31 May 2011

Leaking heart

in the night a heart is leaking white goo into the ether like a mononucleosis would have crept down from any given throat into it. the owner of this heart in question is lucky to be accompanied by a witch, a real life witch, who has come south to heal and guide one in the battle against false ego structures and in behalf of ethereal hearts. 

ladies and gents, tonight we experience hell sinking into the pit where light was once born. we are under the watchful eye of uriel - we are in tartarus.

“fuck I knew it. this is the wrong entrance,” says the witch while standing in front of an opening to an old train tunnel in pasila. she and her comrade can see a small purple beam of pulsating light at the other end of the tunnel over one kilometer away in the northeast. two twenty am is a rare hour in these latitudes in translating to darkness which pales in comparison to that of the tunnel.

rocks the size of kid's fists underneath their feet the two begin walking, arm in arm. the darkness wraps them into itself totally, giving signs of life only in the form of a few dark figures passing them on their way to the opposite direction. the silence is surreal, because they both possess the knowledge of the source of the emanating purple glow being tied to very, very loud music.

in her mind the dyke with the leaking heart suddenly knows she is walking away from her who she once decided to know as dominique. supported by the strength and warmth of the arm in her arm she lets her heart beat words in the form of green goo into the ether.

perché, perché
mia dominique

did you decide to serve your image
without realizing it to be but a visage?

perché, perché
bella dominique

do you hide your beautiful eyes from my gaze
because of obscuring all that your ego betrays?

perché, perché
ebete dominique

does your heart still race at the sight of my words
or has your deceit had it fed to gray matter lizards?

as she begins to feel the bass under her shoes she wishes to find a new muse. the darkness sighs in the hope of her learning sooner than later that the best such sources of inspiration are never in any way external. though, in truth, they were not so in the case of dominique either.

having walked nearly a kilometer deep under blocks of concrete buildings the music finally reaches the ears of the two, who begin to howl and roar and bark like wolves. as they sashay through the masses of men bathing in neon lights the final twist to the structure of reality is laid by an egyptian playing the role of anubis in handing out some cannabis.

28 May 2011


the rhythm of her walk is bothered by flashing lights and the loud noises made by her fellow men in the narrow streets of kazimierz. her eyes are wet and her mouth dry, and as she passes the small bars on the cobbled streets the dim lights make purkinje trees appear in the front of her vision. without having the knowledge of their true reason she is sure, in her drunken mind, of having stepped to the waiting hall of death - she thinks she can see inside of her head.

without any conscious thought she enters a bar, and with an air of determination stemming from a place unknown and probably non-existent she walks past two men guarding the entrance to the downstairs, descending in a robotic manner the long stairway down to a damp maze. there is no music but some electric tension in the air, pulsating, tensing her temples in a way that draws two cat-like eyes onto her sweaty face. her heart tries to catch the rhythm of the tense waves bouncing around in the ancient corridors, sharpening her mind enough to grab an abandoned glass of red from a table next to a chunk of half asleep men.

leaning onto the white brick wall while a soapy smell of some purifying incense floats into her nostrils, the only man awake and aware catches her soaring eyes. she sits next to him on a dark brown leather sofa and says,

“father, I am going to die tonight.”

her hands appear too strong to be hers as they hold the glass of red close to her chin, as if holding a bucket of flowers. her young eyes remain trapped into a staring competition with the gentle pair of his, hidden behind sagging eyelids, for a long time before he utters carefully selected words to resonate with the tension of the air around them.

“you will die every night until you have become whole in the eyes of god. you will strip your soul until it stands naked in front of all of existence. you will be the first and the only one to realize the meaning of life.”
“but father, I will die, die die die, tonight.”
“what makes you think that, my dear child?”
“I can see inside of my head. my sight is giving up its conditioning, and I can sense that soon all of my cognitive capacities will crumble in the face of their own impossibility, give up, just give up, and become honest in being but a loop. an endless loop of an endless flood.”
“hear hear, my child, hear hear. you will die every night, until...”

her face twists with fear as she feels herself being drawn up from the state of surrender she had succumbed to. as she makes her upper lip dip into the dark red liquid her eyes finally fall from his to the patriarchal cross on his chest. he is a different kind of father than she had thought.

