corporate sex

http://www.smbc-comics.com/index.php?db=comics&id=1024#comic

...

korporationerna kommer att ta över, just you wait. mjo, kommer nog också något om ämsturdäm, men får se när jag orkar. just nu är det sängen och grilled cheese som gäller.

...of the dead we speak

One wonders, now and then, over the grandeur yet simplicity of human life as we know it. For ages, there have been thoughts and ideas of grander things, true, but no proof of anything from this world as we should know it. The Egyptians, however, make you wonder.

The one phenomena that throughout cultures and ages strike man to his core, is death. The Egyptians, thought of nothing but death and t he dead. Conceiving of a literal resurrection of the body, which made them mummify their bodies with desperate care, while preserving all the vital organs in canopic jars near the corpse; whilst besides the physical body they believed in two other elements, the soul and ka. The soul, after its weighing and approval by Osiris, dwelt in the land of the blest, while the portentous ka or life-principle, which wandered about the upper and lowers worlds in a most horrid way, demanded occasional access to the preserved body, consuming the food offerings left by priests and pious relatives in the mortuary chapel. Sometimes -- as men whisper -- the ka would take its body or the wooden double always buried beside it and noxiously stalk abound on errands surely repellent.

For millennia these bodies would rest gorgeously encased and staring glassily upward, if not visited by the ka, awaiting the day when Osiris both ka and soul should restore, and forth his stiff legions of the dead lead from the sunken houses of eternal sleep. A most glorious rebirth, to be sure, but not all souls were to be approved, nor all tombs given rest from prying eyes and thieves. Hence, certain grotesque mistakes and fiendish abnormalities were to be awaited. Still today the one can hear certain Arabs murmur of unsanctified convocations and unwholesome worship in forgotten nether abysses which only soulless mummies and winged, invisible kas may visit and return unscathed.

Obscene and macabre, ghastly even? Just wait, as probably the most leeringly blood-congealing legends are those which relate to certain perverse products of decadent priestcraft, namely composite mummies. Made by artificial and unholy union of human trunks and limbs with the heads of animals in imitation of elder gods and other unnamed things, these things were thought to be strangely related to the sacred animals that throughout all stages of history have been mummified; consecrated bulls, cats, ibises, crocodiles and the like were to return some day to greater glory. But only decadence of mind could lead to the mix of human and animal in the same corpse -- only in that decadence when they did not understand the rights and prerogatives of the ka and the soul.

Publicly it is not told of what has happened to those composite mummies -- certainly no Egyptologist ever found one. The Arabs' whispers can be very wild, and should not be relied upon, as they even hint on that old Khephren -- he of the Second Pyramid, the yawning gateway temple and the Sphinx -- together with the ghûl-queen Nitocris would far underground rule over the mummies that are neither man nor beast. Yet today certain Arabs pay homage to Khephren and his ghûl-queen, so as to not draw their wrath and their armies of abominal dead.

...one can wonder, then, what temples of abominations and depths unknown lie under the pyramids and carven riddles of the desert. Surely madness entertains, for what huge and loathsome abnormality was the Sphinx originally carven to represent?

'Common sense' in reflecting on the subject of that which should not be, is merely a stupid absence of imagination and mental flexibility.

mad howlings

ONCE WITH LIVID the boy made man,
with promises of life's normal span;

however spectre one becom'th when madness light,

and so now old, that grey husk now bathe in fright.

Doth the man came to fortress leave; his home deserted,

into rain and thunder of harrowed night;

his only thoughts of laughter consuming his mind--

not for once,
His only fright.

Neverending struggle 'gainst ancient tongues,

can't but for now hysterical madness obscure,

for their master, the livid of madmen, to be sure.

To Ancient lands of mythic desolation,

by pagan and common man since long forgotten

called upon through beckoning words and mad promises...

through dreams of since aeons dead;
through chants older than life demised,

..the man for his own mind--for truth of existence,

seeks those since long forgotten secrets to find.

For to find, is finally to accept,

And Insanity,
all which begets men who attempt forget,

that which should never have to know and should never be.

