Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
The courtesan and poet Zuo Fen had two cats Xe Ming and Xi Ming. Living in her distant court with only her maid Hu Yin, her cats were often her closest companions and, like herself, of a crepuscular nature.
      It was the very depths of winter and the first moon of the Solstice had risen. The old year had nearly passed.
      The day itself was almost over. Most of the inner courts retired before the new day began (at about 11.0pm), but not Zuo Fen. She summoned her maid to dress her in her winter furs, gathered her cats on a long chain leash, and walked out into the Haulin Gardens.
      These large and semi-wild gardens were adjacent to the walls of her personal court. The father of the present Emperor had created there a forest once stocked with game, a lake to the brim with carp and rich in waterfowl, and a series of tall structures surrounded by a moat from which astronomers were able to observe the firmament.
      Emperor Wu liked to think of Zuo Fen walking at night in his father’s park, though he rarely saw her there. He knew that she valued that time alone to prepare herself for his visits, visits that rarely occurred until the Tiger hours between 3.0am and 6.0am when his goat-drawn carriage would find its way to her court unbidden. She herself would welcome him with steaming chai and sometimes a new rhapsody. They would recline on her bed and discuss the content and significance of certain writings they knew and loved. Discussion sometimes became an elaborate game when a favoured Classical text would be taken as the starting point for an exchange of quotation. Gradually quotation would be displaced by subtle invention and Zuo Fen would find the Emperor manoeuvring her into making declarations of a passionate or ****** nature.
       It seemed her very voice captivated him and despite herself and her inclinations they would join as lovers with an intensity of purpose, a great tenderness, and deep joy. He would rest his head inside her cloak and allow her lips to caress his ears with tales of river and mountain, descriptions of the flights of birds and the opening of flowers. He spoke to her ******* of the rising moon, its myriad reflections on the waters of Ling Lake, and of its trees whose winter branches caressed the cold surface.

Whilst Zuo Fen walked in the midnight park with her cats she reflected on an afternoon of frustration. She had attempted to assemble a new poem for her Lord.  Despite being himself an accomplished poet and having an extraordinary memory for Classical verse, the Emperor retained a penchant for stories about Mei-Lim, a young Suchan girl dragged from her family to serve as a courtesan at his court.
      Zuo Fen had invented this girl to articulate some of her own expressions of homesickness, despair, periods of constant tearfulness, and abject loneliness. Such things seemed to touch something in the Emperor. It was as though he enjoyed wallowing in these descriptions and his favourite A Rhapsody on Being far from Home he loved to hear from the poet’s own lips, again and again. Zuo Fen felt she was tempting providence not to compose something new, before being ordered to do so.
      As she struggled through the afternoon to inject some fresh and meaningful content into a story already milked dry Zuo Fen became aware of her cats. Xi Ming lay languorously across her folded feet. Xe Ming perched like an immutable porcelain figure on a stool beside her low writing table.
Zuo Fen often consulted her cats. ‘Xi Ming, will my Lord like this stanza?’

“The stones that ring out from your pony’s hooves
announce your path through the cloud forest”


She would always wait patiently for Xi Ming’s reply, playing a game with her imagination to extract an answer from the cinnamon scented air of her winter chamber.
      ‘He will think his pony’s hooves will flash with sparks kindling the fire of his passion as he prepares to meet his beloved’.
      ‘Oh such a wise cat, Xi Ming’, and she would press his warm body further into her lap. But today, as she imagined this dialogue, a second voice appeared in her thoughts.
      ‘Gracious Lady, your Xe Ming knows his under-standing is poor, his education weak, but surely this image, taken as it is from the poet Lu Ji, suggests how unlikely it would be for the spark of love and passion to take hold without nurture and care, impossible on a hard journey’.
       This was unprecedented. What had brought such a response from her imagination? And before she could elicit an answer it was as though Xe Ming spoke with these words of Confucius.

“Do not be concerned about others not appreciating you, be concerned about you not appreciating others”

Being the very sensible woman she was, Zuo Fen dismissed such admonition (from a cat) and called for tea.

Later as she walked her beauties by the frozen lake, the golden carp nosing around just beneath the ice, she recalled the moment and wondered. A thought came to her  . . .
       She would petition Xe Ming’s help to write a new rhapsody, perhaps titled Rhapsody on the Thought of Separation.

Both Zuo Fen’s cats came from her parental home in Lingzhi. They were large, big-***** mountain cats; strong animals with bear-like paws, short whiskered and big eared. Their coats were a glassy grey, the hairs tipped with a sprinkling of white giving the fur an impression of being wet with dew or caught by a brief shower.
       When she thought of her esteemed father, the Imperial Archivist, there was always a cat somewhere; in his study at home, in the official archives where he worked. There was always a cat close at hand, listening?
       What texts did her father know by heart that she did not know? What about the Lu Yu – the Confucian text book of advice and etiquette for court officials. She had never bothered to learn it, even read it seemed unnecessary, but through her brother Zuo Si she knew something of its contents and purpose.

Confucius was once asked what were the qualifications of public office. ‘Revere the five forms of goodness and abandon the four vices and you can qualify for public office’.
       For the life of her Zuo Fen could not remember these five forms of goodness (although she could make a stab at guessing them). As for those vices? No, she was without an idea. If she had ever known, their detail had totally passed from her memory.
       Settled once again in her chamber she called Hu Yin and asked her to remove Xi Ming for the night. She had three hours or so before the Emperor might appear. There was time.
        Xe Ming was by nature a distant cat, aloof, never seeking affection. He would look the other way if regarded, pace to the corner of a room if spoken to. In summer he would hide himself in the deep undergrowth of Zuo Fen’s garden.
       Tonight Zuo Fen picked him up and placed him on her left shoulder. She walked around her room stroking him gently with her small strong fingers, so different from the manicured talons of her colleagues in the Purple Palace. Embroidery, of which she was an accomplished exponent, was impossible with long nails.
       From her scroll cupboard she selected her brother’s annotated copy of the Lun Yu, placing it unrolled on her desk. It would be those questions from the disciple Tzu Chang, she thought, so the final chapters perhaps. She sat down carefully on the thick fleece and Mongolian rug in front of her desk letting Xe Ming spill over her arms into a space beside her.
       This was strange indeed. As she sat beside Xe Ming in the light of the butter lamps holding his flickering gaze it was as though a veil began to lift between them.
       ‘At last you understand’, a voice appeared to whisper,’ after all this time you have realised . . .’
      Zuo Fen lost track of time. The cat was completely motionless. She could hear Hu Yin snoring lightly next door, no doubt glad to have Xi Ming beside her on her mat.
      ‘Xe Ming’, she said softly, ‘today I heard you quote from Confucius’.
      The cat remained inscrutable, completely still.
      ‘I think you may be able to help me write a new poem for my Lord. Heaven knows I need something or he will tire of me and this court will cease to enjoy his favour’.
      ‘Xe Ming, I have to test you. I think you can ‘speak’ to me, but I need to learn to talk to you’.
      ‘Tzu Chang once asked Confucius what were the qualifications needed for public office? Confucius said, I believe, that there were five forms of goodness to revere, and four vices to abandon’.
       ‘Can you tell me what they are?’
      Xe Ming turned his back on Zuo Fen and stepped gently away from the table and into a dark and distant corner of the chamber.
      ‘The gentle man is generous but not extravagant, works without complaint, has desires without being greedy, is at peace, but not arrogant, and commands respect but not fear’.
      Zuo Fen felt her breathing come short and fast. This voice inside her; richly-texture, male, so close it could be from a lover at the epicentre of a passionate entanglement; it caressed her.
      She heard herself say aloud, ‘and the four vices’.
      ‘To cause a death or imprisonment without teaching can be called cruelty; to judge results without prerequisites can be called tyranny; to impose deadlines on improper orders can be thievery; and when giving in the procedure of receipt and disbursement, to stint can be called officious’.
       Xe Ming then appeared out of the darkness and came and sat in the folds of her night cloak, between her legs. She stroked his glistening fur.
       Zuo Fen didn’t need to consult the Lu Yu on her desk. She knew this was unnecessary. She got to her feet and stepped through the curtains into an antechamber to relieve herself.
       When she returned Xe Ming had assumed his porcelain figure pose. So she gathered a fresh scroll, her writing brushes, her inks, her wax stamps, and wrote:

‘I was born in a humble, isolated, thatched house,
and was never well versed in writing.
I never saw the marvellous pictures of books,
nor had I heard of the classics of earlier sages.
I am dimwitted, humble and ignorant . . ‘


As she stopped to consider the next chain of characters she saw in her mind’s eye the Purple Palace, the palace of the concubines of the Emperor. Sitting next to the Purple Chamber there was a large grey cat, its fur sprinkled with tiny flecks of white looking as though the animal had been caught in a shower of rain.
       Zuo Fen turned from her script to see where Xe Ming had got to, but he had gone. She knew however that he would always be there. Wherever her imagination took her, she could seek out this cat and the words would flow.

Before returning to her new text Zuo Fen thought she might remind herself of Liu Xie’s words on the form of the Rhapsody. If Emperor Wu appeared later she would quote it (to his astonishment) from The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons.

*The rhapsody derives from poetry,
A fork in the road, a different line of development;
It describes objects, pictures and their appearance,
With a brilliance akin to sculpture and painting.
What is clogged and confined it invariably opens up;
It depicts the commonplace with unbounded charm;
But the goal of the form is of beauty well ordered,
Words retained for their loveliness when weeds have been cut away.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
oh god, what a deer of a girl, i walked into the antechamber of a supermarket, soaking wet from the rain, and she walks from the opposite direction, looking lost. i enter the supermarket proper, buy my **** (*** & ms. pepsi), and as i leave, she's stranded in the antechamber, secluded, standing in the corner, just by the doors... she came to a supermarket, but wasn't intending to buy something, anything... i don't know whether i'm over-stating a case of paranoia, or just plain suspicion, with regards to the event taking place... but **** me... better suspect some ulterior motive with regards to what just happened, than try to extend a terrorist attack narrative.

and the holy trinity of bass players in my generation's
            repertoire?
             **** going back to *john paul james
,
        or paul mccartney, or roger waters...
           metallica gave us these three idol-worthy
bassists, after that accident that killed off their original
bassist, and they hushed the bass guitar,
           to the point that there were only two layers
of rhythm in, pretty much all of metallica's songs:
rhythm guitar & drums...
           i've lost respect for bands than don't allow
the subtle sound of bass guitar to be heard...
     it's a bit like abandoning the evolution from jazz...
in jazz... each instrument was allowed a solo,
to set apart the rhythm, and move toward each
of the instruments present a solo...
                 it's not exactly a philosophy of chaos...
    but at least jazz was fair...
                                            you could get to nibble
on each instrument in the band;
   and thank **** it wasn't supposed to be organised,
but could break away and compose it's own
"15 minutes" of fame;
   and i always respected bassists more than i'd ever
care to worship jimi hendrix or jimmy page...
  only three names stand out...
   michael peter balzary (red hot chili peppers),
                                         justin chancellor (tool),
and last, but not least
tim commerford (rage against the machine / audioslave);
can be ****** admiring those ***-licking
     solo-guitarists sometimes, esp. with these three guys;
i lost my respect for metallica...
           i can't hear the mediating layer of rhythm
   of a bass guitar, that could reconcile rhythm guitar
and drums... i have no respect for bands that do not
respect bass guitar; sure, it was a tragedy that the original
bassist died in sweden, but come on!
                   in the album st. anger... you disrespected
bass, that you made the drums... too crass!
if there's a psychology with regard to music?
   the bass guitar is the subconscious...
         the drums are consciousness,
    vita cor meum deus rhythmus - rhythm is the life
                               of my god's heart...
and rhythm / solo guitars? that's the unconscious...
      i know, "paradoxical" placing the drums
as the conscious element in musicology.
Alfred Vassallo Apr 2013
For the day of wrath
I will yell,
the grotesque heaven
is waiting,
to take me to the wide antechamber
of hell,
there I will encounter
the master of darkness,
around,
I shall feel magnetic spell,
the wonderful sound of the exquisite,
pensiveness,
of the souls that fell.

The old prophecy is coming,
my new belief
enhanced.
The hallowed hidden truth
the day of morning,
the day of night will disperse
the world in ashes.
His angels,
and effigies will be waiting,
will protect me,
from the old god,
who has been found wanting.

