I am sleeping where my head flowers
like a warm garden inside your dancing hands
It is a silk dance
displaying our clotted adornments
in coagulated tears of white frost
On this fur of cold interstellar diamond winds
that pulls the nighttime horses on the pillows
of timeless marble to harvest our bodies
in a volume of lunar flesh
I will always wear your morning ceremonies
in mosaic adoration of sparkling daylight sins
Born by gentle sirens legs
with the color of my salt
blessed by the praying postures that you close
by means of that which I will always greet you kindly
with my lips at the foot of the sky
so many of us has forgotten
What is not obvious in poems like this
is that its energy content does not belong to anyone,
It is something that relates to a source outside of us,
which is then added to someone.
But we cannot be this other,
because this one other than us
has their own relationship to this source
as defined by that person
The thing is,
that its real meaning, comes from
how we then formulate that relationship
and follows it back
to its true origin
Because it is from this reality
in that space between us all
Exalted hands made of psychic paintings claws my continents with the accessories of aesthetics like mad vagabonds in armour on the body of time.
I am following this raging wind like its a piece of the sun.
Its that kind of a voyage.
Strokes of flesh make my gestures dissolve in their wait where our nights are forgotten public stairs sleeping between the ice shoulders of a woman made of drawers from a nameless forest.
To my astonishment it has the shape of a new silence.
This is also the reason we have dolls in glasses.
I matter myself beyond my bottom carries in the duality of stars and the ghost that dresses mountains.
Here I will unite the reservoirs with the lit of my hesitation wearing the forgotten vibration of enchanted eyes.
It is the expression of the ground I am wearing.
Legs without the colour of my salt liquefy this mornings worlds and my hunger for this brightness when it shuffles me like a zigzag son towards the astronomy of clocks and flowers in a distant north of formeless memories together with this being of what we truly are.
The effect is something like a latent tension.
Like this knowing, born in me anew on a daily basis.
We are all abundance.
We read this universe on its tongues of dreams offered like an invisible cover around the domes of human steam falling as a vertical daylight delirium of pleasant silence behind our curtains of intermittent flesh.
Everything follows the call from that horizon.
Even the chimneys have to illuminate our infinate plain.
Ice organs wearing asphalt on dancing whirlwinds like a colorless breath of paradise in a thousand lips wide open to the velvet sky wearing arms of frost that contains this world of limbs with its sacred people living on the sea of immensity.
Sadly, but not desperately, all this will lose its sense of a past.
This is is what I mean by an anonymous submission.
This morning like a womb itself, turns my impulsive nothingness into a decorative cathedral sweetened with the aromatic torture of violated stars.
It is my deposit of future beginnings.
Like being an elegant lake in the vicinity of an instinct.
Its the way in which an attitude slides into electric sugar.
A universe of libidinous tongues in words of mischievous phantom flesh breathing slowly from the orphaned voices of geometric silence sheltered by the spectacle of painted claws.
It is is a fortress of fingers.
The last of the wooden horses I will ever enter.
Strange odorous planets in tears of a breathlike presence awaken me between my image and its intention.
Here is my guide and the function of my principles.
It is in here my little history is reflected.
The moment in which contemplation and ideas are between my mind and my tension it always discharges before it disconnects my being, thus altering the contradictory naturalness of my intellectual behaviour right before the empties speaks to me with its non-logical lips of consciousness reversed.
Violins have shaped all my shadows with nude names like valiant dictionarys of young giants in carefully small chariots of bare skin.
Dots of dreaming with blue waters left here is wearing the skies of time in faithful orbits furrowed by servants eating my tiny newborn sirens dressed in noisy cherries.
Obsessed arrows of huge stars falling into my biological dreamlike spells of brief shapes seeding the matter I made of distance with the infinite contents of tired flesh.
In contradiction to what christianity had led us to believe, and later american consumerism, i suggest that Santa Claus origin is rather to be found in the northern folklore figure of Väinämöinen, the hero creator of our world anew. And in the stories about him where he is viewed as the essence and the source. A wise man. The seer and creator. The bringer of conciousness. A bard, and the god of chants, songs and poetry.
