vihreä punainen keltainen
valitse värisi - vaikka se onkin aina väärä
valitse puolesi ja puolueesi
muista olla aina kaikkien kanssa samaa mieltä
ole holtiton ja käytä järkeä
unohda mitä äitisi sinulle opetti elämästä
kaikki mitä tiedät on väärin
haukoitus kertoo hienovaraisesti tylsistymisestäsi
hyppää pois ja pysy mukana
kuulu joukkoon heikoimman kustannuksella
viha on sallittu sosiaalinen puolustuskeino
suojavärisi on tasaisen harmaa
tunne yhteys tuntemattomien kanssa
hyväksy ideologiasi kysymättä mitään
vaikene esikuviesi edessä
lue raamattuasi joka ilta
pahoinvointi on osa tasapainoista elämää
ongelmista nyt ei tarvitse puhua laisinkaan
löydä onnesi kemikaaleista
massaviihde on parasta huumetta
punainen vihreä sininen
taivas on auki siihen uskoville
uskotko että esi-isäsi kuolivat maasi puolesta
elä elämäsi sen velkaa maksaen
ole kiitollinen siitä minkä ansaitset
yltäkylläisyys on onnesi mittari
kyyneleet ovat elämäsi voiteluaine
tasaisuus on tavoiteltava olotila
vaatteet tekevät miehen
kirjaa ideologiasi t-paitaan
hanki lisää omaisuutta
muuten et ole mitään
luurankosi ovat visusti kaapissa
lepakot asuvat pysyvästi kellotornissasi
vatsasi on täynnä perhosia
silti kaikki on niin tyhjää
pidä mielesi avoinna vaikutteille
omaksu ympäristösi elämäsi mittariksi
käytä solmiota ja kauluspaitaa
älä koskaan kyseenalaista mitään
paavo lipposen alttari on kotisi nurkassa
sen täyttävät yleisradio ja mainostelevisio
sosiaalidemokraattinen filosofia pitää sinut kurissa
muista katsoa muiden olohuoneisiin
joidenkin asema nyt vaan on parempi
sitä nyt vaan on synnytty kultalusikka suussa
ei ole minun syyni että vanhemmat antavat minulle kaiken
rahako muka ei tee onnelliseksi
osta kaikki uutena
kaikki vanha on likaista ja rumaa
menneisyys on parasta unohtaa
alennusmyynnit ovat köyhille
Informatzion
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
"Restless?"
The needle gently nudged the record with a cold metal kiss turning a scratch into the powerful opening strums of Anarchy in the UK. Viewing the mustard/baby shit combo wallpaper with a daffodil pattern behind the record player, Stim now raised his head, standing up from his slouching position. The cheap, worth-pretty-much-shit off-brand player creaked quietly in the background as a sort of mournful effect track backing up good old Johnny Rotten. Stim's hand moved slowly up and down on his side: he was scratching his itching side, a probable side effect of using way too much off-brand washing powder. Actually, everything in his tiny Camden apartment was pretty much off-brand. An off-brand life, as a 1990's hipster poet would imaginably describe this oh-so-good slice of life.
Lying in the bed next to the record player, with the condiment paper backdropping, lay a guy he had met three hours ago in Camden Market. The guy was extremely thin: Stim could easily make out the lively human skeleton patterns of his ribs and pelvis bones. His body looked like something stolen out of Trainspotting, a canvas of drug abuse, street life, fast love, quick pound and deft suck and tuck in a cold dark London back alley. Stim, however, in his mind, refused to see these paint strokes as imperfections on this God's lovely creation. To him, this man was an escapee from the classic paintings, the most beautiful and pure depictions of Christ sprung to his mind. He sat on the side of the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping cherub, still staring at the naked, almost aggressively truthful beauty of the human body.
He moved his face as close as he dared. breathing a hot breath at the sleeper's mouth, then quickly pecking a tiny little sleepytime kiss on his mouth. His target made a tiny quiet half-asleep noise which sounded something like "Mmmhgm". Stim grinned, his tobacco-stained upper teeth showing in his trademarkish style the girls on fourth grade used call "irresistable". He slowly lied down and rested his head down on a small brown pillow, still warm from his own body. Closing his eyes, he let out a long, restful breath, which also seemed to relax his whole body going out. He smelled the scent of the sleeper, catching an aroma of sweat, cheap mouthwash, and lip gloss. Mr. Sleepyhead had now silently turned his head sideways, and was facing him, a scene Stim witnessed while looking at him with only one eye halfway open. He grinned again, having no control over his own feeling of simple joy and childish happiness. "I think I love you", he said half-consciously, almost only thinking the words in his mind. He was not heard.
