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Oculi  Apr 2019
Eclogue #2
Oculi Apr 2019
A cape on my back
And a trigger next to my index finger
I look around at the world
It is a hell on Earth
The trees in bloom, the water azure
The sky cloudless, orange and purple

I look like I'm from the future
Maybe I'm from the future
Or maybe I really did come from Saturn
Since this is all so alien to me
Take me back to where we were
Take me, Ra. Take me, Jhonn.

But I'm here. I see the world
The old building blocks
The ferris wheel moved by radiation
I look at the gun in my hands
It's matte black. Brand new, like me.
Brand new, like the blood from the body on the ground.

Maybe this never happened,
I say to myself questioning the audience.
I look at the cubes. They are all different colors.
Some explode. Some expand.
Some implode. I feel at home with those.
This feels safe.

The world I came to is different.
This world is not a rhapsody.
This world is made of skin.
There's another body inside.
Like mine, but pitch black.
It is my shadow.

Suddenly I am at home again.
I feel the shadow pulling the Earth apart.
I feel my face. I'm dusty.
I report to the Mars of the World.
They tell me to head back in.
I resign myself to fate.

I look in the mirror one last time.
I see a woman.
I'm content.
I get in my bed, as I did yesterday.
The night shortly falls over me.
I crawl into the void, as I live and breathe.

I wake up in the different place again.
I look in the mirror.
It's a dusty, white face of no expression.
I put the cape back on and leave.
As I leave the zone beyond time, I remember again.
It is time to find something of value.

**** the objective.
I hear knocking on the door.
I open it. It's the courier.
"Welcome back."
"Thank you."
"Are you ready?"

We leave for the yellow zones.
But I'm tired of the courier.
As the bullet exits his brain, I feel free.
So does his blood.
The desert around us stares at me.
The cubes cry out.

I'm in the green zone. I'm looking for the child.
He greets me with a smile.
"You have realized!"
"I am finally back.
I have killed the ones holding me back."
"Welcome back to reality. I love you, Mother."

The industrial zone around us starts feeling distorted.
The cubes lose their shapes and scream.
My son grabs my legs tight.
The trees are all dead. The sky is gray.
The water runs green, with purple bubbles.
I missed Saturn.
Kurosawa could dream.
Tarkovsky could dream.
Lynch could dream.
Why could I not?
Oculi  Mar 2019
Eclogue #1
Oculi Mar 2019
The sun in the sky of an eternal night
The tractor swings and misses today
The drums are hit every day in anticipation
The butterfly's wings torn off and put on
The daily struggle of a pastor in modernity
Dying to go back to how life used to be

A monolith opened from dying sheep
A droning, long, darkened figure came
He took all the belongings of modern man
And left as quickly as he came, leaving ruination
The ruination spread through the world
And as the figure left, all our souls did, too

The pastor had prepared for this day, though
As all his sheep gathered into a herd...
He saw what had to be done and took off
The sheep, cried after their owner that night
But the man could not be swayed anymore
He took his gun and his scythe and his armor

In a world ever so confused, the pastor stuck out
Looking for something that wasn't there.
He saw gates of elected darkness and phantoms
He saw drops of rain be every color and none
He saw man become animal and **** one another
He saw buildings morph into pure liquid LSD

The bat wings on his back grew bigger evermore
And his eyes kept getting darker and darker
His head kept singing in liturgical Latin
And the grasp on his scythe kept getting weaker
But that was all okay, because he still had a goal
And once he found the Gate, it would all be fine

It went like that for what seemed like years
But in reality it was just a few days, maybe a week
His feet got more and more tired by the day
And by the fourth day, all he saw was the night
The prophet's words rang in his head forevermore
"Where is the night? Where is the Gate? Where, oh?"

By the time he'd reached the other world, too late
He had become a creature of darkness, himself
Ruining the world in his path step by step, he did
And when he stopped to take a breath, he felt weak
Little did he know, he was in fact stopping forever
And that he wouldn't find the man, but vica versa

On the 21st of June, an bystander found an old man
Breathing heavily, desperately looking all over
The old man seemed like he was 200 or more
His speech was slurred and hard to understand
The bystander took him to a hospital, where he spoke
Out loud, he said "I forgive you, brother."
1.
Stags crest the hill
splotched with heather
and cairns. Their body-
builder-thick necks
carry a massive
headdress of outsize
antlers. Heavy is
the head that wears
the crown.

