I feel

as though

I shall shatter.

Like a rubbery bubble

stretched above

its limit.

My innards

boiling

sulphurous.

I sense

a small

Hell in the pit

of my stomach, 

and smoke

in my throat.

From George Meredith: 'Modern Love' (1862)

I

By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:

That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,

The strange low sobs that shook their common bed

Were called into her with a sharp surprise,

And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,

Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay

Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away

With muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makes

Her giant heart of Memory and Tears

Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat

Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet

Were moveless, looking through their dead black years,

By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.

Like sculptured effigies they might be seen

Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between;

Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

I dreamt that you were next to me, and it made perfect sense battling embraced for kisses. You got up to get something, and in the meantime I woke up to realize you won't be coming back.

#Lifegoals

Dante Gabriel Rossetti is the suffering artist of every teenage daydream I have ever had. His poetry, in shadows, dwell on nothing but longing and sensuality, and his paintings are portraits of pale, unearthly muses:

Venus Venticordia, 1868

Water Willow, 1871

From "Through Death to Love":
Like labour-laden moonclouds faint to flee
From winds that sweep the winter-bitten wold,--
Like multiform circumfluence manifold
Of night's flood-tide,--like terrors that agree
Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate sea,--
Even such, within some glass dimmed by our breath,
Our hearts discern wild images of Death,
Shadows and shoals that edge eternity.

Robert Buchanan, however, is the acidic, witty critic I would be honoured to one day become. In 1871 he reviews Rossetti's newly published collection Poems, under the title "The Fleshly School of Poetry". Please, enjoy pieces of poison from his proselike attack:

 IF, on the occasion of any public performance of Shakspere's great tragedy, the actors who perform the parts of Rosencranz and Guildenstern were, by a preconcerted arrangement and by means of what is technically known as "gagging," to make themselves fully as prominent as the leading character, and to indulge in soliloquies and business strictly belonging to Hamlet himself, the result would be, to say the least of it, astonishing; yet a very similar effect is produced on the unprejudiced mind when the "walking gentlemen" of the fleshly school of poetry, [...] obtrude their lesser identities and parade their smaller idiosyncrasies in the front rank of leading performers. [..] the present drama of poetry might be cast as follows: Mr. Tennyson supporting the part of Hamlet, Mr. Matthew Arnold that of Horatio, Mr. Bailey that of Voltimand, Mr. Buchanan that of Cornelius, Messrs. Swinburne and Morris the parts of Rosencranz and Guildenstern.  (p. 334)

...in good truth, it is scarcely possible to discuss with any seriousness the pretensions with which foolish friends and small critics have surrounded the fleshly school, which, in spite of its spasmodic ramifications in the erotic direction, is merely one of the many sub-Tennysonian schools expanded to supernatural dimensions, and endeavouring by affectations all its own to overshadow its connection with the great original. (p. 335)

...we question if there is anything in the unfortunate "Poems and Ballads" quite so questionable on the score of thorough nastiness as many pieces in Mr. Rossetti's collection. Mr. Swinburne was wilder, more outrageous, more blasphemous, and his subjects were more atrocious in themselves; yet the hysterical tone slew the animalism, the furiousness of epithet lowered the sensation; and the first feeling of disgust at such themes as Laus Veneris and Anactoria, faded away into comic amazement. It was only a little mad boy letting off squibs; not a great strong man, who might be really dangerous to society. "I will be naughty!" screamed the little boy; but, after all, what did it matter? It is quite different, however, when a grown man, with the self-control and easy audacity of actual experience, comes forward to chronicle his amorous sensations, and, first proclaiming in a loud voice his literary maturity, and consequent responsibility, shamelessly prints and publishes such a piece of writing as this sonnet on Nuptial Sleep (p. 338) [follow link for some extremely dirty stuff, time considered]

We hover uncertainly between picturesqueness and namby-pamby... (p. 341)

We would rather believe that Mr. Rossetti lacks comprehension than that he is deficient in sincerity; yet really, to paraphrase the words which Johnson applied to Thomas Sheridan, Mr. Rossetti is affected, naturally affected, but it must have taken him a great deal of trouble to become what we now see him — such an excess of affectation is not in nature. (p. 341)

The fact that these gentlemen are so easily imitated is the most damning proof of their inferiority. What merits they have lie with their faults on the surface, and can be caught by any young gentleman as easily as the measles, only they are rather more difficult to get rid of. (p. 347)

Baphomet 6.-7. oktober

Not much left. Making sure the stockings fit. Pearls. Faces painted on. Don't tell, don't even whisper. I love you. You are my future. There is someone else. We are all alone now. This never happened, you'll have to forget, can you do that? Taking out chunks of flesh. Get in. Go on. Bring me wine. Skin. Closer to God. I can't seem to stop bleeding. You are beautiful. She was beautiful. I do love you, I do. Did I say you could look at me? I like to buy things that can't be bought. Like people. We are worthy. Come play. I know what would make you feel better. I didn't realize it was like that, I didn't notice.  

