2010-04-28

Lord Henry OK'd it, once again.

Perhaps DIKT:APRIL was doomed to fail from the very start. Instead of sitting alone typing nonsensical words in sheer desperation, we decided to come together last week and create life poetry in the form of sunshine, people's beer and boffer sword production. This collective dream state went on for some days and in the meantime, DIKT:APRIL vanished like volcanic ash in the wind. And we would all rejoice, put on our most picturesque outfits and start thinking about future beautiful failed projects to come.
The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.
Lord Henry, in “The Picture of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde

2010-04-17

Saker man inte hör så ofta;

"Ja, du är ju i fertil ålder så det bör du nog inte göra."

Mentioning things in my room a Friday night/Saturday morning

Letters and legs and pictures of all
the modest arts that grace the wall
curry and tea cups and Christ in thorn
all of this by a fifties shelf borne
staples and sweetness and spoonfuls of lotion
placed and balanced on a table in motion
crumbs and cables and clothes for poor
these are most often found on the floor
a lamp, a lamp, a lamp and a lamp
light and scattered as a small town tramp.

2010-04-15

Havre, sport, delikatess...

Mot hunger, förstoppning och stress
ja, det kan till och med bota tristess
en sorglig tunn liten skiva
som nästan vadsomhelst kan bliva
vissa kallar det magi
men egentligen är det bara god fantasi

för detta har jag äntligen fattat
Wasa, det är grovt underskattat

2010-04-14

Dikt om en hemlighet

En mörk låda
med blåa ränder
orsakar klåda
hur man den än vänder

men du! du! du!
nu ska du få höra
i den bor en gnu
med stora ögon och ben sköra

det är därför det låter så konstigt om natten
som ett monster i garderoben
det är därför hon vaktar den noga som skatten
och försiktigt sköter om den.

Rot.



...
I indirectly blame Ape's recurrent, delirious and positively outstanding Cara/Kahlan subtext-posts for my somehow coming across and enjoying this song and video. But seriously. How is one supposed to be able to study when there is so much YouTube filth to surf!?

2010-04-13

I'll live my next life as a male Bollywood star



And if I'm not able to pull off those moves (1:25, 1:56, 3:33, 3:45 etc.) plan B is to become a dancing Indian condom.

Marry me! (I'll be your housewife)

and maybe I should be despised
I know telling is too much
so maybe i'm not listening
about me, watching, they touch me
people won't talk to me
music doesn't speak to me
I get up, I walk around

and really, I should be calm
it's all so very tidy
there should be room to breathe now
cleaning, arranging, dusting
I've been making such good sweeps
breathing as from running a hundred stairs
I sit down, still restless

2010-04-11

Buy!

death by sword
light by candle
light by mysterious creature

movement by body
shine by odds
misinterpretation by mind
nudity by Americans

N°5 by Chanel

Sju.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

2010-04-10

Alive. How about you?

And a random youtube post, because I am too tired to do anything else. So so tired. So tired I had a religious experience watching the Voyager intro. Yeah, that's how tired I am. However I do feel like I should update a little. Sorta let people know what I'm up to lately. When I'm not so tired I become religious that is.

I'm having a fictional love affair with the Old Spice Man and his horse. I'm also infatuated with the music to this trailer and Tabrett Bethell.

And in my spare time I am Sire Gork who finds the idea of a book of Mormon battles hilarious, but does approve of boffer swords.
In what little time there is left I'm reliving pubertal memories in the form of blonde borgs, unitards and just generally loving the Star Trek universe.

And you? Can you sum up your life with the aid of youtube?

the nude poet.

Naked. That's what poetry makes me feel. Completely and utterly naked.

I put my words to the screen and suddenly I feel the breeze of self-conciousness sending a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps along my naked arms, legs and mind.

I frequently part with the innermost thoughts of my brain, but when there is no intent. When the words must hold up as their own little island without reason. When they are not part of a journey, but rather a goal in themselves.

Naked. Naked as we came.

2010-04-09

no words.

I enjoy words. They are my friends, my concubines. They travel through my mind as if it were Grand Central Station.

But now. But now all I have is nothingness.

I sit here watching the cursor. I watch it blink. I watch it taunt me as no words will come.

Frustration turning into anger turning into numb.

No words. Not today.

2010-04-08

Nooo zest!

264 gallons of human blood on the street
a million electricity bills for Kyrgyz heat
a good portion of passion, I dare say
a little bit of justice, make it before May
for a final touch, the very best
twelve juicy lemons, no zest!
all I asked for was a sugar high
what came out was a very, very sour pie

Request.

Could someone please write something about pie!?