“how can I ever be whole if I am breaking apart? I am all bits and pieces spread around all over and I am too tired to pick them up and remember the pattern they used to form. I want to... die.”
“consider yourself lucky, kid. a splintered ego clears your consciousness of the burden of the illusion of a self, letting you feel the seat and stand of who you really are. let yourself sink, fall, descend, all the way to the very depths of your heart. then breathe in, breathe out, and let the strength stemming from deep within give you power and guidance in the building of a brand new you. look at my eyes.”
“yes, father?”

she sees with her perplexed pair of blues the pupils of his, pulsating in the rhythm of the tense sound waves slicing the air. she cannot know which follows the trail of which - does his consciousness regulate the amount of light reaching his retina in respect to the wavelengths or do the wavelengths linger in respect to the amount of light he accepts?

as the now empty glass falls from her hands onto the granite floor the last whisper from him fills the air in a manner resembling a sudden burst of laughter,


17 May 2011

Taken gent

ladies, falling for a taken gent
leads to nothing but grave torment

unable to evolve from being a tart
why not blame your truly retarded heart?

just like love at first sight is but a cliché
so is acting out the role of femme fatale passé

besides it is impossible to reach a state of zen
while being constantly fooled by weak minded men

yet my mind plays a hymn of cognitive dissonance
and like the worst hypocrite I long for another bad romance

16 May 2011

On Turku

in a club resting within a city built in between seven hills a man takes all the space possible to spread the range of his drunken dance, holding a bottle of hoegaarden in one hand as not a soul minds the spills on the wooden floor. while filtering the pounding waves into moving my body our eyes keep on meeting. in the past hours I've already come to realize that what we have and others tonight are ignorant about is an embodied acceptance of who and what we are.

we are not afraid to call a spade a spade.

his weird mix of vulnerability and passionate embracing of everything and everyone creates a wave of confusion around, making teeth grind in the darkness. capricious and placid at the same time he possesses a skinny and tall figure made real through years of submitting to the strains brought by celebrating the end of the world. the summer of death goes on forever he promises, and I laugh.

in the morning sun five people lay on a huge couch, with two of us still in some barely awaken state. having tried to wrap my stoned mind around a stereotype, an archetype, a type of a being with poor success, I'm left to enjoy the silence as my right hand dances together with the hand of his. I know there must be something with us old alcoholics and our sense of touch. maybe it's the violence we've done to the perception of our senses, which provides respect towards them arising from that very abuse. or maybe it's the understanding we've picked up from all dear tied to post punk.

the hands go on their respectful ways all morning, embracing me with a feel of how I am on the outside as everything inside is lucid and blissful in all its meaninglessness. we are here, we are nowhere, as marked by the symbol of eternity.

an open heart is too precious and rare to corrupt, having its dominion mastered by a number of us who have what it takes to marry king alcohol. no apologies, no reason, no assumptions, and so we create reality moment by moment in respect to honesty, knowing that only our consciousnesses produce meaning and thus can also decide not to.

nothing is inherent.

later I return to the city of hell in a weary state, having a forest whisper a triple digit which speaks in behalf of discernment of the spirits, both good and evil. that whisper rings true as the people begin rolling into the city center around one am just because f-land won the ice hockey world championship.

for a reason based on pure and simple bullshit the masses go on spreading mayhem in the form of piss, fireworks, spilled drinks, screams, car horns and their drunken hideous bodies. as the nation and its priorities are spat on my face my hands long for a day when the majority of us has realized their capabilities in reality creation fully. with my deer-like tired eyes I hold my open wound of a heart on a plate, and as always, it lures out the true nature of others.

in vino veritas, motherfucker.

12 May 2011

Rainbow colored bruises

“I have rainbow colored bruises in exotic places. wanna see them?”

the air is moist and hot though the sun set hours ago, and I cannot really think straight right now when on the table a chocolate egg bought from valzani might or might not be melting. maybe it is sucking into its sweet core the taste of my moral failure, which is ironic enough in the light of the damn egg being a gift for my future parents-in-law.

