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Clare Feb 2014
In your anger
you opened your heart.
I saw the picture
you painted of me.
What baseness!
Only recognizable point
is the fullness
of my lips that look
freshly invaded.

Some things never
change, though feelings do.

Feelings change.
Every lub-dub that
disturbs the surface
Shrieks at me - you liar!
You two-faced *****,
Begone! Even Eros dare not
let you be loved again.

A tear or two wash down
the wounds fresh on flesh
Surfacing charred waste
of what you once cherished in me.
Every time you read a story from a man's perspective, i beg you, think about the woman's story. Through ages, they have been muted, or worse, ignored.
On the cold solstice
the velvet magnet
of Luna's magic
pulls

quietly urges

whispering
gentle spells
into dreamy ears

compelling
her lover
to rise
quixotically
coaxing
him from
the warm sleep
of winters
first night slumber

she summons
a willing lover
inviting him
to follow
her stark
alluring light
illuminating
the lonely blackness
of a bleak universe

her
seductive powers
transcends distances of
a thousand solstices

her
resounding light
a sure mark
braces any weakness
emboldens desire
guiding the bidden
to unforeseen
destinations

standing
in your presence
my face is flush
reflected by your
resplendent light

my heart
broiled
by your
vexing
radiance

the roiling tide
of a midnight reverie
ebbs
as my
earthen shadow
begins to pass
over your
indelible
whiteness

I witness
my dark countenance
eclipse your light

defiling you
fearing
to forever
mark your
effervescent silver
with the baseness of me

without shame
your smile
allays my fear

you understand
you anticipated
the expression
of my
coy reticence

a sweet chant
sings
unencumbered
reveries
gently
reassures
you've danced
through many
moonlit nights
with eager lovers
only to return again
in virginal whiteness
across the
endless cycles
of time

released
relieved
abandoning
all restraint
now
I
summon you

my blackness
your whiteness
breeds a
sensuous
orange
sweeter
then an
open mango

she rules the sky
a celestial monarch
forcing Mars into
a sheepish retreat
commanding
mighty Orion
to sheave his sword
while
Venus
seethes
with envy

my form
begins to swallow
your lines
and
soft curves

my blackness
disappears
into
inviting cracks

falling into
dark creases
the soft billows
sweet mounds
voluptuous craters
gay playgrounds
for my mouth
mysterious hillocks
eagerly explored
with hands and
limbered fingers

a quixotic Eros
the scent of spice
swells in my head

everything
enveloped
like a
holy ghost
playfully gaming
hide and seek
radiantly moving
through
darkened canopies
of a lush forest

nostrils fill
with
tang of spice
a scent
of Caribe

face buried
in thick tresses
of maddening blackness

becoming unhinged
by eyes speaking
a thousand languages
as lips whisper
joyous whimpers

a silent kiss
of an orange lit night
writhing bodies
splayed together

ravenous tendrils
shape sloping
cloud pillows

quivering lips
unveil smiles of
alabaster pearls

mocha darkness
sambas through
the night

she exhales
her lovers name

Luna bathes
her cinnamon curves
in delicious
mango light
offers generous
dollops
of ******

peeking
baying
drifting
I cast off
onto a sea
of lucid dreams

drinking from
a dark aureole
as the tresses
of her
sweetened nest
moistened my member
in a sacred communion
to a hungry lovers mouth

her dancers legs
slim, supple
unbounded
and open
sweet to taste
smooth
so soft
to touch

the fullness
of our rumba
se los tango
con cha cha cha

light steps
close caress
kinetic commotion
wild laughter
fills the sails
of bold schooners

Luna's smile
commands
the seas
to heave

un poco loco
ola de feliz
los hablamos
un contrara
la estas
la esta

the lavender sky
of the mornings
twilight
inspire
Meadowlarks
to herald
the emerging day

still
drunkenly swigging
loves nectar
sleep creeps closer

confessing
small regrets
she fell
victim
to passion again

Luna
comes back
to her lover
pets his chest
with delicate fingers

in a voice
as light as air
she sings
a poem
into his ear
of passionate nights
beauteous art
longing to express
heartfelt truths

The mango consumed
Luna's whiteness returns

my shadow recedes
into inconsequential
nothingness

naked
I stood
sadly witnessing
the dark horizon
overtaking
my fleeing lover
swallowing her
in tiny bits
as morning drops
a final veil
over the face
of a now
vanished love

Music Selection
Grant Green, Moon River

jbm
Oakland
1/19/11
I instigated the most soporific cephalic act, An Argonaut sailing within your strange eyes of others pointed retina membranes, An unsaid exodus wishes to browse your meridians sunsets tainted of that meridian, As evening falls back upon you bathed the earthly mud, Nymph Ninfuceanicus sheltering your labours of bird waste in galactic extinction and creation...

For soft aromatic worlds, you went by your house ruined Zodiac
Blurring the lost romance policy profiles, threading peat spinning the metafhysist think of his tabernacle.

The ship in question was the beautiful delicacy of numbness primary Sun, Lost Halo where one day there was countless number age, to get lost in the cold of your trellis resigned and touching your going through the watery landscape of your soul cornered iron., Spark fleeing evaporated...

How many times my Ninfoceanicus very thin you migrated with your frosty, almost scary legs traveling in a foreign-owned bird…?, Where migrating is hard to see his crosses snowy mountain plants.

What if you. Ninfoceánicas lines will plan my rickety Saturn's own trapeze degraded never stood the lofty life of the living present all this happened? Divided scratchy body plowing all unexplored fountain.


Among several of them, thousands of them managed to be among others, but one of them, violated any protocol as beautiful geese and ducks in the window of my sky, coming to ask for my company, just on the threshold of spring, next to the threshold of my window and yours…, adopted eternal brother.

She mimics the snowy Nymph the feet of all the courts of the world freely, Dancing in tight spaces where sounds beautiful my favorite track other stragglers lost images of my beautiful bird of beautiful threshold of my window as timeless dances belfry rusty sounds.
For the dark wall between your gene, which will open the whistle of your detachment, every time your commander demolition subdued light and energy to take my humble mischief…
by the way, your eyes and mine, in the vigor of sepals loved everlasting flowers insults.

Together unfairly they united as dim flowers in the air,
Divided separately exile scattered your garden,
My chronic bad inside my hundred chronically ill
I will see  Nymph hiperoceánicus, hyper rusty
By iron hanging over the mask gestures cold weather martial iron watering soil and branded satin mask stays plebeian worms my ruined face of phases of my face closet and wardrobe.


The upward castle by fierce hillsides, notify more rasterize
Your morning visit.

Among many castles many seas gang signs of femininity,
As a sliding plushy receiving a Nymph Satardia;
The first and most powerful inhabitant of the ascending Ninfuocenicus castle.

When I'm alone,
I am on the side of the broth augury sling,
Holding my application
Almost like a plumber object in the hands of a blind astronomer.

Only three steps income
Where three steps have to meet me on the runaway shadows
Of my ancestors, right neighbor pine crafty,
That hid my totemic animality...
As the blood currents green,
I lost myself…

As a front polygon,
As a front wormy adventure story demolished
In the densest darkness of your house arcane absence ashes
The cadaverous presence of the wind of my roles in pain and ossuary  of that princely that emotional solstice who anchored in your flowery landscape of love,
Spinning wheel to square steps
As contraindication to love, then need you more.


You jump on my doorstep, plain unlicensed...
So the propaedeutic of Ninfaoceánicus begins,
You write my signs and my losses as prescribed
The loneliest adage constantly fading green robes.

I often feel sad as all times outside the elapsed time,
When I feel the absence of your webbed feet oily,
Aligning by walking wearing my sun off you,
With foreign attire migrating my sunshine clothing doze...
As a gale of tulle for the South Seas who died in the wreckage of a pirate ship Pliocene…

And your sea south sorry awakening as between species
Jungle, eater vampire  as the swirl start your being lost in my
Desert be... want to be mummy augur…
Lips worst evils of unrestrained fantasy tribal worse,
They concluded entirely confined irritability.
As the bipolar lost hope,

The graft of your nomadic existence and entrepreneurial ship traveling
settled that the bipolar economy of your means of anti-life,
Closing my eyes... black aniline,
Black lost roads dancing notch watermark,
Of the hypertensive empty string, as the rope pulls and
Solves the crescent of your face depressed ocher rain.


When river, and watch your lips precursors,
I watch the surf offshore devouring my joint,
In search of  nymph Titania, your age who live with me,
My Perfect for you and my image, my imperfect picture of you and me, silky movement shores of my soul looking for you,
When I sit at the knee I bend my knee for you,
I sit on the bank remains with you.
My codex collected from you, only you...

When the cave steppe fear rages,
Tongues of fire gigantic move me by your rivers adventure
I park in your loud voice drawled from the acute bonfire
In the wooded rested than ever, it grew on your side close.

Your life was almost a straight bipolar errors,
I am now businessman making your life nearby,
Hit blowing winds greater...
And at your life in my financial life,
If you think with your hands clasped over your face
know that almost live together with you,
unbecoming my libertarian release of master your flight
hell, beastly dessert.

Most hellish ******* lastly zain,
Of the greatest forces of your body eater the myth king, fabulous race The disabled senior verse confined treaty,
Confined you that is farthest from you **** nymph Ninfuoceánica,
requalification boiling in behaviors you to exist in the relief of your abysmal way but your gooey body resting on you..., rests meditating  Do not get tired, you do not pretend to be the ruin of your prey voice sound muffled, only animals that disturb you bring your pursue days true…

Your lovers sulfur knew your colors and smells of the most pestilential entity, that overshoot and tone your threefold, as a roar of the soul that comes from your soul, do not let mental baseness mimics with anemic,
lower hostile masts your anti angels have to ride on gold gatekeepers... For the spot, if mythomania and your alcoholic schizophrenia infinity, ...

hulks  of alcohol vapors in the pulmonary vessels by butterfly flocks,
They roam the reins of collecting and rasterized your weakness sudden death, As well as the sudden resurrection of my body.
And rebukes the storm, rebuke thy right entity endowed *****'s nerve
That's where I have to pursue your side embraces more hug me,
More than your own warmth, rather than your own bravery, unbridled carriage.


