Hence Cupid! with your cheating toys,
Your real griefs, and painted joys,
Your pleasure which itself destroys.
Lovers like men in fevers burn and rave,
And only what will injure them do crave.
Men's weakness makes love so severe,
They give him power by their fear,
And make the shackles which they wear.
Who to another does his heart submit,
Makes his own idol, and then worships it.
Him whose heart is all his own,
Peace and liberty does crown,
He apprehends no killing frown.
He feels no raptures which are joys diseased,
And is not much transported, but still pleased.

Sister and mother and diviner love,
And of the sisterhood of the living dead
Most near, most clear, and of the clearest bloom,
And of the fragrant mothers the most dear
And queen, and of diviner love the day
And flame and summer and sweet fire, no thread
Of cloudy silver sprinkles in your gown
Its venom of renown, and on your head
No crown is simpler than the simple hair.

Now, of the music summoned by the birth
That separates us from the wind and sea,
Yet leaves us in them, until earth becomes,
By being so much of the things we are,
Gross effigy and simulacrum, none
Gives motion to perfection more serene
Than yours, out of our own imperfections wrought,
Most rare, or ever of more kindred air
In the laborious weaving that you wear.

For so retentive of themselves are men
That music is intensest which proclaims
The near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom,
And of all the vigils musing the obscure,
That apprehends the most which sees and names,
As in your name, an image that is sure,
Among the arrant spices of the sun,
O bough and bush and scented vine, in whom
We give ourselves our likest issuance.

Yet not too like, yet not so like to be
Too near, too clear, saving a little to endow
Our feigning with the strange unlike, whence springs
The difference that heavenly pity brings.
For this, musician, in your girdle fixed
Bear other perfumes. On your pale head wear
A band entwining, set with fatal stones.
Unreal, give back to us what once you gave:
The imagination that we spurned and crave.

Here's the thing about second chances;
After the first one you're just being           used
No matter he says and dances
Your sweet personality is abused

When one can't let go
Waiting for the right moment
Feeling oh so low
Becoming more than broken

He manipulates
But karma never reciprocates

Crying- being vulnerable
He apprehends
While you're not able

To comprehend

Seeking a lover
Or perhaps just being lonely
He starts to smother
But it's him being phony

He manipulates
But karma never reciprocates

She is a mystery,
A mystery that no one has been able to solve.

There is no telling what happens when her eyes distant itself from the world, looking and longing for something deep within her thoughts.

When her deadly silence creeps over her, leaving everyone far away from her wrath.

When she finds herself alone, blocking and pushing anyone trying to get in.

When she bottles up her emotions, leading everyone to think of something far away from what is genuinely happening.

When she strides past those who oppose her way, acting with no care in the world.

When she abruptly smiles that brightening smile of hers, and laughs that fascinating laugh, causing everyone to wonder what's going on behind her display.

When her style doesn't suite anyones, unique and different from the rest.

When she is understanding of anyones situation, curiosity spiking in everyone as to how she apprehends.

And when silence and stares occur every room she shows up in.

Everyone looks to her, baffled about this young creature.

Everyone asks her, yet no reply is answered.

She gives out the littlest emotions and information, yet only that tiny grain of salt intrigues and bewilders everyone.  

Everyone knows of her, they just do not know who she really is.

And as I said before...

She is a mystery,
A mystery that no one has been able to solve.

If any item
should retain
eldritch  potency
in this present age.

It would be
bacon.
wild magik
is released  
by the fat
contained
within its
thick sliced rind.

Glamor can be
released
in simple
domestic rituals.

All you need
is a pan
& a heat source.


Many magi
have reported
in secret books
about bacon’s aid
in seeing
the future.

When bacon cooks
within a  simple pan.
It sizzles
prophetic quatrains
of coming days,
and often is served
with well-cooked omens.

Seers
have reported
the auspicious energies
properly displayed
when bacon power
is properly
presented.

When the curl
of bacon
properly
interweaves
the tips of tongue…

For in
the   tingle
the taste bud
apprehends
the shape
of  infinite spaces;
where the future
is foretold
within
the chew
of inward knowledge.

