Things The Dead Say

They say all sorts of stuff, obviously, but  a few of their standard cliches are here. The book is here at Lulu, and also here at Amazon.

Som jag har tidigare hotat, här ska jag säga hur man ska köpa dem i Sverige, men Bokus påstår att denna är slutsåld och Adlibris hittar den inte. Ska åtgärda detta så fort jag orkar. Man kan beställa till Sverige genom Amazon i alla fall, eller allra helst Lulu ju.  RED: Här finns den på Adlibris nu.

The blurb says 

Love hate murder sex - the boiling down of western culture to its primitive urges, horror movies as the sublimation of our self-loathing, married to a critique of the 'society of the spectacle'. Powerful stuff. 

There are two sections about horror franchises, a section of "diverse poems" and a section of Bodhidharma poems. 

Here's a couple of pieces from the latter category. 

many dharmas

there are many dharmas
and none of them matter,
none but cleaning and slow reason
where there are eons between us
immeasurable,

night is a timely toilet
nothing sticks
 

they looked for god

they looked for god once
because they assumed a meaning
behind life, did not know
what the relevant questions were
for slightly defective epistemic
engines. they wanted a heaven
and resurrection and death,

or maybe just Nirvana,
but they did not know
when to let blood-stained
Buddha go, did not know
there is no eternity,
and the enlightened wise
live their pointless lives the same

after satori, down to the tiniest details,
they are just as thirsty for non-entity
as any sexy suicide, they did not notice
that nothing at all constitutes heaven
or Nirvana, smelling like razor blades
and bitter almonds or a bullet
in the stomach,

all that should count for humans
is fucking and love and knowing
what's happening - being smart
and happily finite rutting animals,
devils, or an enlightened person,
a saint - it's exactly the same thing,
living innocent and cruel

and selfish like children -
but they looked for god,
these healthy men
because inside them
they were pitiful, inside them
they were cripples, a world
that did not listen 

without seeing the silk

and we are cutting holes in space
following orders blind,
with the inebriated mindfulness of snails or priests
or any other policemen

swallowing the moral not: here are whole eternities
i have forgotten, stretched over a cold afternoon in ’77,
but fuck them as well - they have done being heaven;
without having seen our own silk

we are dead men, dead as them