Prophecies of mad Arab Alhazred, be sure,

and for certain men promises, they be;

For Thee,
Read,
and see:

'That is not dead which eternal lie,

And with strange aeons even death may die.'

begynnelsen

idag har jag för evigt hädanefter tillägnat min gamla Theory-of-Knowledge anteckningsbok till mitt nya poemhäfte, var i kanske det sjukaste av minna alla mörka tankar kommer ut i förfinad form. just denna bok för att innehållets sinneslösa men ändå akademiska ord ska beblandas med de föralltid förglömda riter från romersk tid som betäcka textens yttre. det kanske inte säger alla så mycket, men vissa vet; vissa har stirrat in i den akademiska abyssen.

ett litet poem

som ur livets goda utlåst

men även utan vardagens alla måst';

sittandes i ensamt rum i fullt hus,

finns det alltid känsla för litet bus.

men utan någon större börs,
så kommer ing't om det hörs.

ibland kännas för att få folk att rulla med tungorna,

men då påminns man om poliserna-med-slungorna.

men med lite rök i lungorna,

görs inget att inget finns att görs.

Vem vet mest?

"...så ska vi se vad för musik de bestämmer sig för att dra ut ur analen."

...

var det bara jag som uppmärksammade det?

...jag har haft en av de bästa kvällarna på väldigt länge, på många sätt och vis. den har varit otroligt ro-givande och inspirerande, och jag hoppas att jag kommer att komma ihåg att berätta den så som jag vill ha den berättad på söndag, för jag hinner och orkar verkligen inte--rent fysiskt--att förtälja.

men idag så gläds jag med världen

dagens special

dagens kur: 2 ägg (4 dagar efter bäst före datum--ska bli intressant!), 1½ dl ris, vatten, vatten, kanske lite thé. ska bli kul att se hur länge jag kan fortsätta så här...

ps/note-to-self: nästa gång man steker ägg så ska man steka det länge, så att ägg-gulan blir välstekt. på så vis får man i sig mer än om gulan bara rinner ut på tallriken.

edit: damn, att detta finbesök ska sabba min kur och gör så att det blir pizza eller något liknande istället! attans.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot--

And whether pigs have wings."

From the first minute I saw you, I knew I wanted to fool around with you. And then, after I did that, I still wanted to talk to you ... Now, though, I don't know what the fuck is going on, man.

Creationism

Människan skapar alkoholhaltiga brygder, men Gud planterade fröet. Vem litar du på mest?

Avast, ye scoundrels!

Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats

Endgame

(warning for sensitive readers. if YOU are a sensitive reader, get the fuck off this site and don't you dare to come back.)

Jonathan, half-lost in the bliss of intercourse, smiled stupidly at the naked youth straddling his manhood. He did not know the boy’s name; they had exchanged no words. The boy was half the age of the abbot’s eldest daughter, but that meant little to the older man. Redemption, after all, was but a breath away, waiting in the confines of his confessor’s cubicle. From the moment Jonathan had first laid eyes upon the boy—smooth, moon-pale skin, soft, supple curves, long, flaxen hair spilling down past unblemished shoulders—he had wanted him. The wherefores of whatever spell had so suddenly encaptured him were lost in the throes of his passion. Jonathan wanted the boy, and thus had taken him. It was that simple.

Jonathan continued thrusting, lost in the vision of his comely companion writhing in silence. Passers-by could hear as he took in urgent breath as the boy paused, shifting ever so slightly while still keeping his lover deep inside. The child rose up once, working his hips and driving the abbot into new throes of ecstasy. Again the pair moved together, features contorted in paroxysms of perverse delight. Then Jonathan thrust forward a third time, and the boy came down hard, face twisted into an unrecognizable feral mask as the monk screamed in agony.

Something moved toward Jonathan, surging from deep within the boy’s bowels. It skittered through the fey child and into Jonathan, crawling inside his sex and distending the sides. Each continued thrust—for he would not, could not stop—was accompanied by a searing sensation, intensely painful, yet strangely pleasurable. The moving thing was a swarm, Jonathan realized in a moment of horrific lucidity between thrusts; he could feel the chittering things forcing their way into him. He screamed and pitched, but could not throw off the boy; the child-monster’s thighs held him in a sensual death-grip.