I often repeat a million times,
The times I did not hear your perpendicular attentive pauses, stutters hurry ****** your frequent alcoholism, not to distinguish only slicing nonsensical attitudes sometimes slow thinking agility of a lover, Thinking that ****** and reduces that sinister and discouraging, that scrape thin that limits who want to be and not dominate.


Mapping by hiding places unusual materials,
Brochures polished of the scruffy codex and guide you an  unguided
By the groves close views as telescopic sights that are lost.


I know, my biggest Ninfuoceánica death may not be reborn on the third day…!!, But if it is not to lose lost when the day ends.
Wise ancestry and slavery will govern the pale fronts
Your hidden and mobile lives on an olive orchard,
Hiper meditate funny without feeling any known gene passed ******, nor read past experience in your prodigious map of oblivion.

Satardia; He lit a match just as night fell,
Sea and sky colours compressing regrets that burned their matches

It burned his blessed same figure as the little pair of gifts
That remained on hold as senior Ninfuoceanica,
Only his dark side Petric windmill stone...


Someday reborn to confuse his disciples confused gentlemen,
And their abandoned phrases that he dominates.

Feverish ardor,
Feverish torpor
Every living illusion is extinguished...
Go to your coward stampede
Of gatekeepers on buffalo between bloodthirsty goats...


Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso Copyright 2015
Related  August 2006
NeuroBio Poetry Essay -  analysing human behavioural depressed,  at the same time fantastic forest voyage  into the Nymph's World
Winters nascent white falls
on the boughs of orchard branches
and carpets the earth outside my window;

The coating has a strength in it's gentle glow
softening and subduing the landscape
in a pale light, diffused by cloud,

Lifting with the purity of a doves wings
And drifting with a melancholy like ashes,
Settling, like the baseness of bones,

Something bare and beautiful
is reflected outside
in the raw winds of transition,

Out of the dark belly of solstice,
In all the suddenness and subtlety of being
snow flakes are inchoate and bristling.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.

She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her
down.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four."

"Kind words are more than coronets,"
She said, and wondering looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea."
Antony Glaser May 2014
the night shoals of city lights,
where stumping feet
gives their own interpretation
to the baseness of silence
nothing is serene
just marked time
with feral pride
stretching into tied darkness.
Jowlough Oct 2012
Stand still warrior,
This is just a test.
A passage in the canyon,
could be a beast's nest

See you in the warfields,
we'll be wounded but alive.
Stick to the command,
have faith,you'll get by

A Young man in you,
know your beginnings.
don't get startled,
hold on to your baseness.

Stand still brother,
we are captives of time.
a Slave of the past,
swing your sword in free in gust

Years will be waiting,
for a drop of hope.
miles we'll be climbing,
up this steep fatal *****.
(c) 10.16.12 jcjuatco - Stand still Warrior
Rose Ruminations Oct 2014
I tread on the tightrope
Suspended between thinking too little
And thinking too much

I balance precariously
Tiptoeing towards optimism
But humanity sways me
And I shakily creep
Towards despair

The costume chafes
There is not enough chalk on my shoe
The lights are too bright
And a pearly bead of self-awareness
Trickles past my temple
And drips on the dirt baseness
A thousand feet below

And yet--

The crowd smiles
And gasps
And cheers
And claps
And I am reminded
That everything
Is a show

So I smile
And I bow
With a flourish
And I soak in the adoration

And try to forget
That the struggle repeats
Each night
In each town

But the show can
And does
Go on
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Tortured Soul
They who speak fowl language walk with a cadre of devils. Can you send evil ahead destroy peace
Bind the very air loose your enemy to condemn your character in every sound reasonable persons
Hearing then expect the path to lead to tranquility and honest questions to flow back to the soul.
Your progress already fraught with challenges your need find and discover peaceable persons of
Integrity of depth and sure footing your baseness draws the brittle the shiftless to your life they will
Come in droves your voice and tongue unbridled it has not found the wisdom of being circumspect. Your
Ultimate goal go into the world study look in your unique way at it blessings and benefits train your eyes
To see perfection while it sets in and is robbed entirely in imperfection your gift and task give your vision
To those in this area who are sightless. You can be the beguiler the artisan the creator of magic casting
Spells through your own lens you are trying to become an honest guide to those without the gift their
Finding and knowing this subject is dependent on you but you must first conquer yourself and posses a
True quality of nobility where do you want to display your work in dives and back alleys or on walls that
Others have enriched by their keen sense of duty and singular vision. First the work must begin within
No one makes a mark without the hardship the dedication that results in rarefaction the norm the
Mundane can speak without end but no one pays anything for their empty ramblings. You go to the halls
Of higher they can’t teach you true genius you must open every source of your being demand perfection
Beyond the fair and easy paths look into the soul of the people produce a living edifice that will enable
Enlighten encourage free those bound give them soaring room your dream can carry them to heights
Unknown the first door you must pass through is indifference this blight destroys everything in its path
The spirit has no bounds you alone can tie God given possibility in knots with under rated living.
SKelly Woz Jan 2013
As a form of fourth grade torture
Christina would manifest lies to
test my gullibility and prove her sick wit.
When insomnia started to plague me
she devised a theory and quoted an obscure  
scientific journal to flavorfully boost fake facts.

Imagine a jar of paint.
Imagine it spill on your head
and flow through the skull, veins, and organs
spreading down the body in slow
single-file motion.
The practicing therapist demands:
Begin with...

                                                                             Green
                                                            Light cast by the green sun
                                                has tap water turning into slime. Slime
                                           that plunges through pipes on its way from
                                                      lakes now made of lime jello.
                                                                               Sun.

                                               Trees and flowers start to grow naturally,
                                    experimenting with the flavors of the warm green rays.
                                               A base of hunter green, a splash of forest,
                                with a hint of mint and freshly squeezed honeydew rain --  
                                       Lighter and brighter the plants photosynthesize,
                                     breaking down the compound green into atom form
                                                 to find the protons, neutrons, electrons,
                                                                         quarks of it,
                                                      until they reached the end of green.
                                              Is it time to sink into the dark depths of
                                                 muddy green baseness down below
                                                Or time to breach the walls of science,
                                                                enter mythology
                                                                to create a new light
                                                                                and bloom into the Yellow Sun?
-Samantha Woznica '11
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2023
with each passing day, I understand less and less, for
who could ever claim to know it all, yet, the simplicity
of our base-ic basest instincts makes evil so easily attractive,
that now, I forgive almost nothing, anyone for the cruelty
inherent in on the surfacial skin of our normalcy, so easily,
revealed, and reveled in, wrecks me, and the poetry
sparks are not doused, but wick and ember shriveled

oh the irony, that foolish me should write of the
commandment to love just as the world displays
old levels of hate historically deep… .I am hated,
to many who would know me only as Jew,
and this refresher course in my brain, reminds me,
that love thy neighbor as thyself, can morph into a
generational opposite, that my former degree of comfort,
beliefs, was only skin deep…and Tolstoy was a naïf, a romantic,
a royal, who hoped for the best in each man, and that
cannot ne achieved for hate is so easy digestible, so sweet a treat
for humans, who desire no compass other than simple baseness
to know which direction to take….

————————————————————————————-
”There can be only one permanent revolution—a moral one; the regeneration of the inner man. How is this revolution to take place? Nobody knows how it will take place in humanity, but every man feels it clearly in himself. And yet in our world everybody thinks of changing humanity, and nobody thinks of changing himself."

Tolstoy

”To perform evil deeds a person must discover “a justification for his actions,” so that he can regard stealing, humiliating and killing as good. “Macbeth’s self-justifications were feeble,” and so conscience restrained him. He had no ideology, Solzhenitsyn observes, nothing like “anti-imperialism” or “decolonization” to allay pangs of guilt. Solzhenitsyn concludes: “Ideology—that is what gives evil-doing its long-sought justification and gives the evil-doer the necessary steadfastness and determination . . . so that he won’t hear reproaches and curses but receive praise and honors.

**Solzhenitsyn
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2237741/secret-jew-of-my-heart/

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/20/opinion/moral-luck.html?campaign_id=39&emc=edit_ty_20230921&instance_id=103278&nl=opinion-today&regi_id=17556971&segment_id=145313&te=1&user_id=0e2bfe72b2cf96f30ceaa6e616d59ce6
Do we indeed desire the dead
  Should still be near us at our side?
  Is there no baseness we would hide?
No inner vileness that we dread?

Shall he for whose applause I strove,
  I had such reverence for his blame,
  See with clear eye some hidden shame
And I be lessen'd in his love?

I wrong the grave with fears untrue:
  Shall love be blamed for want of faith?
  There must be wisdom with great Death:
The dead shall look me thro' and thro'.

Be near us when we climb or fall:
  Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours
  With larger other eyes than ours,
To make allowance for us all.
He past; a soul of nobler tone:
  My spirit loved and loves him yet,
  Like some poor girl whose heart is set
On one whose rank exceeds her own.

He mixing with his proper sphere,
  She finds the baseness of her lot,
  Half jealous of she knows not what,
And envying all that meet him there.

The little village looks forlorn;
  She sighs amid her narrow days,
  Moving about the household ways,
In that dark house where she was born.

The foolish neighbours come and go,
  And tease her till the day draws by:
  At night she weeps, 'How vain am I!
How should he love a thing so low?'
DROP THAT SUICIDE IDEA, MY LOVE IS FOR YOU

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

As young as you are and beautiful as you do
You want to **** yourself, why my dear love?
Drop that suicide idea for it’s not godly
It is devilish in origin emanating from the baseness
Of you unguarded consciounsseness
Don’t **** yourself today for tomorrow is yours
Days to come are desperately the protégés
Of the power in your beauty and vastness of your life
It is only today that a snag has popped up in the tumbler of your life
But like foamish bubble it is bound to go, go and leave you free
It is in the wise orderliness of natural reality that you endure today
Challenges, tribulations and trial-some conditions that you are seeing
But my dear queen, accept them all breathe in deep and look yonder
Behold the robust life in your bust in the blessed land
That will nurse plummage of your glory and the helm of your purpose,
Ignore them all that have condemned you to trauma
All of them ignore them, be they whatsoever they are ;
Poverty
Race
Colour
Gender
Tribe
Loss
Mayhem
Deformity
Shame
Ra­pe
Crime
Love
Disease
Job
Toxic friends
Marriage
Ignore them all, they are only lemonizig you
Because they are not the chief purpose of your life
If you **** yourself because of them
You would have duferishly goofed
Because they are not what you were born for
Your own turf is coming tomorrow
Kindly drop the tools of suicide from your hands
And wait for them they will come tomorrow
It is not far, only one night to come.
Travis Frank Sep 2016
Now high and dry, well away from
***** being kicked, orders being fired by
Sergeants in habits and the melancholy of misled minds,
I sit alone on the desk which floats supreme over life's listless limits.

