Stefan Stjernberg.com

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.

Like mechanical pilgrim’s dolls on magnified nocturnal lenses our projections disfigures the abyss of the white clocks.

The claws of a navel mind branches me with a cartesian seesaw trying to feed itself from the skin of old sayings.

I am not a noiseless you.

The planted tongues in my blood melts flesh and deflower the stars of their nature in well-fitting quicksilver lips.

My senses are being furnished by a waxed harvest in a wardrobe of frost showers.

Beneath the lunar salt-buttered flamboyant flesh brains, climbing on volume and purged of swollen roses, filled with gelatin nights covered with black tears, all will vanish in a wicked gray that leaves no trace.