They snort with
disdain at dangers
from humans. The hunt
means nothing to
them but the thrill
of the chase. The
nearness of death
simply one of nature’s
teasing tricks.

A misty sun punches
through the yellow-
gray fog, a blurry
corona emerging as
a chick from its shell, no
match for the Red Deer's
majestic rack. Royalty
spawns violence to
protect the crown. No
challenger approaches.

Nobility, integrity, power.
Scotland finds these
virtues hidden in the
regal heart of the Red Hart.
And so killing turns
to regicide. The
bullet melts in its
casing from shame.
We yearn, yearn,
yearn for the
beauty of the stag,
only to "possess"
it by destroying it.

2.
To leave the hills
and dales, the
mist of the stag's
fierce breathing,
and to warily enter
the shadowed lair
of some hunting lodge --
all this vanquishes
our claim to
nature's bounty.

On every white wall, the
stag's crown hangs,
a dark skeleton
of taxidermy,
unsightly, lifeless,
mute witness to
our failed attempt
at unity, our empty
chase after beauty,
the lust to own it,
become it, caress
it, love it and so
woo immortality --
all this vanishes
like the moon on
a winter’s night,
as elusive
as the Red
Deer's ghost.

On the hill, cairns
point the way to
the grandest vistas
of the Highlands,
rolling in patchwork
colors toward the horizon
and sea. Our place
is left looking
and longing, the stags
prancing behind us,
elders chanting their
glory. The sun
glints off the waves,
lighting up a vast
kingdom of brilliance.
It swells and recedes,
forever lost to the
petty reach of our
lonely grasp.
We crawl on
our bellies
under the squat
sandstone bridge
to emerge into
the mouth of
the canyon that
boxes in
the light. Walls
slick with
darkened
rock plunge
to the sand-
soaked floor.
Iron-stained
boulders line
our way. Only
silence speaks.

Ahead, we climb
a makeshift ladder
of timber tied
with fraying rope.
Up, then down again,
crawling farther
atop the sand,
captive to
the dark until
we emerge again
into the day's
last light.

Behind us,
giant eyes
peer out
of gray-white
plumage. On
the rock shelf,
two infant
Great-Horned
Owls spy on
us with
curiosity,
wonder
and fear.
No adult
in sight,
trustingly
airborne at
twilight
to swoop
down on the
day's prey,
plenty
for all.

Uncanny,
the infants’ eyes
never blink,
absorbing
us in their
piercing
depth
of field:
strange
mammals,
too large
to slash
and carry.

In the distance,
heavy wings
cleave the
darkened air.
150 words
An eclogue is a traditional short poem on a pastoral subject. I have been writing a series of modern eclogues that are longer poems. I began with the pasture, then the Highlands of Scotland, on to the forest and nature itself, and now to the desert canyon.
Sukanya Basu Jul 2019
My mind isn't at ease
It has sailed from Salisbury to Atlanta to eclogue of Greenwich

What has religion defamed me into,
I seek the meaning of life;

I had a tree back in the Indian Summers of May,

It had dried and summoned poison in recluse,
It is dead.
Final Ellipsis Chapter XXXI
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichi
Transversal Valleys  The  Ferments - Parapsychological Regression

Vernarth says:
“In this regression, I was fascinated in the final capitulars mode, in the lands of the transversal valleys of Alhué, Pichi- Chile. Where I have the cradle of incipient mythology, among spirits sheltered in valleys of dusty roads and the fringed concessions of the Lord of Death, in the full lands of the Collateral Valleys, Land of Borker, Kaitelka, Leiak, Espantacuculi, Autraldisis, Hyperdisis, Universe Zig Zag, Wasos, Spermazoid Fable and Mountaineers etc; that will make up the mythological and fabulous beings glossary in this region of the Transparent imaginary castle; that it is my residence and my parents without limits or parallels in a large estate of divine blood and myself; Vernarth de Sudpichi, Wernarth-Werthian of compulsion and steely romanticism, of the majestic living spirit of the astral Commander of Alexander the Great of Macedon. Here I am also Macedonian, in the domains of my ancestors with more than seven hundred years, which will be held in this savage auction of all the Horcondising ranchers, in convalescence before my purgation. All will be deprived of their normality, and I not of the mine! But in this regression, I have to set off with all my ancestors to the high mighty Horcondising; Castle of our aristocratic lineage that will take me to my father Bernardolipo and my mother Luccica; making me her son again and Hetairoi Commander of the magnanimous Phalanges of Alexander the Great.