The old one is now trapped
in cold heaven,
that resides
in the secluded sepulchre,
waiting
for his demise as he’s beaten.
Fear of heavens
will cut out all,
the ancient  and boring god
has now been broken.
The mighty expressions of the saved souls,
now residing
in their assured haven.

So appealing,
charismatic and alluring
will be the inspirations
for my heart and mind,
the trepidation
of this great majestic king,
will gladly and freely save me.
I am worthy of my redeeming,
From
the agonies of ancient,
and primeval beliefs,
which trapped me
into a world of disbelieving.

The descendants of Satan
are united,
in a new era of the virginal power,
the bitterness of silence is incorporated,
the forbidden secrets of the infernal,
by intense feelings
are exhilarated,
which will **** up
the darkness,
from our jubilant minds
pitied and restricted.

The chaos of stability
will take full control,
and will enchant
our enriched wisdom,
from developed seeds of our darkest soul,
while the heretic outcasts of heaven
will devastate
the earlier earthly goal.
We will become
like wolves among sheep,
in a weak  herd upon their raw and inflamed soul.
Let us fight
the good fight,
and may the power of death,
remove
those who are reluctant to incite,
for the sake of the kingdom,
belonging
to the Lord of the  fright,
mocks the priest
who preaches justice,
for he is the worst of the contrite.

The might of the unholy spirit
arises,
it will reproduce
in abundance.
this ungodly creature
who amazes,
with their eyes that glow in the dark,
searching
among networks and mazes,
who are rebellious and outcasts,
and will actually become wretches.

Angels of darkness
we have become,
to haunt
the weak and capture their spirits.
We are mysterious beings
living in whoredom,
taking the form of the profane icons,
staring
into the jealous eyes of God
who became lonesome.
Satan
will strike violently
into the earth,
where in his new kingdom
everyone is welcome.

Behold the king
who is the wonder of wonders,
the master of the horn
the healer of the repelled souls,
enter the darkness
with your new chancellors,
unconsecrated
spirits from the heretical sites,
exploding
into a blazing fire of demonic colours.
The burning effigies
shalt strike into the heart of the pious,
and shall burn forever in all corners.

For that which is written we shall rejoice,
the strong winds will carry Satan’s voice,

I say out loudly
I have listened to the inadequate cries,
gazed deeply
into my devil's eyes.

The Lord of darkness is awakened from his eternal sleep,
and I can hear the father, the son and the ghost weep.

Whoredom as :- Unlawful ****** relations
Not for the squemish and not for the bible bashers either.
Patristic Excerpt
John where made Patristic delays on the island in Christian times by building numerous panagias decorated with mosaics. They enter the port of the island walking in wild revelry after being greeted at the port. At dusk they arrive in Jorió finding the Venetian castle of the knights of the Order of Saint John, completely covered in blue olive oil (a phenomenon that had been caused by the previous visit of Etrestles and his entourage) In the same way, they make an antechamber to the northeast finding the Grotto of the Seven Virgins or Nymphs, whose satire succumbed to some incredulous neighbors, hiding some of their minor daughters after denying its consummation. This is not a minor legend told of how seven young girls disappeared into the cave when fleeing from some pirates, noting if it could be so, also the clues to find Etréstles that he had recently been here in frank search for his ghosts. “Behold, all this paraphernalia of bilocation was accentuated by the god Spílaiaus creating immediacy with all the times that they wanted from the present, and the future that is exclusive to the Itheoi gods” Petrobus the Pelican goes back to the colonies of his ancestors, he wore gold rings around his neck, and had no contact with his native colony since the last day they helped the fields with water due to the lack of fresh water. It is worth noting their property of converting salt water into fresh water but even more the quality of Petrobus in addition to where they step on its paws, everyone will shine and rejuvenate. It off-centers its wings with allotropic dyes that made it turn colors in addition to strengthening and lightening its body during long periods of flight, and lifts its angular bag and takes vertical flight to meet Reader and Vernarth again in the Early Christian Necropolis of the burial chapels, here they meditate with the god Azofar who levitated above them offering their submission to the wind that flows with great power under the catacombs pulling and moving spirits that wish to relocate with their placebo presiding over their doubts. They leave the port boarding a Triaconter that would take them to Kinaros before the night falls and is seized by the coastal fog, not resisting the rope that holds a ship, whatever it was many times these ships were maneuvered by rowing sailors but this time it was only consigned for them, it would only move without anyone intervening, only the eternal wind that kind will take them to the island of Reader's progenitors. On the transparent waters sailing in the Triaconter were the three, Vernarth in the Petrobus bow on the main mast of the sail, and Raeder beside him a few meters away remembering his parents when they emigrated from this island? The name of the ship that was named as “Eurydice” in every certain space of advance they approached the macaroon to empty the tears that this Nymph emanated through her half-open eyes, she would take a rag of the holy cocoon and wipe away the effusions that must have been more for some reason that he would want to know…? Upon arriving in the vicinity of Kinaros, a rainy cyclone hit them which lifted them above the surface of the island when they were less than 5 km from arriving. Vernarth takes the Xiphos's sword from him and cuts the ropes then Raeder noticing that they were at serious risk of being shipwrecked, tells Vernarth to get out of the ship and quickly runs to the bow covering the eyes of the Mask of the Eurydice and leaves the ship.

With an epic metaphysical tendency, he acclaims his magical steed Alikanto..., he flies over the ship and picks them up, and Reader takes hold of the rings on Petrobus's legs reaching the mainland consecutively. Kinaros is a land of fishermen and farmers, a long-lived land and ancient inhabitants who do not age; here there are no cemeteries or monuments, there is only eternal spring for those who can be grateful for a place that gives them peace, and melancholy love for those who do not live there. Here from this bountiful land come the Raeder Parents, they migrated to Kalymnos; being this land the one that saw his birth and immortalizes him so he remembers…: “In the islands of the Dodecanese, subdued by the carmine dew that falls at dawn on its crystalline waters, important archaeological remains and cenacles appear on the sand or gravel beaches to compete in athletic leisure, Raeder ran naked after the outfits of which his mother had made him. He was permeated by crystalline Byzantine, architectural and medieval monuments due to long Venetian dominations in his mannerisms what unite them to these islands is their history, and their occupations: that of the knights of the crusades to that of the Turks, the Italian occupation to the Greek annexation with their volatile outfits useless to dress up, Patmos is very popular among pilgrims from the moment his work was raised in one of the caves on the island of San Juan Evangelista, the disciple of Christ writing the Book of Revelations. Astypalea is the westernmost island of the archipelago and has Dodecanese Cycladic architectural features it is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with the Sousta del Dodecanese. These dances were engendered in the infra-ocean floor of the Ionian Sea, generating the power of the ethereal emanation of Etrestles from Kalavrita by daring to put Eclectic confrontation to the invisible portal of the Evangelist Saint John in his sacred basaltic cavern in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 - page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA) (Koumeterium Messolonghi Chapter 16 - page 114 Editorial Palibrio-USA) It is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in the commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with the Dodecanese´s Sousta. It is also related here in the Novel of Etréstles of Kalavrita matter of his victorious boast to Patmos when he resorts after the reverie with the Laziko Dance that was held by the little finger and circulated in commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with La Sousta del Dodecanese.

In the Chapel of Ministers: They were seconded by the high representatives of Kalymnos, among them the curious immortal serpentine Raeder son of native Kinaros farmers belonging to a clan group of six small islands and six small families. Some islets used to boast the genealogical beams and challenges of Antigone, and documented inspirations found between Leros and Kálymnos in the east and the Cyclades islands of Amorgós in the west. Raeder always got up before dawn on his window sill there always appeared a petite blue bonsai Pelican he called Petrobus, in the mornings he would run beating this Olympic bird in a fast dispute sometimes he was not able to say goodbye to his bird friend because he ran so fast that the days used to be weeks in a row, while Petrobus puffed through the Ouranos with his Hellenic Artificial Intelligence elytra, with his hyper exhalation he moved great rocky crags even moving and disorganizing the geographical nomenclature of these twelve polygon islands between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The lesser known and immaculate islands are Leros or Pserimos, while Rhodes and Kos the largest and most cosmopolitan islands are the goal of the migrated Blue Pelicans throughout the year. Before returning to his house, Raeder stretched out on grasses sheared by the heels of Petrobus's migrates and his henchmen in this grass dancer I could feel the dances with the gag dance bread vibrate through his arms in all the rumps of the maidens in the Sousta dance running after Petrobus with his golden mask and hanging from the wings or legs of his bird (Wings Mate), the art of flying with golden magical birds and his Ancient Mama Antigone to Raeder when sometimes he was flying by the legs of Petrobus, he thought...:

“My land… a thousand times I will lift you up with my arms, do not doubt it, my arms believe it… Oh, my venerated Ionian I will do apnea to please you a thousand times to become your Ionian molecule… Wind of Kalimnos himself…, I will make the flute an Ode that runs through twelve perforated epitaphs with my ancestors in the Dodecanese sleeping paroxysm in the panagia where I was baptized for the ninth time! And in the fatuous lavish fire, I will put the ceremonial ribbon of the Sousta Dance in the nap in the new migration of my transparent Pelicans….”

Raeder tells a visibly emotional Petrobus about imagining crying with his imagined friend. "Little Raeder of the Dodecanese" he utters to his magical imaginary friend; Petrobus, what else was missing from ground breadcrumb paste for next winter…? Petrobus, distracted and not looking at him tells him…, only placing his web-footed Hellenophile leg on his other equal…: “Fear nothing Raeder, God does not coexist! ...Now He and you are the same. With your arms you will be able to lift the sphere of the bare earth and reconvert it into a Healthy Earth of Milk and mead of our Kalymnos that runs like a quagmire through the mountains of your Life converted into a new House dressed in a new house” when Raeder finishes thinking…, Vernarth tells him that they had to sail to Patmos, curiously Eurydice's ship was in the bay, they believed that this ship had capsized and sank somewhere in the wide open sea of ​​the Aegean.
The three on boards the ship Eurydice, Alikanto stays in Kinaros batoning very well guarded by peasants who took great affection for him later he would join him on Patmos for service and trades pantry to Saint John the Evangelist. Alikanto will take a great contribution and role in the prophecies of Vernarth on the Isle of Patmos, just on board the Eurydice and surround themselves with a climate of seclusion and peace on the ship, not so far behind were the Cyclades and part of the Dodecanese he was full of vitality, he completely covered the Triaconter it was late and the moon was beginning to dress the deck with phosphorescence, Raeder and his little Petrobus were clearly exhausted deciding to sleep right there on the deck. He was also relieved of emotions after so much experimenting on the islands, as well as not being able to find his brother Etréstles to prepare to rest in her poetry, almost falling asleep he sees that from the bow a very quiet female figure approaches him with her lost gaze, and stands up seeing that it was Eurydice who was in front of him. She had her bandage on her eyes still approaching her and says Eurydice: “Can you remove the tape…? Only you can do that! Although due to this subtlety of yours in attention to me I tried..., of course, I must be able to recover my subsistence and its mobility as an indissoluble watercolor. Vernarth says; “In my narrative we know that Eurydice was a dryad, being the wife of Orpheus as a poet and musician. After evading Aristaeus´s harassment, she would now take refuge in a shipyard in Amphipolis and hide on a ship. She escapes with great speed and fear, as her heart only belongs to Orpheus, as she flees, Eurydice is bitten by a snake and dies, Orpheus, disconsolate, cries for her and her desperation finds no consolation, so he makes the risky decision to go in search of his sweet and beloved wife to Hades, the land of the dead. Vernarth longs to revive her in her comparative fable to her sweet song and her poetry, Orpheus managed to move Charon who lets him cross the River Styx, the boundary between the world of the living and the dead. Later, also with his artistic abilities, Orpheus manages to convince Persephone and Hades to allow him to take Eurydice. The subterranean divinities agree to be taken away but Orpheus must promise that he will not attempt to see his wife until he has brought her into the sunlight, so as agreed, Eurydice followed Orpheus on the way to the light, and at the moment when they were about to leave the dark depths, Orpheus had doubts thus, he began to think about the possibility that Persephone had deceived him and that Eurydice did not come after him, so he could not bear her temptation and turned to look at her and confirm that she was coming with him. When this happened, Eurydice was dragged by an irresistible force back to Hades. Orpheus, desperate tries to go again to rescue his beloved but this time Charon does not allow it, at this moment the god of the Genus Itheoi Aiónius clings to the purity of the distilled water pretending that Eurydice was going to the underworld, but the mirror flash of Ibico 1 would bring Eurydice from the darkness to the parallel world of Orpheus and Vernarth. Here Kaitelka and Borker (Semi Itheoi, concur in total harmony with Demeter, Persephone, and Hestia bringing from the labyrinths the rusty chains of Prometheus and Vertnarth that were wandering through infinity) Orpheus when he doubts is more than divine doubt, it is submithological human doubt that cracks the recondite doubts and trigger the valleys of perdition in the jungle dense in roads without being able to follow, especially if I personalize it in myself, said Vernarth. According to Vernarth giving ears in this magnanimous moment of what was narrated by herself, it represented Eurydice fearing being left unattended under hell, fleeing to Thrace to the port of Amphipolis, then boarding a ship stealthily entering being discovered by a captain later. She runs strong escaping from the officer and jumps overboard, the officer searches for her vehemently for several days, remaining buried in the holistic totally under a complication plot since a sailor had recapitulated her in a passage of this mythology that could take live life and action on your boat. Days go by and this Triaconter ship is whipped by the Persians on a disastrous day, everything frolicked from large figures to consider as well as fleeing from the Persians before an impartial and just intensified attack from the enemies the Triaconter is adrift. Eurydice follows in the footsteps of this ill-fated boat and then boards it again. “In the eighth month of navigating fully, she is discovered by Aristeo, She takes the start of a terrifying heart because she feared what could be born from the ship; perhaps become a subjective fear! She realized that it was not real and she understood that it was an anxiety of profuse delirium”. But it was too late for she hid in the bowsprit on her way to the bowsprit, with the decaying line to the figurehead she stays silent, tries to remove her feet and can't remain thus captive of the ship bound to the figurehead, provoked only by herself not by her as a divine Nymph but by the fear that haunted her like a viral fear in her own and her delusional fears. Vernarth, hates himself and tells Eurydice: “If you wish, I will jump overboard and be swallowed by the sea, and so I can find the oppressors who harass your persecution. Just tell me and I'll jump to save your reckless shattered fate. Only the existence that is nothing more than Bravery will combine the power to relieve you and free you from your chains.”
Eurydice
Michael Marchese Aug 2018
There sits a crimson satyr crowned
The overlord of underground
In left he twirls a steely blight
Upon the surface world by night
With right commands his vile jest
To welcome avarice, his guest
The next of sin to him akin
To all the wicked souls therein
The boiling cauldron antechamber
Brimming with his seething anger
Pain and sorrow, anguish of
One fallen from the grace of love
And in its hellish rendezvous
A shadow deal to conquer you
Is sealed in some ungodly tongue
The hook upon which faith is hung
preston May 2020