A momentary meander allows for ripe reflection,
Its sharp spasm hampering heavy hands.
Abandoning the tangle of thoughts,
A loose leaf was plucked from the ream,
The quill now dipped in the bobbing black bottle.

Smudges and streaks stroke the initial lines,
Blotted out in choked coughs.
A quickening of the rapid's pace cleared the throat,
Allowing the quill to quell the heart's hinderance.
Stanzas threaded unabatedly over man's baseness on the blanched leaf.

The nightmare nine-metre vomiting verge approached fast.
I clinched the closing couplet
Afore etching the endangered ink on the etherised skin of my hand.
Holding on fiercely now to the desk which destroyed my drudgery,
Ready now to have my lungs filled to the brim with society’s sap.

Prior to the old soul taking its final breath,
Two bleeding and blessed eyes cast down to the bottom of the aquatic monster
Witnessed the immortality of black ink intact
Lifting up its lover leaf
Into the high heavens above,
Where man and rust cannot corrupt.
bleh May 2015
Every fire hazard sign points the arrow at 'extreme'.

                      The drought has lasted several months now, clouds form and the world is left encased in midday shadow, but they just watch, never speaking up, never expelling.

                                   Industrial sprinklers produce short burst waves in spinning circles, the grass a crop circle of pale embryonic green within it's radius; brittle fragments of bleached hay and dry dirt outside.

/
          The fly the waiter gases lands on a half deflated bag causing it to buzz incredibly loudly as it chokes, making everyone uncomfortable
         /

---------------------------------------------------------------­--

        #@000000000000091   The town is French themed, a pastiche for the tourists. it's imprinted on the crockery, see. The restaurants are all le Chinese takeaways selling Classic London Style Fish and Chips. Which i mean there's nothing wrong with i guess but it's just kinda funny in the loosely jarring kinda sense, the we-are-all-thrown-into-history,-into-ablative-cultural-efficacy-b­ut-it's-never-quite-something-graspable-or-fixed;-never-quite-s­omething-that-orientates-itself sense,  is all i'm saying.   i
                 mean it's a port town it makes sense they sell fish, but as all the tourists pass by and the Harbour mouth surrounding the 12 million year old magma plug breaths out the ocean ebbs up onto the rugby parks into the downtown area and breaths through all the cobblestone shop windows, It inhales, and the cars slowly waltz away from their anchorage and into the middle of the lake, which is fine because all the pedestrians have floated into the sky, hardly noticing with the sombre and tired paper-deep excitement that the tourist and holiday workers mirror at each other.

                                   -----------------------------------------------------------------­-


-   //
 #AAC00000121.  A local restaurant and hotel owner laments to the newspaper that it's been a slow valentine day season   "it's like   people have forgotten what this is supposed to mean to them."
//   -

....

a faint line remains marking where the magma reached up the cliff faces each time it drowned everything every few thousand millennia, everyone murmurs that it's jolly interesting, but
    make indignant mewling sounds as the bubbling lava dissolves their bones.



                                  |||   |||
                              /  ///

.
  .
     . . . . .


[...ANywqay, yeah sorry. so what i was getting at was this. yeah yeah no i was! a punchline and everything! yeah! yep, ]
                   so
there's this one art museum a few blocks down from the main street,
  that focuses on cups and mugs; beautiful antique drinking vessels uniting every place and class and history.
         they change the theme occasionally, but really most of the itinerary remains the same so there's only so much they can do. currently it's

            "the sublime
                            as manifest
                                               in the functional and inconsequential"

these simple, life supporting tools, at once represent mans departure from nature, whilst functionally reaffirming our dependence on simple essentials. The drive to turn even these basic utensils into a reflective aesthetic process, showcases -even in primitive societies,- this emergent human drive for the sublime. This gallery hosts in equal regard the exquisite geometry of the gemmed goblets of patron kings, alongside the hand-wrought asymmetric terracotta mugs of artisan peasants. In each is the baseness of re-hydration, in each, the transcendental act of creation.



the coffee at the gift shop cafe was served in bleached polyethylene
Mitchell Feb 2012
Crashing beat of the heart
Each movement
A step toward transcendent madness
That smells of
Fresh Oak

Look out on the solider like clouds
Their bayonets reflecting the high sun
Smiles upon their blood splattered faces

Burning homes with the children of the ******
Placing their dinner ware still atop their table
Flag waving for a country that has forgotten them
Disemboweled them
Forced them to see & touch & smell
Death

A father figure
No one
Ever asked for

Feel the cool wind blow
Upon the trout filled pond
Father unpacks our fishing gear
As the yellow sun
Peaks around the mountains rear

Yes'
A scream from underneath the water
The dead rise to rise to the sky
Each rock an eye
A finger
The soft supple lips of
A once living woman

Charcoal burning in the eyes of God
And the Devil

Each angel
Clipping their wings
Adjusting their souls
For battle

We have used the church seats
For a signaling fire
To the heavens
The mob is no longer happy
With their own created
Digital age

We are more alone
Then we've ever been

The knock on the door
Is not that of a friend
But of a past enemy
Long thought to be dead

Let him in.

Let him in.

Let him in.

See what

You

Are made of

Why should I be good?
If you turn the other cheek
And take who I love
Away?

How is Your wisdom
Your answer
For my pain?

The vastness
That You encompass
Makes me snarl in my sleep
At my powerlessness
And my
Jealousy

Faith is a five letter word
Dipped in deceit &
Desire & blindness

But the beauty of it all
The burning rose
The white picket fence
One's first true feeling of love

Those are Your gifts
To hide what you have in store;
The bet
Where you stand to gain

Clarinet call
Trumpet blast
Baseness of eternity

A river runs through your fingers
As You take the ones you want
And leave the one's you do not

Left to wander hoping to find You
Though You are already gone

The pace of the packs
Has picked up in the desert
Short on water
They look to the sky for help

Cloudless
Infinite & Blue
They start to weep

The Vanishing Hope

Crying
Until every tear
Is
Dried Up
jimmy tee Mar 2014
practice the utmost care
form a vigilant style
peep around corners
be alert to possibilities

develop awareness
study what lurks in shadow
prepare for surprises
hone your senses

visualize potential scenarios
pay attention to the probable
spy through keyholes
listen through thin walls

dis-believe dormancy
list your suspicions
weigh all prospects
refine distrust

cross examine sincerity
swim in the sea of mistrust
suspend all gut feeling
deny altruism

question fact
support skepticism
increase misgivings
keep eyes wide open

bet on failure
indulge at peril
compile odds
rely on doubt

push a fuzzy brand of cynicism
label everything
marginalize what you don’t understand
be conscience of fraud

perceive through narrowness
downplay experience
recycle ancient lies
apply rhetorical loops

reduce all to the absurd
promote jealousy
revel at weak spots
blame impossibilities


design decision trees
ferment rebellion
create false alliances
initiate rumor

draft complex plans
generate half truths
produce unreachable ideals
fashion anger

establish favorable ground rules
start a corporation
coin a catch phrase
invent an argument

launch a promotional campaign
confirm nothing
invert the discussion
determine outcomes

verify the enormous
market greed
prove conflicting arguments
ascertain needless worth

uncover falsehoods
locate the correct word
detect limitations
counterattack always

deliver disadvantage
attack any and all flaws
educate with nonsense
promote vulnerability

assign bogus titles
fabricate counterfeits
rely on fictions
deceive the masses

compose a reason
construct pain
assemble wild games
dismantle the individual

move mountains
consume independent thought
cause penance
gestate chaos


nurse turmoil
outflank righteousness
muddle the message
confide in darkness

plant upheaval
nurture vanity
ignore any mayhem
misname disorder

cultivate hesitation
praise ambiguity
rejoice for indecision
celebrate vagueness

dance as a marionette
venerate a suckerpunch
insult pride
pay tribute to silence

bend any principle
admire baseness
respect behind closed doors
award deceit

erase distinction
cook up conspiracies
diagram secrets
format the unbelievable

lust over possession
outline an escape
draw excuses
strategize sin

parcel desires
aim toward the crass
object to feelings
target the sordid

commit to the improper
corrupt all souls
mock religion
root out the wise

increase loneliness
pigeonhole solidarity
rupture the will
insert schisms

shout down dissent
pound out inferiority
supply sadness
stand toward folly

seek out dependency
crush mild opposition
carve a new standard
delay action
Elegy I

“Behold, I tell you my prince Meton, that my Steed is coming bringing Zeus, I truly tell you that the shadows move on the plasma of the Duoverse and that the lunisolar cycles pose what could never arrive and where it has to go... that It awaits you if I say..., if from the threshold of 331 bC. What will be my own...? If tertians experience without pain that can resemble everyone else that it is!

Etréstles; My debt comes from the Kronia of Saturnalia and Aries, lifting him up from Gea... he is noble in the laws of his geometrical prose calling him from Attica and trying to know if I can take the corner of Stratonx, without a lesser degree of hierarchy and whatever, more than finding Theseus...! If it is of his necessity to hear us through the labyrinths that will approach him of the birth of a new Vernarth, who alone fears for some icy sting that afflicts Alikantus, coming as an Athenian steed on Zeus and on the protectorates of Polia that are plausibly bringing nights of fever in the cold solitude by not possessing them.

Whatever my lord, behold, a polis will have great merit when it occurs in the misgivings, hallucinations, and lightness that are abstracted after twenty-eight days without knowing which will be the next one that will contain it like the kindling of the fire that does not stop burning... nor the magnitude of everything that stops me from being the spoil of a new sprout, but that does not stop me from being superior to the flames that possess their hell. The official acts make me a trophy of hostile anxieties with their dying fire, however, Zeus makes the Duoverse move mounted on my steed that takes him on snows that fight in the contest, and in contests of my Elegy with his equestrian reverie. I tell you that for this they can still loot the feminine beauties that besiege me between ruinous eyes that only see from the attic towards his disjointed daily Odeon.