The torment and the pleasure in tandem became unspeakable. At length, Jonathan could hear the wet snap of his hip cracking, yielding to stresses a mortal frame was never meant to bear. He fell, sprawling, into the merciful gulf of unconsciousness.

The abbot spent the next fortnight in a fitful state of half-wakefulness. Vaguely he wondered why none of the monks came to see him; vaguely he wondered about his duties and masses. His nights were filled with visions of his torturer’s leering face. Then there were the nightmares, surreal tableaux in which Jonathan’s captor capered about his prostate form, pushing, prodding, cutting. There were scenes which played dangerously close to the edge of sanity, in which the monster squatted over Jonathan’s face, forcing blood-salty maggots and formless writhing masses into his mouth, then holding his jaws shut and forcing him to swallow.

The days, if night could be separated from day in the perpetual darkness enshrouding him, were worse. On those occasions when sleep deserted him, Jonathan, raw, rent and broken, was exquisitely aware of every sensation his tortured nerves brought him. His tongue, cracked, parched and swollen from countless stings, was about the only thing he could move. Flies landed on his eyes and he could not so much as blink to dislodge them. They were a constant companion in his torment, their buzz an excited drone against the slow beat of his heart. Misshapen creatures and vermin crawled and slithered over his bloated body, and an unseen thing—things—moved within his abdomen with chilling deliberation.

Then, one night, he awakened to find his captor waiting for him. The child was seated upon his chest, stealing his breath and staring him full in the face with black, bottomless eyes. They boy’s body was cold, Jonathan noted, as cold as the corpses he had laid out for burial. More of the insects scampered across Jonathan to scuttle onto the boy-thing’s naked from, welcoming his presence. Countless black forms darted in and out of the boy’s nose, his smiling mouth, his groin.

“You have cow’s eyes,” the youth hissed as he idly caressed Jonathan’s face. The boy spoke in a voice that was too old, too evil to come from a child. Whatever spoke in that voice had known degradation beyond imagining. Jonathan moaned, terrified his tormentor would scoop out his eyes with small, cold fingers.

“Cow’s eyes,” the creature mused, retrieving a threaded needle attached to a skein of silk from beside Jonathan’s prostrate form. “The same wide-eyed gaze as a beast of the field. It marks you as unaware, unsuspecting, not yet opened with understanding. It betrays you as prey.”

The creature pushed the needle into his own palm, passing it through his hand and out the other side. Without pausing, he then pinched the fat of the abbot’s gut into a small fold and slid the needle through, eliciting whimpers of pain and fear.

“I can see your thoughts through those eyes, Jonathan,” the beast continued, eyes wide as he held his victim down. Slowly he continued to sew into the abbot’s flesh, embroidering it with ancient patterns. “I can see your fears. Oh, don’t worry, I won’t take your eyes from you now. They’ll be needed later.”

Each wound closed scant seconds after the needle’s passage, made whole by the potent vitae that soaked the thread, but Jonathan kept trying to scream until no more sounds escaped his mouth. Silently, his body was wracked with shudders.

“Here,” the abbot’s grinning assailant finally said, pausing to place Jonathan’s hand over his own swollen groin. “Squeeze that, if you will, and think about what you want. It will help to pass the time while I tell you what you should know before apotheosis.”

Shadows crept in from the edges of the chamber and darkness blotted out the ceiling. Only part of the stone floor was visible in the dim light, its surface encrusted with brown stains. Flies and wasps crawled across the walls and floor, hovering in droves over the dried blood. Their wings buzzed incessantly in the still and silent air. They waited.

Standing with a lantern in his hand, the young man remained motionless. Above him, Jonathan hung from a thick chain suspended from the ceiling; intricate stitchwork covering his naked form. Jonathan screamed, as he had been screaming for night after night, but no sound issued forth from his parched throat. His ears had been folded over and melted shut with burning oil. The boy had inserted a fly into each ear, however, and Jonathan now spent his time listening to one fly who whispered its secrets to him. The other fly ignored Jonathan and rolled flecks of his earwax into a ball.