Zombies or aliens? (If I were a rebel)

Call me when the apocalypse comes
for zombie attack, press one
for alien invasion, press two
for instant death, please hold

Call me, and I will tell you this
the zombies? they will eat you
the aliens? they will rule you
but no, they won't exactly kill you

Call me, and I shall listen
as the zombies devour your brains,
as the aliens push you to the ground,
as you cry over your own lost dignity

And then call me again, as you understand
zombies make for great spouses,
aliens rule with care and devotion
and golly, you're somehow still alive!

You call me, only to say
that your brains were meant for fodder
that your back was made to bow
and you laugh at yourself, having tried to resist

Call me, sometime before you die
and tell me about it all
that it wasn't so bad, going under
and I WILL put you on hold

Because if you call me, I will tell you
I still fear the zombies
I won't ever trust the aliens
And apocalypse will be my only truth

2010-04-06

Det är möjligt att den här dikten skulle bli mycket bättre om jag läste den högt för er.... Å andra sidan, kanske inte.

En bit choklad,
kan väl inte skad'?
så motsatsen, att avstå,
och ersätta med selleri rå,
borde väl inte vara så svårt?
beslutet var ju ändå vårt!

en rutten kyckling i min kyl,
möglig philadelphiaost, och dyl,
kan inte ersätta en ferraribil röd!
speciellt när allt man har är hårt mjukt bröd.

nej, mina vänner, snart får det räcka,
hur länge kan en månad utan socker räcka?

DIKT:APRIL

We are currently experiencing DIKT:APRIL, an event introduced by Ape. Ape claims that this is poetry month and that someone somewhere has encouraged the masses to create a poem a day for this whole month. I have failed to find hard proof of this, but then again, I haven't tried that hard. Even defining the word "proof" would take such a long time that I would eventually have to take a food break, causing me to forget about it all and having to start defining all over again, after food break. So I decided to simply trust the Ape and make it happen. So far, we have created/quoted four poems, which might look bad, seeing as this is the sixth day of April. But if you take into consideration The Oddballs' History of Failed Projects, I'd say it looks almost promising. Let's show ourselves that poetry doesn't have to be good in order to be fun.

Guidelines/wishlist:
  • Quantity over quality (better one a day than one a week)
  • Quantity over quotes (better write your own cheap shit than quoting Baudelaire)
  • Any language (even Elvish or Webdings)
  • Any topic (even spring!)
  • Any shape (or non-shape)

To spring!

splashy, sneering, the first flowers approach
don't look so smug, snow counters, rash
a dandelion slut wouldn't stand a chance
had i not let you near by my own damn will

Are we not oozing wounds to your white perfection?
the flowers reply with their smugness unchanged
you crumble as black dirt unfold in the sun
and we revel, and we tango (oh, how we tango!)

Now snow rolls its eyes and makes the flowers squint
the sun has nothing on me, never
see, i'm its mirror on earth, itself in cool white
and recall it is me who hide the dirt!

you do make for a fine parody, flowers admit
but you will die now, as we tango (oh, how we...)
while really, says snow, YOU have been dead for months
that is one way of looking at it

giggle the flowers, watching snow melt
thinking of all the winters to come
stepmotherly, indulgent thoughts
then, all those springs, all that tango!

2010-04-04

Butler reduced to poetry

She is, in her own way, dispossessed in the moment of acting as its site of transfer for me.

What am I calling on her to be?
And how does she take up that call?

What my call recalls for her will be the site of the countertransference,  but about this I cannot know.

Vainly I ask, "Who are you?", and then, more soberly, "What have I become here?"

And she asks those questions of me as well, from her own distance, and in ways I cannot precisely know or hear. 
This not-knowing draws upon a prior not-knowing, the not-knowing by which the subject is inaugurated, although that "not-knowing" is repeated and elaborated in the transference
without precisely becoming a site to which I might return.

(About the incommensurability that accounts for the countertransference)

(by Judith Butler, in Giving an Account of Oneself, Diacritics, no. 4, 2001)

2010-04-03

An Ideal.

Looking back at our two creations I can't help feel as if there is something missing to our poetry, besides style and reason. I think we're missing the secret ingredient. While we ponder this I shall leave you with a little something...an ideal perhaps?

2010-04-02

Rester från igår.

Jag saknar ord

när jag spiller öl på mitt bord

fjärilen landar lätt

sträcker ut sin tunga nätt

en blommig kjol, en liten flicka

fjärilen särar på sina läppar och börjar slicka


(I had no idea it would be so graphic, or so crude, but since no one else has written anything today...crude is the word)

2010-04-01

Ode till hamberger

En fjäril kunde inte flyga

utan landade lättmpå min tunga

Oh nej! Oh ja! Det var hamburgerdressing

Det är ett brunt blad i salladen

men allt förs framåt av kritik

Kyparn! Kyparn!

(Jag älskar)


[Well it sounded a lot better at the time. A lot.]