The sensitive attachment of my Cretan horse neighs resounding from the Odeon, carrying the waters that will be his visionary flowers on female beauties that acclaim him with a womanly voice, which lashes out at him as the bearer of a God, entering into sentences manly beauties that come off the blood Hellenic of Alikantus by Evandria; full and provided with manly arcana resembling a steed made an Adonis. For everything that seems ruinous to you, a head that wishes to be wounded is offered, for everything that seems diaphanous to you like a People in the female physiognomy, a figure consigned in his virginity, who opens doors in which they are semi-open... Seeming that nothing hurts as it runs through the corner of my yearning, with honey and milky emulsion in its porticoes and in the evasion of the Diplon bringing my guests from the Opistódomos, with menus that will be superior to all the vessels where it will take them their delicacies, incontinent. Of the Hydor, that flows from the mancebía and the damp staircase of the Nimbus. Unknown values of insecurity made me attached to the Acropolis, rather knowing that Zeus was on his way to his amnesty and was floating in prose of gaseous clay, and iridium that reopened the double door of the Diplon as it closed abruptly from the canopy tops. Where is it that so much warm wind runs in the colors of the gods who rule the Exile...? So he will continue to be all that he is and will be in what I observe him..., if he stops to look at himself, and not at me who no longer consumes him...!

I tell you with its illustrious shadow that it hides in its untamed ephebos, wanting to make precocious its illustrated cavities that serve an eternal heart, which pours out what pulses and reverses what it repels from the flesh that is distributed convex of the divine soul, making succulent darkness of the apotheosis of the Symposium… burning where they always are, I tell you they are lit in the saddles of time!

How much phobic rogue can tell you what my imperialism binds to say if my beloved were here, seeing her close by like any glow that syndicates her odd sacrifices, with excessive raised and scheduled glasses that speak of a restless being, who cannot tell you that the Christic continues to observe ride from Alikantus, on embers of the Khristúgenna, observing him in pageantry, attempts, and lands of Patmos with a loaf of unleavened brimming with pietism and a new millennium that ends in the pyx of her memories...

Currently, doors are slapped through which my steed will pass with Zeus..., and I will not hear them, because only I have to open their double door Dipylon weeks later... from the agon that has to carry me against Zeus as his relief comrade, clinging to anger in agons that fight each other for ferocious tendons, and herculean verbal incarnations, immersed in irrepressible loquacity... conceiving his heroic chance and submitological feats that are located at the precipice of the heel, and in the breathlessness of his steps that take place in those that are not! "

Elegy II

By what dark decline of Smyrna will my rib complain, and have to move its hanging from here of Selçuk that will consist in its protocols that guarded my lost head, and of corny demigods that surrounds soothing feats that do not hurt, instantly that we all offer the same incarnations of the cult and his victory with Saint John the Evangelist... I tell you that I know about this and I say that I preside and founded the condition of his sacred agonal, from his divine glory in Arbela according to how common it seems to them... if they are to get lost in its decline...! That they do not fight with what is not dexterity and nothing that is not brooding if nothing knocks on the arched door?

The purse that will remain beyond Alsancak in that residence is moth-eaten, I always hoped, I always had to say..., as I have told you that my tongue tells truths that you are tempted to see in the darkness of a dissolute courtyard in Helleniká, but between portages of Smyrna and rubrics that wave in streets that are bordering the extraverted Dipylon... in which instance I peek into the interior wine presses..., seeing its esplanades because if I have to tell you... it will be something that can satisfy you and that takes me to Eleusis...!

So many times I sighed for the stinging hinge and its memento, opening itself up like this, and if it must be wherever it compresses its resonance, here it is what I was going to condescend with dump trucks that transpose to the stage with their marbled misgivings, I beg you with my hands convulsive that I am not fortified, the tribal rain and the Xiphos phosphorus from the southwest, seeming to surpass with their longitudinal footage as if they were laws of the horizontal with twisted millennia that bring according to what should be...? For a long time, it takes the form of an imperfect and vile being by the inverted "V" from Ephesus, towards the intersection of the edge of Pergamum approaching Laodicea.

Guess where the deposit of the Sun of Smyrna derives with its long time-lapse, and with various stony that are attached to masonry typical of the diamond plinth, showing off the docile sacramental of its high shoulders and crowned partitions like those that hurt if my eye everything! Assesses, closing angles of the sovereign challenge, here my sovereign Meton presents me the sacramental infer to the Nymphaeum or a rhomboid arcade lost in his Domus!

Where do paradises shrink from, if all this was being hidden with so many truths between tributaries and conifers that have to be disposed of in their turrets? Its precarious sinister face only restrains the Eminences of the Lycabeto, daring to adorn themselves with Lykavittós, rising among longings that are lost in my Elegy from heights that howl for peaks that have not been besieged, only resided by those songs that shelter themselves obstructed with wide domains, with trainers that guide you, not coexisting lights, that scrutinize your shelter to become your owner!

What makes you of tribulation if my consort is made eternal, now that he shields between his worries for causes and lexical testimonies with my Eggelos, who do not hear the galloping of Alikantus but if the hieratic rocky snorts descending for what their prior does not know... only my chaste unit has to be with its talented polygonal patchwork, unlocking only what it contains in its earthly litanies, softening the sclerosis of a raging carat, being or not defensive of a judicious Eggelos in rocks of fortune...! Only if you have to restrain yourself before they exceed the rate, and of everything that stops you and greases the cranks of what is not worthy of rest without a deponent cheer!

I urge you, oh confreres that your streets and stones expand like runners and cobblestones that have never been able and never will be able to pass through colonnaded atriums surrounded by those who live in Smyrna! And from there I exhort you to serve your faithful hoarseness whose rest adheres to his unconscious reality... Where then only laughs the annoyance and its ominous deities that carve defenses that are arranged for him to house in Skelos or of the legs that are born and die on his heels...? And from where does it only lead him to the vault of the mystery that lies in his opportune vow?

I will mention to you when no one ascribes or praises you with compliments that tempt the supine harassment of whose silhouette it is not, and that it is only the Selçuk catafalque, where the chapel of its neighbors and rye burns that divide the age of the Duoverse, leaving him desolate if my verses disgust those who have secreted and listened to my unheard reflections... Yes, you have to hide in burial mounds that descend from heights that are unknown to you..., you will only have to unravel from your baseness and fading scratches of the factions, with ties and dizzying failures from which Olympians survive and without crowned laurels!

Everything is already commemoration and mischievous funerary daring with portable fluorophores mourners, dressed in crowded slags elongations, and slants where nothing can grasp it of prosapies and past or subsequent lives, where its spits will be of the advantageous parallel that is noticed of a Mycenaean mob. What decorum above all in that setback, that only sees imploring, that they stop behind everything that protects them by the force of the black aura, that hurts and that devastates their vibrations in the triggering footsteps of Alikantus, “He who has hearing and not words that he hears what a stained glass window is in all that he knows and reflects it ”.

What was devouring you by the ardor and his horse countenance with his swift piercing in all that this crusade means... Loading Aerse finesse with herons to tie and perpetuate only those who must not be lacking..., before the supreme preference of a man who errs more than a god, and who was the gift of a PanHellenic fiddling with thirteen shady places, lacerating everything that inferred him, and everything that was an intruder from the earrings of happiness hanging him like an azure earring..., all harassment coming from Smyrna Towards the iridescent Nimbus of Patmos for the puzzles of Pergamum!


Elegy III

I can call all twilight nights princesses in Croesus's scolding, between floods where pseudo warriors who expedition before me, and undivided in Alexander the Great where everything comes from him hiccupping with the Chrysanthemum of Cyrus and Darius. I can make you Persians again if all your history bustled between comfortable Zeroes! And if this besieged crossbow circulates faster than the treasures of Pergamum... thus it would flee with legions and Talents that surpass the treasures of Heaven and its contingent consort.

Third episodes to my teacher Saint John the Apostle placed him a few hours from the Aegean in the lower parts of Pergamum, whose Trojan sons I tell you that I follow the course of his dynasty, perpetuating and touching the scaphoid and serving him with the Lutrophorus! Oh, azure comes with the team of oxen from Thrace that guaranteed the Theologian, and the treasury of his holy angels for this entire mandate and go walking your tired feet carrying the ghosts of Lysimachus? Of your own veracity naming them kings who will truly serve his laudable reign!

I tell you that I have really learned about this and about my own custody that speaks when seeing the victors and the vanquished pass by in the fragment of Ephesus overflowing with despicable arteries of Pergamum, and buskin that was not worthy of a scene of tragedy; between jocular that captivate Jezebel and syllogisms that slice the servants and their harvests. Oh, what a bag it can tackle if they are the dreams of a demigoddess of Sambate, believing to ruin the journeys of the Apostle Saint John by a Vee that unites my own oppression just being in Pergamum very prone to the fourth letter of the Apokálypsis... if these hermits they are confused with my discredit!

In the Symposium Journey, I saw the bewilderment only in the fiftieth fight after 331 BC, since the retreats of my brother and Lord Alexander the Great, dividing belligerents between Lysimachus and Seleucus lying in 280 BC! Behold, I tell you that no novel has to say it... that daring and ****** sleeplessness will be understood with parapsychologies, Magnus battered in blood and having to condone in life the thirtieth cosmopolitan station that will wander without string or staff, only in realms of horror!

“Protervas works repeat from Balaam, perhaps in perjury of those who are not devoted to the ancient expertise of Elijah and idolatrous pagans on Mount Carmel. Days of full consent have decided me to be the observer of an inferior garden no greater than Pergamum, with finery and gibberish of a roasted Faith, and of embellished offshoots that are of the miserable Asmodeus. I tell you that I know of these vicissitudes of tremolos and tarsi that are exuberant of the supra Hellenic Maximus of the west and the east, defeating victorious incredulous who believe they see my retreat from someplace in the west of the Aftó and the east of the Dyticá... all from here henceforth that is not sullied by troops of the Phalanges, they will supply the desecrated foreign troops...! With Roman tropes, levies that will liberate the tetrarchies, the libatum, and their free uncontested successors, repaying Augustus' fratricides and Caesares in the insectary quagmire!