Vernarth, beyond a before, collects honey from the ******* of a pale blowfly. By opening his sclera, with a bad step, he tries to continue dreaming, to subtract minutes from the contained time and neutered micro space of his Period. What would Mr. Hefestos say, if the light of Jesus would be the basis of a tri-founder Chronophone, starting a spectral casting, Ideal to roll from the top, among so many organic masses and his round neck? On this clinging to the jars of altered bacteria that ran in terror through the native forest, their languages continued to ferment, devoid of terrifying languages, in which their piggy banks and clods of fear were drained, that new fabric roofs rise through the raids. failed. Sour loves and sour laborious flashes on his empty molars, sublingual substances bubbling intraorally and intraorganically. Through the other orifices and interstices, new intestinal sounds drawn, calm the rhythm not only of the distended ignorance of my sustenance from apples and bacteria trembling between my steps to redeem. Some celeripedes sharpen their stride, and others weakly digest the faded day of advancing without trick or fiction, to that anorexic politics, of not stopping walking, even if the cold makes me amnesiac, I will sit naked at dawn to paint on the exhausted mural, I will wait the downpour of colors to rearrange this sad and melancholic song. They will explode as with their marsupial bags on the grouped beings that were waiting to be surveyed to persuade the bad omen of being auctioned to another rank confessed aphonic ferment, in this vessel on a stove of so much frank sliding, without stopping without false support, ending the day from where I left, at the table next to my feline Goddess Pirucha, free from this press, which does not issue any limits, only seconds that run with gasping flares at myself running with my back to my identical, arriving where my anachronistic intervals speak, my new births. If it is that I break off the cliff and am born again in new strides, if I am or was I...?

Vernarth says:
“At five in the morning we sit down to watch the exhausting specters, royal masters come for you and me to give the diadem or mushroom halo over the Horcondising. Adelimpia my grandmother, takes between her hands, tireless lines by palmist possess, in her iris laser, makes her see more than read with blisters in her eyes from so much reading, poppies in her hands from so much watering the mountainous skies. They get up, Kaitelka takes all the Downian language, Aunt Trueno, fight the pyre of loyal false clowns and bio dreams, to reprimand the living eternally, what I collect from today will be wood for my candle, so in the Ganges of Pichi I will rasmillar the ashes of other handsome brave men trying to die. When I return, my right hand will fit each year of my obituary anniversary, I will try to understand the shadow of pus from Thanatos lecturing to know, to die, maybe a thousand years will take me, but the Ceibo tree of my duplicate coral house will always take me where my Christ, making me thunder of years of round and round, to take me from my brothers and to roam the pasture tenderly by the thin clouds covering me on my pyre. Bernardolipo my grandfather, is with strands of alfalfa and in the hands of others, horses lacking in vitamins, lacking green palaces, salmon paths to announce with horns before leaving, with an arrival from the west to the east, both to narrow in their sleeves wounded, already drying off from the serous mountain spittle, in a pornographic nap of young killers. They close the portal of my Uncle Hugo, full of olive edges and dowels, whims and conditions of stars between grounds, in the well-run teeth of some swallowed shadows of the badly created threshold. Eight in roundabout…, eight feet looking at the night ground, rags that take the paste from their shoes, in the luster of beautiful life, and that is where I stay walking. They take their rakes of grafted winter plum housed in the suppuration of the caterpillar, with their interminable divine garments, with divine grace to overshadow it, she does for me what I do for her, every pain of the soul suffered by jealousy pain who wants to moo in the secretion of the wound, every little thing, every little life, preceded by the donor Pichi- bio, or microscopic life that strides along the cobblestones of the dying Bohemian lamp. They have to make captivating sounds, lurking sounds, Corti pipe ***** sweetness, sonic plant - sonic biblo in order to use it in sounds without clothes, which were once made of very generous acetate, or pieces to pay attention, when a green cricket sobs , for the departure of her beloved red cricket mother. How incapable we are of collecting memories never remembered, like the minimum dividing phrase between my heart and that of the cricket in the small corner of its left thorax. It's half past five, very close to the monk's valley, the Scarecrow, on his knees was picking up one of his gold teeth, the slime from the tapestry of his floor shone, and his clavicle was *****, almost cybernetic, moving away from one of his incisors gold teeth. When my maternal grandmother was surprised by Queen Anne, he blushed and gulped down another drain. Adelimpia, Bernardolipo, Aunt Trueno, and Anne or Queen Anne appeared, dancing in broken measures of Brahms dances, to meet the Horcondising massif, to open routes to the end of a purgative phase. The scarecrow, fell apart and covered his face, but when he connoted that he felt emotions, he joined them, so that in the dark dawn more stars could be seen as in the oven roasted milk, in stormy shadows and stormy ladles, for the snack of the cloudy adventure to reach the dreaded corner of beyond the Sudpichi that was left behind. The man of the cornfields, scare crows, stood out in the day, sharpened the night, to arrive quickly at the tabernacle of Joshua de Piedra, to finish the ranks of the proscenium, of the souls of the new space to dwell. When walking, between paths blown by the trapped chest of the giant melancholic flat-footed ogre, who was trapped in rags, but smelling of chamomile with blooming mistletoe shoots, lighting a corner match in the Zig Zag Universe.

