perjantai 28. marraskuuta 2014

Time for Prose Ballads: Blackwidows Lane

Enjoy, all of you with a twisted sense of humor.


Blackwidows Lane


They arrive. Every Friday night this crowd of women strides through this lane and although there are people living in the houses around it, no one ever hears or sees anything. Their black farthingales rustle against the cobblestones and, good for them, the mourning veils cover their faces; and what they don’t, the darkness does. The lanterns that have been placed on the big streets by the order of the mighty men of the city – let there be light, let chaos be defeated – are too far away from this small remote lane. But they have another order and orders here. And that is other than what is known as The Universal and Eternal Law.

Some of these figures seem to be tense, and the reason probably is that Theophana of Naples, the professional and trustworthy poison maker, has at last been caught and executed. Others are, though, much more relaxed and talkative, for they know that when one dies, soon there will be another. Just like in life as a whole, and just like in the sorority itself. If some of these women were to get arrested and – depending of their quality – send to the gallows or to a nunnery, or made to pay a various penalty, the world is full of their potential sisters anyway. 

 And they would be arrested by laws that have not been written by their kind. Laws that have been designed merely in order to protect the privileges of their designers, although some cowards may call that necessary or inevitable. Is it not a sign of a great notion of honor – to not humbly submit to something so unjust?

A black dress, just like everyone who has the quality of a widow. Just like the tropical spider that was drawn and studied by the sister Maria Sibylla M*** who travelled over the ocean in order to at last focus to her serious research. She actually drew this fascinating spider several times, from different ankles, closer and further. The spiders also weaver webs so brilliant that any of these women would be embarrassed. Above all, the spider does what she does and nobody can put her deeds into question. Mother Nature has created them the way they are, and what a blasphemy it would be to go against Her will.

The black dresses are not made of fabric only. They are made of the husbands’ skin – the dead husbands whom the women are practically replaced in the eyes of the world. Actually, they have become them. Someone is the leader of a successful shipping company or a trader of exquisite exotic goods, some other is the sole mistress of three manors. The most insatiable of them, the Countess of *** has already had four husbands and is soon to marry the fifth – a much younger little fop of a duke that has reputedly been stunned of her ripe beauty.

But he has no idea where the skins and bones of his precedents lie; definitely not in the graves that have their long names written in them. He has no idea of the key the Countess carries around her cream-white neck, or what was eaten in the funeral of her last husband.

When one gets married, she has to swallow the man through at least one hole, through one lips, and chew well – it is called the consummation of marriage. Best of all is if she lets her stomach process and reform it and, in nine months, push out the repulsive final product. It is all just life, the great circle of life. Why not to go all the way and create an analogy, a beautiful harmony between creating and keeping up life? The ultimate, most natural meaning of man has been written in the Book of Nature if one just wants to understand.

The widows go, go different ways only to meet again. They now have time and money to live, money of their own, money to buy anything they have ever dreamed of: jewels, fans, fabrics, laces, wines, even books if one wants to develop her mind. Anything that makes this vile world a bit more beautiful.

And even though on some Fridays there are less women present than on the last, in long term their number is only increasing and the materials of their dresses vary from silk to linen to frieze.



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Oh yes. A prose ballad is a short story - or a case study - with a macabre, grotesque, and/or morbid twist. One of my prose ballads is Mors Botulinica that was published (in Finnish) in the issue 3/2013 of the literary magazine Lumooja.

sunnuntai 23. marraskuuta 2014

Glittering rainbow dreams - and something else too



Am I the only one who is bugged to death because the perpetual use of the word “LOVE” in the rhetoric of LGBT+ movement? Well, “bugg(er)ed to death” would be much better for me, but I guess it wouldn’t fit to the politically correct image of the sexual and gender minorities – you know, the one with sweet and soft-looking monogamous couples who just want to live a nice family life just like the straight people do. They only happen to have this problem in who they want to do it with, so please forgive, please tolerate. They just want to love.