“depends on the level of exotic, kid.”
“well, yesterday I was driving in the forest with my mountain bike for I have realized that it's somehow more healthy to disguise my self-destructive tendencies into sport than to drink myself to oblivion. anyway, this small piece of metal that used to hold the wing of the front tire sunk into it when hitting a bump in high speed, making the front tire get stuck. I flew off the bike in the kinda way most people break their bones. It was awesome. I've broken my left hand three times in the past, and that has thoroughly enough taught me to be completely relaxed when shit goes down.”
“and the bruises?”
“there's few on my right inner thigh.”
“let's go to my place.”

we leave the crowded terrace by tiber to walk through the tiny streets of trastevere, filled with tourists pursuing a sense of the romantic bullshit melting off the centuries old buildings. the cobbled streets are difficult for her stilettos, so I go on holding her by the elbow. I let her walk in first through the iron gate into the hall of my apartment building, following her tail up the marble stairway to the third floor.

inside, she sits on my futon and looks a little lost, so I put on some old house and roll a joint. after lighting it I place the valzani egg safely into the fridge in its cardboard box, and grab a bottle of red.

“I like your apartment.”
“I don't think I want to see your bruises.”
“why not?”
“I have a girlfriend.”
“so? I thought you were into all epic life has to offer.”
“yeah I am but I have to think about her feelings. I am going to go over to meet her parents in sicily tomorrow. I cannot carry myself as I want to if I have looked at the bare crotch of whoever the night before.”
“bullshit. you are afraid.”
“you shouldn't be like that lorelei. you will end up screwing your heart out of its place until it becomes so twisted that you're left to share your own bitterness with people like me.”
“you are afraid.”

the smoke floats out of the room through a big open window with a seat made of marble. I distract myself into imagining where and how people have dug up such large quantities of fine rocks back a hundred years and more, while lorelei stares at me with the sort of a shine in her eyes that I wish there were no stars out tonight.

“I am not afraid. I just know what I want and what I don't want.”
“did you not just say that your wants tonight are based on the supposed feelings of others? why not try to be honest with yourself and express that honesty in doing what you really want to do.”
“what I want is in the future and no way I am going to wet my bed by taking any random whim seriously. ”
“there is no fucking future. I thought a rationalist like you would have figured that out already. ”
“you are fucked up.”
“no. I am aware of the arbitrary sense of life us twenty something simpletons have, and that very arbitrariness needs to be exhausted fully before turning too old to be as fucked up as we are. I know it is not a pleasure for anybody's eyes to see the bruised thighs of a forty year old woman. it is a different world then, if one gets that far.”
“ok show me the god damn bruises.”

lorelei gets up to pull down her tights and sits back down to spread her legs. as she laughs and goes on about a variety of random stuff unrelated to anything, I dress my weird sense of guilt up into an image of her. she is the embodiment of my moral failure, which I know she doesn't mind because that is the story of her life anyway.

10 May 2011

Kainuulainen yeshua

try again, you dumb fool
again and again and again and again
try a fail more epic

drink more, you dumb fool
more and more and more and more
drink for my memory

fuck me, you dumb fool
me and you and me and you
fuck me for falling


I am the dumb fool
again and again and again and again
trying and failing

oh, I am drinking
more and more and more and more
for no reason, really

nobody is fucking
me and you and me and you
two fallen dumb fools

08 May 2011


oh that mind of yours
psychosomatic sense of joy
jointly getting in dutch

a night in the forest
them feet beating the bare ground
loving thy intelligence

reason is not around
how strange are right and wrong
hey you, guess which hand?

tweek tweek sings a bird
you have all the time you need
I can't get no sleep

06 May 2011



having a fetish for functionalist architecture finally pays off as I lay on my carpet sunbathing, thanks to the great bay window facing southeast. the days have become lazy and long, and while dividing my time between doing yoga and reading I fall more and more for julius.

“like shakti, who is absolutely free, the kaula is called svecchakari, which means “one who can do as he or she pleases.” because of this behavior, ordinary people may fear, shun, or condemn a kaula. 

there is a significant difference between the two tantric paths, that of the right hand and that of the left hand (which are both under shiva's aegis). in the former, the adept always experiences “someone above him,” even at the highest level of realization. in the latter, “he becomes the ultimate sovereign” (cakravartin = world ruler). this means that the duality between the integrated person and the dimension of transcendence, or between the human and god, has been overcome.”

I realize that I was wrong a week ago when putting in serious writing a hint about buddhism possibly developing to fill a certain ideological need which hinduism lacked. sorry for that, dear readers in the academic sphere.