Here the Cyprian squirrel smokes, hiding from rays and sparks, not situated internal winds, in the name of the dragged crushed leaves of certain minks of the crusades in Jerusalem and in the cut off Merovingian lives, placebo, gyroscope, trident, where my worst go balloons and emetic parties riding them in the microscopic rising of my Sun, in a cascade of external cries, where I pronounced the symbols of terror, in which Lepanto's blood runs. Serene faint orchid black blood; fled widow amidst stoning or slicing pyres.  Turbine oar, which circulates my right and left hand. The sand lapse twists, twists and becomes wet, ruminant fear of simply not sleeping, eternal chews of the moth-eaten wood of Nazareno, unsnailed nails that swallow my petite ivy hands. The four petards, with their shadows on their backs in late nights of bats from Nostradamus's closet, in this black and sweaty commoner night, I will dress with them, the clothes that will be spun in prophecies, as if walking through the sand of heaven in peace and final , in the dihedral of his own soul, and his temple adding zeroes in the depths of indisposed Love, of sudden love, of love that rises in angular planks and they rise with their little sticks from the devil's triangle, which thus took me at once in the brandy near the shadow of the epitaph of the stream and the smelly sky, ramshackle Heaven ..., Eden of pale exile. The tangent wind, touched the untouchable wind, walking in circles in the arms of a Samurai that glassy ..., in white stupor danced through the green grassland, in the stupid and feverish field, leaning towards a gentle rabbit, among swirls of the gene of a rodent crossing the legs of my grandmother Adelimpia, who moved her cane between the sheets of the new calendar, the year of the rabbit. Go upstairs with the others, stupefied by the moody fumaroles burning, I see the roofs of the Horcondising, I see their sweaty beams of gut fat from ****** henbane, thick veined beams, catching rodent teeth and rearing new claws, to tremble by the Ceiling veins drunk amidst plague scandals dying on the first try. Leiak, omnipresent vague spirit of the gentle water dancer, lives on the water with his chin and slug, his jocular back is seen, breaking the lines of wells between flesh and silhouettes.  Before the First Station, the first of the three remaining nights before reaching the Joshua de Piedra volcano. "



Apostle Saint John continues in a parapsychological trance:

“Queen Anne and Aunt Thunder look at each other with rye crumbs in their hands, walking along the swaying floor; the Goddesses are silent when they breathe again. Vernarth's father; Bernardolipo laces a log and a piece of cheese. Hungry cats jump to the tabletop, Hugh Uncle from Vernarth, lights the log, keeps nosing with thick-gauge chocolate, shafts of white chocolate and southern marshmallow. His grandmother Adelimpia bathes his hands in beautiful water, takes his bow, rolls up his sleeves and jumps to the round dough and to the celestine stone, cooking beautiful tortilla water, baptized on the edges of each penetrating eye. Leiak spirit, runs and superimposes the screen, in dinner show, for four that bulge guts before the tasty bread, Hugh, lifts his envelope from the front end, Bernardolipo takes out his imperfect hat, they eat Christmas rolls, with soft aniseed and nutty aromas as in threads. They eat within the ten minutes that Leiak allows him to eat, otherwise his peer monks of silence will ****** the thick crumbs from his tortillas, which run to his house in an anodyne mouth, cradling funny hallucinations, full belly, full of sleep, without owners, in vocal horns that sound the night, to get up later. Tired and fermented, they sit down to eat, to look reclining, on the warm ground of Heaven, and the heel of the entire green north continues walking along the estuary. Adelimpia sews a sock every night, to put it on the very top, so she would have two more socks left to knit, until she arrived at her high school, to meet Joshua de Piedra, to start the glorified wind, to mediate and reach eternal heaven with a stone, to the empty believers of the beautiful death, of the beautiful deaths of the Horcondising. Here they sleep, they travel, they stretch their hands to heaven, Adelimpia as a seal, now the King of Heaven is wearing, in the first idiomatic reverie that appears, Hildegard von Bingen…, and she collected flowers on the backs of the rabbits with blessed multicolored t-shirts. She tells them komme susser tot - wie ist diese Blau Rabbit? They reply Schoen hilde Blau - the wallhalla will go with us with messages and flowers, to distribute its pollen throughout the world. In the distance, circular northern lights hiccupped as they fell, endless troops opened the plague on the ground, mocking the imprint of the sandals of venerated magicians, of inordinate quadruped *****; Jacinta and Centella, brought the pantry, on the left back and on the third rib the image of Francesco Forgione, who on it had a bundle of corn bread, and milk from a cute sheep that they brought from the garden to taste the days of meek food items, and others in the plates covered by required hands, bread with raisins of old people served on the plateau. Centella with a good ***, she walked with her mother Jacinta, with a disorder of tender and finesse, next to two small donkeys hired from other dreams of a manger, with the muscular leaves of the oak, making the eyelids of the whale heavy down Kaitelka who sang next to the scare crows in delicious hibernation times, on the terrace where there never was one. Acacian sepals and tales of resinous sailors fell, as in the cellars of an entire ancient history, on the archaic and twinkling stables of the Horcondising, the sylphic kites flee swirling over the frightened green sky, like all the hands up on the shoulders of some mountain people , defying bad sleep before they wake up and spill their fury of corrosive acid on the supposedly nobles who wish to pass and cross the bleachers of their island feats, under a humble shoulder of tender feats, of dry leaves on the skirts of the good Lord; owner of the water and of all the eroded gorges of the waterfalls and combinations of the god of the rain that is about to fall.
Adelimpia prepared cornbread and rye from good waters, Aunt Thunder washed the waistbands, the scarecrows cleaned the rattle of his eardrum towards an empire of sounds and a planet of celestial waves, with bread without crumbs, in the face of the pandemonium that was coming. Pocket of loose thread, that is lost in the night and that springs from the day, with ostentatious manners, and how close are they?  While they read all the multicolored letters on the ground about the ceremonial flood. Joshua saw them as a colored fumarole, spoiling their shrunken auras, under the boot of a role stealth, where the brush lunge for her boots begins, which later loom among the epistolary letters of good from Zefián; steward of the greater demon, who would be forced to make the main stained glass, standing on the poles in each hermit tree to recruit the lordship riders of the massive autumn, in an eternal wailing of birch trees in harmony. Uncle Hugh, is a current that builds and circulates against gravity, outlines the chair, mother nature of the new hints of floating islands trying to touch the godmothers of the golden valley and the mysterious shine of their Huasos eyes, still drunk among their jugs of gunman colt. It cuts through the wind like an eternal wind from the Australdisis galaxy, like a snowball in the belly of a marmot, like lost fingers wearing shoes, and without gloves, as if getting lost to find oneself again preferring pale-flow sleds, to cross mounted on the loud silence in the snow at the top and its song. Queen Anne embraces the imagery of her husband Joshua, life and song, it came from the good, wild to beat the yesteryear, I live among trees handcuffed in the mist of the well armed. I bring pellets for my Winchester tired of his locked case, here he spent a whole day in the Lonquen meadows when his plow got jammed, plowing hard rocky backs and soldiers, today my beautiful sower in Valle de Oro, is dredged by the sacred image of our rosary, good Mary, who never tires of putting pillows on our prayers, like sticks in the air in her diluvium eyes. Larks appear, eating nits on the greasy hair of the evil devil, on the copulation of her planted females, ebbing and with amended pleasures, delimited, and atrophied awards for trophies of the good moment for dividing the entire time. She became uncomfortable walking and breathing, our tongues would become thin, and our arms would get tangled in the sticky grass. Leeches rubbed their exposed areas, gargles and spit, cut every minute of being able to regret the atomized step in their entire body. Time was wasting, there were no beings that injured themselves without knowing why they flagellated themselves on earth, since one day a calf suckled them at night on the hillside, running in better circles because of the milk they drank…. blowflies polished their aged wings, butterfly princesses undo their corset, making the world of Vernarth towards a little more toast of bells and books in the right pocket of the Christian beetle, who tried to read it further from the exile and illiteracy of an anthropoid that obscures its oblong patchwork, continuing in the work of educating oneself, of high eternal reigns trained and of forests of currents under the clouds of the night of the abandoned city.


