Dr Faust converses with Schrödinger

By HENNA SJÖBLOM


Was it alive?

Does it matter? When you think about it, there’s no proof for either side. The very idea of not being is incomprehensible to the human mind. We bleed for meaning, for something to tear at, we cry in the shower while stroking ourselves, nipping the folds of salvation. We come to the thought of eternal life or eternal damnation, both irresistible to us, stirring a perverse satisfaction in our gut. We press cigarette ends to our wrists, kiss boys with white collars just to taste god between their legs, wake up with a smashed bottle of cyanide in our hands and fingerprints around our necks. We are here and we are not. The meaning of life is immaterial once we’re aware of it; to want is to be alive, to survive is to

never know.

I believe you found the core of the poodle there.

The seal of the chamber is ever unmoving. Why care for what lies beyond our sight? To perceive would eliminate the purpose. After all, what is desire but a reminder of our impending death, the grave notion of how everything just doesn’t matter? Ball and chain, pit and pendulum. Now wine drips from the veins of the sky, slashed open by insight. I saw the heavens unfolding. If this is our only chance, why, let’s dance with Mephisto tonight, let’s inhale gasoline and stick our fingers in each other, lick eternity from out chins and dip acid in our eyes. Ours is this world, ours is the piercing tongue of god.

Heinrich, my friend,

we will surely burn.


Henna Sjöblom,  the goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. She writes to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences. Find her at Murder Tramp Birthday

Hiroshima Hentai- Henna Sjöblom/Murder Tramp Birthday

It’s tasteless, you said
erasing my search history.
I said I’ll do whatever it takes
to end this war.

Physically impossible?
Well honey,
that’s what they said about the atomic bomb.

I dream of a girl on a meadow
her face melting into purple wax
and cherries and brain-matter, meringue on top.
Shame breeds desperation breeds loosened morals and
Little Boys
causing trouble.

Basking in the afterglow,
I wipe the radiation from my face.
Through the walls of the shelter,
I still hear them scream
wishing for a white-hot impact,
waiting for their time to burn.


Henna Sjöblom,  the goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. She writes to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences. Find her at Murder Tramp Birthday

Poem in which I dye my hair ashen blonde- Henna Sjöblom

Poem in which

If we don’t speak again, I want you to know
I survived,
overrun, barren and sliced to the bone,
with a sudden urge to laugh

out loud,

accused of fetishizing, pretentiously advertising
oppressed minority groups and late night liquidizing 
talking too loud, being way too obvious
(she’s a meat hook,
a wretched Mary Sue, not one original thought in her mind)
What kind of disaster am I unless someone
takes notice? Here I am canned in an airtight tube,

your average misanthropist, complete with profanity filter and habituation warnings,

averting offensive comments and online shitstorms

judgement burns like hydrogen peroxide

What’s your passion darling, what’s your deepest and most unpronounceable 

truth? Let it all show,
make it the thrill of a lifetime,
parodize yourself to the point of exhaustion!
Don’t worry if you missed a streak
– just cut it off and glue it to your forehead

as protection.

Hey hypochlorite girl, you brilliant survivor. You are going to a brand new place,
but to transform,

you have to leave some things 

behind.

 


Henna Sjöblom,  the goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. She writes to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences. Find her at Murder Tramp Birthday

Figments of a Mania – Henna Sjöblom

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I saw her in the dark of my eye

stretched out on a polyester blanket,

puffed-up cheeks and threads of pink bubblegum stuck to her hair
the /maggot-eaten/ stockings barely covering up the /cigarette burns/ along her legs
riffles trough the pages of the /holy/ bible, decides she doesn’t have time

patient may sometimes experience feelings of irritability,                   grandiosity, or an increase in sexual desires

I masturbated to the image that night
and called /my own/ name as I came, arrogant god that I am,
wrapped up in my own, gluttonous plane of existence
I would grab a stake and drive it trough my uterus
So that my guts would spill out, drenching your immobilized body
beneath me
and you would cry out /in bliss/
knowing the

true exemption

of being defeated

before I was holy, I used to know shame
I made up lists of people I /couldn’t/ touch
sanctimonious beacons of chastity

I later took pleasure
in tearing apart                  patient tends to be outgoing,

easily angered,
I defile
/everything/
and
/everyone/
I find desirable

each day, my idols grow smaller

                                                     or could it be that I am growing bigger
It’s hard to see from inside the Taurus’s jaws
so I do as advised, save my apologies for another day
and succumb to the feeling
of walking on thin, crystal ice
waiting for the finned shadows
inevitably about to snatch me back to the depths
from which I arise,
the /drowned/ queen of the two-faced

 

[Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, in real life known as Henna, a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her writing often deals with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

Suckerpunch, the Second Coming – Henna Sjöblom

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Have you ever tasted true revenge?
Ever feared the loss of a wound more sacred
than the hollowed out palms of Christ?

I’ll tell you, I dip my knuckles in holy water after each defeat,
so that soon my skin will be impenetrable. I charge my gun with self-pity,
coat my blade with spite.
Don’t talk to me, I grin.
I am self-destructive.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not stigmatizing, and I can’t be a martyr, as I never bowed to anyone.
Who the fuck set the rules anyway?
I’m a bloody artist, displaying slashes as exhibits in a showcase,
and I take pride in my performance,
but presenting wounds won’t omit the truth,
and the truth is
I’ve never felt better

Than the night I woke up in the hospital,
screaming,
chains rattling around my wrists.
Nurses with faces made of paint scrapers.
Is that what I am?
An exhibit
in need of restoration?
Or the answer to the sarcastic questions
generally asked by horny men around their 50’s?

I’ll tell you what I am.
I am too big for this place.
Acid-tripping deicide angel,
fast-forwarding trough my own rapture.
Unashamed,
unrefined,
I am what mourning widows sing of
on their way to the gallows pole.
We’re the girls that already died once.
We don’t need anyone else.

 

[Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, dropped the disguise and is now publishing under her real name on SD. A hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland, she enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]