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The Vagrant 1


In the light of the exclusion policies of zero tolerance and privatisations, of the far gone moral reaction, and the even further gone fanatic compromises:

to defend exactly that which still would appear as "eternal values":







and to swear an eternal enmity and vigilance towards their unchanging enemies:


* family

* money

* nation

* religion


Return to the fearful promises of haunting imagination.

(It's actually not easy to answer which means has been chosen by more people to irrevocably manifest the need to be human: though poems or through desperate political actions. In many ways they are each others counterparts. But while the desperate political actions primarily serve as moving reminders that something has to be done at any price, the poems have more to convey of what actually needs to be done, why, and what it may lead to. Because poetry is to stand raging and naked before these questions without any kind of compromise with what seems realistic or advantageous for oneself. No simple answers, except these simple reminders demanded by decency in a civilisation falling apart: the raw strength of love, and thereby the power to formulate the most difficult and most animating questions that could ever take shape.)








Being a surrealist is criminal only in a deeper sense (coupure). It is a break with a grotesquely narrow image of reality, a defeatedly pragmatic common sense, and with this damned loyalty (in all its disguises) with this society; not the least this fucking concern over one's comfortableness and laziness, one's sense of duty and one's accomplishment demands, one's market value on both labor market and personality market.

In a country like Sweden nobody gets jailed just for being a surrealist. On the other hand it is particularly in a country like Sweden natural that one as a surrealist is solidaric with, sometimes also involved in, much of the most conspiratorial criminality as well as the most petty vandalism.

The fact that one of the editors of this little magazine now is jailed - sentenced by the district court to 2 1/2 years in prison for subversion in connection with the EU-topmeeting in Göteborg, but since two months held in custody waiting for the case to be brought up in the court of appeal - is not due to the fact that he is a surrealist, in any other way than the general condition that a surrealist by necessity stands on the side of the human against capital, and thus easily ends up with such company, expresses such opinions, commits such acts, that the police has as its real task (but far from always its juridical formal purpose) to fight down by any means.

Genuinely surrealist activity then can be associated with riots as well as any strategies for disturbance of the habits of perception. What it all comes down to is poetry, which we for a long time have felt alone to be sniffing after, advertising as missing, obtaining by force, from the reactions on the misery of misery. The Vagrant is spread in the street, and wants to reveal the poetic undervegetation in the geographical structures which power greedily rubs as if they were antique furniture for boasting. In order to do this they have placed pee-needy housewives behind windows, policemen, guards and other hooligans. In their hands they have placed cellphones, shoppingbags, truncheons, icecreams and dogs. Are not all these people, all these objects, expressions of one and the same thing. That human creativity is refused and disdained. That even oneself occasionally finds oneself to be one of the pee-needy etc guarding the whole system involontarily out of pure lack of imagination. Polarisation is global. Everywhere enclosures grow, where only the privileged are welcome, the landmines can be visible, and they can be invisible. Everywhere restrictions are raised against the possibilities of imagination. Within us this looks like a huge earwig in the perianth of a blossom. A labyrinth an astronomical calender of concrete.

The Vagrant does not ride towards the setting sun, it is a saddled sun with its hind quarters scratched by the dialectic spur. In the cracks it leaves behind a fragrance of cinnamon-powdered ghost fog. We will willingly allow us to be covered in manure again when the breakout attempt fails.

So is then vandalism and falling in love the only things that remain? "There are no solutions outside love" the surrealists used to dare to repeat. On the other hand love itself is immensely problematic. Perhaps that is what makes it worth something. Admittedly even it is not a solution. What is a solution? Is love only the most dynamical and trustworthy apparent solution? Since all the other apparent solutions only appear as apparently solutions. Ideology. One does not stand it in the long run. One can not stand it.




The vagrant The forger secretly The jailbird


The vagrant explores poetry beyond the card house's allocation of spaces as hierarchical-practical institutions, on top sealed with an unreachable padlock. we question the opposition between inside and outside without necessarily denying the general generation of meaning and the general existence of the different spaces. All spaces are available for poetic exploration, and not the least the prison, in its central accumulation of uncomfortable elements. It would be vulgar to accept the exclusion of poetry merely due to the fact that we all move in, and are influenced by, the facticity of the individual spaces.

We admit and influence a necessary nivellation of the poetic meanings of spaces, and have went off to the spaces of prison and cells to wander around for more than a year. We made ourselves available to the formal imprisonment the prison contains, and we have here caught ourselves exploring the phenomenology of the cell. We are searching for the imaginary reality of the cell, and possibly we have revealed its real strategic function, which is mummification and cryogenic technology. It brings about a mythologisation of imprisonment, with different ambitions - raising strategies for the liberation of the poetic experience of ancient cosmos, not recognising prison in its penal renouncement of life or poetry, transgressing the fictious division between inside and outside.

They say one is not free in prison and free outside. We claim that poetry breaths in a way which collapses the fragile walls of the card house and defies all dualisms. Left on the ground remains a pointless padlock without anything concrete to grasp.




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