(note~ This is a rather lengthy story about trauma and brokenness..)

I have a patch of skin on the back of my left hand, indiscernible to the
human eye as being any different than any other part of my skin.
It is my heart of hearts.

Five days a week I am not with my little ones.. there is a place I go.
A broken one awaits me there; Unknowingly. On 'day one' of my
non daddy-time, I go where the longing of my heart leads me.
When I am not with them.

There is a vertical shaft-- hidden in the tumbleweeds at the base of the
mountain's foothills that leads down beneath the surface. There are
rusted rebar steps in the shape of hoops, embedded into the hardened dirt
and rock of the shaft that gives me access to what lies down below.
With each ten steps, the shaft becomes noticeably darker. After thirty
steps, there becomes a pungent smell in the air that begins to cover my
skin, and a dank mist that enters my lungs and begins to coat the
inside of my skin. As I continue to descend down-- all becomes covered--
everything.. but the 4 inch square patch on my left hand.

There is a foul 'burning' in the permeating mist that wants to place a
film over my eyes and cause them to water, but as I descend I grow a
new pair of eyes over the top of my old ones, and though it is nearly
pitch black now and the pungency completely fills the air;
I can see.
Faintly, but I can see.

Directly at the bottom of the shaft is a room barely lit by what little
light has made it down the shaft through the mold and musty mist.
I get a strong sense that this room is the antechamber. Dirt and rock
line the walls as if they had been there since the ancient days. There is
also a black mold and an unavoidable saturation of the wall. There are
two doors in the wall, but I sense that both lead to the same room, so I
take the door on the right and slowly enter into a windowless and
nearly pitch black room-- old and partially torn up asbestos-tar tiled
floor-- filthy ***** with strewn about rags and used up things. The
pungent mist would be completely overwhelming had I not already
been fully permeated in it and received the new set of eyes in order to
be protected from its permeation and also to be able to see through the
darkness and wet, fine dust that floats throughout the air.

On the walls, there is a saturation to such a degree that it almost moves,
and there is a permeation of mold throughout. Mold on the walls, floor,
ceiling-- everything permeated in the mold.. and whatever it is that has
saturated everything. I have now entered so far into the room that all I
can see is shadows.  It has become that dark.
There is a sense of movement.
It is large-- behemoth even, methodically slow in it's self caught-up world.
It is perpetrator. Abuser-- And it only knows one thing--
destruction of anything of life for its own gain.  It cannot see me
because I am permeated in the foulness of its own perpetual emission--
The walls.. they are *** soaked. The air is filled with an ever-evaporating
mist of pungency. The only life form attached to it is mold, a fungus
which covers every square inch of floor, wall and ceiling.
I am not afraid, because I know that what I want is in the room also--
and I know that the only thing perpetrator can see is what hasn't been
permeated by the filth-- and so as I move.. remembering to place my
right hand over the back side of my left--
covering the only part of me that is not his.

Protected by the fact that I have become permeated in and with the
outcome of his abusing ways, I am hidden from all that he is,
as long as I keep that part of me covered.
I begin to move slowly around the room knowing that I cannot be seen,
but needing also to make not an ounce of sound. I am looking-- searching.
In the corner is a small discarded pile of ***** rags, and there my
eyes focus as I slowly move towards it. Perpetrator has begun to
shuffle off towards another smaller room that I have just begun to
become aware of. I head towards the small pile of rags.
I can feel him-- someone else in the room. The one I came for.

I move towards the rags on the floor there in the corner of the room
and I can see him-- just a part of his hand sticking out from underneath
the pile of rags; he is face down. All my focus is on him now, as I kneel
down next to him and sit alongside him-- pulling the rags off of his
head, revealing the side of his face. He is face down with eyes closed,
barely breathing-- barely a pulse.. only kept alive by the perpetrator to
serve his purpose. I am with him now and his brokenness takes over
me. I cannot touch him with any part of the permeated filth.

I reach out with the unaffected four inches of skin on the back side of my
hand, and touch it to his face. There's a slight movement, but he
remains face down. He's just a little boy, but because of the horrors
he was subjected to, I knew not to try to move him--
the trauma of just the slightest movement would **** him.
And if I were to look directly into his eyes, the light I had brought into
his broken, dark world, would have burned the back of his retinas and
ended what little pulse and breathing he had remaining. This is where I
want to be, even if the only thing that I can do just let him feel the
warmth and cleanness of my skin through the back of my hand against
his face.

I feel him quietly breathing it in.
He never opens his eyes-
face down still-- pain.
It takes all the energy he has;
just to survive.. to breathe.

And outside of the warmth of my hand, I know
that he may never again have the chance
to see the light of day--
he is broken, abandoned.


This is where I want to be.. but to be near the broken-one of my heart, I
have had to wear the 'full outcome' of perpetrator, and know full well
through what I have learned when young that I'm putting myself at risk--
of forever being banished to hell for what I have 'chosen to wear'.
I will stay with the broken one wherever that may be. This is where
my heart is most at home (the times I'm not with my little ones).
If heaven doesn't want to let me.. or the broken one in,
then I don't want to be there.
I will stay here with him, and if hell is his final resting place..
then it will be mine also--
perpetrator cannot see me here-- destructor will not see me there,
and I will sit with broken-one forever.

But for now I must return at the end of the five days-- climbing once
again back up the shaft and receiving the washing that happens once
daily life sees the four inch patch-- I am clean again in order to play
with and love my little ones.. holding them and protecting them from
the daylight-perpetrators as best as I can.. and as I love them and look into
them, I look into the broken one also. He is with me in my heart even
then. I will be with him again soon and also once again with my little ones.
    I am both.
They will grow up and become responsible loving adults with children
of their own. Broken one will always remain young and broken.
I will remain with him forever--come hell or high water.
He is me.. and every broken-one who has ever had to suffer alone.
It is with the broken ones that I will always want to be.

I live within the four square inches of my skin.
https://youtu.be/eYoINidnLRQ
.
brandon nagley Jul 2015
i

Aloof aback the nether antechamber
Abaddon tried to calleth out mine name
Aba composition's awoke from smoke
Whilst nephilim brutes were left untamed.

ii

They bit me and they gripped me with
Their nail's of poison and polunium whip's
Through the old agaric horror play oubliette
Obelisk's, of troglodyte monstrosity!!!!

iii

The nearing was open, yet to far off
I felt the crimson color, up mine lung's I coughed
Mine calumus pinion's all were eventually lost
For I was mocked, as the legion scoffed.

iv

Scourged I was, as mine back was chopped
Like glass bead's hitting a gentle rock
They cracked mine sweetly frame, and made a pop
Mine soul was dying, mine head was lost.

v

Yet in the destination of this witching hour
Cameth in Gabriel and Michael of all unknown power's
They arrayed this hell with celestial shower's
They freed me of mine inferno, and tooketh me to the higher sire.





©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry.....
Antony Glaser Mar 2014
Each room has a  glow
a basking room, an aural one
if they were  circumferences
would they arc beyond the horizon?
and by unfurling  my imagination
why would  I not choose to unloosen my  certainties?
a  certain light quality permeates
only to  find  a hallway
even more intense
an antechamber in a  prism.
Necropolis of Hellenika / Kímolos
Tsambika / Philo of Alexandria

They passed each other on the outskirts of Archangelos to go to Tsambika, going to the Necropolis of Helleniká where he was waiting for them more than 400 kilometers to the west of the Cyclades, precisely in Kímolos where they would do the colloquy with to do the channeling with the Necropolis. Etréstles had traveled with Kanti the steed; on his back, they saw the distance before they arrived at Mandraki in Rhodes. They all headed down the coast towards Archangelos, but Etréstles went to Helleniká, the Vas Auric was landed on Mandraki for the purposes of the Creation of Vernarth together with the Apostle Saint John. Kímolos, it is on this island that the famous beginning of the procession towards the outskirts of the cities was to deposit their sacred remains on the way to a better one, here were the martyrs who were used to Etréstles since he cohabits in delay with Drestnia for the new millennium (His female of hers) with which he resides in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi in the ninth vertical cemetery. Having a chapel and altars this place was propitious to create between Kimolos and Tsambika which was so many kilometers away, so the meeting performance between villages would be seen in its entirety to be resurrected and worshiped between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese with pious exercises between both latitudes precisely in the chapel of Theoskepasti, while in Tsambika it would be in the Panagia Tsambika monastery. Etréstles carried in both hands some matches of some population dowries with laws of affability and generations lived there without knowing each other between the two islands and tabernacles, arguing canons of burial and exhumation. In this case of performance refer to the Vas Auric of Limassol that brought the construction of a world of the right angles for the neat reconstruction of multi polygonal spectra, adopted for the first time in Kímolos to be retransferred to a logical philosophical-architectural division seeking to enclose the perfect plans where the new Christians will reside, between Rhodes and the west of Kímolos re-installing themselves among more than a third of the venerable ones who rested in Helleniká, in syncretic neatness with dissimilar populations and creeds.

