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SIGNALER.

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SED SE TIDEN

1 SIGFRIDSSON – SED SE TIDEN (FRONT)

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NEW YEAR!

I reached my goals for this year when it comes down to showing up with some productivity, granted be that it was for the most part writing as far back as seven years that went into small print and production. I also managed to reach post number three hundred and got over five thousand followers on this blog/homepage. And, I started up www.asatruth.com again with a dozen posts.

The two books I made this year with my translated poetry; AS ONE and HUNTED IN INVIOLABLE BLOOD has been read by a few thousand and understood by too few, they will of course be read by many more; and much more interested people in the future. I also did a book in Swedish with poetry; I KLARHET     IMMA (IN CLARITY     MIST) and I had my second photo exhibition under the name 1 SIGFRIDSSON; called DUSSINFOTO (DOZENPHOTO). As my grand finale for this year I did the magazine: NEW TIME (THE SOLSTICE WELL) that gathered some of my articles, naturally I found some minor mistakes here and there after it was completed…. O! I continuously avoid perfection. 

I’m rarely as productive as I would like to be so I’m pleased anyway. (Honestly, I’m a bit humoured by how I always wait so I can start up from zero with everything I have done in my life. It has to do with that I would get bored and leave it if I didn’t keep it a bit shaky and interesting until final day of production. It gives it that unique one of a kind touch, perhaps or perhaps not… I can always fix it in the mix some other rainy day.)

I still buy and sell a few books, records and other crap now and then on the internet. I find it curious that many believe that I must be a “fan” of what I “trade” with… Trust me, I’m not a “fan” of any junk-culture. As far as I’m concerned it can all burn and be erased from this world. Why do I even touch it? It keeps my mind occupied a few hours here and there every second month or so. Maybe I just need a small hobby to avoid going out and stabbing people? (By the way, I have stopped with this small trading, I might sell a few things once or twice more…)

Earlier this year there was some goofy literature magazines that complained about that I gave them material through e-mail without treating them as very special individuals, as they all are so important that I just have to send them a few words each for their magazines that I would never read, at least not without puking. Why send them anything then? It is merely for spreading my material around a bit. I really do not wish to be in any of the junk-culture magazines. I have stopped sending out material altogether now, not a copy was sent out of NEW TIME (THE SOLSTICE WELL). I might send out something in the future, but I doubt it. (I might become forced to, for some reason or another…)

You know, if the world was perfect then I would sit and dream and write aesthetic and fragile poetry all day long. I would have some peaches with cream and some cold mineral water and then go out and smell the forest after the rain in the Spring/Summer/Autumn. Etc. I do not sit and daydream as the nightmare of the present reality in this world will take over in a few seconds… Now there is a Winter… I do not have any papers to write on… On the positive side I do have some cream in a can… It is fattening.

I figure that I’m now about 0,001% of what I should have been some twenty years ago, that is slightly depressing. At least I’m on the map for the New Time and that is more than most who lived in this sad middle-period of time have. Next year will be mine.

I will raise One fulltru-glass on New Year as a first, last and always.

 

1 S

NEW YEAR!

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ON ROSECOVERED SNARES` PATH

Weedbundles to catch

Nettles to eat

Blindfolds to carry

Walls to bury

 

Life to sort

 

In drunken swagger after slightest right to hold loved

sifts the funny farms steadily for what is most sane

while the scum lie absent-minded with a red apple in the mug

 

Un-astute unwieldy ― Wretched,

grubbing in exchangable Nothing,

turns around,

not unlike stinking and staring cows

 

And hardships small bread crumbs look good in darkness’ corner

while the very finest scum oink away to their babble songs

 

Retards demand to equal eachother to live furthest down

in clutching after cheap thought-jewelry and life-pettiness

Misgrowth is dug up ideals: Meaningless crass experiences

But, unclean will remain being Gladness’ most rare guests

 

Weedbundles to throw

Nettles to grow

Blinfolds to burn

Walls to build

 

 

Life to sort

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IN NIGHT FROST DRAUGHT

Hidden in my last winter abode came Death

alike a frail and excusing crying mourner

and sat down in apprehension, in whispering:

 

Searched here for Life itself to befriend,

in the wounded, in your lone dying

 

We are left here, a shadowfree storm,

holding our rugged words against darkness,

pressing the nights hours; teaching us coldness

 

(Got dragged here through the lands inside darkness

Carried over all the time distances, stones and ices)

 

And cold has just my fairness in its word,

while emptiness,

has its emptiness stuck in the Weave

IN NIGHT FROST DRAUGHT

IN NIGHT FROST DRAUGHT