The young man watched impassively as his Jonathan spat, then choked. A fly, coated with an oily mixture of saliva and blood, emerged from between his parted and cracked lips. Several more followed. Jonathan could no longer even attempt to cry out as escaping flies filled his throat; his neck bulged and his eyes widened in mute panic. He twisted upon the chain like a hooked fish, writhing with agony as the insect tide bubbled forth from within him. The young man nodded approvingly and left. The swarm would emerge from this human chrysalis without his help, and the young man needed to watch the other mortal hosts during this, the crucial birthing season. It was time to awaken the darkness.

psykodramatiskt rollspel

-på scenen brukar det finnas två stolar: en för den närvarande, och en för den som tyvärr inte längre är med oss. vidare brukar det finnas en, kanske två, personer till med specifika uppgifter-

-en stol fylls, men den andra förblir evigt tom-

hur börjar man? jag vet verkligen inte. till introt av One fälls de första, det trodde jag inte (I can't remember anything, can't tell if this is true or dream). och nu pratar jag med Er (mig själv?) istället för Honom.

Fan.

Jag saknar dig. Mitt liv de senaste åren ... har varit förjävliga. Jag vet att vi jämt brukade säga att livet suger och att vi betedde oss som ... ja, vad betedde vi oss som? Vi var vi, helt enkelt, och det var helt underbart. Man kom undan allting, men ... men ...

Vi var vadå, inte ens tonåringar? Tillsammans gjorde vi, bara du och jag, mer än vad många gör under en hel livstid. Det förstörde mig. Vilket liv jag skulle kunna haft om det inte vore för dig? Jag skulle kunnat vara normal, förstår du det?

jag vet inte hur man fortsätter ...

Hur kom det sig att det blev som det blev, egentligen?

-andra stolen-

...och vad, egentligen, har du att säga mig? Vad kan det ändra? Saker är som de är nu, inte sant? Bara för att du låtsas--

men de sade att det inte är att låtsas

--så betyder inte det att något, överhuvudtaget, ändras. Du är den du är.

-ripost-

...och det är ditt fel. Nej, inte fel; din förtjänst? Jag vet inte. Jag förstår inte. Jag säger att mitt liv är förjävligt, att du för evigt förstört mig (need the end to set me free ...) och mina chanser och potential och framtid och förflutna. Jag har gjort så mycket sjukt, för dig.

Varför? (eko.)

För att jag älskade dig, med hela min själ, som en bror. Du och jag och världen, var det inte så vi sade? Är det inte så alla säger, egentligen? Men det var ju så ... Det var verkligen du och jag, men folk såg det inte.

Din familj ... jag hatar dem. Allihopa. Det vet du, eller hur? När ... Dagen då du, lades ner, när man skulle säga adjö (aldrig) så fick jag inte närvara. Visste du det? Jag har aldrig känt sådan smärta. Visst, jag har inte så mycket att komma med år-mässigt (jag fyller 20 snart, kommer du ihåg vad vi skulle göra då? Du och jag, och världen...) men fan ta mig, det gjorde ont. Dom andra kom upp till mig sen, efter att din familj föst ut mig ur kyrkan. De sade "åh, nej, vad synd om dig. Men tänk han då, han är död. Det är ditt fel."

Är det det? Är det verkligen mitt fel att ...

Du räddade mig.

skrattet.

Jag har suttit utanför deras hem ett par gånger. Tittat på dem. Vanessa har vuxit upp och blivit mogen, jag tror inte att hon kommer ihåg dig så bra. Jag tar hand om henne, jag lovar. För dig. Men vad fan leder det till? Jag är tom (skrattet gråten) utan dig. Åh, homoerotik på högsta nivå, visst, men det är fan sant. Vi skulle lyckas, du och jag. Med allt. Men ...