Mercurial Ambrosia / Profitis Ilías and Cinnabar

From the rudiments of the votive offerings that were outlined from the Megaron, a grammar was looming that sought terminologies in the lexicons of those who would intervene in the ruling party of the same patron twin; in such a symbiosis by naming him Mandragoron.  Vernarth came already ready after the fringed platform of the Acrotera modules, and in his affirmation of how he will appear before the plinth of Athenea and Zeus, who were awakening from a reminiscence of the Nemeton Druid, to go in the responsibility of the active life of austerity, and in the greyish roots of Zeus's oak that was rummaging, attend to the lively brushstrokes of three-dimensionality of the "V", which could be seen concentrically in the Pergamon frieze. The "V" emerges from the sculptor's cardiac center of escape and perspective, in the polys-perspective of gigantomachy where Athenea apprehends the suffering Alcyoneus by the hair in a deadly belligerent perspective and in convulsions of Satanic enthronement; Alluding to the apocalyptic epistle of Saint John the Apostle, on the vertical optics of the great Maker of pnemo-images or aerial nuances in the semi-open eyes of the giant suffering in Alcyoneus, with lost encumbrances from the maternal power of his matron Gea, for a polytheistic empire and adverse towards the border of the Christ anointed in unison, and of the better-known reliefs of the Athenea panel. Her contracted forehead and her belly convulsively are constricted, which only leaves us suffering and mortal fear. In the arranged thing the giant loses contact with the mother of him Gea of him; Disappearing land leaving you vulnerable. The sacred serpent of Athenea will **** Alcioneo by biting him on the chest (ibidem Vernarth's suffering pectoral from Bumodos, Tel Gomel.)

Nike will consummate the victory, and then from the exhausted stadiums of the Pergamon amphitheater, Wonthelimar will bring the Victory with the other "V" of the goddess Nike, also borne by Athenea Nikephoros. From this duplicity both are transposed into Vernarth's "V" as an initiatory pseudonym; that will graph the reinforced twin of the Hellenic genesis of Wonthelimar, articulating from this Prótypo with the genesis of the cardinal Mandragoron that will be architectural and deified Vernarthian hierarchy:

Cardinal Mandragoron

- North : Vóreios  (Zefian Boreal)
- South  : Nótos    (Austral of Borker)
- West.  :  Dyticá   (Sunset of Leiak)
- East    :  Aftó       (Equinoctial of Kaitelka)

The Cinnabar Tsambiko, had bushy inclinations with the Mercurial Ambrosia, for the good of large metropolises of Mercurial Pollen, for those of a single deity coming from polytheistic Pergamum, in a flaw that is centrally concentrated in the monotheism of the Mandragoron, which will rise from the rocky of Mount Profitis Ilias from the height of the rhizomatic basalts, to condemn those who betray them, if they are stripped of the Lepidoptera. In the same way akin to a bucolic immortal, in dietetic miraculous, for basal ingenuities of nomenclatures, from the focal point of indigestion that dies with the digestion of sacred food, led by healing perceptions and sensations of the well-known world of ferment. It could be a Backoi, Kykeon, or Nepenthe, preferring to be swallowed by the Titans, to later filter honey that evaporates and volatilizes towards the Sulphurous Cinnabar, containing the bi-compound and sacred Mercurial Ambrosia, to later be disposed of with a vile gargle to the disposition of mortals who were to be immortal like Heracles. From this mythological infundity, the potion for Vernarth is abstracted from smearing it on his nose and on his pectoral, so that his wound that did not heal does not rot...; perhaps his Hellenic heart in rubble anticipated the destruction of future archaeological works. Or perhaps to imbue it in the chest of Achilles, like Vernarth, but it would be so as not to resist fasting. Liquids with entomology and Lepidoptera from Gethsemane in flocks come to clean the scabs of the heroes, who are only able to resist such effusion and subtle prophylaxis, stinging Prometheus a single sip in this new Mercurial Ambrosia.

The appeal of plunging from a great height
is the scenery on the way down:
a thrill with consequences that destroy a man,
whether or not he leaps.
The symbolism is blindingly lucid:
Life apprehends the void,
and fills it with itself.

curve lush forest cresting simple green
empty jeans crumpled indolently

    skinny thighs;the swiftness of your teeth

it apprehends: a smile, slender, apparating specifically
imbued cleverly upon my face. incorrect light sputters
   drifting merrily on the music of muscles. an apex of exhausted
    threads contracted sanguine,

         tactful ***. moan the pavement of youth flocked resilient streets
some about, where is a hall of dusted antiquity

                   they put their heads in books

A red, hot mist; a lit match
To a puddle of gasoline.
Anger is a beast, frothing at its mouth
Hungry, hateful and lean.

It is in the husband who beats his wife,
physically, and verbally;
It is in the vitriol we spew
At each other detrimentally.

It is in the xenophobe,
Who cherishes resemblances
And apprehends differences.

It is in the people,
Who segregate into a familiar tribe
Unaware of who tortures us all
Unwilling to unsubscribe
From the delusion -
'I am right, and you are wrong'.

Ire smolders beneath the surface
Until the surface is no more
And all that is left
Is a charred, blackened sore.

It is as corrosive as a vat of acid,
It will burn you to the core;
It will destroy all that is inside you,
And nothing will be left to restore.

