Poetic Decisions

 

    Darkness burns mazes into the avenues where your solitude nests, unveiling the youthful siblings of uneasy inventions, seductive ciphers and vague spyglasses whispering endearing phrases… the cello attracts rival veils and slips of the tongue. Darkness lowers itself through the heart-valve of vicious children, diamond-yielding sparks performing for the pieces of the puzzle that pose ever so delicately above the waking, and those who enter the wake.

   The invention of night, the ageless question of impossible balance, the pilot’s daughter eating crystals: To fill the world with light, the void with imaginary bodies glowing in the dark…

    The ancient horned flower of your psyche attracts the devoted milking machines, the aboriginal veins of a fabric that propels your footsteps as determined as her threads slipping into light, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

   The perfect alignment through the axis of it’s twin, quartered and shelled in the gasping for breath and emerald, adored and pandered for pleasure and sight unseen, she licks herself in meadows of ermine and chimera, aching, angelica posing in the likeness of her bees sipping, through every sense of pulling ravens out of her body for kindling.

   The perverse pleasures of the captured bride dove-tailed in the mathematical equation of the city held up for example by the stars.

   Dark gravitational assignations seduced into amulets the color of glass, evolving in sequential chiaroscuro, tempting blood where (in the Manor of Sighs) the barbarian sign language seizes the images of your being in the rich, antiquarian lucidity of your extinction. Your face, or the features of night in the fever of graceful spirits that still come to drink the liquid of life out of your hands, the pendulum… An evening of theater runs ahead…

   The weapon you most cherished was feminine. The wedge forced into the appearance of things was ambiguous with its dark insistence and wind-up astronomy, clicking and whirring about in circles and broken up by triangles into long, interminable caresses that went on forever, imitating a newly discovered galaxy quivering in the nearness of wolves.

   There is only the daughter of Icarus, without mirrors, the shadow of uncertainty that surrounds the ribcage of a philosophical paradox, only the stone of a primitive light, only the glance that hatches in the fire, the optical mainspring of a science that runs amok, only the ciphers leading the fossils of daybreak, and the glowing of those beings you feed each morning, the pools of blood dripping out of your dreams. Flight is only the body torn by light, powered by obscene gestures. A choreography of wish fulfillment.

   There is always the diamond-cutter’s unremitting caress, always those great moths entering your eyes in a frenzy of unconditional attraction, clearing a space for the ermine of humor, and the misplaced objects of great value.

   Among the various diversions and unforeseen discoveries, when the shallow end of a gesture foreshadows a long and hazardous recovery, and sudden landings in desolate places, it is your eyes most of all that appear as an interlocking resolution, or the honor among thieves.

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Poetic Decisions

Darkness burns mazes into the avenues where your solitude nests, unveiling the youthful siblings of uneasy inventions, seductive ciphers and vague spyglasses whispering endearing phrases… the cello attracts rival veils and slips of the tongue. Darkness lowers itself through the heart-valve of vicious children, diamond-yielding sparks performing for the pieces of the puzzle that pose ever so delicately above the waking, and those who enter the wake.

The invention of night, the ageless question of impossible balance, the pilot’s daughter eating crystals: To fill the world with light, the void with imaginary bodies glowing in the dark…

The ancient horned flower of your psyche attracts the devoted milking machines, the aboriginal veins of a fabric that propels your footsteps as determined as her threads slipping into light, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

The perfect alignment through the axis of it’s twin, quartered and shelled in the gasping for breath and emerald, adored and pandered for pleasure and sight unseen, she licks herself in meadows of ermine and chimera, aching, angelica posing in the likeness of her bees sipping, through every sense of pulling ravens out of her body for kindling.

The perverse pleasures of the captured bride dove-tailed in the mathematical equation of the city held up for example by the stars.

Dark gravitational assignations seduced into amulets the color of glass, evolving in sequential chiaroscuro, tempting blood where (in the Manor of Sighs) the barbarian sign language seizes the images of your being in the rich, antiquarian lucidity of your extinction. Your face, or the features of night in the fever of graceful spirits that still come to drink the liquid of life out of your hands, the pendulum… An evening of theater runs ahead…

The weapon you most cherished was feminine. The wedge forced into the appearance of things was ambiguous with its dark insistence and wind-up astronomy, clicking and whirring about in circles and broken up by triangles into long, interminable caresses that went on forever, imitating a newly discovered galaxy quivering in the nearness of wolves.

There is only the daughter of Icarus, without mirrors, the shadow of uncertainty that surrounds the ribcage of a philosophical paradox, only the stone of a primitive light, only the glance that hatches in the fire, the optical mainspring of a science that runs amok, only the ciphers leading the fossils of daybreak, and the glowing of those beings you feed each morning, the pools of blood dripping out of your dreams. Flight is only the body torn by light, powered by obscene gestures. A choreography of wish fulfillment.

There is always the diamond-cutter’s unremitting caress, always those great moths entering your eyes in a frenzy of unconditional attraction, clearing a space for the ermine of humor, and the misplaced objects of great value.

Among the various diversions and unforeseen discoveries, when the shallow end of a gesture foreshadows a long and hazardous recovery, and sudden landings in desolate places, it is your eyes most of all that appear as an interlocking resolution, or the honor among thieves.

Deer Quake

Now the deer fever tears apart cells inside my ravaged, already so harrowed leather body. In my breath, tracks of moon wind are smarting against the throat and windpipe. I have moved around the deer, I have fastened my fibers to the hard dancing deer. Steam rose from frozen wells, ice floes chafed the channel, cold sweat broke out of the skin wall between my being and the cold. It was a hopelessly treacherous time.

