another bird, that flew upward, in the Forum Romanum
up toward the Rostra    Maybe a serin, but
I don't know    Flowers were in bloom, flowers I don't recognize
What may have been acanthus, growing like lupins
And a red flower, close to the ground    White butterflies
At the house of the Vestals roses bloomed    Up above
the palace and the ruins of villas a falcon flew
Sudden silence of birds    At what sort of rostrum do what sorts
of speakers appear    I listen to the voices of Europe
I feel no confidence; not even in my own distrust
STEER! We all carry the sparkling diamond oar
Hard; like the gates of Hades    Shadows full of unrest
The Curia, restored in the '30s, in the face of new imperial power
Which senate meets there; which tribunes of the people, if they would now
have audience, even in Hades    We move through the centuries
Faced with destitution's images    The blood of the martyrs is clasped, cradled
As if Agave were clutching the head of Pentheus; the blood runs
down into a bowl; a grail    The Etruscan votive sculptures
are thin as sticks; are by Giacometti    What do the dead
see? What do they see that even the dying do not see? What
Hesperian fruits, shining    Pomegranates; golden fruits?
By the Baths of Diocletian are orange trees    Hidden
inside there, Michelangelo's basilica, is full
of power, stone-dead, of the living    Small flames burn for believers
Policemen stand in groups, some with bulletproof vests, submachine guns
The door to a bordello stands open    Private health clubs
with sauna, massage    At Stazione Termini are all kinds of people;
from all over the planet    Everything stands wide open, glowing poverty
A beggar woman, emaciated, a shawl over her head, a half-
grown child in her arms, also sleeping, does not wake when you give
her money    Which ones listen    Which hear the invisible voice    The one
with no platform, no altar, who is not even heard at the sacrificial spring in the under-
world, welling up from the rock; clear green water    You want
to touch the water, but I stop you    Maybe it is also
polluted? We go to the Colosseum, sit there together
on a marble bench, the fragment of one, behold the endless stream
of tourists    Shadows in the planetary Hades; we among them
On the Palatine there's a wedding; we talk to the cats a while    Look at
more flowers, butterflies    One wholly ordinary sparrow, but a little different
In our hotel room afterwards we make love; fiercely, with great intensity



Dance is born out of the deepest interior of our bodies    As if the light there
were streaming out, out of each body part's smallest movement
We hear gasping breaths    We behold mouths open in trance
Out of them light also issues, in the whirling darkness

The stone falls through millennia    The clear water's darkness
deeper and deeper    But the vanishing is only apparent    The
construction of enormity grows and grows    In its transparency

Pain's nadir, deeper and deeper    At its zenith
Identification with pain, annihilation of pain, is impossible
And yet it's there    Like the entrance into darkness
May I touch your darkness? I would so like to

Forms of power move in the invisible    Even
the anti-empire has power, I understand    Together
we have the power to sublate power, I im-
agined once    Even if only within ourselves
But there is no way to place oneself outside    Night has no limit
It is toward infinity I want to go    Unimaginably

What takes place in this thinking substance? The play of the mind's
faculties, the dance, across the inner, shimmering surfaces
For me there was no limit    For me there is no
limit, except at the instant of snapping, even were it
endlessly stretched    We will meet in the silence, after the dance

What does the voice communicate? As if I never knew
in advance    It comes with all its potentials
Invisible    Out of its fold, foldings, a face peers
as if it were Harlequin-Mozart    The great darkness of the eyes! Also
their smile    Quick, friendly    We can be like that too
My vision is now given to the Eye-Brain    Yours, you who
look at me, out of your femininity, half turned away, almost with
your back to me    So that we will not burn up? I hear
your voice    It exists in the vast play of the voices, their light

What kind of movement up from death?    Is such a thing possible at all?
A flame rises from the ashes, dances, offers itself, its body
in its moments of stillness, a prayer    Coiling into itself
Unwinding again    Returning to the ruins of silence



How to reach into your innermost fragility? Screens drop down very
quickly    Inside there is a glimpse of a swallow's wing
I follow the eye of pain, straight into pain's crystal

I shall approach the colorlessness of nothing, its color
I shall do so with joy, as if approaching
your face    I saw you move, saw the grace of your body
You're illuminated from within    The movements of your limbs
You're about to explain something that deeply moves you, that makes
                                                                  use of your love
I look at you from the far side of everything    Even from there
                                                                    I can walk

What is it that shall break through the first integration?

The face has no end    We move toward the face of infinity
The face bears its deep transparency, its pulsating resistance,
until we both come, arriving in a single cry. . .


