Sunday, January 30, 2011
Investigating romanticism is a laborious task, very much like the slow scavenging of yesterday's battlefield in the morning, looking for body parts severed in suitable sizes by the canons and bombs, to collect in one's rucksack for the evening's poorman's barbecue. (I couldn't believe he was building the bonfire naked.)
Romanticism is a hermaphrodite with huge breasts and a huge penis, with rodent foreteeth, and some difficulties walking.
Romanticism is a clay pigeon machine, spurting out clay pigeons which are breadcakes of pizza dough, covered with blood as if it was tomato sauce, but not yet with cheese, so that during their aerial trajectory they collect seeds and spores and grow a luscious vegetation or at least a decent turf of grass.
Romanticism is located at the south end of the big lake, at the edge of the fault, and the sun rarely shines. Would you like to have your sand shipped from there?
Romanticism grew as a parasite in the longing to be loved of a sweet little witch who was a christian anarchist riding a broomstick. It acts like a big snake. It knows who its enemies are but not its friends. These are the outskirts of town. Our friend the little witch is left in the middle of the lawn at dusk.
Romantics be recognised by their sloppy beards, which are completely unintentional, but far better than scurvy.
But the ones you easily identify drunk in the cellars are on their way losing it. Usually you see the beard emerge as a result of your own doubt. And you never know with all the karyatids, with the reeds by the pond, and with the scaffolding at the construction site. The women of romanticism are invisible in certain angles. Their beards will emerge only as the Cheshire cat's smile. Or through the glass coffin. You never know if you are looking in or out.
The power of romanticism was due to the fact that it was speaking Finnish at a time when only the devil knew how to speak Finnish.
Because romanticism is made up entirely of skarn minerals. All this pubescence and all this blood, all this cursing and all this lovemaking, are epiphenomena. As extenuating circumstances they are held forth by the followers. Romanticism cannot be reeled in.
MF (which one of them?)
Time for a new offensive against narrow rationalism?
A new text by Mattias Forshage, presenting an overview of situation, ideas, aims and poetry of the romantic movement in Sweden, starting out from the perspective of the importance it has had for the surrealist activities here – is now made available at the "Bibliotheca onthoplanctorum" pdf library. And perhaps especially in these days, taking poetry seriously remains one of the most promising banners for the resistance against utilistic-ideological call-to-order power-supporting no-nonsense narrow-rationalist blinders-reinforcing alleged Enlightenment...
(also available in a swedish version at the same address)
Monday, January 17, 2011
The dog-glass bowl
The only restaurant cheek
The summer has kissed
She is the reign of the animal
She listened to me
There’s always torture
It only transpired
Then turning the wheel
Clearing conscience with
The spiral kiss
False erector she
Of the blameless life
Swollen horse soul
The hardy Winchester goal
I concur when
Targets use only chalk
Crystals insult me
She’s a sensory mean
Take your bangles off
Cos they’ll be destroyed