Outside, a church bell rang three times; slowly, but surely, going the three necessary bongs. On the third bong, Stim got up, making sure that he didn't disturb his sleeping friend. He browsed the mismatch pile of clothes and underwear on the apartment floor, trying to spot his dirty broken jeans. He came across them on the top of a wooden bench. He pulled the Levi's on top of his goodwill underwear. and started heading for the door. He left him 85 pounds and the rest of the cigarettes on top the second pair of jeans. Johnny Rotten had progressed to bigger and better things as he closed the door behind him, entering the dark and lonely hallway.
Lying in the bed next to the record player, with the condiment paper backdropping, lay a guy he had met three hours ago in Camden Market. The guy was extremely thin: Stim could easily make out the lively human skeleton patterns of his ribs and pelvis bones. His body looked like something stolen out of Trainspotting, a canvas of drug abuse, street life, fast love, quick pound and deft suck and tuck in a cold dark London back alley. Stim, however, in his mind, refused to see these paint strokes as imperfections on this God's lovely creation. To him, this man was an escapee from the classic paintings, the most beautiful and pure depictions of Christ sprung to his mind. He sat on the side of the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping cherub, still staring at the naked, almost aggressively truthful beauty of the human body.
He moved his face as close as he dared. breathing a hot breath at the sleeper's mouth, then quickly pecking a tiny little sleepytime kiss on his mouth. His target made a tiny quiet half-asleep noise which sounded something like "Mmmhgm". Stim grinned, his tobacco-stained upper teeth showing in his trademarkish style the girls on fourth grade used call "irresistable". He slowly lied down and rested his head down on a small brown pillow, still warm from his own body. Closing his eyes, he let out a long, restful breath, which also seemed to relax his whole body going out. He smelled the scent of the sleeper, catching an aroma of sweat, cheap mouthwash, and lip gloss. Mr. Sleepyhead had now silently turned his head sideways, and was facing him, a scene Stim witnessed while looking at him with only one eye halfway open. He grinned again, having no control over his own feeling of simple joy and childish happiness. "I think I love you", he said half-consciously, almost only thinking the words in his mind. He was not heard.
Outside, a church bell rang three times; slowly, but surely, going the three necessary bongs. On the third bong, Stim got up, making sure that he didn't disturb his sleeping friend. He browsed the mismatch pile of clothes and underwear on the apartment floor, trying to spot his dirty broken jeans. He came across them on the top of a wooden bench. He pulled the Levi's on top of his goodwill underwear. and started heading for the door. He left him 85 pounds and the rest of the cigarettes on top the second pair of jeans. Johnny Rotten had progressed to bigger and better things as he closed the door behind him, entering the dark and lonely hallway.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Vacation from the bonds of yesterday
Caricature of a human sits on top of a high pedestal
thinking of thought best left to be alone, forgotten
this wretch of a man is a smitten old fool and he
thinks the world runs around him like a clockwork
of pure red and white satin... but he wails on through
the night, howling his mad monologue in the blackness
of the setting sun... must be a thing of contempt...
A wretch of a man stands in front of the pedestal of
Aphrodite and he hears only the missing pieces of
himself; the terrible, unforgiven sins. What is will
not be no more.... IT MUST BE ALL FORGOTTEN...
And so he lies sideways, on the stone gray throne
of rulers past forgotten... naked... alone... thinking.
"Whatever is the quality of man?!", he asks himself in
a terrible fit of rage, his muscles spasming in an animalistic
terror... of animalistic instinct....
Give yourself freely to the flesh!
I must feed! I must feel pleasure! I must be whole again!
PLEASE MAKE ME FEEL SOMETHING PLEASE!!!!!!.........
But the answer is never heard. Only the Carnivore hears him.
She is the feminine force of the land. She wants to be lusted after.
And so: she is. The pleasures of the flesh are given unto her freely.
Pain, pleasure! It's all the same to me now... I can only feel the aftershocks
of pure torture anyway. The love I know is of pure ribald torture.