“the highest hindu ideal of liberation, moksha, is synonymous with the radical deconditioning of one's being, and thus it implies going beyond dharma and karma. on a social plane, hinduism did acknowledge one's right to leave dharma and to be excused from obligations to one's caste in order to pursue the absolute through asceticism and contemplative yoga. I find it necessary to emphasize the absolute nature of the ultimte goal, which somehow eludes most westerners. the goal consists in transcending and in subordinating to oneself every form of existence, whether divine, human, subhuman, material, or spiritual. it has been suggested that a divine nature is subject to conditionings like every other nature, in the same fashion that a human is bound, be it by gold or iron chain.”


the past winter made it clear for a handful of kids that the house dedicated for the sobering up of cabin crew had become the place where couches come to die. I had heard rumors about a guy living somewhere in the midst of the “central park” growing from our backyard, which in finnish reality translates to a central forest. so, in order to give one of the couches a new life we dragged the second most rotten couch to the rocks of the forest in question.

now, at ten am me and the most tattooed up air hostess I have ever seen sit on it, drinking red wine and whiskey. I am beginning to think we are too old for this kind of vacillation, especially when the reasons behind it stem from such a juvenile source.

“a kali yuga mayhem is spreading around us.”
“I know.”
“and like always, we are decades late from whatever is going on. this is f-land, come visit to see this kali yuga tragedy performed by aryan douches, and a few mongoloids in the mix.”

I lean back as I face the sun that has already risen above the trees.  I know nothing about kali yuga and maybe as a diversion my mind associates to a random quote by jerry rubin. I don't even know who the fuck he is, but

“young whites are dropping out of white society. we are getting our heads straight, creating new identities. we’re dropping out of middle-class institutions, leaving their schools, running away from their homes, and forming our own communities.

we are becoming the new niggers.”

while the earth spins new perspectives for the sun's rays we become quite wasted as the sounds of traffic become louder and louder beyond a strip of trees. the conversations have been dealing with love and personal histories all day, so I guess it is no surprise to find myself rambling about bicycles.

“I was born and also tried to be raised in a suburb in vantaa which was built mainly in the eighties to serve as a bay for workers. nobody saw the early 1990s recession of f-land coming back then, I guess, because instead of having any idea about any bays my early childhood was colored by immigrants with rifles and other interesting phenomena. I am very grateful for it all, because it triggered the natural development of very useful skills for an escapist.

I remember being six or seven and teaching myself to estimate distances and draw an internal map accurate enough to provide an immediate feed on the best route to vanish in the case of menace. I guess I was motivated also by the fact that my caretakers were giving me an amount of responsibility corresponding to my level of independence, which I could easily reflect in my skills of always knowing where I was and how to deal myself out of all the trouble I got myself into on my own. I just wanted to spread my range.

nowadays I function according to the principle of being consistently able to find my way back to a place I have been in, be that place anywhere and be it reached through any possible method. or at least I have not run into a situation where that function wouldn't serve itself. except in ossi and in amsterdam but well, you know. if you give me a map in a strange place I just need to briefly look at it and my mind automatically makes a 3d estimation of how the route from a given a to b will approximately look and more importantly, feel, like. 

I have done benchmarking in my life but never when orienting myself. 

when I got my first bike my feet barely reached its pedals, but it didn't take me long to become completely one with that red kaunotar. I remember having my first, and only, experience of looking at myself from out of myself when driving it downhill with my hands by my sides like wings. every time I am in the process of growing to become one with something I experience the same thrill of reaching a balance which is extended from my body to the outer realm. that first bike taught me to be able to travel great distances, which was awesome because I knew I had to be set to gtfo.

it was two years ago, quite exactly, and I was standing a few blocks from our current flat in an inside courtyard resembling a garden, squeezed in between a house built in the twenties, a house built in the fourties and two houses built in the fifties. I guess the thirties were skipped due to us being an ally to the nazis which meant using our resources into having tweekers invade soviet union. anyway, my ex had been around the city when he had seen an abandoned bike which somehow said to him that it should be given to me. I stood there looking at the bike for some time before I realized the thing was it being red kaunotar. what thing, I do not know.”
“you know what I just realized? he fucking has my wizards and warriors.”
“fucking wizards and warriors, I gave it to jonathan!”
“what! retrieve the games!”


a number of years ago I spent some time in a two room apartment owned by a swedish architect I had met only once in a club built into an old movie theater, both in žižkov. the architect had left for brno or plzeň, can't remember, but the days I had in his house in the company of tetris were amazing. still, I was to go to berlin for some reason, and after having delayed my departure for a while I finally reached friedrichshain.