Saint John the Apostle with Vertnarth, Raeder, and Petrobus plus Eurydice would bring from the rubies of Alexandria the incorporeal honor of Alexander the Great, turning both island sites into palaces of the Muses of Helleniká for the scholars who would be at the canonization of Vas Auric. Being the precursor of the chapel of the Theoskepasti, this performance of erudition will be endowed with the new status for Philo of Alexandria present here, now being a co-demiurge who will convert this necropolis city into duality with Tsambika for distinctions of the rituals and homilies, reducing the inputs basics in ceremonies. Philo of Alexandria says that only God protects the Jews, adding to what Philo wrote in La Legatio ad Gaium, the Jewish delegation had trouble meeting Caligula and when they finally met him, the emperor declared that he wanted a statue of him to be built as Jupiter in the Temple of Jerusalem, which sowed desolation among the members of the delegation. Finally, this purpose was not realized thanks to the intervention of Agrippa I and the death of Caligula, Philo attributed the happy ending of both cases to Providence. This divine letter of these translators with Saint John the Apostle and Philo of Alexandria will make this homily the spiritual custody that will be preserved in these two cities and then towards the world of Vernarth of the Duoverse, so that invisible winds blow from the chapel of Kímolos to Panagia de Tsambika, in the frameworks that feed the Hebraic and Hellenic boundary “translating Greek into Hebrew, but in two universal sites of creation in the Theoskepasti chapel and Panagia de Tsambika, about the magic of the meeting of omniscience and grace. Says Vernarth: “with the interpretation of Philo of Alexandria and his exegesis, I will rub the tract of the successions of infinity legitimately stored the creation thought of the ZigZag Universe with the Parapsychological Regressive authority now circulating in a sniffing universe with a Verthian genealogy, tempering with my Falangist disciples but being biblical when it becomes the occasional emaciated mob of a world that falls degrading with its last pieces and challenges of the world associated with an allegorical spirit, contracted to wings of ethics and doctrinal rectitude. I have two candles in each hand, similar to Etréstles in Kímolos and in Helleniká, making delights of pleasures in these ceremonies to create the world’s ignored in the office of the super compassionate language, in more than seven days that add up between the Sun and the Earth, in a sub-mythological world being ourselves our own executioner established on the ***** that falls from the match of the wick of my Lucerne in its own mood. I still have a memory of who and of each one who will always be in my prayers, reopened in a sacredness less than my own end, here I will not continue to be stored. Rather I will continue to fall, exhumed from the very storehouse and from the struggle of the thistle that falls from itself rounded up to be competent to explain himself biblically as if he had never before been read ad limit of the doctoral, and sacred in the work of Philo of Alexandria here with us leading and there in the Necropolis on another thorn; as a perpetual creeping species growing here as an unvarying summer plant in cooler climates, which would usually be prostrated on the Helleniká slab with radiating branchy stems extending the fractal distance between Kímolos and Tsambika in thistle´s ceremonies. The hirsute silts will come from the genesis of their spiritual temporal being the same wool of the whirlpool of all the weeds attached and oppressed to the lamp of the gargoyles that are tuned together with the Gulpers of Archangelos in a happy diet following patterns of even, and odd thistles spring in the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The Parapsychological regression XIV century - Saint John the Apostle says: “from Filerimos a sidekick monk of Philo of Alexandria has come with the image of the blessed Immaculate ****** and painted by Saint Luke the Apostle. The Knights of Saint John built the Monastery of Saint John in Rhodes with this image; everything comes from there on the Miraculous Hill of Filerimos, and the temple of Athens Polias was converted into a proto-basilica with a three-bay nave dedicated to Her. The church is known since then for housing the figure of the ****** of Filerimos (Our Lady of Filerimos). In the fourteenth century under the rule of the Knights of Saint John a monastery was built here surrounded by cloisters cells and a series of chapels, that is where the figure is the miracle worker and is reverently guarded. Being a Capuchin order after the Ottomans destroyed it; it was rebuilt by the Italians. With this image we canonize the Vas Áuric in the homily prior to the spiritual link with Etréstles in Kímolos, before every morning they illuminate the sacred Earth of both latitudes in the mystical house of Saint John the Apostle with the herbalists on the wind to fight for the Somnia in Hortum et Flos Herbarium in Kímolos, Garden of Flowers and Dreams in Herbalist in Kimolos. Knowing that the Universe is approaching the Vernarthian Duoverse, Saint John the Apostle decided with the Birthright to establish a Duoversal Garden in Kímolos with the aim of laying tremendous foundations on the base of the pre-Christians and apostolic who enlisted in the Greco-Hebrew world with the addition of compression, and medicinal valences for the herbalist of Kímolos, in such a way to reissue it in the monastery of San Juan in Rhodes and the Panagia of Tsambika. Since the grains grew and germinated they became thickets of great predestined forest in Rhodes, aspiring to continue being a well-known theology in Greek also being sufficient testimonial about its Aramaic originality, being addressed to the Sanhedrin, 37-42 AD Before Caiaphas and redirecting it to his brother-in-law Theophilus of Annas. The Aramaic Apocalypse, also known as 4Q246, is in one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, found at Qumran, with notable early messianic mention of the Son of God. Saint Luke says in the voice of Saint John the Apostle: “4Q246, we are children of God…, the Highest, the Messiah as a messianic voice, being able to be confused with the Beast or the Messiah but Philo of Alexandria will be there saying “I always ignored with the most blessed indifference to Satan, because therefore in this Aramaic manuscript he only has, and will reside forever and ever in his Messiah” Given this situation, the commanded expressions were those of astragals mysticism in herbalist and botany in this manuscript, since the unfortunate leftovers are the freshness and splendor of the flowers caressed by the wind that arrived at that moment; in regard to the wind of the Anemoi being eight gods that correspond to the eight cardinal points from which they came and were related to different seasons and meteorological phenomena, but he heralded the excitement of the Cyclades, like Sound of Sounds between Narcissus of Sharon and Lilies of the Valley. The audio-images were avocados forming the deep thickets that will move according to the inclinations of the planets, each time the Universe approached Greece among all the cisterns with water for the flower meadows that Vernarth in litanies was assigned to the paths that lead to the Vas Auric.

Vernarth says: “With these titles “Vas spirituale, Vas honorabile, Vas insigne devotionis, Rosa mystical, and Regina sacratissimi rosari”, I have to transform all the astragalus, and shrubs into the consorts with the presence of the jacaranda vase of living human nature in virtue of the meeting of the Universe-Duoverse, for the herbalist of Kímolos now imprisoned in the Vas Auric of Limassol. "Sweet Nectar of the dying, eager for eternal hunger and sweetness in withered flowers"
The end of Parapsychological regression XIV century
Saint John says Apostle: “Helleniká and Tsambika, will be the lily, the saffron, the rose and the violet but also new ones, like the marigold and the chamomile making of all a diadem crown to place the world of the Duoverse in all its radius, for the star that illuminates par excellence as a white planet without thorns, which is perfect among the perfect, anti herbicide of language and of incarnation as in the Empyrean the medieval sky in the highest of heavens. It is likewise in the place of the physical presence of God, where angels and souls reside in Paradise between caltrops and Rosas towards the alimentary plane of conventual voice, and tonics of the glycogenic Milky Way sipping third-grade milk to curdle in the children who have not been a Messiah yet. Paths of thorns will guide visitors to this gallery of flowers and plants through the Panagia monkish for the holy homily with the Lilies and through low valleys, where no more Lilies can escape from their chains of the Liliorum genome in the valleys of the galactogenic virtue. Like Mother Rosette and son Lirium, being the mother of everyone and of that…, there… your son, “Myself in the path of the three Mary’s”. Over there in the desolate place, a columbine carries me imprisoned on my heels as a bond of a son who makes my steps with the Columbine of my saving feet” At 320 meters of altitude Still, Life appeared concealed behind the Vas Áuric descending…, here everyone approached the auric circle of Moral that made them authors of the proximity of the Universe falling on Greece, and the Herbolaria that fell with all its reliable structure in the foliage where many more species appeared such as thilts, Laurel, Olive, Linen, Grenade in a simple and nuanced devotional with the pro status of the delegate; the same Hexagonal Primogeniture to make the cinnabar fistulas that were elemental by the different associated colors, and by Grail tutorials that looked indigo on top of some Rhododendrons. If it is eschatological, it is in the mystical nets of the Empyrean further from a form that is said to be called a form of antagonism, between Cardinals and their dead Lilies. As first among the last, the bulbous and clayey Tulip of the orbital and basilica symbology, peacemaker and philosophical Eritrean for spiritual quests that toil outpourings from the Empyrium, reaching the Messiah on his Colt on his way to Bethany. Around the Monastery, everyone could be seen as they arrived to the beat of the cymbals and aulós, among lyres that prowled tickling the inquiry to rest their fingers, or perhaps dressed by some Trojan villain augur in those of "Daedalus". Being the latter, here a tulip with flames of a true seeker trying to sacrifice subsistence daring over the risk of the resole of salvific death or perhaps dressed by some Trojan villain augur in those of "Daedalus".
Daedalus says: “After the incident with Perdix, I Daedalus was expelled from Athens. I then went to Crete, and in the kingdom of Minos I was placed in the service of the monarch. One of his tasks was the creation of Thalos, an animated bronze giant who defended the island from invasions. By order of Minos, I built the labyrinth to enclose the monster; the labyrinth was a building with countless corridors and winding streets opening into each other, which seemed to have no beginning and no end. Minos locked me up with my son Icarus, whose mother was Naucrate, a slave of Minos in the same building. The reason for the confinement was the collaboration of Daedalus in the escape of Theseus from the labyrinth, I have to lament for the ****** of Perdix, now turned into Partridge who now carries in his claws the creation of the Universe-Duoverse, turned into his own, and myself in envy neither harassing me about my endings, and neither starting nor finishing. That is why I appear here coming from Crete, to wrap myself in the garden and its mystery closing all the madrigals and hedges, like a world that has created me, in its splendor, seeing the humility fragrant with violets grafted onto lavender with my soul now, of a somewhat syncretism Hebrew-Hellenic and Mythological sub-Mythological, like a nobleman who walks free and without chains… passing through the Parthenon to put on tiaras in dresses that are adorned with Linens, but of evangelical lineage here in Kimolo.

In Kimolos; Helleniká Necropolis, Etréstles was suspended in a columbarium equivalent near the lapidem of the necropolis. There was a great amount of accumulated air enclosed in the musty cinerary walls, with the translucent specters that fluttered through other metropolises that transited inconsistently in their proto-masonry, and some resembled pink jaspers on some grooved slabs, letting pale dovecote rhizomes slip away under an oblique columbarium domain that manifested itself meagerly on an unstable podium of Folegandros. Adhering to this enormous exteriorization were Kanti, and Etréstles in their hydrothermal genesis, lying as a petra forms at a wide range of heat towards periodic effluvia of their Devonian geology, manifesting discreetly until a carbonization of sedimentary rocks attributing their curiosity when they continued to remain in areas favorable climatic conditions, simulating to be exordiums on thermal hydro sediments, leading to the carbonization of the surface of the necropolis with micas and serpentines, to cool down in the selfless natural fields that resisted the effect of the heat generated by the ZigZag Universe, etching each other on pyrites and graphite’s with the compactness that increases, and extends the widening of the mournful enclosure attentive to channeling emanations and traces, that will be the first loads of exegesis from Tsambika for prompt elucidation from Mount Hymettus in Athens, and continue to proliferate in hives of bees libating in its thickness towards the good-smelling necropolis causing its magnificent flowers and herbs to steam; so much so, that from the paved lipoids of honey astragalus and spectra will come out deposing to be toxic, yearning the strigilas or curved striaeons (reverse or straight), imitated from pagan sarcophagi.

Thousands after Thousands of Centuries after centuries, adorning themselves in the lapidem glossaries on the exterior fronts of tymbos that were embedded in the tholons, almost as in outright Constantine-Hellenic brilliance towards an unarmed cenotaph with their flat covers, pouring over them the devastated trisomy of Kaitelka, of whose diploid organism extras, aberrated by being parity triplicates of their greatest chromosomal and homologous hereditary complement. The vestiges of fossil whales here were generating disproportions of execrable variation, being destined to the patio of fall on them in three additional courtyards of marbles at the rate of inverted strata, revealing only some of their extremities appreciating them with semi-covered figures, and on reliefs filling again by genetic trisomy for gentile practices and lead them to the Christian Vas Auric. Faced with such a famous disproportion of fossil reliefs, they turn to the scourges of the Universe.

