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E. R. Ryttersson Poem
I
king of the hostile quasar !
stelliferous beast without origin
anechoic void-crown usurper of the throne without end
upon a tundra in the cosmic septentrional :
fantastically obscure to the naked human eye
and shrouded in the asterism of shadows !
gatekeepers of the GN-z11 realm,
amethyst-fanged beasts of the farthest space
pursuing from beyond the ultimate meridian
to battle the flame-born basilisks of Alpha Scorpii
the star-beasts battle in constellatory theatre,
a timeless outing of the yet another
anniversary cosmic implosion
II
hostile whorls in the night-sky
spin into mass hypnotic effect
cruor of celestial bodies splatter
alizarin spasms across the death-black vista
which emanates across the heliosphere
as hallucination becomes reality becomes hallucination
lines between
cosmophobia and cosmonoia
are blurred
mystical systems of glyphic code
etched into bedrocks as star-maps
guide the madman into liminal states
between this and the great obscure other
Copyright © E. R. Ryttersson | Year Posted 2024
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E. R. Ryttersson Poem
THE STENCH OF INSOMNIA
narcoleptic deities in charge of the world
are tangled and detangled in the threads of time
they are sardonic and bitter and out for revenge
alien methane palls
and vomit-green ammonia vapors
spread in my chamber
shadowy silhouettes of insomnia lurk
like wolfhound packs around the carrion
i see the burrowed casts of happy people
but i am unfit to crawl them
tonight
the wormholes to the kingdom of sleep are barred
for me
i open the veins of anxiety's arch-angels,
a bleed-through between levels of reality and perception
stranded in dimensional fossa
am i
overcome by emotions
Hypnos throws a lasso
through the introitus
which i miss
once again…
sedated yet awake i float
on a cloudery of sleepless miasma
the horse-flies crawl
upon this sultry humid flesh tonight
stenches of anxiety and perspiration
pearls of sweat and stinking fabric
insomniac evangelion writings on the wall :
i ruminate on my nocturnal angst graffiti !
i feel the rot of sleeplessness
vibrate the very hairs of my nostrils
vapors from the interdimensional scrap heap
fill these tragic sleeping quarters tonight
i can hear, when i so try, but quietly in my midst
the sluggish march of ant-eaters
make way through the Ursa Major
beneath the fourteenth moon of Saturn
i can hear, when i so try, but quietly in my midst,
the feral paws of a feline God
chasing the spoor of an astral moose
upon the heavenly tapestry
my head is hastily shaven
and smitten with dandruff and scabs
my skin is torn and xerotic
and insects crawl upon it
as i, once again,
am banished from the kingdom
the pupae dwells in every stale bog
beneath the heliacal ascension of Sirius
in their insectile repose :
but i am not allowed to enter !
i circle around my dwelling-place
as if a mosquito around a dog-day cistern
alone and cold and unable to rest :
my dreams arrest in this malign insomniac spell –
what did i do to deserve this ?
i wish no longer to enter my bed-chamber –
but who am I to refuse the gift of Hypnos ?
i wish i was haunted by ghosts !
then, at least, i could fear this darkness
for another reason
i would rather sleep with mares and demons
than to be forever-awake, even if in paradise
i wish insomnia upon my worst enemy :
it is an excellent way to break the human spirit
Copyright © E. R. Ryttersson | Year Posted 2024
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E. R. Ryttersson Poem
I
first flowers open, seasons begin ! :
bloom before doom
as always
Rajasthani breeze sweet and scentful
fanning out to the sunset :
a caress ! across the ripeness of apricots
curling trees
winding downward foothills
plunging downward slopes
among the flowering marigold
and hibiscus lushing aplenty
vine has budded
and the pomegranate is in flower
finally : now, rejoice !
the scent of mandrakes and brambles –
sprout after sprout the lotus shall bloom !
forests drown in seasonal swamping
below the thunderous cloudbursts :
beneath the leaden sky smiles proud
the parent of this great outpouring :
O white Jasmine Lord !
II
all the while, i pray : let me go !
let me escape through the burning funnels :
i am the exhaust of God !
i, whose rotting body is sodden with salt-water
and set upon by crabs and electric eels,
my blood is the saccharin which delights
the truest of our beloved poets :
and when i am lonely,
o white Jasmine Lord,
my soul deepens with you !
allow me loneliness from my demons,
for i can not rid them :
this is a challenge of a life-time,
and a marvel beyond my understanding
O white Jasmine Lord : fill my whole heart
and make me plunge these deeper waters !
make me panic
in the calm weathers
make me flee
the warmest embrace
make me strip
every last sackcloth
make me stray
in the wild desert
let me do with life
what the dog does to the other,
when it sniffs the others' ass
Copyright © E. R. Ryttersson | Year Posted 2024
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E. R. Ryttersson Poem
(prelude)
the buzzing of the evening insects
presage evil !
here are black wolves ! here are ghosts and fiends
and here are blackest of demons !
and black be the murk tonight with devils !
be forewarned ! and be accursed...
you, who set eye on these
perilous passages and venomous verses :
you have no idea
how dark, complex,
cynical and hopeless
this all can get
I
Twilight has its way, come Night :
come, cloudings of bloodsucking bat !
come, sleep to the toddlers and calm to the dogs at guard;
come respite to the dwellers of the parks and the streets
come, peace below these stars :
the paperboy delivers his papers,
the planet spins its distance,
the cat kills its rats
and the rapist has his victims :
the youngster drugs himself to death
first thing out of rehab
and the girl is sold by the person
she thought she could trust the most
Tranq abusers hide and disappear
like roaches at the break of morning
into the ruins and cellars and destitute housings
scarabs hiss the songs of pestilence and dirty needle :
wailing banshees of despondency
psychotic on the corner of a street
screaming their anguish to the lot of the world :
unprocessed traumas left to die on the bottom of the needle ocean
an unwanted nuisance child
born from a night of desperation
is abandoned by a crack-fiend mother
rotten to her spiritual core :
tragic, suffered, broken, yes - but guilty :
God may have mercy on this demon but i can not !
and such are the realities
of the absolute form of existentialism
whose principles govern this world and its human enterprise...
impossible moral equations
float in the Night's aether
as all moral philosophies come to die
at this graveyard of God :
unfathomable narcotic abyss...
no hope escapes
the black hole
no light escapes
the intravenous event horizon
gloomy visions of destitute social ruin
greet the traveler beyond the threshold :
be forewarned ! traverse at your own peril
you have no idea
how dark, complex,
cynical and hopeless
this all can get...
Copyright © E. R. Ryttersson | Year Posted 2024
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