I want to be your slave. I want to sweat in front of you.
Naked.
My body responds to your commands. And I am, I am under your command.
The pulsating beat of the universe controls me now. There is only the bloodflow and the pleasure. And I give myself unto you freely. I am the well which you shall drink of. I am your Pleasure. I want you to have me.
And so is written: your flesh is the source, and I am the end. Give me the gift of true partnership. Share with me the true nature of the universe.
I see! I see the light! Finally, the shales have been cast from my eyes and I can see clearly: For there is only pleasure and pain, and there is you and I. And we both give equal shares of ourselves for the passion play.
And the metal cutting into my flesh serves as a reminder of your evercompassing love. You transcend the mere mortal chains and act as a cloud of raining compassion............ I am finally, truly...... at peace. I cry.
.......but the tears are of happiness. And I accept them as a gift.
Thus, everything clicks into place. Pain, pleasure, unforgiving, love, truthfulness, even pure servantship..... It's all meaningless now......
For we are the Lovers. And the sign was written for us. The ancient legends told of this moment...... And we shall enforce the prophecy.... together!
Godspeed!
thinking of thought best left to be alone, forgotten
this wretch of a man is a smitten old fool and he
thinks the world runs around him like a clockwork
of pure red and white satin... but he wails on through
the night, howling his mad monologue in the blackness
of the setting sun... must be a thing of contempt...
A wretch of a man stands in front of the pedestal of
Aphrodite and he hears only the missing pieces of
himself; the terrible, unforgiven sins. What is will
not be no more.... IT MUST BE ALL FORGOTTEN...
And so he lies sideways, on the stone gray throne
of rulers past forgotten... naked... alone... thinking.
"Whatever is the quality of man?!", he asks himself in
a terrible fit of rage, his muscles spasming in an animalistic
terror... of animalistic instinct....
Give yourself freely to the flesh!
I must feed! I must feel pleasure! I must be whole again!
PLEASE MAKE ME FEEL SOMETHING PLEASE!!!!!!.........
But the answer is never heard. Only the Carnivore hears him.
She is the feminine force of the land. She wants to be lusted after.
And so: she is. The pleasures of the flesh are given unto her freely.
Pain, pleasure! It's all the same to me now... I can only feel the aftershocks
of pure torture anyway. The love I know is of pure ribald torture.
I want to be your slave. I want to sweat in front of you.
Naked.
My body responds to your commands. And I am, I am under your command.
The pulsating beat of the universe controls me now. There is only the bloodflow and the pleasure. And I give myself unto you freely. I am the well which you shall drink of. I am your Pleasure. I want you to have me.
And so is written: your flesh is the source, and I am the end. Give me the gift of true partnership. Share with me the true nature of the universe.
I see! I see the light! Finally, the shales have been cast from my eyes and I can see clearly: For there is only pleasure and pain, and there is you and I. And we both give equal shares of ourselves for the passion play.
And the metal cutting into my flesh serves as a reminder of your evercompassing love. You transcend the mere mortal chains and act as a cloud of raining compassion............ I am finally, truly...... at peace. I cry.
.......but the tears are of happiness. And I accept them as a gift.
Thus, everything clicks into place. Pain, pleasure, unforgiving, love, truthfulness, even pure servantship..... It's all meaningless now......
For we are the Lovers. And the sign was written for us. The ancient legends told of this moment...... And we shall enforce the prophecy.... together!
Godspeed!
Monday, January 05, 2009
Rauhaniemi 1993
A. listened to old techno tracks on his Walkman as he walked through the main street in Tampere, "Hämeenkatu", as the Finns called it. I was a rainy and snowy night, something that is only possible in Finland, a weather combination of both rain and snow for the maximum fuck-you weather experience. The dark gray streets were almost empty save a few drunks trying to find their respective ways to homeward bound. The subtle hints of hi-hat continued to blast their way into A.'s ears as he listened to "Music reach (1-2-3-4)" by The Prodigy. The sampled and sped-up female vocals smoothened his gaunt and made him feel very happy as he walked down the street towards the Central Railway Station. He was already 10 minutes late.