Well, this pansexual transgender guy here doesn’t want to love (at least not in the way that word is disgraced nowadays). I don’t see much good in “equal right to marry” – why glorify an institution that is little more than a perverse relic from times when you could own a fellow human being?



The picture above shows a short report (sadly, in Finnish only) I wrote about a month ago – on a LGBT+ film festival that took place in my hometown. If you happened to be there and saw someone in pinstriped coat and a red tie making notes and drinking numerous glasses of sparkling wine; well, that was me. The report was published in Turun Ylioppilaslehti (Turku Student Newpaper), in the issue 8/2014, and I wrote it pretty much from the starting point I just described.

The question was: does this festival that claims to be on my side too really have anything for me? And the answer was that actually it did have. Among all those shame-and-embarrassment teenage romances, there were also more edgy and, yes, more lecherous stuff to be seen (for example, a document of a BDSM leather club for men). At least if a visitor or a journalist wants to see or hear something else than the story of the emasculated gay man.

torstai 13. marraskuuta 2014

The Poet in the Golden Coat


I have realised that my hometown Turku is full of writers that love to bathe in the Realities of Everyday. Go on and on about the problems in the relationship (which is the meaning of life), misery of life in general or the evils of the world. You see, it is so deep and grown-up to embrace the misery and self-pity and not believe in anything – at least in Finland.

Now that we have had the Southwest Finland Poetry Week here, I have just been reminded of that. I have visited in several poetry clubs wearing a golden coat and drinking red wine. And maybe the last one was a good solution many times.

Yesterday, in Cosmic Comic Café (it’s the Meeting Place Number One for all of us freaks and creeps in Turku), I took the open mic and gasped some Immature Rage to it.





 Puistatus

Pelottaako? Olenko vastenmielinen,
ruma ja kauhea tai jotenkin puistattava,
kun olen melkein oikeanlainen, vain melkein?
Pelottaako hymyni, tai katseeni,
onko ehostukseni hirveä tai aivan liian ihana?
Ehkä puuttuu jotain, jotta olisin oikea elävä mies,
mutta pelottaako, että olisin liian lähellä sitä?

Pelottaako, että voisitte aivan vahingossa
kuvitella minua ilman näitä vaatteita,
itsenne allani tai päälläni, voihkien nimeäni?
Pelottaako, että sinä tai hän lankeaisitte
minuun, jonka kanssa ei täytetä maata tai edes kotia?
Ei, aseeni ei nouse tanaan kuin olisin oikea elävä mies,
mutta pelottaako, sillä se ei myöskään laske koskaan?

Pelottaako, kun ylitsepääsemättömän kuilun
pohjalta nouseekin jotain, siis terroristi tai olematon,
luonnoton tai aivan liian luonnollinen?
Pelottaako? Siis ylistäkää elämänne ainoan kerran
lämpimän siemenen aitoutta ja kiertokulun kauneutta!
Puistattava se on, ei ainakaan oikea elävä mies
– mutta pelottaako, miten hyvältä kauhu tuntuu?


(And a rough translation.)



A Taste of Creepiness 

Are you scared? Am I repulsive,
ugly or horrible, or somehow just creepy,
for I am almost how one should be – and not at all?
Are you scared of my smile, or my gaze?
Is my maquillage that terrible, or way too loveable?
Maybe something is missing from me being a real living man,
but are you scared for that I’d be too close to it?

Are you scared for the chance that you could
just by chance imagine me without these clothes on,
yourself on or under me, moaning my name?
Are you scared for you or her falling for me, with whom
you don’t fill Earth, or even one single home?
No, my sword won’t rise as if I was a real living man,
but are you scared, for it does not soften either?

Are you scared when from the bottom of the gap
that cannot be overcome – there’s still something rising?
A terrorist or non-existing, unnatural or too natural?
Are you scared? Go, praise once in your life
the genuineness of the warm seed and the beauty of the circle!
For it is so creepy and not a real living man
- but are you scared for the pleasure of pure horror?