we were living some weird age of electro and I ended up in a club built into an old metro station after wandering the streets for days. I realized something very important about music and math when I saw a kid stand alone in a corner behind his friends who were scattered on two couches, moving his hands right in front of him in weird rapid patterns, up and down. it didn't take me long to understand that his hands were counting. what, I don't know, but my hands have begun to do the same since.

randomly enough, among the kids sat a thirty something architecture student born and raised on the ddr side of berlin. we spent the night together with pink dolphins in a huge studio of his cousin, waiting for the sun to rise. during a walk on an allee he shared his first name with, which in reality is named after marx, he did enough to make me comprehend what is stalin's baroque in order for us to show our respectful fingers to alexander platz by climbing 13 floors on some building's scaffolding to the unfinished roof.

“this is it, and this is fucking ten years ago, nineteen ninety-eight. take another ten and berlin won't be as it is today. the money will ruin it all.”
“are you against money?”
“no, I am not against money. I am against the sterile environment people with money wish to create for themselves when in the need for a sense of security, arising from having possessions. when we let people like that run our cities we loose the unlit parks, the graffiti and the weird motherfuckers roaming the streets everywhere. it was boring enough back in the day when everybody in the east just wanted to gtfo.”

the clashing of views on a roof lost in time eventually led to a wrestling match between us two, just in order to solve our differences in a manly manner.  I had my final realization as my back got pressed against the bare concrete topped with broken glass while some fifty meters from us a construction worker was starting his day of work by the isover piles. he looked at us, smiled, and went about his business.

somewhere, lost in time, everything was ok for the fucked up free individuals.

01 May 2011

Season of I AM

it is the season of first of may and I am seated by a long table together with a couple of anti-fascist skinheads from moscow and women dressed up as sailors and french hipsters from the coast of atlantic. the table is filled with bottles of russian champagne, weird liquors and red wine, but still the russians long for finnish beer. thank god the conversation turns to guns and while surfing online to enrapture us all with the eighties I listen to them go on and on about how easy it is to get a license for a gun in moscow and how many times in the past months nazis have continued to go against all who party and are not nazis. there appears to be something funny in stories which lead to a man covered with swastika tattoos dying on the backstreets of clubs hosting punk and ska.

a woman wearing an anchor decorated dress almost has her eyes popped out of her head by the idea of some random public buildings having small lockers where one can store their guns. I don't know what is it with sailors and dangerous streets but she gets up, picks up her glass of red with skinny fingers and says,

“thank you all for coming. I really appreciate this in the light of my current circumstances. I am so happy it is you who are here, because I know you all know what I quote as I brief myself by saying,”

she pauses and looks at all of us in the eye, one by one, as the passenger by iggy roams around the lofty room we are in,

“I don't know what happened first and it's kinda laid a mindfuck on me.”

I love every single appearing disappearing reappearing moment among them not intimidated by having an elephant in the room who can read minds. he hears and knows that between the ears of a young man a pondering sentence gets lost in its pathways,

“is she over me like the stars and the sun, is she weird, is she white, is she promised to the night and her head has no room?”

nothing mystical there, as it is just the speakers pounding, again, beating the floor underneath which thankfully nobody lives. a stomping elephant is everybody's favorite quest anyway.

staring at the covetous hands attached to me and damning the memory of their dance on a beautiful body I lean back in an armchair, wearing the biggest sombrero I have ever seen. people have scattered themselves on the floor and the one of us who works at a sushi joint has apparently had some bits of wasabi left on his fingers. as he complains about his burning eyes and begins to look more and more mongolian by the second, I realize that the season of first of may is waking up to another day as it is four am, so hands, dear hands, let me take you out to loot.

when we reach the south after a pilgrimage through tenebrous streets the sun gets up and I remember myself to love the cold air that has spent time floating above the sea, the peculiar moist of it and how it feels when breathed in. the sensation is similar, in my memories at least, to the one experienced during the brief visits to the unconditioned mind.

when walking home alone my hands have become numb from the cold and I hope that numbness would spread enough to ease the state of confusion I, too, have been immersed in. in addition to wishing for others to work with the same logic as I do the only thing I needed and wished for tonight was a new toothbrush. the aim was to find one made out of silver or ivory with bristles of some fine animal's nasal hair. that failed, but thank you hands anyway for 21 euros, a scarf and ixus 870.

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