From when Dryads leaped to the rhythm of the blushing murmur, and its frank exaltation, you, like Alexander the Great, give us such a reward, such excited Orphikas, you carry such a trembling that it creates you with a feminine presence of such a Bona Dea ritual, in which you opened yourselves to the Dionysian plenum like ritual missionaries summoning Wonthelimar to exonerate Marielle, to take her to the Casus Infernalis wasteland in which she will have to excel in a certain Mithraic ritual.
You flatter yourselves with the lean Suns of Avignon in the Light of Mithras, which are reviving you like puerperal lights that have been obscured and affronted by the thousands. From the resin-collecting revelers who acclaim you, let the Christian lumpenproletariat return, you worshippers of glories you indulge in at the fountain of your father Oeagrus. Here I tell you, Orpheus, do not spare chimerical praises, nor do you find sweetness in the maidens and deities of masterful virtues, stones of such prayer in which you make the rainy bread of the countryside, of their Animas or Animis, if it pleases you to carry them in the chariots of Cybele; from the pious Attis who will congratulate us from the oratory of Agia Lavra, accommodated by charioteers who are his gods, or whom Bishops will unsettle from the steeds of Pindar and their complex Epinicians, perhaps he will be an Atlas who leads you to laurel-crowned victories and renewed, faded glory.
It is the charitable hour of the Bishop, of him who dares to be immortal, stoic, and Germanic-Greek; who calls you to service with the gift of the bullseye of “Wonthelimar großer Sieg über Beelzebub; Wonthelimar and her great Victory over Beelzebub.” In a finite span, of nefarious palls that covered the face of Marielle of the Otherworld, your Pindar chestnuts command you to go trampling vines that climb and bore through their lineage, that your Steeds and Bishops may rise early in the melted, stone-paved eyes of Beelzebub, that you shall see them dissipated in their diagonals, yet you shall be able to revive yourselves with the supremacy and power of the Bishop and the Casus Infernalis in the unfathomable confines of its slanted Oh my Dryad, who merged with the glorious burst of metaphor that escapes my daydreams, I, Wonthelimar, now live with Marielle in my lap, just like a Dryad! Like a feminine lark you left in the omnipotent, desolate fields of Persephone's barren chrysanthemums, haunted by Marielle's exhaled moans… in the mausoleum of Avignon.
My revered Marielle, why have you been so forgiving of my imploring, those words that jealously flit about to shelter you, and of spellings that no history can or will ever satisfy? You are always lying on the numb parchment I carry in my tattered pockets, so that no fledgling letter can depart, daring to describe you better than an abandoned printing press.
I can honor and tell you that from this precious Dryad, I have been able to reach beyond to your unknowable chamber, which is reborn from the iceberg and its lost sound, where you may be pleased and devoured by my prayers as I go crushing your Orphic serpents, in duality of yours and of our reborn soul, three thunders become centuries, three sonorous impulses empower us until the dawn of the calm discord, I feel the bugle call like the Orphic plebeian who leads us singing to the superficial extension of the world, refining itself through the grooves of nuance in your panting palliative apostolates, going astonished as we go praising Orpheus of your return to the exordium of Avignon… bordering splendor of Nyons to the beneficent vineyard of Valdaine.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 8:55 PM UTC
From when Dryads leaped to the rhythm of the blushing murmur, and its frank exaltation, you, like Alexander the Great, give us such a reward, such excited Orphikas, you carry such a trembling that it creates you with a feminine presence of such a Bona Dea ritual, in which you opened yourselves to the Dionysian plenum like ritual missionaries summoning Wonthelimar to exonerate Marielle, to take her to the Casus Infernalis wasteland in which she will have to excel in a certain Mithraic ritual.
You flatter yourselves with the lean Suns of Avignon in the Light of Mithras, which are reviving you like puerperal lights that have been obscured and affronted by the thousands. From the resin-collecting revelers who acclaim you, let the Christian lumpenproletariat return, you worshippers of glories you indulge in at the fountain of your father Oeagrus. Here I tell you, Orpheus, do not spare chimerical praises, nor do you find sweetness in the maidens and deities of masterful virtues, stones of such prayer in which you make the rainy bread of the countryside, of their Animas or Animis, if it pleases you to carry them in the chariots of Cybele; from the pious Attis who will congratulate us from the oratory of Agia Lavra, accommodated by charioteers who are his gods, or whom Bishops will unsettle from the steeds of Pindar and their complex Epinicians, perhaps he will be an Atlas who leads you to laurel-crowned victories and renewed, faded glory.
It is the charitable hour of the Bishop, of him who dares to be immortal, stoic, and Germanic-Greek; who calls you to service with the gift of the bullseye of “Wonthelimar großer Sieg über Beelzebub; Wonthelimar and her great Victory over Beelzebub.” In a finite span, of nefarious palls that covered the face of Marielle of the Otherworld, your Pindar chestnuts command you to go trampling vines that climb and bore through their lineage, that your Steeds and Bishops may rise early in the melted, stone-paved eyes of Beelzebub, that you shall see them dissipated in their diagonals, yet you shall be able to revive yourselves with the supremacy and power of the Bishop and the Casus Infernalis in the unfathomable confines of its slanted Oh my Dryad, who merged with the glorious burst of metaphor that escapes my daydreams, I, Wonthelimar, now live with Marielle in my lap, just like a Dryad! Like a feminine lark you left in the omnipotent, desolate fields of Persephone's barren chrysanthemums, haunted by Marielle's exhaled moans… in the mausoleum of Avignon.
My revered Marielle, why have you been so forgiving of my imploring, those words that jealously flit about to shelter you, and of spellings that no history can or will ever satisfy? You are always lying on the numb parchment I carry in my tattered pockets, so that no fledgling letter can depart, daring to describe you better than an abandoned printing press.
I can honor and tell you that from this precious Dryad, I have been able to reach beyond to your unknowable chamber, which is reborn from the iceberg and its lost sound, where you may be pleased and devoured by my prayers as I go crushing your Orphic serpents, in duality of yours and of our reborn soul, three thunders become centuries, three sonorous impulses empower us until the dawn of the calm discord, I feel the bugle call like the Orphic plebeian who leads us singing to the superficial extension of the world, refining itself through the grooves of nuance in your panting palliative apostolates, going astonished as we go praising Orpheus of your return to the exordium of Avignon… bordering splendor of Nyons to the beneficent vineyard of Valdaine.
Request permission to use this poem