The ill-fated awaits the exquisite court that casts fateful offspring, none attend the charred Symposium and the burning broth, being insubordinate to Parchmentians and aristocracies that get tangled up in the rune of Leviathan, far from a so-called Lord Abraham gifted in the circles! of the power of Yahveh assigned by the Father, and the sleepless sleeplessness of a son, who does not expropriate in wanting songs or children to sleep awake! That makes them consular! I have been caulked in the excuses of Ephesus and Smyrna, where the Hellenic and Roman are lost in the lavish gnosis of a doctor, rub considered among thrushes and blackbirds lacerated from the other infinite... in the absence of Crows and Sisellas dying in their enormous sides and the hemicycle of the Mashiach!  

“Everything that is promoted after the beginning and that was never started has already begun… where the corrections have diluted what the river conforms to the edges of the Silinus, with silverware and Gobelins that are made holly in the refined hands of a maiden. How will I not manage your anxieties proportionate to their sets, if the feelings are greater than the last floor of Babel... and if I had to descend one more, it would never resemble the graceful hands of a maiden talking to me about the next prop? What says more than the plot and its new, different breeze in ****'s indissoluble totality; subsisting with his carpals and with those random scraps of cloaks in the hydromel freshness that the Lord has entrusted him to pour!

What neat heights and challenges I have given you with light half-locutions... that flatter in the acrobatic gazebos of Demeter! With the following high-pitched white dots that are probed from the sunset and the desire of Athena Nikéforos, with travertine arsenals that are the tingling of an Elegy that flees from Pergamum with her feet incinerated and prostrate! What lack of ornament speaks to the adjoining trepanned ear, devoid of ornaments longer than vast, and wider than long when reaching the limit of Thyatira where Attalid kings and ants await me who will carry on their backs the rubble desolations of Pergamum!

Elegy IV

As you have offered what stops me to think about all the horizons that are guarded by agons and Kerveros, what virtues will they make of those who are dispossessed of the rescue and vicissitudes of the underworld of Thyatira! What has to intimidate the senses if the doors are for those who have never possessed a Soul... What has to dispossess us if the soul matter is Thyatira under Akhisar!

You complain of being moaning inks of arid lands where rivers are tributed that have to wade through octogenarian routes, holding on to the necks of the obfuscated Kerveros, and of the henchmen who trembled by the vicinity of the extreme of Mysia, whose urges released elements that mixed with river shelters of the Lycus and the navigable ones of the Marmara! I must point out that the elements are cliffs of Hydor that sink into the seas of Mysia.

That I must tell you of a formidable strait that tried to possess Heles, and that I went to the lower point of its flow to rescue him! That the formidable flash of Pluto infringed what was flashing in pro-Kerveros, not allowing Hades to enter Heles..., that formidable daring would be done if Heracles had twisted such a destiny by allowing it to enter, Or what death throes of the earth did not take him through this darkness where I mostly saw Venus in crimson eyes, rather than borders where the speed of light of their gazes welcomed them with their beings called Mysios?

I am Vernarth and I have arranged that Thyatira and her shallow wayward Nymphs shall rule me in your rod and go with their swifts, hoarding fine silverware that will shine from the heavens, and offer the worthy brotherhood by statutes that are controversial in the friendship of Arganthone and his I wonder if by some hiding place I have to see the black string of Jezebel and supposed regions contrary to Bethany. What a brave ****** has to dominate in full preservative principles, called from where they were punished by the dogs, thus allowing me to purge and follow advances that cleared the way to Mysia and Thyatira. Be clear that the insurgents in this region were chasing my Lord Alexander the Great, and he made the floors of Mysia tremble by crossing the Hellespont where my Heles almost had to get lost in the sea of his senses..., make me be the Ionian blaze that never it has not ceased and will not cease to burn on the Seleucid headboards!

"That you can see if the Lycus and Hellespont are from the same tributary, which hardens its waters to make a firm footing to the steeds and Hoplites venerating their gods and horsemen, seeing my teacher Saint John piously riding on the pagan temples stoning on stony tombstones with the interstices of the New Testament that offers the sacrifice of the Areté, Or of the most excellent eloquent alleys and sacrileges challenging what must never be glossed in the functionality of the file that it is urgent to define if I have died or never Die "

What capital letters are to be taped from the others that are from the Areté, and from its prominent fertility that rehearses the postulates of my Purgation? In everything that is prophesied in the ruggedness of those who boast that they can wander forty millennia with guilds that gather their litters..., all of them doubtful and giving rituals that owe to paganisms that were colonizing Hellenistic nuclei and my help..., closing my Hetairoi's pectoral tail, and then forge more confreres than they ever were.

The regrets of my teacher are scarred in the science of the Lycus valley, as Christians who grow with their sons separated from their daughters, and from the debtor parents of the metropolis of Thyatira, what fortune to be spared if the damages are greater than the reparations, And of the various secrets of the staining of the sky with its purple oblations and antiquities that refused to the progress of time, being discolored by the Adom and the Red blood cells. Here is where they flow through my arteries circling the hills of Messolonghi's Koumeterium, with natural basilicas that smoothly whitewash the candor and licenses.

I tell you that I know this is what constitutes the forge of the being that is capable of leaving Hades alive, do penance together with me Yes...! At twelve o'clock of the full moon where we become fierce Eleusines, since Battles more than hundreds of all, and we will know if we will be children of the Kerveros or Kerberos canes custodians of the inframundis who discover us like fish and cormorants on lagoons that run through us mutilated... which are decreed in the ecliptic, and in the stratum where Thyatira sleeps under the meters of Hades and Tevel, several meters from the underworld passing through its lost Shemesh beyond the western… under the hulous ecliptic of Akhisar!

You should not fear the suspicion or the courage associated with the three heads of the Keveros, because the three of them brood with me in the same way, for when I run away from them and they feel my loneliness...!, Each of their heads think by themselves, but the gentle Levantine sea is arranging them were groups of stars that are rubbing and washing their ******, prone to marine monsters that dress the mane of the humpbacked Hindhead of the Cerberus. Knockdown what nothing is born of damage and that is born of its permanent movement if the beasts are men with strings of impious men that make their portholes enter more light than beings with phalanxes and armies that come and go... being portals of one eternity from where Etréstles comes with his weary stride.  

How can you tolerate that the hands stained with some Tintoretos splash my Himation? And what is still chromatic with a caged torpor, is the Himation of Theseus that revolts the constellations of history that began from the abject sinkhole, fading the virtue since my sacrifice is offered in the religious and its offertory. You know that I have been able to walk through waters that are solid if I put my heels distillates in classic sounds where they are written with the latent prawns of the Aegean! That you nurture a past that hangs from the immediate future with sacrosanct pilgrimages inaugurating hybrids lapses, and classic smithies that distance themselves from Hephaestus and humanoid persecutions that could be undertaken from a section of the new period, mixing darned meat that is released from the principles of the Energeia, and that they sway in the millennial dizziness of the Olive Tree Bern or of any fistula that would not cease of prosaic oracular ones!

Everything makes oracular sense since my prior agon and his lingual accent deny what I will not reach in its sacred connotation, but if its secular insertion to create the deserved and victorious dew that falls and will fall from the bilge of the iridescent nimbus. I have deposited from their marshes where nothing already contains them..., only a pure divine light that is confused with opposite festivals of lights of an unknown victory that was not always mine, but it took light-years with its traveling mass to reach my thunderstorms with treacherous gods who did not allow theological musculations and derivatives of being refined to emerge from their extreme internal and external beauty who prayed for me, entering their Seventh Heaven and then with the Merkaba doing its venerable kalokagathia; or prototype that does not fade every day to take hold of the inner and outer beauty of it, the fruit of the Olive Tree Bern and the countless algorithmic winds that could be counted since I had joined its Falangist ranks!

I know that four Seraphim will have to take me and that your Charioteer will medicate with thrifty speed from where the day dares to attend me with real locations in the Andromeda wagon. It all to dig into the dark and bizarre hollow of my wound knew that it could have been the Holy Spear of Longinus...! What could happen if my chest did not stop bleeding from the indigo and crimson of my Dorus?

Elegy V

You must feel satisfied with the erected statues that were made bearable on the basis of cults and curative powers, but not of precognitions that were the object of Sardes since she was nearing the penultimate station of the inverted "V". The satyr's stratagems of 476 BC were congenial. And the pilgrimages to it would destroy the entire sacred precinct that it once presumed to be!! Theagenes of Thasos resorted with all his strength to move the stars and his impassive silences, seeing that Sardes was becoming a courtier of a network of unarmed victories that were never for him, but for pilgrims who roamed the roads surrounding Sardes. Oh that more crowns of him exceed fourteen hundred, if only one more will suffice to access the investiture of the Himation of my departure!

Continue along the Pactolo River and you will get entangled with vegetal lines on the northern ***** of the Tmolo. Know that Proserpina runs through the flower coffins of the autumn dead, that Persephone makes her shudder in the Ionian polis, and that it will be if she decided to do so, if Aphrodite captured the Cimmerians who would plunder Sardis, more than any voluptuous! And despite everything, it would continue to be a satrapy that does not lead to Patmos through Xerxes who still burns in Hades in the haze and canine of a Kerveros!  

"Follow those worms who claim mesnades with more blood on their fingers, and there is no doubt that they swirl in Pergamum with more blood than their creeds." And that of those who survive in earthquakes and typhoons that stand for generations of the Conventus and an agora that only relapses in Pergamum and in desolate legions that only devastate, and are built on ruins that they praise, just like Thyatira suffocated in Akhisar. Do you imply that the battles of Alikantus strike the silica plundering tyrannical idolatries and sacrileges, ravaging only hapless evils to come and unrecovered pious revelations from Byzantium? I know very well that Alikantus is coming, I could even dare to say that he is coming very close to the fortnightly reclusive citadel of Sparda..., being able to hear that Alikantus is riding from the ready insolent time and I even think I see that he is coming alone... and that Zeus he went ahead for necessities in the barcarole of Charon! I know that matters of the underworld are palatial stews and prostitutes that flank in kettles that announce tinsel falling from the apocryphal clouds and the adjacent Iridescent...!