Your wing, that carries me
My wing, that would carry you


I hear my father saying: Are you stark-raving mad? The rapidly outdated
language moves like snowflakes through my memory    The dead do not rest
They walk through the world, we don't need to call to them    They are
their own interpretation    They, too, exist in what's foreign    We are parts of language

We cannot take anything back    Can we stop short of the abyss?
We fall deeper and deeper, glass-clear, as if in justice to clarity
But nothing is clear    Intuitions come hovering, scarcely distinguishable
forms in nothing, like ice-profiles in water, the dragonfly's vanishing
pairs of wings    The small mountain ashes' new leaf bouquets emerge, into nothing

Becoming in annihilation    A slightly varied formulation
of Hölderlin's thought    Disappearing far out on one of
the tangents of glass    While the hypersphere grows and grows
I hear impersonal music, no human's music
Again I'm very scared    What do I dare? What don't I?
What kinds of becoming    The existing annihilations rampage all around us
In which do we take part    Breaking out into total answerability

But I don't accept this    I pluck off the red beetles
that are chewing up the fritillarias    One of the cowslips in the grass
has red flowers    You say it was there last year as well    We
see society move, just under the skin    The enormous forces
In growing industrial amplifications    Resonances    Shaking
the ground, the hills, all the bridges, all the connecting strings    Wave connections
All projectiles moving toward the transparency of the luminous skull. . .

The personal brain    The one that grows through human interaction,
and through the interaction of humans with all other beings and entities
Growing, beyond time, like mountain ridges    Which are completely contingent

Poverty's brain    The one that never got to grow out
to its full potential    Or one that was damaged in
some other way    How the brain is in its completeness, its full worth
Even the angelic hierarchies are equalized, as in a mystical blossoming


The delicate light of the night-scented orchids on the heath, late evening sun
We walk in their scent    We drop to our knees to inhale
the musk orchid, its special fragrance    It smells like honey,
you say    You prick your hand on a dwarf thistle    No, I
say, it smells different, a bit strange    We are not strangers here

Under the wall's whitewash is putrefaction's image    A mother
We are informed by the absence of knowledge    Does a third form exist?

                                                                          Mozart's final hour,
the instruments are smashed, in some preformative statements    Word
propositions, below shrilling flutes, the larger stringed instrument's
multitude of voices    And the Muse for me invents, for me in her
presence, with a new shimmering, a turn for the dance of my foot. . .

What kind of society is coming?    And to which society are we the increment?
I look at the swallows and the swifts, their different geometries. . .
I look at the wild roses in their different colors, pure white to
pink, the new flowers of the pink ones have a tinge of yellow
I brought you one of them    The bird in the thicket cried warning    On the road
I ran over a viper, which we looked at later, it was beautiful
In each person a society is built    Different societies, their points of conflict,
areas of confrontation    This is Kypris's tract    No one else has rights here
No one has the right to usurp the rights of others    This defines society


Even the empire crushed from within gathers its shards again
Chechnya    Burned-out tanks on the streets of the capital
still smoldering, soldiers in motion    People, on their way in the rain
From the empire's invisible center new signals go out
Making themselves heard in Bosnia as well    On the surface bordering on
                                                                          the other empire    Also in
                                                                          its fragmented organization. . .
Even this country, Sweden, is now a part of the empire
Now we also become a part of the empire's collective power
I myself want to be outside the boundary
Freedom's extremity is tested by what is not yet defined

I lived in the underworld of catastrophes    Beside the concrete garage in Hades
We have only the human lives we have    They are all compounded
I will fight for every shard of democracy
As if no resignation existed, no emptiness
You asked: how was it there, was it very run down    No,
I answered, it was rather tidy, a neighborhood typical
of social group 3    Then it struck me that the concept of the social group
has almost entirely disappeared from the language, following the concept of class
That this has now disappeared in silence    The actual grows in silence
This class struggle still exists    In the battle between invisible classes

The intensity of murder changes    We see the shadows
Hear the cries    As if the intensity of tremendousness also grew
in darkness    Naked existence    Although it cannot exist. . .

Parts of the world's violence? Yes, there's no escaping this
Neither abdicating nor usurping power helps
Weapons are everywhere    Angels fly everywhere
We cut into one another's transparent bodies
Automatic weapons automatically release    The blood is transparent
How shall I seek transnational form    Who are my allies?