I have moved around the rare glass deer of September. I have moved around the timid water, by the closed border of the fiber deer. And the crack rushes through the black glass. It crackles and shimmers, it quakes in the deer, it quakes and quivers in the breastbone deer.

The leather falcon flies north in sky-shrieking torture. There is a light in the deer, there is a light in the deer, there is a light deep inside the cavity deer! Now the blood surface song surface is heaving! It quakes through me and the deer. Fibers ache in my sharp border. Now the painful deer tears now it breaks. Now the deer and I burst and are exposed –

……………………….

Collages
images by Tom Benson
poems by Aase Berg
translated by Johannes Göransson

link

Aase’s work is filled with an overwhelming sense of exploration and discovery, which is always a rare experience, in any kind of text. Her prose pieces are powerful and scandalous.

We Thread Up Lizards

We are going to gather lizards. Lizards that glow red in the flood sheen. We are going to place them next to the wax girl’s body while she sleeps in a deep trance. The big iron pounds. We are going to gather lizards for the night. Adrian hates me. Adrian hates me, he hates himself against me, I feel lightning, I carry flood. The skin stone gnaws hard. We are going to pick lizards; we are going to thread lizards on a long strong poison thread. Out there song lakes wait open blue. All beautiful eyes watch us from the trees: the glass animals awaken. We are going to catch lizards: glass lizards, red pearl lizards, and place in a pattern for the night.
Now! Now! We see one of the blood corpses with a bundle of lizards in its mouth. It has happened. How can we now live? How can we live?
For we will now no longer gather lizards.

Mastiff

The sun bladder hangs high and red: the fever scrotum weighs heavy. The trucks roar down below, the mastiff dog gurgles and growls and tugs at its chain, and it seems like the metals of this powerful city are exploding with anxiety. The amphibians suffer burned and flayed in the hangars, and we hear their shrill throat sounds. The substances are fermenting, the throats are corroding and bubbling, things are rumbling and crumbling behind us. Adrian is carrying the blind snake patiently cautiously in the muddy palms of his hands. Out of a slit in the wool, pink flesh is glowing. But we walk dazzlingly toward the still-smoking planet that lies torn and crushed by the wall ruin at the edge of the city. In the harbor, the heavy ships sing and the steel chafes screams. The oil the magma boils slowly in the basins, the cisterns. Adrian carries the blind snake and maybe he smiles. We walk outward and he maybe smiles.

Translated from the Swedish by Johannes Goransson

Aase Berg is one of the most important young poets in Sweden right now. She’s got four books out. She’s the editor of BLM, a leading literary journal, and Vertigo, a publisher of pornographic writings, and she frequently writes articles for national newspapers and journals. She’s a founder of the surrealist group “Det Stora Saltet” (“The Great Salt”). Johannes translations of her poems have previously been published in Bitter Oleander, Conduit and Skidrow Penthouse, and they will soon be published by Octopus on the web. (From La Petite Zine)

These poems have been published online at Double Room and La Petite Zine (www.webdelsol.com)

At the Threshold of Liquid Geology… An extraordinary book, an ongoing and interconnected prose work, in several sections, as if written “out of the blue” one fine evening after dark.

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Selection:

With the burning of the ark, the newly freed animals began to eat the mannequin body part protoplasm as well as the embedded sea urchins that had protected them from the malevolent probing of past starfish fossils that were now transformed into quaint, wooden museum pieces – now a rather harmless version of an earlier virulent terror.

The compass dial made a quarter turn, and then everything returned to normal. Or had it? The pipes remained in their respective shower stalls, with incoming beams of sunlight playing across their white-painted surfaces, every now and then revealing the red dial of plumbing telepathy, yet the pipes remained where they had been installed, with their geletin neurological coatings, and yet coyotes had infiltrated the shower complex, investigating the creations of men that had vanished a long time ago.
Despite the presence of the coyotes, the white pipes remained unscathed and they still communicated with each other.

THE HOWLING TABLE

She plays blood with the moon’s golden salamander, then plays flesh and finally dream, before passing backwards through myth and evolution…

In the spyglass of your eerie listening threads, you might find your shadow planted like a ghost, in the center of a brightly spinning table…. and measured by purring triangles of darkness.

You sleep through her storms, with your heart of rain and your mind of wind, your cognition of lightning and pathology of lava, or ice, depending upon the phases of the moon, your bones of aurora and memory of ash, flesh of stars and blood of lunar dust. You dream beside yourself, watching, shedding your skin …

She knows you, and by her antlers she touches you, etching the layers of your light with her shadow of incestuous jellyfish. She eats you, and you come to birth in the milkweed pods, like a torch out of cabalistic breath.

Your history congeals in the lost-wax language of a many dimensional fluid, more mirror than river, less arc than scythe and you sign with your X when it grafts human fire onto the feral wheat…

You are balanced between twin spoons, twin thoughts and poured into the horizon of a splendid revolt against all that does not glow with the irony of your place among so many precious stones.

Spores of light…

From Spiral Agitator:

Occurrence of Delusional Fixation Involving Winchester Cathedral

He’s scolding a cathedral. He blames the cathedral for his depressive state, which he insists could have been averted by the intervention of that edifice. A woman with whom he’d been emotionally involved has left town. Had the cathedral merely started ‘ringing its bell’, he reasons, the woman would not have departed; hence, the possibility of a reconciliation – or perhaps some form of ego-gratifying harassment – would still exist. Logically, he admits that the cathedral could not have been cognizant of the extent to which he ‘needed that gal’. Nevertheless, he reprimands it for simply standing and watching as the object of his desire walked past on her way out of the city. ‘You could have done something!’ wails the abandoned lover. Justified or not, such derision elicits a peculiar empathy: one cannot help but feel sorry for the old cathedral, its mute architecture bearing the brunt of broken-hearted humanity’s deranged plight.