Like a helical serpent, everything that my dimension swallows is retro-translational with turns about my own age that is not the deed of another than the axial one that vomits imperceptible years that are not memorized and that deal with each other with the ruins of the dogma of Sardis. Come Oh granaries and settlements that squander synagogues and compendiums of ****** ruins, whose altar is exploded in liquid gold on Artemis's hair in Hellenic theaters, where nothing remains, only traces of olive roots that kindly allow them to enter through its cracks. But what did scare the enclaves, if seven churches fell scattered from the corollary of seven manes that only resided among themselves, differing primitives and incisors, nailing their rapiers into the dead Sardes before becoming an Apokálypsis! In its seventh season… I Vernarth revive her and ennoble her from the secret day of her curse, as she says of herself to survive on her ruins, not as akin to Thyatira lying asleep under Akhisar's holocaust!

The images will be there to bring you in my arms, believing to be myself who brought myself spacing and surviving from a fifth posthumous church..., to save my fifth life in Sardis, but far from the Barcarolle del Charon, eating roots that were attached to the keel in case they poisoned my soul..., at the same time as a failed levitate that would solidify like the crest of Thasos, throwing draconian and grotesque seas that within me asked for a license to revive. Everything was whipping on me wanting to be Theagenes with lugubrious ostracisms that from now on should be cut and sliced into parts of my coexistence, leaving only the pre-existing erectness of me..., except the head that impelled me to take the extrinsic path of Hades with distinctions of a cult that only worked in the hands of a Patmian victor, all by counting one by one those fragments of the victorious minute hand of 476 bC!

The city woke up and tried to ***** obligations that were imposed on them, to remove like polis around a sacred precinct that was proud as a bond of centuries that are of the androgen of centuries that are forbidden from millennia found in double eyes, ears, and nostrils. Which was scared away from inscriptions dating back to the 1st century BC thus I continue to establish a superficial status that did not replace any similar or equal future, which is governed by forty-four victorious miracles and all parallels that establish what surrounds my mortal outer clothes..., as well as perpetual belongings and internal endearing to be created from its probity..., even at the end of the factual powers that succinctly stipulated a Zeus, who would be trying to imbibe himself in the possession of a great competitor who will sacrosanctly raise the arena of agon, allowing me to overcome by not ringing the chime of the Paidotribo or the tutors of impulsive eternal effects, and children divos like Raeder challenging the maximum of the stars of God and his contenders! I tell you that I know of these assertions and that the keys are not left hanging, nor will they be prepared to their verbal agility so that they can be taken off the hook and startled to open the Homeric heaven!

Disappear shady Kefalonias or those heads that are empty crypts in me...! And that the children are greater spirits than those who are not without heads who will spend the night on the east coast, where all the burning days are seen as snowy scarves moving from afar..., together with my Falangist militias who do not stop I have to move their hands and his siege with four encirclements of princes. Behold and hear... what I declare to those leaders who raised the lost darkness in a fortunate Kefalonia that tried to adopt seven churches, but not in Sardis!

As you have noticed… the edges of the "V" of Lacedaemonia are already being touched that come out through the stephanite competitions of the interior and exterior of the Kosmous, and everything dies metallic and with stale stenches granted by the polis and the winners! That specializes in the divine gifts of each submithological deity. You realize that the education of appreciation is in the arena of those who propose you wise tyrants and ignorant democrats, who bind the diet and pantry of those who promote great value at the expense of models that, are impossible to fulfill. Oh, that underlies the organic unity with the appearance of a soul that is vicious meat of bait, and of agonistic parts in the fringes and primal that fall from Ephesus and from the tip of Thyatira hanging like vines from where the true god of sin is born. unconfessed!  

Oh, what a diatribe for those who triumph in the land subjugated to the departure of a triumphant of life over it, and that their high dignity will extend beyond life and lash the decadent values improper of piety before the Mashiach that will be there! to rule us! The cults and the first ones that do not reach their contemplation with a soul that lies of useless pleasure in the suburbs of Euripides. What do I say to you that I know about these struggles, and it satisfies you more to drink with Elpenor falling from the staircase that was not on dry rubble, nor of harlequins who avoided the string of their zithers on and under the formula that makes contain the ethyl with the mean to say...; "That one day he was in The tetraconter Eurídice, and that the swordfish was his desire to beat bites and pots of wine that we have drunk for millennia together...!

Who could or will refute it, I tell you that I know about this, because I narrate what I write and sing his first fall near Circe, but falling on my arms... and from here I take him through the strings of Sardis when his buoyant hologram enters for its main stained glass window, taking us from Aorion very close to Barnard's Loop. Hear that I still fall hard next to him getting drunk together in Eleusinian mourning, free from buskin and funerals that are not the best friend that appears to him, and unless they combine us both with haggard browns before leaving the island of Eea.

The torrent of the Pactolo crosses our heads with its trunks like a sophistic beast... also penetrating my harangues from the Aegean when the pale shadows of Sardis are drizzled with third-degree liquor by the ancient pinch of the Hermo, a tributary that sadly hopes to wash the impious feet from Elpenor and mine. "I do not mention what I never tire of defining, that nothing and no one will hear what a voice would sing to a drunken ear, when its abstinent drops of mead are incubated in aristocratic and Hellenic ethics of my youth that stand out in the lips of Apollo and with telling you Hoplite angels who are more decidedly than learned Greek-ignorant, who do not know what it is to die from being drunk, even beyond the Elysees "

Elegy VI

The youthfulness of the Kosmous was defragmented in the inevitable..., leaving important men to take care of the darkness that was only spoils of themselves, on top of the fierce flames that still continued in the competitive souls with their glorify, where another tradition began to break out of the subtle approach that was attributed to Vernarth's homage, as an inter-Patmian genre praising all that is whole to conform the individuality of the holistic whole, which is not yet consumed by the flamboyant and immeasurable images that expanded in times more than what a Colosso from Apsila is, or a thought that forges ophthalmic trifles. I must tell you that denial is a factual point or hindrance in the denial of skepticism and the subtle embargo… if it is not moderate in the face of crowds!

I believe that summers will trigger the passing of Kairos in all the points and means that make the Sun's degree retroaction insightful, and less than what makes a divergent moral behavior, only endowed with the finesse of applicability, If you declare yourselves visionary **** like Critias! If you are in remixes of the Hellenic universal global warming! I want you to know that the warming began from the Kassotides when it was closed and from there d the abrogations abstracted by the Pythias... If from their ocular cranial and the Kosmous that became opaque, and deviated into the tetrarchy or leadership of the four Cardinal points! Oh, what kindness must pass from their semicircular flying buttresses of the world when nothing falls under their orbits... not even a segment of Patristic light the inevitable will be to ignore what falls under the sphere of the world and what rises to his own, from where Ha-Shatan does not pronounce himself in the nubile flowers of Eden!

The Apokálypsis groans, rolling up its sleeves in Leviathan's pouches, reviling the bends of Philadelphia and its Delphic oceans! With requisitions of verses that do not have and will not scribble on the trailing lines of the serpent that wears jewels that are not of this world, but seek whether to fit them in appendages and on the necks of future martyrs. Or bags under the hocks of the serpent, you will see that its optics are in the wrong and that it blows in the goodness of its victimized ones!

Brotherly love was announced as a final omen, Philadelphia was praised in the Ecclesiastical, where everything mellifluous was civil property and each eye would be the same as it will observe it, it would be before the later and the inferior of the superior of the grace of the Lord, in ethical outrages and tribulation spells that sweat in open fields far from the Dypilon, closing the opposite gates of the darkness of Sardis and Thyatira! I tell you that I know in this icy way of seeing how nothing was nothing more than the revival of free will left by the cobbler's caulking and the keys that will open and close storm doors, that only the golden hand will know if one will be a carrier or not. of new hardwoods.

Hagio is real... and what closes and opens his hand will be a guideline for what does not open and does not close! The key of the Angel of David comes from Patmos with a hatbox that proves who is capable of warning for all those who are capable of sustaining the aura of the Mashiach…! That through narrow mountainous areas they will sow the temple of God with hosts from Jerusalem.

Leading them to the valley of Cógamo and soon to the simile valley of *** Bei Himnom and Hermus himself, where everything happens and everything is nihilism in the mainline of the passion of a loved one in its secant line and of the great inverted "V", and its Monarch Attalo's constrained ties and his deliberate missions that collate the penultimate station of my Elegy. “I am Vernarth; My fraternal passion makes these seven churches only one, each one in my Opistódomos... where perhaps I will have to ignore their lustful language of Lydia and Phrygia ”all are my rivals if I do not follow the honorable mention of my Mashiach and all his subjects, who are mine and I theirs... I must confer that the letters are conspicuous literature that escaped from Smyrna, and what vanishes from the lay verb that becomes all the bearer hands with their punches, which are keys to the openings of what rises parsimoniously and falls equivalently..., and what becomes absolute of error and its restrained evil "

My attributes are the Sun that separates from another section, which is the Venerable deliberator of one who is still attached to the sacred. You must stay away from dies that are typical of scalding nightingales that have steel legs, and that if they were from a Hellene, they would be the copy of "Alezinós, which is True and unconventional", everything is manifested in the best arrangement from where I can install my head on the best flank where everything is well accommodated, and what is symbolic in the authority that is finally of our Mashiach, supplying with King David every twenty-one kilometers lamenting, and spilling what he loves and cannot contain in the caverns…, if I know that they still remain closed for prophetic fulfillments, but if all those that the universe will dare to open soon in the paradises that are pertinent will open, which are from the bias of Isaiah sprouting from himself!  

You must understand that Sybilla's electorates will be kidnapped from the anguish of a famous attack, and every prophecy that makes us live in the transparency of the entire material world and its monochord sense that unites the earth with the Kosmous! Oh, what space between everything that is unspaciable will be able to reverse what is arranged in the upper fraction of the rope… and in the omega that everything makes her feel the last sob…!