The sum of all blindings    How do I gain entry? How do I
we get through? As if there were but one blinding-brain    How do I touch
its leaves, its butterfly forms    It is night    Only then is light visible
For whom do the blinding stars appear? The stars of darkness –

In darkness it will come    In the lucent darkness
How can I know? I cannot know    That's what darkness is
Only there are we alive    Only there does new light become alive
as if it came from voice, from living voice, water. . .

But the burning brain is in all human beings    It sets the house ablaze
Those still alive are already shadows    Enclosed in fire


A society rushing away from equality    And which has chosen
this path; also away from democracy    Already subjected
to the democratic deficit of its central structures,
to the Secret Committees of the elites, locally, centrally. . .

How to emerge from my obsessions? The caesura
of sex opens in my brain    That's where I want to be, kissing its
lips    Smelling its fragrance, tasting it    The faint, bitter taste
amidst its sweetness    I seek your sleep that I may awaken

What am I to do with the sexual empire? It has its
power; we are in its force field    But we are not vassals
ANAX   ANASSA    If not, then never mind    Kitharodoi; if only with
the instruments of our bodies; the souls of our bodies
For we are in this game, this game of chance    Beyond death

My voice is no longer equal    This is the meaning of vassalage
Do I accept this    No    Every day value is re-created    Until it
is no longer possible    We are in this order    Order there is none


Which is the symbolic form that's approaching    In an impossible
topology    All faces touch one another    With their
light, or their darkness    This is what we must understand

Farthest down in darkness I touch the skin of light, touch its
splintering stars    All the signs look at us    Their sound
The time of stars is part of the time of our bodies    Enters into new form
We are in the air of the indefinite    That's where new laws are born
We shall violate them as well    Until we ourselves are destroyed

And if we cannot be renormalized    If we actually are
in real infinity    Where literally nothing
can be strange, not even the music of nothing. . .
And so I take a deep breath, breathe in all that is strange. . .
Where we'll meet one another without fear, in that house

Even at light's lowest level there's splendor, the invisible rose-form
of the brain, in its flowing geometry, whirling    We are
literally measurements of earth    In its unheard-of
pulverization    Invisible dust    New forms of time,
giving birth, in those successively born, in the mother row –
Today, on this day, at this hour Kerylos and Alkyon fly. . .
The white, invisible storm, also has an eye

The delicate branches of the trees move in the gray wind    The brain's
tree moves    Or takes some other form    We are informed
by the real; what can break through the transfigurations of the lie
Technologies of the lie keep being developed    Virtual history,
what has never existed, becomes in the next moment real
The lie steps in and shapes the real    In an indissoluble
confusion, lethal    The mountains, the maxima, in this always growing
                                                                                    complexity. . .
How do we cross over, with which wings     The wing of truth, sharp;
                                                                 flies with its darkness
The wing of love flies too; but it is never alone    How
                                                   will you meet me?
Even abstract wings fly; slice us up with their light


Infinity is liberation, or else it is nothing    Wouldn't we then
be slaves to infinity, subjected to freedom's constraint?

Already the intensity of light is plainly increasing; even if amplified by snowy surfaces
over the landscape of light's lowest level    The lowest souls are those of the tyrants,
Plato says; but I wonder about the hierarchies, if time's interlacing
is different, non-hierarchical    Angry cats get no sleep, you tell me
Then in the night we make love, shower together
I will go into the mountain of time, into its resonant, inner matter
It is not the light-sphere, which also resounds faintly    Signs of fire
                                                         shine on the forehead

I touch the skin of night    I touch the resounding darkness
The impossible is completely abstract    Its love
But in the darkness your hands come to my face before you leave

Historical movements are not what we believe them to be
Then what are they? Movements within the larger brain?
No! I've said that the Great Man does not exist

Afterward I am inside the Empire    In its stasis    The dark eyes look at me
But I do not accept the empire    I accept no kingdom,
                                                      neither on heaven nor on earth,
                                                              nor any other place;
the thin flakes of birch-bark stir in the gray wind, invisibly    We are
                                                 the movements of history

The one thing that cannot change is zero    Infinity
is not stasis, rather the complete change of the all, all the time
Equally awful, equally unendurable, without love

                                                                          Translated from the Swedish by Rika Lesser.



XC: social group: a group of persons who form a relatively homogeneous unit in social status. The term socialgrupp more or less replaced socialklass as a concept during the heyday of the welfare state. There were three numbered social groups, roughly corresponding to the upper, middle, and lower classes.

XCII: ANAX, ANASSA: Greek, ruler or sovereign; master, mistress, respectively.
kitharodoi: plural of Greek kitharodos, one who sings to the kithara (Latin/English: cithara), an ancient Greek stringed instrument of the lyre class, having a wooden case.