Panagia Theoskepasti Parapsychological regression Etréstles in Kímolos: The church of Theoskepasti, due to its position could be easily recognized by the invaders during their raids. However, according to a legend the church was veiled by dark clouds of mist and became invisible as soon as the assailants approached. Due to this legend the church received the name "Theoskepasti" from the Greek words "Theos" and "skepazo" meaning "God" and "watch" respectively. So, the name is 'God Veiled'. According to another tradition, when once a foreigner managed to get into the church and tried to steal the golden candle divine power cut off his hands. Also if it is watched over by God, so it is divine for the Creation that it will begin with the synchronization between both latitudes of the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. Etrestles After staying together with Kanti, they went from Theoskepasti to Hellenika, located in Dekas Bay on the west coast of Kimolos, here in the necropolis there are ruins of ancient tombs that would form part of the new humanity in the creation of the Duoverse, existing since Mycenae and the Cyclades next to the small islet of Agiоs Аndreas, also being part of the city. Many ruined tombs can be seen from the hill on the edge of Elliniká with some stones still in the sea between Kimol and Milil, in the vicinity of Psathi on this island located on the southeast coast. Kímolоs to Chοrá is 1 km away on the hill above the Psathi port from here the foreign ships trying to come to the Bay area sighted, for the advent of the Cinnabar on the scapulae that hold the Gates of the Necropolis for the effect avant-garde, and regenerator of souls that will resurface with more universal chromosome tints mutated from trisomy, more of extreme longevity. In the homily, an archpriest of the regional deanery will make a pastoral criterion for this gesture by virtue of eminence, and guide them through the orthodoxy of the chapel to the Episcopal organizational procession of the Vas Auric. It was already twilight and Etrestles was climbing onto Kanti's pony clutching the utensils of the homily, in the customary ritual before incensing and setting fire to the laurel and rosemary in the fords of Leto and Koumeterium of Messolonghi, it rotated in ellipses sprinkling crumbs of the purest loaf from Arcadia on a gray Monday with hummus to attract sour souls that they were in a catatonic state making them more esthetic or aesthesis, of reactionary rebellious natural aesthetics with nuances, then reincorporate them into the three courtyards in a magnificent concordance with Rhodes. When the Archpriest begins the talk, he derives his prayers from semi-inert materials that were made in communion with the chromosomal dyes; with the worms with absentmindedness of progenitor snakes that were grafted undulating, being in reality only worms that were amazed at the exhortation of the Archpriest in the ritual, circulating universals destined for his elegies and celebrating from an ambo or pulpit with classical Latin pronouncing the archpriest the way it died lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies, on a dark Monday day but full of grace for the assistants doing the sermons to interpret the alabaster patios that will lead to Tsambika. The first worms were persecuted by Kanti, he believed that they were scatterings that emerged from the ground, such an earthly ecosystem was beginning to disown him due to the metamorphosis of annelids which seemed to increase their ultra-grave texture with the same remains of an irresolution without a sarcophagus, turned into sharp curves intestinal that were depressed breathing autonomously on consistent folds of the dermis of the oldest caste of the subsoil of Helleniká. Preexisting the distant origin of the Arcadias and they're dissected that silently followed the hummus and bobota, not to digest them with their suckers, but rather surround them and delegate them to explore the surroundings that would encapsulate the ground with the proximity of the transfigured universe to Vernarth's Duoverse, to phosphorus and emit the will-o'-the-wisp nitrogenous fires before the Archpriest, Etréstles and Kanti disquieting by an arcane movement. Being a full act of the herbaceous phagocytosis, they continued ascending in the curvilinear procession with their traces weaving moment without time, which was added to the sub-mythology and a finite sub-time, like unicellular procreating others that accelerated their physiognomy detached from their immateriality, towards a longer intake of the organic material on the hummus and exudation of propolis rhizomes. In this way, they resign when falling with serious cramps cleared of the digestive world, which no cell has tasted ******, but rather direct when breathing from Hellinika's lung lobes, comprised mostly by the alabaster sheepskin that was suspended to other colonies of worms that sailed to lean out towards the surface of the altar where they regenerated from the flow of the annelids. Archpriest says: “The frame of the Vas Áuric arises from the nuclei of the medallion, pending a high presence of insulation. With high mobility between the tissues and amino acids of the annelids, new basal cell functions even being visible for Etréstles and not totally for all yet. The image of the medal had a classified functionality and concrete information, but imperceptible chronological possibly being the first function of the icon in its justification with religious symbols and manifestations of the divine, and semantic still removed from a theoretical auto-iconic. When reading in Vas Auric, "What two men do not see, a man sees who does not see..., what the creeping animal sees, self-prisoner of his lack of vanity..., He will see it". Being epistemic images that provide more distant knowledge of the sub-divisible organic matter in finite mortality towards the other eternal inorganic, contributing to the super complex neuronal development, in a veiled sensation that is lost between itself and its own bodies, being able to take them with its own differentiations”

Panagia Tsambika Monastery - Channeling Cinnabar: Vernarth commanded the three architectural courtyards of Tsambika for the Cinnabar layout. They climb the steps that lead to this monastery at the top of one and to the very connection of the homily with Helleniká. In this monastery they will have to censor three courtyards, all pointing towards the west of Mandraki Bay, on some pine trees all surrounding the virtual stained glass window of the portal that joins the main avenue with the ascent of the monastery, until very close to the Virginal Marianus icon and very close to the dividing wall from where Lindos can be seen. The Tsambika Monastery is four kilometers from the city of Archangelo, the height of the monastery is leveled with pebbles on its bare floor that led everyone barefoot, towards the three nearby patios. Cinnabar as a polygonal crystal would be specially used for the perpendicular ceremony of Mercury, to sensitize the climatologically the variation that would be appreciated once it began to sponsor the bones that would spread in the extreme longevity of annelids exchanged from the moldy alabaster arcades, and carried by alluviums of crystallized mercury, granting together with the Panagia of Tsambika fertility, and parental conception for the new Universe-Duoverse of Vernarth, extending life farther than the first-born descendant's first ancestor, being the cinnabar the diversity of versed uses now been given in the upright channeling with ultra vital extensions with Helleniká. The alabaster and the three columns of these sulfated stones form compact would dare to hydrate in the silos where the windows will be poured, this is where the sub-mythological specimens detached from any temporal dimension will be used, leaving sapiens annelids free will recombining the diploid chromosomes, and profiting from molds of exact erratic aberrations to be vindicated in the dispensaries of Saint John the apostle. Thus adorning the perfumed areas intervened three cinnabar patios, for the sermon of the Vas Áuric. Thus inspiring the chair with the verses of Saint John on the immanence after the fifty days of the Messiah in epistolary verses and the evangelizations, elaborating vessels of the low rank of Faith to opt for expectations of moldings with new consciences of selenite clay, and refine them in messianic faith. Middle-range pebbles were subtracted for the interior and extramural floor of the Monastery, being rather Biblical Calcite for the Egyptian-Hellenic Alabastron psalmody praise perfume. This typology will be the quilt for the magistracy with a canopy glass exhibited near the tulip lamps, and ceiling lights of the monastery for the use of the diamantine sphere of the opaque panels that flamed from the intersection of the arachnids re sprouting from the current wind of cinnabar. Vernarth says: “Suitable for our consciences, we will open the channels in Kímolos before our subtle bodies that will make us divided just as we parabolize ourselves, before the airs of St. John the Apostle in the headdress of mediumship to reach the wavelength to Helleniká, the interactive vibrations will leave with the expression of deep reasoning after pontificating the Mandylion with the Vas Áuric, for the effect of its icon and idiomatic monologues for the edges of San Judas Tadeo and Veronica, for such a faced event in foreign forces before the Messiah, a coherent gadget will be made in the intermittence variants. The channeling to the Cyclades will go from east to west wading the Aegean and Mediterranean waters, through the channel of the Universe-Duoverse for inter consciousness between the Hexagonal Primogen in Tsambika, and the triad of Etréstles, Kanti, and the Archpriest in Helleniká, with high degrees of the light consciousness and conclaves between both synchronous homilies. With drowsiness before the Anemoi winds that will be crossing near the voyages of the Trojan chthonic ships, and before the fateful chthonic divinities for such deities in the Mediterranean substratum identifying more obviously with Anatolia which since prehistory has followed to the site of Troy, in a cheesy union plan for Agamemnon's loyalists, to defeat Hector between farms and revolutions of agriculture, and Akkadian worlds b.C., in peripheral outposts to influence the central regions of Greece and its maritime trade. Hydro-physical influences, for the cycles of the solstice and nature with life and survival after death that is at the center of concerns that are not translated. In Crete, the supposed cult of great Gods is transformed during the second millennium BC as new actors appear: various animals, plants, etc. Given the consciousness, it will be the channeled light in the three courtyards of alabaster and between the cinnabar by bending the re-fertilization of the Cyclades channels, which go from Rhodes and Kimolos, for discernment. Sometimes it is more gratifying to hear what you want to hear and not the real message, the egotistical mind that does not come from a series of daunted egos..., or signs of the technological shamanism, intervening artificial intelligence from maniacal administered consciences, being shrill for worlds of appearances and illusions. I Vernarth with our own Khaire Fíle…, in my mind I go to the vessels that sail through the landscapes of the elusive identity, trapping her in the totemic stratum, and tracking psychology, but a seer of her present ego. Today I will wear my Leonatus cap, to separate his anger from such a shadow that clouds my grief, and my own victimhood of reduced and meekness which spurns violence, blaming it on a ruthless kind of depression and excluding shame from everyone's own fear of everything. I will bandage my eyes against diseases that will heal after three days, to straighten the ecstasy that thickens towards the scaffold, staying in Golgotha with nothing, I will create the framework of cinnabar for the pain of the skull that trembles in my claws, until sleep becomes vaporous with anger and the harmless destroying itself before your egos, colorful throbbing towards your alien beings and scarified host. I will be waking up from my subtle and anthropomorphic subconscious dreams, with sentences that hurt my worst self-destructive delinquencies before the new memorial, on the veil of Theoskepasti with its science sheltering itself by giving in on the vanquished springs and inaugurating new miraculous courses where I will surrender, full of forgiveness and more distant from the veil that does not act as a viewer.

Duet time, Duet space, one with the other illusion unreal elements and epistemic images ignoring them in expeditions crackle my Duoverse, and temples of Tsambika with the decoded annelids mutating in trisomy with flat doors towards the Olives Berna. We look at what gratifies basting and plotting the positions of the stars of the universe that are attached like sheets worthy of almighty serials, and redoubled humor on the chthonic embracing tridents, before skewing Xyston as an original replica of the dream of a night in Tel Gomel. The counterweight of the message of light lagged behind the high astral like the little bear, bustards, and her angelic breath retreated in dissolution..., now if diva emotion I have my daring, and courage towards the binge of my omniscient prosopon, similar to omniscient telepathy, my soul lies and my emotion too because in this way I will treasure the value of panic by surrounding myself with the fears of resting, against the poles and sights of a peaceful energetic confrontation that will make them in Rhodes and Kimolos, channel the consumed human finitude and not eternal ad portas of his Áspis Koilé.