I know that you know it..., I know that you will miss it..., and that the last day of our Kosmous will come when the Mashiach makes us wake up with the gift of the hexameter, that everything will come along long correct paths, whose streams of the paradisiac Hydor will come from the trance of the last cycle, the last second-born and the last interval where everything will be the same fractional time. The advent of this period of great apogee will give us the intrinsic poetics that seems close to the Dies Irae if Tomás de Celano tells you like this:  

“It will be a day of wrath, that day when the world is reduced to ashes, as predicted by David and Sibyl! How much terror there will be in the future when the judge will come to make strict accounts! The trumpet will sound terrifying throughout the realm of the dead, to gather all to the throne. Death and Nature will be amazed when all that is created rises to answer before its judgment.

The written book will open that contains everything by which the world will be judged. Then the judge will take a seat, everything hidden will be revealed and nothing will go unpunished. What will I allege then, poor me? From what protector will I invoke help, if not even the righteous will feel safe? King of tremendous majesty, you who save only by your grace, save me the source of mercy. Remember, pious Jesus that I am the cause of your Calvary; don't miss me that day. Looking for me, you sat down exhausted; for redeeming me, you suffered on the cross, may not so much effort be in vain! Just judge of punishments, grant me the gift of forgiveness before judgment day.

I sob because I am guilty; guilt flushes my face; forgive, oh God, this supplicant. You, who absolved Magdalena and listened to the thief's plea, that gives me hope too. My prayers are not worthy, but you, who act with kindness, do not allow me to burn in the eternal fire. Place me among your flock and separate me from the wicked by placing me on your right.  

The ****** confused, thrown into the bitter flames, call me among the blessed. I beg you, contrite and on my knees, with a contrite heart, almost to ashes, to take care of me in the end. It will be tears that day, when the guilty man rises from the dust, to be judged. Forgive him then, O God, Lord of mercy, Jesus, and grant him rest Amen"  

I Vernarth, call on you to tear your hearts beyond the last door of the Elysees, the apologies will divide what is like the last syllable of salvation, tomorrow we will be primal feelings of how or which selfless person has to tell you that we are all children of parents that they will always live beyond you, and that the ****** will fall into the bitter flames, if everything is the end in the contrite, make tragedy the daily bread... whose brands taste like the spews of the first registered individuality as bread and healing body angelic, which allows to protect it..., but it remedies the entities of the Garden!

“Among the red mists of Philadelphia, Ha-Shatan's gall lies lost, believing that he has to be a cape of rest and prostration so that the empyrean will grant him rennet and singing honey in his shattered hole..., the typhoons will ignite with his ruse and what expires from the seizure of an unhappy particle emptied by the idolatrous hand. Make the adversary time the habitation of the world that will impiously be infected with the cream that is made the opposite fraction of a vermilion mist, that walks with pride among hostiles when ferocious satiety of God occurs. I tell you that I know what I am saying and that there will come an end with a non-existent verse, or rather held in the arms of an Eggelos asleep in my arms, with Justin's milk teeth from the disturbed circuit breaker of the catalectic verse, which is rolling on Patmia swing doors. Oh, flints of Alexandria, you will know how to illuminate my scrolls and the Canaanite palenques, you will know that Heylel is like a morning star marinating milk with gunpowder and harvests that plague Ithobaal of Tire. Oh, culminate Zoroastrian who sneaks through giant camels and hers King David, very close to Bethlehem, very close from where every angel-like Heylel moves with cloying feet trying their traces from a crushed Latin voice. Both tanned by the rennet that strikes their stomachs... with the vigor of blood, and falsetto between muscles attached to the back of both, I tell you that they are "Ha-Shatan and Heylel"

Elegy VII

“I propose to you a Vulgate and mutilating calamus in the blood of the Mashiach, that would be born here in the metaphorical festivals of the Himathion in my own geodesy, and of all that has been thrown on Gaia and hers Titans of her. You will see that I have learned to walk with lacerated feet and mutilated arms, headless and no apostille that says that my brooding no longer exists in her indolence about Me… the darkness is Laodicea; where it rains the shepherds who by unknown wisdom capsize before the Gods that are to come, all of them from the crippled sky through passages of time, rickety of their colonnades and acroteria that all alluvial splices, where the needy will provide to eat sap that they will recover from their powers, with black wool from the cops and nests of Heylel, and from the under-reigns of Pergamum with annals and diasporas in less wealthy hamlets, without hindrance from the Spolia Opima as rich spolies or trophies I will be reborn, referring to my Aspís Koilé, with blazons and other effects that a general of ancient Rome kept as Apollo's laurel, now I will dispossess them after defeating them with my hulous hand of eternity, incontinent to defeat them with my legion in the Battle of Patmia, and the Triplos Kosmous  Lymphoma "

The Zoroastrian radicality will have to carry out wanderings and limits when nothing was ever to begin... and what becomes noisy in the face of evil ingenuities will make dualisms that polarize the influence of making the day only darkness, and for the faithful the light of day when they were summoned by Ezekiel, and that he must know better than fragments of the day that will contain the night and the portions of the night, the light of day and the resurrection, which is based on eternity carrying the Mashiach above all the infinities of homage twilight that was expiated in chiaroscuro..., thus enslaving the stunning afternoon, which departed from trances in earthly conjunctions, where the usufruct by the Kosmous exorcised the ages that are subjected to its heritage of commemoration You must know that the power of the night about the day as a possession that bills rows of apprehensions that narrow your transit without repatriation...!

Tenure is an inclination during all premature periods, where the day is not ascribed to breadths of unconditional freedom of execration, cruelly leading to the zephyr of the Thuellai with granules mounted on the Malatia, and frolics that engender the life of a Pallid! Superstition in what appears as a multitude of fallen bodies, but without a contracted soul. "Make the even potential morbid that repels the horrendous and terrifying that persecutes the most praiseworthy and kind, who abjures that not everything is good, but rather it will be charitable and you must make efforts from the haze of Theosképasti, extending the relief of not to be classified as a non-living being when it comes to dialoguing with the shadows of Horror!  

The convital substance became too annoyed after counter-vitals that are nothing more than the apparent substance of my speculations, under all the powers that are faithful to it if they make me possess the cosmo-vice of everything hyper-ethyl and of its tempting. Since the cousin and puritanical elixir is disseminated throughout the air that is no more oxygen like a calender that does not bear the vileness of his captive servility, and of the feet that subdue him in the three claws of his shadowy darkness! Oh, what new light will it make of awakening with the preceding light that speaks of genealogies and native ceremonies where evangelical surveyors raise the leafy, that from the dark submission and the unethical fear make us weak martyrs of enslavement of the few frigid hordes and warm Laodicea!  

If my strength is to shelter myself from impudence and Hellenic-Hebraic transcendence, it does not express its ministry in all the children of Hashem, as captives carrying the constituent seed of the perched hands of the Calandria, which despite having wings she is the spokesperson of prophecies that do not have tangible historical records..., you must understand that the Calander has an autonomous and leading flight from Tuscany, but its flight radius is more than an eagle without stopping in those invisible spaces, where the legend can only transmit it..., although someday there will be no birds in the only begotten sky. You already know that I have carried chiaroscuro for their glorification that surround me..., like all that imperishable possession in cycles, they are coupled to cruel and fateful destinies, but always towards an end that for the most part becomes apprehensive of the intellectual aging verb, where their mysteries and they inhabit disembodied contents of the identical globular cycle, where the prostration of their weary skills and wrathful doors will appear from the last eagle that was seen flying free in the hands of Saint John the Apostle, and from other non-resident farewells by their claws of the Gerakis. Why not the Ceremonial Katapausis in the Profitis, or the metatarsal of the eagle that carries last discharges of discouragement in punitive inspiration, if only the calendars free man from captivity, and of unquestionable eagles in the fires of exaltation that will be able to bear it being seen as a figurative immune from Ophel, and from all the images of the supra existential world, containing volatile images of eagles for all purgative humanity forming heads that vigorously face Ha-Shatan and the Iblis, being more than an erroneous translucent figure of the angel ****** and of the perpetual fire of the incorruptible Calandria of Hashem.

“Without regret, I must tell you that the roots of the infinite began to be lost from the pieces of clay that were or are part of Yahannam's credulity, from here on from the dry and solid clay, making the genius of Laodicea one-sided with the hail of springs and of clouds that never stopped ceasing, thus in this way, I suffocate my burning hands that obeyed forces of more than ten newtons due to the miscalibration of their mass and the gravitational force that the Mashiach who converted from his incorporeal angel's geniuses. Make of fire and light your clay that is made homogeneous with liquid ozone, so ****** will come from paradise designated as solid ozone, replacing the negligent potions, which have not been able to free the divine light that for three years has been badly shaped, and have deteriorated only hundreds of the seven hundred pages of Vernarth's Lent, until today that his personal aptitude is questioned in the bleating of his sheep, who could move the fragile leaves of the disembodied forest with their nails, reciting regrets that would relieve the engraved feet on the limestone liquefied and muddy, where they can only emerge before all the dungeons that are collapsed by newton on his scapula, pouring out the expelled sighs of the eternity of the Ohr Hassadim "  

“Observe that cleaning is delighting in the grandiose erudition of what leads us from our null point of existence to the risky point where our objectives bring us closer to our sustenance; So what is Ohr Hassadim…? It is going towards a posthumous desire that thickens the light that emanates from our null point to the widest limit where every human race receives it from the great flow of Hassadim "or purification that is cyclically generated." My beloved readers who speak are the origin of all ignorance, and what is contained in the body purged of it is the unknown revival of a being that instructs itself as the Perdita Mundis or Lost Mundis! " The superabundance of medium prophetic and philosophical biodiversity creates paraphernalia and cavities where no head fits in the earth that have been honest to receive bodies in its mournful abode... makes of its benefits the great desire to receive the "Kli" so that Let us enjoy abundantly from the transparent cannulas of the wattle, which will make the Celestial Hydor fall, and the Manna that will sustain plexuses and eternal insurrectionary souls from the starvation of those who sob absolved of their soul, more than in its very spectrum that is filled with rootlets and clipping, which manifest the desire to play with drops that fall colliding on each leaf, and then fall into our mouths when they are satisfied manifested. Azure water, and nothing else if I want to live or not! Of that blue water that will fall on our mouths and will satisfy us with anxieties and fears that become imprinted when we are fed up…! And from the Manna, which will come with dissimilar entities, even feeding our soul that must also feed on the Iridescent Hydor in a swift vessel called Kli towards Samos…!