Väinämöinen is thus very far from the figure we invigorate our children with. And he has nothing to do with our present day view of Santa Claus or the christian substitution Saint Nicholas.
Väinämöinen is connected to the foundation of the world pillar, also thought of as the “world tree” that was thought to rest on the Pohjantähti or the North Star holding up the world. This is the very star that we put att the top of the christmas tree.
The north star and its position in the sky is also the place where heroes seek marriage with the daughters of Pohjola. Here in Pohjola the female Louhi is the powerful and evil witch queen ruling over the northern realm of Pohjola with her ability to change shape and weave mighty enchantments. She is a queen of great power that request a payment for the hands of her daughters in marriage. Louhi sets difficult to impossible tasks to perform in order to claim such a prize as her daughters, which leads to the forging of the Sampo.
The sampo is one such payment, a magic mill of plenty which churns out abundance. Its churning lid have also been interpreted as a symbol of the celestial vault of the heavens, embedded with stars, revolving around a central axis or the pillar of the world, which is our christmas tree. The giving of gifts as the sampo, can be seen as an act of sacrifice to Louhi, for one of her daughters hands. The hero and creator has to give something up to gain entrance to Pohjola and to get himself a wife. And this is done with chants, songs and poetry. And in giving we also get the magic abundance back. The celestial vault of the heavens. And we are also helping to keep the world up on its pillar. Because if there is no pillar, there is no wife. And there is no world.
There is also a good reason for doing all this at the time of “christmas”. Christmas is celebrated on winter solstice when the pillar seems to be at its weakest, and almost broken on the longest night of the year. And as a recognition of rebirth, of creating or balancing up the world again with the help of “Santa Claus”, or Väinämöinen, we try to assemble back his lost gift. The Sampo. Which was stolen by Louhi and broken. We bring back the pieces of sampo as christmas gifts to be able to enter Pohjola.
When we celebrate christmas, we are trying to help keeping the world up on its pillar.
Old automatic moments are running into my consumed random I, obtaining the suddenness of a tempted practice any consciousness dictates in the atmosphere of passive politeness where it becomes a betrayal to reason.
The geometric breath inside our dressed horizon enters all my self-created aerie mouths of backward language when it turns to me from the same direction their appearance claws the statements of an infinitely illustrated black tradition as a dictionary kind of chaos.
I disguise the garments of beneath with my disembodied organs from the yearning flows of silence I extract in you and all the icy corners I have found of gardens turned to me in moments of reversed distraction.
Our souls are instruments of time that flowers stars in dreams of matter shaping any vertical beyond as my genesis of clouds to my forgetfulness in finding euphoria.
It is the immaterial light of essence i have, when i am drifting inside my overloaded senses.
You who air that immense unrestrained electric swarming of diabolical and great dancing marmalade to a sheltered universe of a perfectly scattered order.
You build the realities of whirlwinds to the sound of my attitude.
But you are also a parallel, and my connection to absolute boredom.
I have to milk the alphabet of space as my lost memories dark mannequin nests and want that empty but immediate passage of flesh covered by my daylight confetti.
Reason is a backstage vertical sensation of another observing beyond closely echoed in this biological slumber by signs admitted to any falling motion of euphoria.
The fish dreamings white moon shells my crowded yesterdays senses with the cloud beings of my fables godmother.
I have come to reopen that spectacular mosaic torment one could become of the many pretended angel-likes were a between is the essential size among its offers and behaves like an airy robe of omnipotent variability all nights uses to confide us to the sun.
Our monuments are the studied exhilaration of servants in mechanical famine visiting accomplishments wearing spiritual dandies like possessed elephants.
The interrupting flame of the occasionally ridden inner concretion of my composition is biting that in-drawn play working to strangle all the light by repetitions of a labeled breath in the opus of a profound dark conductor discovered at the sight of my evening animal with immense mathematical familiarity.