Unconsciously they will continue halfway with their bouquets of flowers for Valekiria, and may they never really take the time to tell her what time of eternity will make them more crowded for her, and her reliquary poem bursting into flame with its insidious outbreak and fear of telling him that if they revive they will be other Hellenic Hetairoi towards the vermilion light of the embodied sacrificed loop state as a "Being of Light". Oh ghost phenomenon that doesn't scare me... rather disappoints, clinging to the skins that die in the unexpected female muses in Gaia, with my burning and hypertensive ballast, still frequent in me... As conjecture and presence of Greek life..., having to be promoted and involved where they should be tempered to the contribution of biodiverse, and species for island life and its balance in the Aegean. The theorem will enunciate in the image of the Vas Auric as sounds of homeostasis in classrooms, properties of intervened annelids consistent, capable of maintaining them in a certain internal and stable condition, compensating for the changes of the explosion of the intervened patios, towards an environment through regulated exchange of matter and energy with the outside towards its (comparative metabolism), in the case of a form of dynamic balance with properties of Cinnabar brilliance, as a self-regulated biosphere in the conditions of the planet to make its environment (especially temperature and atmospheric chemistry) nobler with the species that make up life in the compass of two unmanned islands by beings from Gaia, rather as entropy in physical magnitude for a thermodynamic system in equilibrium, inhabited by dynamic beings that associate nobly for adaptations of worlds that are not born. It segregates them towards a departure measuring them from heightened numbers in states of zero compatible with the laws of that physics for the purposes of watchful guardians if Gaia's engine is turned on before this psychic and spiritual combustion. The laws of this system with closed circuits and brought will tend to maximize the entropy expiring inhibitory reactions for the traces of oxygen and nitrogen of the worms, making a sign of the levitated carbon dioxide to take it from Tsambika in two converged energies of Leviathan and Saint John the Apostle in moles of carbonate dioxide, battling surviving the impostor necromancers adverse to their conditions and reproduction, keeping these habitable for many who do not they enjoyed the life-death-life cycle. Greece, as it will now look regenerated and appropriate of laws and extensive fibers concerning moles of molecules said to be equal of said Vernarth hypotheses by way of sub-mythology, rather perching on the growing ivy and strangling the signs of satiety of life with properties in consonance with severities that hurt even to the sound of the rattles before the passing of the millennia! Fear, insecurity, and frustration did not fit because they will cut the Diospyros abenuz, with its stamens usually sixteen more hypogynous or inserted at the base of the corolla; as female flowers being greened or being converted into staminodes, Diospyros with generally tetra-locular ovaries or with eight locules due to false divisions, will make us channel by inseminating Itheoi demigods, under the staff of sub-mythology with Zefián, before the migrations in Helleniká begin, just as in this pact with silence and meditation and a burning flame, below the vulnerable and high insolated frequencies..., waking up in Gaia as a dozing fairy. Shamanic vested will grade synergy and simple science.
The Homily in the natural lassitude of the created, the Duoverse presented IHΣ, falling in the eighteenth letter of the Greek alphabet and in the duo hundred changes of physical remembrance. The PH (Hexagonal Primogeniture), is conceived in the presence of the Crismón, more Hellenic with the Vexillum banner and the Kantabroi to rescind the tired depressed zephyrs, since the quantum of memory was lost in the integrity of an earth acrophobia for the subsequent it would be air-water for this reason, preceded by the ceremonial that begins with the trimming of the abenuz Diospyros with its stamens usually sixteen plus it's hypogynous or inserted at the base of the corolla; like those of the female flowers having part of the gynoecium in the part of Tsambika, and of the androecium that will be of the Diospyros in Theoskepasti; usually tetra-ocular ovaries adapted to be inseminated for the raids of the demigods Itheoi and Duoverso, with the monogram HDD (Horcondising-Duoverso), tracing the bifurcations with Zefián; the chaos ordering up to modulated Theoskepasti. The changes have to be reborn in the stamen, being almost sterile and aborting in the chronicles of Galilee personifying the pollination benefit of the Diospyros resprouting in the same stem of the whorl even more so in each stigmatized part of Vernarth and Etréstles, carrying the IHS candles with the monogram and the Mandylion-Vas Auric, pointing to the Olives Bern. Before the seams of the carved heels and the canals of the annelids rise up through the alabaster up to the calyxes with the Chrismon hat. Filling the warehouse of Anemoi himself struggling with the roof, and forgetting his deposit of the breath on synaptic abbreviations continuing to argue with Saint John the Apostle in the network of Rhodes and Kimolos, in the bark of the sensory past and consequence of fallen gushes, and affecting being restored on the basis of oxygen-nitrogenated Nemo-genetic activation to summarize loss and gain of channeling between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The memories of the stuck Vernarth cerebellum will be loaded, trembling towards the marsh of the hippocampus where Zoroaster led the Magi to the end of the span and first-last border in the vicinity of Ein Karem. This evolutionary scale fluctuated in weak air masses with the increasing rise of the Meltemi over the Aegean taking them to Dekas Bay, on the knees of the colossus that cursed to avoid some delirium that could replace it's joint, remaining like this on a scale of reminiscent and unspoken emptiness..., it continues to be stated and not occupied and not, but raised towards the colossus from the ground of Vernarth which had unfolded bipartite from Rhodes to Kimolos, by way of the Verthian neuroscience whose prose emanated in the submissive glaciers of hyper-intuitive meditation (as a technique of knowledge and abstraction for functional links of improvisation, purgative discernment and yogic memory). All the nonsense is alluded to infringing the rationality of the Vas Áuric ceremonial in its phenomenology making curvilinear pauses to re-captivate phraseological, and diminished keys in the condensed equivalents to approximately ten terabytes from a homologous half surrendering almost when exhausted before both scholars, and their debts exchanged by driving..., thus recovering wave descents before reaching the bay of Dekas; Kímolos and final in the necropolis of Hellenika..., and vice versa before re-climbing in the middle of Mandraki, Archangelos and Filerimos to finish in Tsambika, Rhodes. As a parallel response to the archpriest not to alter the IHS monogram of the homily and the association in remembrance can affect the conduction of the mediate trance, almost prostrating it in the house of omission and frenzy, if it has to recover unstabilized. The sulfurous mercury component of the Cinnabar, came acidifying from the essences of the Vas Auric, already prospering in the tutelage of each auric conductor..., Archpriest and Saint John the Apostle, each one with the sulfurous of the Greek mountain and the arch of the Aegean Sea as a former karstic foundation for its diametric towards a change of reaction of chemical prisms up to the multi-angular of the topaz that Saint John the Apostle carried in his bag near the reliquary, hanging off some fringes of the Vexillum that had been placed near Vernarth. Immediately from the banks of the monastery, Raeder was walking with a lantern looking for those who might try to enter, he believed that it was his father from Kalymnos who came on another mission to be taken to the cinnabar, more on top of an encourage observing the quarters stationed in the sandbanks of Rhodes, Petrobus the pelican circling the ledges of the monastery, marking out the apparent slackness of his body and entreaties in case they ventured into Kalymnos for a good portent, in waters for tenth seeds and for all the rodines. From the cloister with one of its necessary dependencies, all were with white candles aggravated between the steps of each cell and attached friars they made an antechamber in the nave near the church on the hexagonal floor, being screened by the center of the garden where everything was dominated by the limits of the alabaster arcades, which only now pointed to the closet of the books, this time with plenty and saved voices with devotion. Chapter by chapter it was won..., for each cell, identifying each portion in identity up to the scriptorium and refectory, where this ceremony books were distributed to the infinite world of the Duoverse near the locutory to witness where Saint George and the Dragon raged, souring winepresses for the missal wine.

Sequence shot in Kimolos, Panagia Theoskepasti- Etréstles says: “according to what has to be said in this dimension, the word will be the Duoverse. Synchronically it will be aligned with the monastery in the Tsambika for the third hour after noon, reflecting on the unrevealed walls of the chapel on all the radiosities of the cinnabar, entering in electromagnetic lassitude through the trusses of the pulpit anchored in the Vox and mystical vortex, towards those who entered and left thousands of times through the counter shutters of the chapel, which collided crashing many times until by the glow of Cinnabar somewhat sulfurous, was mixed with the interlocking of some novas which also acted as a decoy for the Chrismón that Kanti carried the steed adjusted in the saddle on his back, as a mount in syntactic esotericism speaking with intangible brown colors of the Cinnabar.
Vas Auric
S E L Oct 2014
fireplace

With the child she stands by the fireside, consoling tears
fallen branches cannot regrow, save the buds an early blossom
all oblivious to the angel standing behind them, a sword in hand
lifted high, glory brought forth from a babe's cry
the antechamber fills with dread sounds
a gurgling no parent should hear
her heart was not ready.


new shoes

In the cool of rain, small sounds magnified
new shoes: a callus will form in time
it's only mortals meeting in a chamber stiff
old air chokes madly
games played these days are brutal
I will write a letter; the breeze flies.


pile**

One atop another, gawky tries finesse, falls flat
pile on pile on pile
a range of mountains called my name
much like a needle in thick plush pile
they never found me
tig is lost of flicks and feats
possible genius reduced to numbers by idle hands.

I don't pretend to know (you), even as you slice up
the last quarters I have left.
Luis Mdáhuar Jun 2015
It’s simplicity
Its cradle and skill
Evil in bed
Disturbs your conscience

Born worthless
No miracle there
In delightful fast
Storm holds its vine
Selling naught
Desiring naught

Its words
     Sounds
Its actions
        Gestures
The beast fears naught
Unknowingly knowing
Swollen senses
Glorious aliment
For a crooked tree

Its breast bends
Its hands bends
Insults are loves
Wars and artifacts
Antechamber of death
And says naught

Not one will remain
      Responds
Not one will prevail
      Responds
Your dust will be eaten
By democratic worms
Of all brothers
Despised by all

Beasts fears naught
Nor life nor death
Who says?
Who comes?
Who goes?
The breeze only alone

Eternal
White on white
Atop the dead walks
A single hair of grass
Grows, lives dies
Beasts do not share terror
             Abounds in its symmetry

Without choices
Alone as the lone sun
That from three stars
                 It hangs
Empty and nothing more
All perishes
Something In the middle there
Alone Only

Embracing the extremes
The beast has been a beast
Over million a trials
And even then, nothing in the middle there
But the seen
Growing to naught
Perishing in naught

Beasts
Aware of this not
As ornament the imprint
Of its fiery tenure
beast, far, escape, routine, mesh, garden, stamp, cook, special, mastik, imprint, kiss, delectable, fashion, stupid, market, mariachi, ****, moon, drought, wanderings, musings, pope, ****, fear bone liquid venom.
Michael Stefan Feb 2020
You visited Darkness on my doorstep
A maelstrom of madness behind a cracked clown's mask
Your rictus grin cast shadows on my house guests
An upheaval of war broke out at gentile dinner party

Your heavy booted footsteps echoed in the antechamber
As you strode so confident into cacophonious dinner
Laying hands on hors d'eouvres and rotting sweet flesh
Forcing famine to descend on friendly folk

You played with the delicacy of human frailty
As you coughed with hollow wet echoes, racking paper lungs
Spreading filth and vile pox from woman to man
A sickly green pestilence wrapped tendrils around them all

And lastly, you stood before me brandishing gloved finger
You pointed at my chest and asked me, "Are you ready?"
The delight you took from all this rancor, truly sickening
You visited death upon my dining table with glee

But death won't get what it wants on this cold day
Not with heavy heeled boots of war, nor from feast to famine
Not with the pox of pestilence, no horse will drag me away
You came bearing darkness my friend,
But in a quiet valediction, I shall have to ask you to leave
Not actually sure what happened when I wrote this one.  I was feeling grumpy at fairweather friends and had recently read a graphic novel depicted the horsemen of the apocalypse in an every-day-life scenario.  I decided to blend the idea that bad friends carry these horsemen in them and will always want to share them even if everyone else is having a good time.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.i simply can't get this song out of my head, for a second day: nancy & lee - summer wine... just like i couldn't get jimmy rodgers' kisses sweeter than wine (then again... that might have been the jackson browne & bonnie raitt rendition, i'm guessing most probably the latter)... as i'm pretty sure it's nancy springfield and lee the 70's tash-donning pornstar - sly upperhand singing on the side in between eating oysters...

as i knew i would end the day and begin
my catch-2-hours of: night proper with
a bottle of wine...
how else to celebrate: 'you know,
i really enjoy working with yeast-dough...
oh hell yes, it's much more fun than
the usual dough associated with poaching
dumplings... it's the perfume of yeast...
catch me with a cube of fresh ones
and i'll sit for a while just sniffing it...
yeah... sniffing fresh yeast before actually
using it...'
or at least that how to do it proper
without wanting a take-away pi-za-za...
the sauce is extra herby (extra
basil and oregano) and there's
an added chilli or two...
and enough mozzarella to drown a slice
of ham in with a mushroom or two...

cooking... whoever said it was supposed
to be this pre-****** liberation
1950s postcard homecoming of the housewife:
who said that cooking was a feminine
"job"?
after all, who is Milo Minderbinder?
and who was the cook on the Pequod
or was it Essex?
perhaps that old saying from the Demeter:
it's bad luck to bring women onto a ship...
bad luck indeed: having to name a ship
a woman's name...
but cooking... he hunts and then has
the audacity to cook the **** thing?!
stereotypical - i guess...
what else could i possibly write:
to "correct" myself...

was that anything, in italics, as an introduction...
akin to talking over a radio playing
in the background?

otherwise:
'it was of your making and
then objection, inference and resignation
and revolt. well done'....

and and and...
how best to sum a slow-pacing...
i would have never managed to: well done or
do myself by reaching for the skeleton...
like: it was of your own making,
then an objection, then an inference -
pause: resignation and a crescendo of revolt...

the dignity of walking (cogitans per se)
is being referenced...
and any comment is not a kick-in-the-teeth...
but perhaps i... lack the basics in
identifying very common psychological
apprehensions...

how can something can become so simple?
did i over-romantise it with the latin?
in terms of morality:
i "trans-gender" myself as
new pronoun!