Infuriation is a many-headed dragon;
Devalued, unjustly accused,
Hungry, hated or powerless,
Ashamed, anxious or defenceless.
Demeaned, disgruntled, upset;
These are all emotions
That lead to ire and regret.

Yet, it is also self-preservation;
In an unjust world,
It is the burden of a whole nation.
It is the sense than informs you
When you are being cheated;
Like the sensation of burning
Upon touching an object that's heated.

Yet, unknowing and uninformed
We are always at each other's throats;
The establishment is elated,
In the embers of society, it gloats.

For, in this insane, deluded world
Happiness is a rare consignment,
A moment amidst the chaos,
Not a constant incitement.

We must look beyond our petty squabbles
And realise there is more to deal with
Than each other's issues and troubles.

Anger is as addictive as ******,
And just like it, it feeds on vulnerability.
Should we unite against our common enemy
It would mean invincibility.

We should not target each other;
Instead we should aim at those
Who have brought us here.
Those who steal, lie and control;
If they cannot, they will cajole.

It is those who have turned life
Into a rat race which nobody will win.
Divided we are controlled,
Unaware of the power within.

Yet, you ask, what if we were united?
Imagine, a whole world's anger
Aimed at the right mark;
That is what I propose,
Before it is too dark
And humanity swallows itself whole.

___________

There is infinity in our words
In our minds
And in our numbers
There is infinity in this sentence
In more ways than one
How do I know?
I know because I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you know that I know etc
There’s comparatively little paper & ink
So I’ll keep this short:
It creates the problems that it solves, in infinite ways
It giveth & it taketh away
Yet somehow we are still left with it
Or in it , I should say
For who are we without it?
It sanctions the question
Sponsors the answers
It seems to enjoy speculation
It doesn’t stop
Yet it never starts
It is the original contradiction
Which bears our calendars
Winds out clocks
Confounds us with death
It is too big to be invisible
And too small to be palpable
And it holds whole worlds in between
All sorts of worlds, all of them,
Yet it is nothing more than nothing
Turned inside out,
An impostor,
An enchanter desperate for subjects,
A master of mirrors with light & shadow that seizes us in catoptric curls,
An impostor wanted
For questioning:
We have scoured snowy horizons amid snow storms,
Amid sand storm we have ploughed sandy horizons,
We found footsteps in sand,
Shadows on snow
Which we failed to recognize as our own,
We followed imprints left by windy stars
We thought we were perennial nomads just like them,
We called out behind closed eyes into glow-wormed horizons
And with abdication, fear & envy we took the echoes for something else:
An impostor
Yet between the calls
Within resonance
There was silence
Impossible silence
Suspended silence
Differentiating silence
Connecting silence
Silence that does not change yet accommodates out whims
Silence that cannot be spoken yet remains a word
Silence that promotes the hunger of hope,
That drives anticipation,
Silence that is so vast it is impersonal
Yet so finely tuned it apprehends the one
Silence that is something more than everything turned inside out:
A nothing that confound
A grounding nothing
An unnerving nothing
A nothing that is vital,
And the more we hear this nothing the less nothing we hear:
- Patterns of eternity
- Internal symbolism
- Longing
Yet if we were to linger forever
How things would lose their power to move us.

Again
Again
Again

My soul
Is

Riddled with
The sin

Of once more
Never giving in

To what
My
Conscious
Apprehends

But it makes no
Sense

Nothing ever does

There is no
Innocence

There's hardly
Love

But I still hold
On

When pushes shove

I still hold on when
Pushes shove

I still grip tightly
To what I think
Is what I need
And I can't see
It's just what I want
and it won't be
But it still
Hovers over me

But at this point
There is no point

To keep running circles
And appoint

A role to someone who'll
never know

The way
They make
Time
run
painfully slow

as i breath my last breath
as my soul leaves my chest
I stare and wonder is this the end
I remember the life I lived
with all the memories flashing back at me
I remember my mom telling me about this day
about how you should do good and please your God
before there comes a day when there is no coming back
I used to laugh at her and think that she was crazy
but now I realize what she was blabbering about
but now its too late
my body is cold and unable to move
my heart is stopping and my brain is shutting off
The angel of death is calling your time is up
as my soul leaves my body and I get buried in the deep ground
I see my wife's eyes crying and my son staring at me in fear
I try to talk to them but no one could hear
I want to tell my son goodbye and kiss my wife's lips one last time.
I am done and I am gone with no way of coming back.
Death has no mercy as it comes all of sudden knocking on your door.
Make sure you do good before that time apprehends.
Pray to your God to have mercy on  you and forgive you for your sins.
My soul now is floating to the sky to meet its creator and to be decided where my fate would be.