Weighed down and heavy non sinking object of obscurity

I have been trying to escape the world. Awake, and dreaming I see myself floating face up in ice cold water like Ophelia, waiting for a death that is settling in my bones already, but still with feverish cheeks. Green branches and water lilies. Seaweed or rope tightening around this tender shameful neck. Lustfully giving up and setting free and rising, red moon, into darkness.

That isn't really how it works, is it? You can't just let go of responsibilities and take a break, there is no pause button, you can press to give you time for a bathroom break and a light snack. It in its entirety just keeps going straight to next level, no game over, no walkthroughs, constant supervision from the totalitarian state?

Delete facebook. Stop answering your phone. Get a new job, one that doesn't demand much, so you can focus on what you are underneath. What's left. Drown your sorrows in heavy drinking every night. Moments and moaning - do you want quality or quantity? I want sleep. Opiates. And not to get up in the morning. Long showers make up my life.

Whisper only, please, in possibly beautiful places surrounded by fog, carrying books over bridges.

Forsøgt forholden sig en lille smule

Mit liv er vildt nok. Ironisk distance, prøver at skille mig af med den, ser den som et symptom på kulturens allergi over for det autentiske. Eller min egen. Frygten for at virke dum når man føler noget. Fordi vi alle sammen vil have noget ægte, men ikke kan se os selv som samme stof? Flytter til England på søndag, kun for et par måneder, kun længe nok til at farve håret, prøve et nyt ansigt, måske turde nogle ting, jeg ellers ikke tør alene.
Jeg er ikke optændt af entusiasme.
Ideen er dobbelt. Vil overskride praktikaliteter og omfavne ellers utænkte muligheder i en slags ny impulsivitet, renæssance af egen ellers ikke-rigtigt-nogensinde-eksisterende ungdom. Prøver at genfinde entusiasme ved viden og intellektualisme fordi specialet, åh, nej, jeg er ikke rigtigt angst, men det nærmer sig, og en eller anden form for panikfølelse må der opøves for succes.
Altså: rituel afskæring af sociale bånd og afsked med ansvar. Koncentration forsøges indhentet. Selvfølgelig vildt distraheret af fortsat sideløbende livsprojekt, keywords: momentalitet, sensibilitet, grænser - hvad er det? Tofold, jeg tager afsted, jeg studerer det vilde liv og lukker det selv ned, eller omvendt og lad os se, hvem der kommer ud på toppen. 'Kald det kunst' må være en slags sidste udvej efter forfejlet akademia.

08-09-15 04.30

We have to save the sleeping world before it is too late. We have different skills. There is a great meeting. One is speaking, we dislike him a little, but the kind one takes his hand, she looks into his eyes and strokes his fingers gently to see his fear. She doesn’t need to ask him to tell him with her words, it is enough to care for him, and the images appear from below. Memories of his childhood, and with them surface a desire, he is telling them what they should do just a minute ago, but now he tells them where the high tower is, and how far a person has to climb before he can fall again.

They need to build a wall.

Outside it is raining heavily. The one who’s face is half burned away but who is somehow still more beautiful than most meets him there. He doesn’t even hear her approach, but see her as the very last thing as he turns around. She is almost smiling.

Their last fortress stands next to the roaring see. Darkness and waves as high as ships is out there. But these are not things they fear. It is something different, something new that can impress them deeply enough to call for such a meeting as this. It is usual for them to quarrel but on this day, this day that could have been any in the thousands of years they’ve been here, it cannot be tolerated. In death is always comfort anyway, we will do it as suggested.

The builder was the one who caused their suspicion. He is not one of them. What can he do? She has been known to bring home all sorts of pets. The council cannot trust that any man she has taken a liking to, can carry the weight of their lives. Greater than most and more important. But now, it appears, she and her sister of, not blood, but bone, have taken away the choice. He will build them a wall and they will strengthen it with the blood and will that runs through their bodies, they will bind it with the last of their abilities and breathe sweet life into it till it becomes a thing of flesh as well as stone.

The feeling. When she reaches into a man or a woman to hold their heart and crush their will – or rather, to remind them how much they long to be held, to be without those heavy burdens that they bear. It truly is great love. She can make a man feel he is the world, only because where she looks, her whole being is drawn. It becomes so true, if only for a moment, but such things are everlasting in the weave. It is an opening, a comfort. It never feels like breaking, and that is what makes her. She gives them only what they truly want. Only if there isn’t hope at all. She is not as such a bringer of death, but she knows character well, and an existence without love, if even from afar, is not worth it at all. Those who are incapable are that way because they have not felt it themselves, or they have completely forgotten what it feels like. She can remind them, so sweetly, that they can be everything. After that, what other choice? The world is getting darker.