θought: i.e. I ought...
besides, there's the crude manifestation
of a will... when all the knives have
been sharpened...

a comment and i don't know what to do with
it!
i don't know: like it? love it?
dislike it?
can i just keep it, can i just sit on it?
can i pickle it?
can't it wait?
am i expected to provide a dialogue?
which is why i rarely comment...
i could never leave comments
or annotations on books i've read
in the past...

it seems so simple, though!
it's like everyone is supposed to keep this "reality check"!

'it was of your making and
then objection, inference and resignation
and revolt. well done'

a well done i'd call an inedible roast
of beef... a well done i'd call:
chewing gum chicken ******* that
were allowed to sit in the oven for
a period that: doesn't excuse them being
165 degrees when a thermometer is spiked
into the flesh...

what is so "blantantly" obvious!
william buckley jr interviewing norman mailer,
public intellectualism and being drunk
at the same time...
and this horrid testament of gory:
for the better health of the public discourse...

i imagine all the books that never arrived
at the hunchback's angel's purvey
of: what's worth reading... and what isn't...

there i was "thinking" that:
the per se suffix attached... "something"...
it's clearly not a noumenon: res per se
(thing in itself)...
and if it's thinking in itself...
it has to be complicated... adored for what it
is... esp. if it's not related to
some moral θought: I ought...

of the comment provider...
it's quiet staggering...
when you can emphasize with someone...
you hope they're writing about themselves...
you dare not think they're writing about you...
but... in their writing: they are like you...
writing about yourself...
so no... they're not writing about you...
they're writing from a "solipsism" venture
into the horizon "undistrubed"...
you can only retort... i've just come back...
from where you're thinking of going...
and it's not what any hope wishes
itself to envision...
for better or for worse...
for either life or dream...

it's so simple though!
i should listen to strangers more often!
(a) it was of your (own) making
(b) then objection
(c) inference
(d) resignation
(e) revolt

what's that in terms of schematics
and geometry?
that's a pentagram! i haven't seen...
schematics evolve past the square...

that's why i don't like commets...
if i could comment on everything i've ever read...
third-party sourcing someone for
a first-person reply...

perhaps i'm not playing the psychology
game - if it even is a game - at all?
the psychology was just a tow-along
dog with a leash and a muffer...
fair enough: muffer "vs." muzzle...
FF ZZ...
there was this concern for:
what sport will there be demanded...
for man to perform... if he truly
takes walking to the task of countering
all other pleasures: coinciding with
a physical exercise of the body?

i call this: prompt...
how could i not come to such a simple
conclusion, prior?
how could i have possibly coupled:
the freedom of thought...
free speech...
when being... bound to an otherwise:
automated body...
an automated heart... a conscious-unconscious heart...
same for the liver, the kidneys, the brain...
and how... only when it fails...
do people... give it any conscious effort
to mind its existence...
a heart-attack will leave the heart in the hands
of someone who will prize it above...
as long as he is able to sacrifice an eye for it...

walking is where thinking "happens"...
it's a forever dasein since there's
no real "here" or "there"...
and... there's the pervasive interlude...

to have to abhor explaining "things" to oneself...
what are the chances of conjuring
the royal-we or the royal-one...
in that first person via third person meddley?
is there a "they" to be made inclusive...
from a perspective of: the horde of hallucinations?

perhaps i am mad:
but i do know that such conditions do not
become viral,
or at least they shouldn't...
it's not like a schizoid hallucination
can be passed to the next person
with the impetus
of a common detrimental cold: or... zee flu...
you can't "somehow" ingest
symptoms of something akin to this:
without a self-regarding
violition to become... debased to begin with...

i will rarely dare to leave a comment...
on anything...
in so doing i will always want to bypass
"the work"... "in question"...
and speak to the narrator...
because whatever this is...
is it's own purpose...
once i click on the save button...
i do the Pontius Pilate deed...
this poo'em becomes
an abandoned house...
it becomes a squalor...
it becomes a "*****"...
a point of reference for all things
public... akin to a toilet...
**** on it, **** on it... comment: yes do...
**** it... ******* over it...
take Alice with you for
the walk through the corridors of...
not another imagining of not yet another
Elysium...

sometime ago: this would have been...
exactly january 8th...
at ten minutes to 1am...
perhaps it would have been five years
ago...
where was i five years ago?
somehow not right now, "here"...

after a while i get a brailled response...
⠼⠁ view... it's cruel... to have to resort to +
a ⠼⠁⠼⠁ is ⠼⠃
well because of the equals (=) symbol...
morse... contra braille...

count them! (⠼)...
⠁(a and 1)
⠃ (b and 2)
⠚ (j and 0)
⠊ (i and 9)...
and all the other "numbers"
follow suite...
because you really couldn't
write an la dièse: A♯
in braille... then again... perhaps you could...
but that's how i figured out...
it's not exactly the case that
people are born into wheelchairs...

some skydive... some ride horses
competitively...
some scale mountains...
they fall...
i like walking... i always liked walking
more than i would ever care for running...
ignorant of me then...
to "presume" that people are born into
wheelchairs...
like "nothing happened"...
ever...
that 101th carrot a man would eat
being going blind...
or rather: not eating that 101th carrot...

ask blind willie johnson what he
thought about picking up the guitar...
better than waxing a phallus
with forrest gump intent of also playing
the do'whip stoopid toto too!

no... something happened...
Melaine Reid... sure as **** she wasn't born
in a wheelchair...
that's not being mean:
but can i at least enjoy walking when
i don't have a need for the 50th goldstruck marathon
gimmick to celebrate the olympics:
but not the ping-pong or the archery?

can i? it's not like i'm about to swim
like an octopus with inks spare
for a page... that just requires
a dabbling in... a Rorschach?!
really?

who is this person that would have written
either circa 15th century german music
or the dignity of walking (cogitans per se)...
well... certainly not circa me, now...
i was expecting a slow night...
to have written something and not have
clinging to it...
i was welcoming it to have passed
with the purpose of time as:
neither classic... nor worth any intellectual
debate...
something private for those...
wishing it to be most private...
never a taunt...

you can guess when a comment is asking you:
is this a taunt on purpose...
or a taunt... without purpose?
- about how to start a d.m. escapade...
how something is not, "punctuated enough"...
or how... when diacritical markers come to play...
it's somehow... "overtly-punctuated"...

feed me to the lions! feed me to the wolves!
never expect me to go down easily
as being fed to democracy in the lineage
of anglophile "public intellectuals"!
give me the wolves! spare me the mob!
the anonymous mob of the comments!
i'll probably sound german when
i have to: reiterate:
geben mir der wölfinnen...

perhaps i chose the feminine...
over the masculine... thinking of the valkyrie:
kyrie eleison!
when wolves showed up...
or the crab-bucket intellectualists...
i said it once... i'll say it again:
crab-bucket intellectualism...
even in my darkened abode i will never levy
myself to leave a remains of my self...
not in the comments...

but then again: i am chasing
1 millions words as a pauper...
semi-, oh lord! i have somehow missed
the calculation to offer: relief with!
precision!
if these not be hebrews...
then they must be anglo-ßaß!
esp. h'americanißed anglo-sächsisch...
the scurge of the spitz...
the pomeranian... the bohemian...
the bayer...

oh i'm content with my dole...
my dice roll...
i usually ridicule myself...
there's no better humor than...
self-deprecating humor...
and it always involves...
not succumbing to cheap psychiatric
metaphors associated with
a melancholic... i.e. the diagnostics...

rhyming should only happen on a whisper
of a whim...
spontaneously...
there should be no...
dissection scrutiny.... no fibula no tibia:
oh god... there's also a crest?!
what's a coccyx supposed to be?
ancestral tripod / pivot...
something we'd make of a monkey
should he not jump at your command...
break a few bones,
wind him up... until the jack 'n' box
would pop out?!

it's a poem: it's not a book...
it's certainly not an investment worthy
of these modern binges: season rocky XI...
star wars episode... X...
or some spin-off...

if it were as simple as the retort to the question:
why do you **** people?
- why do you pluck flowers?!
dracula, b.b.c. and what not...
it's not exactly a cliche if...
there's an afterthought lingering behind it...
no "great" punctures onto paper
would ever give
the secrets of constellation or...
if it wasn't for the drinking and the loitering
in the antechamber of spontaneity...
what sort of whim,
what sort of "inspiration"...
what muse... would be bound to loiter...
in a day...
for a day: where the zenith is here...
and the nadir the everyday welcome "chores"
that have, already been disclosed...

i looked at the output of the commentators...
someone's bound to be peacocking...
for a solid minute i thought i was
i.q. 95... sub-minimal...
and a reply to these comments would be?
a "conversation" with this current mask,
of a voice, only 10 minutes later: 10 minutes
too late...

so... why bother?
there's a better vision in my head...
10 minutes from now...
i'll be pandering a cushion
to allow my heavy head to fall into its cusp
and ready me with 6 hours of blissful night...
perhaps i'll dream: i hope not...
unless the dreams are less dreams
and more: ciphers...
upon waking i do not meet the litany of:
i think, i am, i will be, i hope to be...
instead... with a backlog of a dream...
i will wake up as:
de- and -cipher...
half an hour upon waking...
having to relax my strict rules of memory
being reserved for "things" that happened
to me when i was 4 years old...

that's when i break the rules for having
an extensive memory...
when i dream and sleep...
or rather: when i dream i forget that i slept...
and when i sleep and not dream?
i'm left with a hangover of not being awake
for 8 hours plus...
"conundrum" or what?

but if i do dream... those 8 hours of sleep
will seem like a breeze...
otherwise i'm ******...
when i wake up and persist with eyes closed...
de- and -cipher...
de- being i... and -cipher being: the dreamed...
past-participle...
perfect grammar doesn't really matter, now...
given that the royal-pronoun game
has been abandoned...
what with no care for the royal-we
or the royal-one...
one was not expecting to come across
the Mongolian Vay... of They... of the horde...
seems times are...
some on the way in... some on the way out.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
it has taken me... exactly... 3 hours and 24 minutes
to wake up proper...
oh... i was awake from half past 10 this morning
only having gone to bed at 7am...
maybe i'm getting the numbers wrong:
i'm writing this at 6 minutes 2pm:
                                      that's two in the afternoon...
mmmmm...
i think i could write about time, like this,
         over and over again...
this mediocre language that: nonetheless allows me
the theatre of the mind encompassing
the entirety of last night: this morning...
                       something in between...
she did tell me her name...
she didn't speak much english...
i asked: vide cor meum?
                      she taught me the Romanian words
for mirror, eye, ear, bottom-lip, upper-lip,
neck, hand... ring...

hmm... oglindă...
           i even tried to teach her some of mine:
oglądam... i'm watching
ochi: oko... oczy...

                     i think i'm still dreaming...
we shared stories about our tattoos...
she had the name Nicolas somewhere on her arm...
and something major on the entire upper-to-fore-arm...
she wouldn't stop caressing my mark of
Cain on my right shoulder-blade:
that almost complete numb part of me...

she ****** me off for about 5 minutes
while i started to admire her legs and feet...
but... 3 years without any intimacy...
i wasn't going to turn into a Duracell bunny....
i wasn't going to pop a blue V-pill either...
all this *******...
                       yeah... you wonder: but not really...
come to think of it...
most of the performers make it into a 30 minute slot
machine of genocidal ***** leftovers...
self-genocidal: some atheist purpose for genes: continues...
so i was at the brothel and sure
as **** i wasn't there to make a ***** flick to later
stream... i wasn't with some cam-girl either...
i guess it must get tiresome to...
play around with guillotined silicon ******, no?

just asking because... if the affair of some shrimp **** limp
"burdened" me: i had to unburden myself
in some other way... those £120 weren't coming back
and that hour wasn't going to just be spent
on talking: she didn't understand 7 8ths of what
i was saying: ****... i can still taste her...

we smoked a cigarette together...
at first she implored me for some blow...
imitating that ghastly snorkel and gargle
or whatever you want to call it
for the magic dust...
                            punch up her horniness?
i was, then i wasn't...
i almost knew this would happen...

what was left? pretending to be blind...
working around all the details of her body...
obviously stealing a kiss...
come to think of it... several kisses...
asking her timidly if she's into the French school
of snails... slobbering over oysters...
fit a ******* piñata in between the pair of
you while you're at it...
no... she wasn't... tip of the tongue to the lips
was enough: when you don't get a reply
to reciprocate using the tongues...

obviously i cycled to the "house of the rising sun"
so i implored to take a shower first...
which i did... a shattering bliss of cold water...
when you're gasping for air or rather...
to the memory of tadpole me...
or me... via foetal route... no...
    like a fish gasping for water...
this cold shower...