As we are our rejuvenated and disturbed arrival of navels, its arms will feed a torso to a generally young and amputated hour of its day in a relief of a clock that breathes like a deep compass with the hands our earth has painted as life.
The perception of having feelings are the fugitives of this reality given to our presence.
What i materialise will read us in as guests while weaving a place of dreams painted like the summit of the we and always visible beyond this time of when.
What locations own in places turned phrase as discipline is the unexpected characteristics of all editions of the garden of eden I turned half as a son.
The returning characters of our being sometimes sculptor the lightning I am painting of our depths following the sparrows of earth and its intentions in our unconnected memory of ugliness and motives inside the geometry of heights.
In devotion to solitude from willing clouds in drops of moonlight dreams surrounded by the formless temple of cosmos nighttime, we are granted a homage from infinity.
Any calendar has a breath of a another feathered will that hovers over people when they are following the victims of bad pencils in the vanilla of mirrors.
The canvas time-wheel world armchair vendetta is interrupting the unconscious daytime voices and challenges the electric collection of a numberless creation.
We have surpassed our elements like virgin Columbus´s of a new world.
Like a dream out of another we are un-exposed beyond its limits of a delirious and lookalike phenomena employed as a collectively assembled appearance of space.
We are serving between the imagery of a character and the answers of an atmosphere expressed as our random physical properties used by the outcome of all our inspired divinations whatever phantoms the world´s memory has painted on us.
The primitive edge of multiplicity dances in our black retinas as immaterial superstitions of luminous shapes for the holy act of Euclid´s invasion of a daylight continuity.
This mankind´s seedy beings are a vacancy composed of our framed sidewalks splinters in a blind today surrounded by dark vegetal temples draped as the tomorrows of underwater men.
It is the reality of armed echoes riding the circle of solemn landscapes acting as psychic matter.
I am the gluttonous naked remain that orphans the air of beyond in a former worn-out aura thirsting like a planted nonsense of repressed midnight aesthetics.
It is also my entrances to the skin-shapes of a turned reason.
The endless circulate appearances on the landscape of flying servants with noisy armour and soundproof bowels, arrows our wind like furious sirens.
Darkened by walks in this unknown sterile descending to capitals of dense temptations enveloped in fragments of our human apocalyptic void.
In here time is of no nocturnal circuit to blood, but I still hold hundreds of broken pleasures eating from my hand.
My somber escape on demoniacal monotonous samsara clouds in the umbilical disappearance of light and covered prayers, becomes a serpents wake from dreamless sleep finding affectionate objects on the face of angelic morning winds.
Great gluttonous dandies on electric cathedrals grows on my interstellar ornaments behind this volume of libidinous lunar harvest.
We carefully give burned nerve fibres to formless clocks in a lake of flesh. It is a marble dance we circle through by sober warmth and fever. A Frozen shock on strange legs in a memory licked stiff.
Its like we are without the shuffle of magic faces.
My concerned monuments is drifting behind the posture of our acting. Between the nights star knittings on the body of vulgar space and this vaguely overjoyed chamber of eternal thought they turn into time.
It is the strait anthems of sparkling daylight beings.
The fortunetellers of ink.
Flow as the learned wellspring leaves in far light and stars words is fading at our wicked drowned opaque dreams on dead vagabond flowers.
Today, a single brief however in beyond is the mechanized wanted inwardness in a vertical falling formula most of us does drop like mad horizontal contents of unwanted euphoria.
That highly never sometimes state the extremes of comprehension eating from the senses of a slumber.
My memory space me into an alphabet like a used exchange of daylight with an empty centurys compass of a dark angel.
The diamond shadow grows in dressed clouds with white self-created swarms of symmetrical mouths
from the above, where my costume itself is a frequently bursting room of always in old flesh.
Finally, this large violated aromatic curtains ware of polished carnivorous life is melted on the road of faces with the arms of decorative opuses.
They are our proud servants to extinct crocodiles.
My subconscious sculptures the sense of rational meaning to a before of this configurative infinite afterward of working matter.