The song had progressed to the three minute mark on the second playthrough when he arrived at the station front yard (as it was not uncommon for A. to play the same song twice or thrice. The reason for this is that he just enjoyed this method and manner of music-listening for some reason (i.e. no reason)). His target and destination was the part of the city known as Rauhaniemi or to be exact, the sunny beach cliffs of Rauhaniemi. The simple idea of that name (ed. note. Rauhaniemi in Finnish means Peace peninsula or Peaceful peninsula) brought him a simplish, borderlinely adolescent feeling of joy. The kind of feeling you get when you are a seven year old child and you receive your best Christmas wish for present . That toy car or video game you wanted so bad after hearing about it or seeing it somewhere. This feeling made A.'s walking very quick and pleasurable, as he turned from the broken concrete of Hämeenkatu to Tammelan puistokatu. The trees in summer bloom in the park of Tammela gave the location a kind of Sherwood Forest of Ye Olde Romantic English feeling to the part of street encompassing the park grounds. "My mind is glowing", spoke the vocalist in The Prodigy's "Claustrophobic sting" playing in A.'s ears.
He was almost there when the ticket was finally bought. The ride was taken.
The air was filled with transparent overlay images reminiscent of Incan pottery designs or Spanish pottery-painting patterns with binary colors of black and white zig-zagging towards infinity. They seemed to "bump-map" (ed. note: a computer graphics algorithm which basically entails using a map of height information which is then used to calculate a three dimensional picture of an image with height information available) the air with their rectangular and symmetrically pleasing shapes. Moving his eyes or his head also seemed to "color-cycle" the patterns with a slow gradient colors. All these little quirks were very enjoyable for him, as it didn't really bother him at all. In fact, all the images seemed to react to the music pounding his eardrums as well, so it functioned as a sort of "music evaluator" for his current state. "I feel like a computer", said A. out loud for nobody particular. The green trees were his only audience in the darkness of the Rauhaniemi harbourside.
He caught the first glimpses of the lake in the midnight darkness. It was a beautiful sight with a Picasso-like composition, and A. couldn't help smiling and thinking of the New York Museum of Modern Arts. "A masterful composition", he hought to himself then switching his thoughts toward René François Ghislain Magritte in a connection of the words "composition" and "Magritte".
Everything was alright.
The song had progressed to the three minute mark on the second playthrough when he arrived at the station front yard (as it was not uncommon for A. to play the same song twice or thrice. The reason for this is that he just enjoyed this method and manner of music-listening for some reason (i.e. no reason)). His target and destination was the part of the city known as Rauhaniemi or to be exact, the sunny beach cliffs of Rauhaniemi. The simple idea of that name (ed. note. Rauhaniemi in Finnish means Peace peninsula or Peaceful peninsula) brought him a simplish, borderlinely adolescent feeling of joy. The kind of feeling you get when you are a seven year old child and you receive your best Christmas wish for present . That toy car or video game you wanted so bad after hearing about it or seeing it somewhere. This feeling made A.'s walking very quick and pleasurable, as he turned from the broken concrete of Hämeenkatu to Tammelan puistokatu. The trees in summer bloom in the park of Tammela gave the location a kind of Sherwood Forest of Ye Olde Romantic English feeling to the part of street encompassing the park grounds. "My mind is glowing", spoke the vocalist in The Prodigy's "Claustrophobic sting" playing in A.'s ears.
He was almost there when the ticket was finally bought. The ride was taken.
The air was filled with transparent overlay images reminiscent of Incan pottery designs or Spanish pottery-painting patterns with binary colors of black and white zig-zagging towards infinity. They seemed to "bump-map" (ed. note: a computer graphics algorithm which basically entails using a map of height information which is then used to calculate a three dimensional picture of an image with height information available) the air with their rectangular and symmetrically pleasing shapes. Moving his eyes or his head also seemed to "color-cycle" the patterns with a slow gradient colors. All these little quirks were very enjoyable for him, as it didn't really bother him at all. In fact, all the images seemed to react to the music pounding his eardrums as well, so it functioned as a sort of "music evaluator" for his current state. "I feel like a computer", said A. out loud for nobody particular. The green trees were his only audience in the darkness of the Rauhaniemi harbourside.
He caught the first glimpses of the lake in the midnight darkness. It was a beautiful sight with a Picasso-like composition, and A. couldn't help smiling and thinking of the New York Museum of Modern Arts. "A masterful composition", he hought to himself then switching his thoughts toward René François Ghislain Magritte in a connection of the words "composition" and "Magritte".
Everything was alright.
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