                          i guess both of us didn't know
where the hour went...
one last attempt at some ******* frivolity...
no... again: i was in the mood but then wasn't...
it's not like i can just turn on
a switch...

and then... four of them...
sitting in the antechamber
                          with the t.v. on and some pretzels
and me asking for 3 cups of water...
one Turkish... two Romanian...
the third i didn't catch a drift of...
a conversation about names...
   where i was from...
- Lachistan?
- well... you're turkish... Ottoman... we shared
a long history... Lach...
- where?
- Poland...
- oh, good people from there...
- i wouldn't know...

                                   it's not that i hate my fellow
countrymen... but i'm strapped
to about 5 miles shy of little Bangladesh...
i don't suppose you know that...
we're not good at congregating on foreign
soil... unless there's a football match...
like that time in Cardiff....

whatever it was... am i bragging am i gloating?
about what... the size of my *****...
come to think of it... i might as well have been
juggling three raw eggs
when touching her body...
   always with the outside of hand...
the more tender skin of the pair...
                                   - it's not the first time
i allowed myself to steal a kiss from a *******...
i never understood that taboo
they have in cinematic flicks about:
oh the sacred mouth of Jezebel...
that she'll sooner blow than kiss...

anyway... spectacular... spectacular...
after a 3 year drought of absolutely no intimacy...
to this day...
   my favourite movie characters has to be...
Lester Burnham...
                 now i feel like...
cycling to the east end of London and spotting
some cousin-******* beauties...
           or just being an absolute tease of sweat
and pulsating arteries...
if there won't be one chance of eye-******* through
a niqab... there's bound to be one
with a secular-rag-a-muffin' and a hijab...
so... win win... either way.

p.s. did i mention sniffing her raven hair...
that's another thing... ah... those Romanian girls.
i promised the Turkish one
that she could have me...
although she implored: stay one more hour...
one more...
with the one i was with just minutes prior
i told her: you can't have more than one woman
per night...
obviously thinking of king Solomon's harem...
kiss on the hand...
kiss on the hand and the cheek...
kiss on the forehead...
adieu!

lover-boy o lover-boy...
too bad those English girls only give it to Pakistanis.
Jill Tait Oct 2020
Beware amidst the month of October as Autumn nights draw oh so somber, coz witches and warlocks right across the lands brew black magic betwixt an antechamber..

Hocus-pocus and hoodoo potions, abracadabra and pots of putrid lotions..Voodoo mysticism with witchcraft sorcery, spell-casting sinfulness and wrongdoings of roguery..Lock up your latches, keep your children safe at home..Becareful of the blackness, ghosts and ghoulies are on the roam..

On the last day of October as soon as the clock strikes twelve, daredevil demons shall dig the earth and delve..Shenanigans of mumbo-jumbo conjuring cruel magic spells. amongst the shadows in the moonlight and yon high-pitched yells..Don’t give necromancy it’s satisfaction, stay well away from harm’s door.. the superstition of Halloween has alot to answer for..
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
the prostitutes come in at £2 / minute...
for an hour's worth of delight that's simple math:
£120...
after my last encounter with the Romanian:
timid little thing, still in her 20s...
timid or frigid: she shouldn't be in the profession...
i left feeling like a castrated harem
handler / oud player...
         i couldn't take out my frustration of a limp
whittle richard on her...
i kissed and caressed her...
i don't suppose any other man might vent his
anger at being limp...
ineffectual: hollow... purposiveness having
evaporated: all that's spirit, energy: animation
reduced to this shrimp ****...

after the hour i just sat in the antechamber
to all the other rooms of hellish delights
when she walked in...
her face is still burning into my brain like
the face of the my ex's 14 year old sister when
we were going out in school...
a rush blood to every part of the body...
blurry vision... lust beyond measure...
                      strange how age changes...
it's nothing spectacular between say... me 35
and her... 31...
but then as with her Khadala... Khada...
Kharada... Khadaha... kiraz... afet...
                lalam... ipek...
                                  leyla... neylan... nuray...
                  serap...
my irises disappeared and perhaps
even the sclera...
                               all was black in my eyes...

and we talked about how disgruntled i looked:
do i look happy?
one thing led to another and i told her:
next time i'm here... i'll be taking you...
      
  how many days passed since the last time?
4... 5?
       wounded pride... got the better of me...
i'm not an erectile dysfunction!
i am not a castrated mouthpiece for the monks
to joke about on their abstinence route to
"elsewhere": i'm a ****** being!
                        this thing works and i'll prove it...
went sober for two days:
i blamed the excess drinking last time...
well: no better excuse mind you...
   and... prior to i ****** myself off to get the blood
running... several times... never once
reaching ******...
good... it works solo...

   the Romanian wasn't to my liking...
i wasn't going to just pick one up while the others
were busy... i was there for Khadaja and i wasn't leaving...
and no... i wasn't going to go for a full hour...
i wasn't sure...
the nerves might have got the better of me...
a plethora of doubts...
                                          esmerey... esana...

what a difference ******* the right woman makes...
i forgot how **** it is when you both appreciate
your cleanliness...
  and she performs ******* without a ******...
that she showed me her tongue with her mouth open
prior...
- who do i look like... jennifer lopez...
or... kim kardashian (god forbid ha ha)
- of course jennifer lopez...
- what do you see in my eyes?
- everything...
- i like your face... your remind me of that
actor, blonde... with a beard and all that...
- bradley cooper?
- yeah... you have a beautiful face
- i'm also fascinated by yours...

a day later and i'm battling a hard-on...
just shy of having her fill in the rest...
  nonetheless: a disorientating hard-on...
gravity is pushing me into the chair, the sofa...
while squatting and smoking a cigarette...
two beers down and my nerves are soothed...
but the CINEMA of last night is...
******* has suddenly become boring...
beside boring: just a performance stunt...
unrealistic - jerking off seems beyond silly too...
that bony imitation **** that's my hand
isn't going to cut it...
when i've just had... the best ******* in my life...
well... it was taking its time:
it only took it... its sweet 16 years...

all of a sudden i wasn't worried whether she
wouldn't be satisfied with my size...
that little grunt and that pulling of the face
when she finally slurped on the rubber
and slurped some more before sitting on me...
well... at first squatting and then completely
with me gripping her ***...

god... and that moist mouth... oozing both hot
and cold... kissing or rather: smoothing...
tongues and all...
odd: i never imagined myself as being much
of a pornographer...
but after 3... 4... years of bony-**** desert...
             and prior... just some unremarkable *****...
comes this Turkish demon-woman...
but there's something grander...
in advertisement and what not...
interracial profiling... white girls taken out
by... Tyrones... bruce lees... and muhammads...
well... if we're playing this interracial game...
**** it... i'm not staying for a white girl...
oddly enough my ex was already a product
of interracial antics: technically she could pass off
as a higher caste miss from the Raj...
but i never expected to have these sort of hots
and hard-ons for a Turkic girl...
then again... technically...
the Caucasus... and i'm a descendent of a people
that migrated north... probably prior
the Turks moving in from somewhere
                                       around Mongolia...
back to the roots...

oh but the added joy that... there's so much transparency
in prostitution...
there... money on the table...
there... a clock on the wall...
    there: we don't need to play games...
we don't have to fake politeness...
                            the naked body on a dissecting table...
and who the hell invented strip-clubs?
who the hell wants to play that fiendish
game of: look... but don't touch...
touch... but don't taste...
performance fears?
so... just looking at it... makes drinking a beer:
not more frustrating?
well... i wasn't going to jump on that only-fans
bandwagon... either...

the prostitutes come in at £2 / a minute...
that's £120 per hour...
                     i don't think... maybe surgeons
earn the equivalent...
i'm not even going to mention... footballers...
among all the other profession...
who the hell earns... £120 an hour and
gets properly pounded at the same time?
no... there's not going to be any shame...
   for the best **** in my life...
                                            only celebration...
and next time... it'll be for an hour...
i'm sure we'll get around to doing it doggy
style while doing it before
the mirror and looking at each turning into
            a Francis Bacon study of ****...

all the more... she also inspired me to give up
drinking... so i can save up what i'd usually spend
on drinking and spend it on her...
smoking will follow suite...
                        hell... if it can be this good:
what else matters? why should anything else matter?
i'm also going to ignore those
butterflies in my stomach...
         realistically: this is not love...
                       just the zenith of carnality...
    then again: it would be a funny story...
how i fell in love with a *******...
                           all that white knight *******...
ha ha.
Michael John Aug 10
i
i

the story so far:
grumpy boots-master
and happy his dog-servant

play out their roles..hapless,
before the karma of a blind universe..
saturday, and off to the soul doctor

and after?!an evening of western-
down at the pickled gherkin!
will grumpy find a friend?

will happy follow the dictates
of his nature
lost in the wild

of the primordial night
free of conscience and moral
turpitude?-(read on..)..

ii

q:so,how was the week
a:pretty much the same
q:were you busy-
a:same..made up a poem
q:about-?
a:a door,inspired by a dream..

iii

i dreamt about a door
was i in or out
was my life a jar
of doubt..

at the behest of an un-
caring universe
to fill a gap-a hinge-
a ***-to strange karma

iv

what does it mean
self explanatory themes..
your alienated and hesitant
you are not sure
if you are a door..

and if enterered?
a decision deferred-
what of the future?
what is in store?
just around the corner..

v

do you think of dying?
not so often
all the time or
middling-

i want you to write
a poem -
about death-
mean while..

vi

in the antechamber
happy chews the f out
of the carpet

boredom is worse
he thinks and stifles
a yawn..
Michael John Aug 3
i
i

would it not be crazy
if we found our own voice
instead of why
we cried because..

happy howls f death-
i am alive..!
grumpy is at the psychiatrist
in the antechamber..

ii

i feel life pointless,doc,
the days pass with relentless
monotony
(not a word i use

lightly)
i have forgot how to smile
the world is crumbling
my only friend is a dog..

iii

i write poetry
this is called a bump on a log-
that is me-useless person number
three-what i say why,
i cry no-i mean no...!

better then red-dead
yeah..do i know-no
but i pretend,
a conundrum-a rhetorical
nowt..

dread and anguish in
my head..
a blemish or less
tiny spot-worse, can
it be worse..yes..super in superfluous..

iv

what ever they pay it is
insuffice and he is out!
the window-past the
gambling dens

and pound shops
past the fast food outlets
past the charity shops
past the telephone

and computer emporium
stops to inspect his ***-
ok..on!
past the pickled gherkin..

lugubrious *** the doorman
smokes a woodbine-hello
hap?!-hi ***!
examines form...

where´s the man?
inspecting his thing-
people..four letters
hap-lost in time?


past some polystyrene
past a puddle
past a moment
past a chip shop

past the sky
past a now
past the cop-shop
past the moon too..
Speculation

What is the best time to die?
A beautiful summer’s day
or in the winter when it rains.
There is an untimely satisfaction
that mourners - if there is any-
will be wet and die of the flu.
Sitting in the antechamber
discussing where we are going.
My plan is clear its Saragossa
where the dream of life continues,
because our conciseness was
a flash of light in the darkness.
Michael John Jul 18
grumpy at the psychoanalysts
bares his soul and sole:
scene one-

well,mummy thought i was
a prince-
but i was a monster

now,now, i´m a monster
who thinks he´s a prince..
i feel pointless

is there redemption doc?!
from this vicious circle
(tick-tock..!)

happy, in a neighbouring
antechamber
peruses ******-november-

-one ear upon the door
notes in the margin-
not..in..this..life..fatso...

— The End —