They ferment, and their fingers and toes fall, from thousands of losses in this neglected city, distilled into fermentation eclogue, with malformed sins ascending by the bridle of Vernarth's grandfather; by flanking the great nose of his dilated and degenerate black horse, with an equine shape that transported him from individual to individual and hyper static, subtracting the ferment of his failed and frustrated past mistakes. Its hooves measured twenty-one meters in diameter; its **** seemed to be made of pincers that would crack any tender drawing on the yellowish sky of ceibo trees, of the stormy fermentation in the Horcondising. Adelimpia and Ann, counted and counted on the beads of the sacred rosewood, Hugh sweated his hands, in prone fluctuations of interaction, the Scarecrow and Kaitelca jumped on giant oblong drums, talking about the hidden meadows, and the words crossed for squander them on the repentant. On the left side the round shadow of the prophetic Evil chanted in reverberations with the waves of the curls of the massif, he was almost about to ***** between his eyebrows, the vain opera of Horcondising that did not sound, but if loudly they were corrugated the slopes mourning towards the navel of the hundred feet, which suffered denoting the strips of the nearby town hall, like a transparent soul, carrying in its lacerated hands some pity of retreating and reviving, what the true architecture of life, more than the form ..., makes the light that penetrates solids. In this way the rocky massif pulverized rugged reliefs, like annelids wheezing through the tops of the Infradeep openings, with three groups of three hundred beings, which seemed to be three groups of thousands emerging from their caverns in anguish of the worst confinement of disbelief. Adelimpia, held the cord of the axis of the weary planet, Anne restored the acute crucifix meridians that moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed ..., like a cursed globe moving to another nebula, towards one of its 9600 years in expansion, after oscillating in one of its solar rays, which gathered on the back of the mule Jacinta, multiplying on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages in millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world”

The world has no end; God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are axiomatic. Rather, we are the junk of an almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of a creation that felt itself wandering, perhaps without its breathing, in its lipped wise orifice of the most repressible protoforms that continue to devoutly prepare bilious liquids to lead us.   For each dinner, without having stars enjoying themselves in their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick her honey like herself; we are exhausted from a starving minute of non-coexisting life. Hugh and Aunt Thunder, held the mats, so that their own belongings would not be blown up, they, especially Hugh; He sliced a bottle of live jet Tinto in his hands to quell his revolted thirst. Perhaps they wanted to give back to the world a blood source, once and for all to give drink to those who deserve to be it as innocent angels, walking with their calloused plants on vehement fire, to just get to the tithe and not be upset with so much terror. Along the esoteric shore of the river of leaves of Talamí, this is where they will run through pasty meadows and trembling horses, through the easy or the difficult bond imprisoned and paired with the misty physiognomy in mere restlessness. “Alpha day, alpha night, Omega day Omega Night...”
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichi

— The End —