from Hackers

Aase Berg


At night I dreamt that I belonged to a basement-flock of girls just as terrified and feverish as me. We could communicate with each other by knocking on the walls.


CIA nabs FBI
Who could have guessed
that Dread Pirate
owned Silk Road

You can’t ever know
who’s on the other end
You don’t know who
you can trust

Listen to the cables
find packets
the receiver decodes
by studying
the intervals

That is when you feel
as one with the black


Nanoblack horses, vantablack net-fishery of the Polaris pearl. A hard, dull, synthetic pearl. Or Pinctada margaritifera-cumingi, grown in mussels in Tahiti. Local pollution gives the pearl its color. But the core of the true pearl from Bahrain is not a grain of sand. Small holes in the oyster shell indicate a parasite. In the soft parts in the slow-slacking intestinal flora of the hover-horse. Along the silk roads of the ocean where the blank pearl of the motor-men’s helmets whirl in the same moonlight, same foam.


Starr sting pain scale. Sudden sorrow has a color and it is yellow and resembles poison, the sun. Your face is very different when you don’t smile, when you negate sharply and perforate. Stellar wind-whistles that whistle-blow and things seldom end well for the mouth behind, it will never again smile. Yet it has to move near the sting color and the poison, the sun.


Trematodes live inside snails in moist environments. They glide up the snail antennae and start to blink. That is how they cause the host animal to climb up a reed where a little light show takes place. A bird is drawn to the light and it swallows the snail. The trematode has now found its home inside the bird, where it wanted to end up!


Which is the first parasite of a hyper-parasite? Can a host insect cross-corrupt its scent-communication? But no crypto-brain, no ping-seeking heart beats me. You, my aquarium for star-fishing, and I, a dark vision electronic straight through you.


The highways in heaven are planned routes between breakpoints. Contact Ho Chi Minh, breakpoint Igari. The seven electronic handshakes in the South China Sea and an incomplete handshake near the road’s end. To disappear without a trace in our time, but is it death or just a change of host?


I am
inside you
Where nobody expected
Hovered down through
the Philippine

cat-soft from

never kills
its host-world


The rabbit moves in. Empty gaze and no brain but a ticking control room. Soon it will be smarter than the rest of us. It’s called observance.


Wanting intimacy with one’s perpetrator is no sickness. Wanting to create a cocoon of normalcy when one is subjected to a crime is no syndrome.


Who is whose stalker.
(Collision of consonants. Damn. Our sex is based on rhythm!)


The triangle-bend’s
center of gravity,
forelimb or hindlimb

Who beats who
in the gathering

The first
becomes the second rideress
The second
becomes the first beforess

The parasitical line reports
to the system operator

in the dressage parade
of hyper-independence

the Trojan deathdance of skeletons:

clearly transparent
goes on three tracks,

the charge


The middle-class-moronic
immune defense
slimey bounces
with the yellow side
always up

My little barn environment
in the crush
of your incredible

Alternative ending:
slit my own throat
at the Grand Hotell
with two l’s

in Bollnäs


The predator circles dimly
around the watering hole

to the fragile
wasp nest

for a refill of

in the holiness

We’ve done it
a whole lot of fucking times
in the Horse’s bed

The fleeing prey
keeps its mouth shut
despite intense pain


I wear a summer dress
senselessly fluttering
the rarest swallowtails,

to emulate the protocol
in your pupa


The lipstick
and my body parts
embezzled in the relief of
Incredible Deniability

You have no idea
what beautiful breasts I have
What pale hands
slink sensually through nets

The free net and the dark one
eternally lonely
in my algorithmic sequence
a misconfigured
open proxy server

when the black box
sinks softly
down to the bottom of the sea
outside of China


The change log
of the current . . . 
The perfect storm,
reverse engineering

The choking spirit
of the current systems
It is not called atmosphere,
it’s called utmost fear

I want more.
I don’t want less.

But a black key
is not script
in the seating arrangement.


The machines are on,
the source codes peck.
There you are no longer loved,
you’re observed.
Because the hacker hierarchy
is a meritocracy,
Respect is earned through results.
Not talk.


Who is whose pain.
Your name rests in peace.
My name—
Deep down
a hacker is never named
the same thing


Watch it
or I’ll call you scriptkiddie
And then, my love,
smoked in the fumes of contempt,
you will no longer
be a starfish


There is a female freedom. The drone will boil. The rabbit in Le Creuset.

translated from the Swedish by Johannes Göransson