t be true — especielly not from the people who utters this BS. They won’t tolerate me pooping my ass out at their house, dickslapping their dying mother or performing orally on their women. I should know — I’ve tried.

Secondly: The universal beasts of fashion who goes through the night believing that truth lies in this kind of selfevident simple shit, does indeed project an image of intolerance and insane indulgence in clichés. If you have this motto — please come meet me and I will smack the shit out of you.

Ladies and genitals

I felt like sharing the top 10 shit I’m doing while waiting for something better.

10. Having disburbingly graphical images of violence performed on people who deserves my upcoming knee in their belly.

I do this a lot – imagine myself comitting as volturous acts as possible against whichever entity functions against me. The images get more scenic as I envision them in their fucking forthcoming blight. Unfortunatly I wouldn’t be the greatest fighter. But I imagine, after hitting the gym for some much needed anger managing, I could some day end up with a buff bald stereotypes blood on my hands while reciting poetry or whatever.

9. Eating chips and drinking beer in bed.

It’s awesome.

8. Thinking about girls I could’ve been with

This is usually known as reminiscing about the good old days. But for me, the good old days is about girls — and what could’ve happened if I had had enough balls to be more jerkalicious when I was younger.

7. Dreaming

When I was about 9 or so I remember my classteacher asking me what my favorite thing to do in the whole world was. I remember responding that I liked daydreaming the most. It’s rather strange looking to look back at — because I liked lots of things back then, but in some way I narrowed them all down to daydreaming — meaning that whatever I liked is mostly in my head.

6. Playing pornosax in my basement long after the remains of the day’s gone to sleep.

I bring my saxes to the basement where I have the worst stereophonic radio ever. I play untill my head is filled with sound and noise and I go to sleep afterwards — knowing that I’ll be as alive when I wake as when I went to sleep.

In the summer I go to this deserted place near my house — only bringing discount candy, a coke and some smokes — and of course my sax.

5. Reading about serial killers and whatever else that gets closest to being virginal evil in the world outside my 15″ laptop screen.

I can’t write about this without sounding too obvious so I’ll save it untill I’m able to.

4. Coming up with fake porn titles

It’s always been my rebelious dream to become porn scripwriter. I think it might be a way of showing how the best minds of my generation was destroyed by madness starving hysterical naked. That’s why I enjoy making up porn titles. There’s been a lot of hype on turning real features into porn but I like my imaginary titles as raw, womanizing and Inappropriate as possible — I mean that’s the revelry of it all to us suckers out there.

BTW just to join the hype — here’s my Harry Potter reimagening:

Harry Potter And the Philosopher’s balls

Harry Potter And the Chamber of Fesces

Harry Potter And the Prisoner of Prisoner of Ass

Harry Potter And the Goblet of Firemen

Harry Potter And the Order of Filth

Harry Potter and the Halfblood Penis

Harry Potter and the Deathly Swallows

3. Reading

2. Getting drunk with friends

1. Having sex