-pang-

Men vadå? Du fann mig med en nål i armen istället, och med livet ut genom munnen. Det var fan roligt, det där, när det fortfarande varade. Kommer du ihåg kvällen (kommer aldrig glömma)? Du stal din första bil den kvällen. Alltid så var det jag som gjorde det, men då gjorde du det, duktiga pöjk. Femton bast, pang-ruta tjuvkoppla oj-fan-inte-automat ner till KS. "Är du familj?" "Nej..." "Men dåså, get lost."

-kort rockad-

Ja, det var fan sjukt. Men dina ögon, då, kommer aldrig glömma. Och bilresan... Kommer du ihåg låten på skivan som fanns i bilen (Death greets me warm-now I will just say good-bye)? Kommer aldrig glömma. Varje gång jag hör det så gör det ont, och det är fan nästan varje dag. Lite sjukt masochistiskt det där.

skratt, leende.

Om jag fortfarande håller på? Nej, jag slutade ju, det vet du, men det är ju lönlöst att ljuga för någon som är död, eller hur?

Jag, klart jag fortfarande håller på, men inte på samma sätt. Inte som då ...

Det var nån gång för någon månad sen som jag hamnade på vårt spår, men det var inte kul längre. Nu var det bara självdestruktivt. Det funkar inte, inte utan dig. Var det därför som ..? Jag trodde att vi kom överens om att aldrig sprutor. Det var ju så fult, det sade vi ju. Och o-värt. Men allt tappar sitt värde utan dig...

Fastnat för musik istället. Kan inte spela (har en gura!) men shit, ibland så finns det där, i huvudet, i själen. Kommer ihåg när du satte det där Orion-riffet. Dags att fira! spegeln tömdes snabbt, och vi låg och skrattade, sen ut på stan, in där, in här, hej där, spring där. Jag tror inte hälften av det folket finns kvar längre, om jag ska vara ärlig. Några sitter på kåken (så nära, den gången, kommer du ihåg? Hah!) och några andra har gått och dött. Ingen förlust ...

...men du. Fan. Jag saknar dig något oerhört, och det pinar mig verkligen att veta att det inte gör någon skillnad för framtiden. Vilken jävla situation du har satt mig i, va? Det är fan inte lätt när det är svårt.

listen...

Listen baby, would I lie to you just to run my fingers through your pubes?

Dear God,

I know what you did. You raped one of your subordinates, left her pregnant and later arranged to have your bastard son killed. Others may see it as your so-called "mysterious ways", but not I; I see you for what you are: a lying murderer.

I want 2$ million, lest I make your evil endeavours publicly known.

You have been warned.

Sincerely,

/s/

wish fulfillment

AND NOW IT'S TIME FOR...

Wish Fulfillment -- the show where we show people you wish you were

The man holds his perfectly anorexic wife who would fulfill his every sexual fantasy and never ask to have children. The man's white teeth shine 'til your eyes hurt, and his voice is serene yet masculine, persuasive yet suave.

"I have an enourmous penis and I shit money."

sinatra

pojken står vid livets övergångsställe; trafikljus vid varje kurva och steg. han står leendes och väntar, trampandes i takt till sitt livs melodi, men alla andra går. alla går. rörelse överallt. han utbrister: "Men det är ju rött!" och folk blir påkörda av livsuppgifter och fru fortunas hand som allt styr; själv står han kvar och väntar, nu bitandes sin underläpp.

än längre väntar han, men hans ljus blir aldrig grönt, kanske gult som bäst. folk frågar honom vad han gör, vad han väntar på, och han skrattar till svars: "jag väntar på att det ska bli grönt!" de skakar på huvudet och farbror Blå kommer och frågar hur det är,

"Nej konstapeln, knark är bajs."
"Ja, Pojke, det är bra, men vad står du här och glor?"
"Jag hoppas att fortfarande hinna med Jeffersons flygplan, men jag får aldrig fullt taxa ut på flygbanan."

"Hey Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand?"
"I'm going to shoot my old lady; you know, I caught her messing around with another man."

eufori; om jag ändå orkade försöka

Vem vet mest?

"...och vad hette Katariina (sp?) Taikons alter ego i en serie böcker?"
*pling*
"Katitzi."

*doffe skuttar till i soffan och utbrister, med en gäll och hög röst: "Katitzi!"*