Elegy VIII

The eighth and posthumous baptistery will overwhelm all the mountains that became more exalted than all the peaks of the world, showing that the initial date combined the essences of the absolute with the "V" that began to turn one hundred and eighty degrees to the right. “I, Vernarth, have conceived the other being that will detach itself from myself, lying in the Kli or inverted vessel, on all the higher levels of the Ohr, even in those and all the Solstices where the face that makes its materialization is scarce, up to the Xiphos bronzes that would evoke tons from the Speleothemes that would gradually become implicit in my body, taking root more than the vital unfolding that is in my other sub-iridescent body. What is my soul united to the invisible creatures of this world? Take hold of the dizzy that contract in the wind tunnel of Profitis and your Codex Raeder, in what completely makes the ascent of its epitome by its golden steps, leading me to the occurrence and recreation of myself, but with plenipotentiaries who press in Gethsemane in the trepid angles of the Kli "V", beginning to ascend to Keter!  

“I must tell you that soon the Aurion particles will enter through my septum where they have to depart through the nasal pyramid… and that delegations of hoplites are already waiting for me and will return with me to Sparta and all of Greece. And with a Kli of endangered earthly and macerated light, they will be essenced from all the grasses that the calenders by descendants will make at the end a new sprout within me with my Golden Alikantus. The expansion of my light will expand from the radiance of my burnished steed, leaving within my identical hexagonal torch that will make the multi-spiritual thought of its same influx of light into the munificence of its newly created light, it will be from this constraint the Ecclesiastical stele from Ephesus to Laodicea accompanying me. ! If you watch carefully and take your hand out at this time and I peek through the rose window...! You will see that the magnanimous world is established and is going to receive you next to me, lavishing the herb that makes its clothing that shelters our body, and its own light reflected from Aurion itself… "The profound Light that looks from the candid domes of the Seven Churches to the vaults of the Ohr Hassadim, transferring to the sub-Iridescent Mashiach, but contrite of the total immanence of the detachment of its divine light to deposit it on me..."  

Therefore, when both are together, the greed to receive is canceled in the Radiance within, and it can determine its shape only after the luminosity has departed at least once. This is because after the departure of Light from the Kli, he begins to yearn for it and this greed determines and establishes the form of the desire to receive. Consequently, when the dawn is clothed within the Kli once again, the two are related as two separate notions: the vessel and the Light, or the body and the Life.

Observe this carefully, for it is indeed very profound. And soon I have managed to describe the aureole of Hyperborea with the radiation of the Eygues bringing Wonthelimar; Well, if you know how to pretend that you are certainly emanating from the double V or W, which make up your round trip from Ephesus to Laodicea, and vice versa! You have already managed to understand that the diploid round trip of Wonthelimar emanated from two consecutive Vs, making the spin of Wonthelimar carrying its quantum particles of it and carrying with itself the quantum number of the fifth courtyard of Helleniká which is 5, but represented by ε´ raised to fifty, that is; ν 'which is the value of fifty Hellenic. Thus the spinning spin of 5 to ten times its unit will be indicated, as you perceive many dreams will be discovered where those who wake up will never forget that it is this sub-atomic elementary particle in the episode of contrast and extensive change in molecular physics that will lead Vernarth with him in his heart or Kardiá, which becomes effusive in his multidimensional quantum.  

“I have managed to understand that the rotating spaces have been aligned with Wonthelimar, and what is divided in the angular will reflect the mental image throughout the aerial imaginary geodesy of all Hellenic, generating the sidereal coordinates, leaving the intrinsic nakedness of all embryonic forms that it is a sublime mirror of the nakedness of the sidereal chromosome of all humanity. As loci installed in the shank of the Pythagoras monochord, but making movement the tax of certain movements that are more than anything else links of kinetics and gravitational emotions, making the mechanics of the monochord the analogous value that generates the signs of Ohr or light. Pivot at the omega tip of the monochord, raising the re-transfigured ε´ Penta in the form of A, but then returning with Wonthelimar and his Spin of quantum from Ephesus until arriving at Patmos with the essence of the “W” that will bring by essence refounded the monochord in the figure ε´ or V that will represent the quantum experiential bond, or crossing of the particle transfer threshold through the superior axon of Keter to Malchut, equivalent to the tenth compendium of Vernarth's ε´ to ν´ which is the relativistic oscillation of its final unit of ν´; which is fifty "  

Your duties are yours and mine. Mine, I will be the one who will carry the labarum to bear and admit all the tributaries of the creation of my new world, inclined in the Duoverse, Codex Raeder and of everything distinguishable in the refraction of the light that becomes embodied in Ohr Jaiá, or Light of Life for all created things, all creation, and everything that comprises needs to be created in the candles that become receivable in the natures that multiply the remnants of energies, which hopes to be initiated from the new cosmos of the Zigzag Universe and the Zefian Arrows, being the main bastion of the link between the printed matter and decisive stimuli of mercy from where the Iridescent Hydor is born. In littleness, the rocking of the unbalance of the universe is attributed, and of all the wrong applications of amplifying the Bios of a universe that tired of behaving mournfully, being children of its immortal reply...! Understand that nothing will mean more than the awakening of everything that extends beyond the borders of the Mashiach, being cosmopolitan emanating and merciful bestowal and that nothing resides in the material already broken.  

"All the modes of adaptation ended up differing in each form of adhesion within what it meant to emanate in all equivalences and from impels as fast as the buggy that carried Vernarth and Etréstles from Genoa to Piacenza since Etréstles deserted from the Eighth Cemetery of Messolonghi composing all the wishes of the awakening according to the Kabbalah of Vernarth being largely absorbed by the Apostle Saint John. Everything was going towards the kingdom and the surroundings of the Himation that awaited Vernarth himself, swallowing him with all its lights, which were even ecstatic by his epidermis, knowing that he was separated from the undivided light that awaited him in the Megaron, very close to the Opistodome in the Behina Alef, split from his expanded sub-iridescent body of the Ohr, which in turn was levitating next to him, for the vaporous reason of not knowing if his body was a conclusion or a new kingdom that was brewing before him "  

The final phase of this Elegy VIII gave the consent for the world that does not fit in the reason, nor in the thought that was already being installed in all the balusters and limestone stones that would make up its Tree of Life Sephiroth. Your soul is my soul and mine, and I know very well that everyone awaits me on the Profitis Ilias plain, distinguishing me as a whole in the sense of smell that is rooted in the gastronomic world of the Hellenes, and the absolute that my breathing with a few granules of nitrate, making them a divine cause with potassium that became despotic in living creatures that make their essence mine, like my Spirit that would eventually rescind capturing all the sodium from the iridescent nimbus in the intermittent rest and its multi-life like Nefesh!

Beloved confreres Khaire..., receive all the joy that removes the poisons that pierce tongues that become addicted to the drops as they generate more bodies from mine..., or You will be part of my Guf or body that no longer resists lacerations from swords and spears, which depart from my head and its undetectable body from the passage of Time, and from all the fallen heroes next to me…! I see how they fall into their exile diminishing what purifies the content of Advent, of its four candles, dried fruits, its circle between the hands of the Mashiach, and abundant coniferous branches taking my corporality in all the indifference that exists between cognition and loss of awareness of lucidity beyond the Advent Wreath and its four luminaries staying in the Fifth Candle, like the Fifth Chalice of Elijah, taking me very distant with all their desires to welcome and consider that under my initial "V", they will find the synchronization of the Fifth Candle and the Fifth Chalice, which is my "V" in the fifth dimension of the Fifth courtyard and in the shady Fifth of Helleniká!

As the creation, I have been imbued with the euphonic harmony of creation, from Bethany to Patmos, of all the balms that are more capable than physical receptacles within all the higher entities that are more than the unknown, and of the infinite and imperceptible! Of the essential number of the geophysical height of Delphi, close to the elevation that will occur with my departure at the elevation of 583 whose essential number will be 16 and six plus one is Seven, and the Profitis Elías is 565 adding sixteen, and its number essential is one plus six equals seven. All this makes it prevail that my soul will reverberate from the indigo lights of the Ohr, to be sent between two poles from the altitude of Delphi, making these two spaces the equanimous and providential emanation of climate change, due to the disparity between these two latitudes, But of equal essential numbers, creating the closeness of Vernarth and Apollo as they met in the Kassotides, before departing from their assumption to exalted Aurion.
Hellenic Elegies
magpies burble their liquid caramel sound
cattle move slowly restricted to ground
creeks ****** by gurgling through rocks
mist whispers gently through dripping tree tops

from the verandah faces north-west
grey blue and white move westward in peace
south-east is filled with dull leaden grey
promising more wet as was yesterday

low pasture green in clover for winter
creatures now fat through drought now no whimper
hope for the damp to stay until spring
in wonder again reborn everything

a richness of hue diverse to the eye
odor and taste of this freshness of sky
autumn's rich carpet red gold and green
dark brown earth the best ever seen

a handful of this early of morn
held to the face from it we're born
such baseness and scent almost a touch
of where life came from a wonder is such

cool moist this air is cleaner nowhere
breath hangs in puffs strolling no care
where else to be the Burrapine clime
will do for me the rest of my time
When knowing a man who emigrates through the hemispheres, who dialogues with his senses, that he gets tired as if marasmus were overtaking him, contravening his health, and his odorifying need leads him to balance, but an insane frenzy stigmatized any reasoning by not enjoying his style of life. It is continually said that he wants to be a witness to his existence but does not approve of leaving him, subdued by his psychiatric condition. Let hatred remain numb, and perhaps I will not let go of having a living companion close by. What God Make his power trustworthy, and not only in misfortunes go to the union of forces, in the worrying mutuality of help, of the nascent good of the origin and not grant it in administration to the wealth of weak and innocent brains. And I, who still sharpen my flooded will, who more defensively underlies his aneurysms, barricading the escapes towards a worse evil, perhaps relentlessly I will prosecute myself or ****** me away. Motivated is my perfection and not the contraction of the wandering humanities. This world of orates is an aesthetic world of theirs, now that I know not to belong to the singularity, I will calmly know how to alienate myself more, and if I am to be evil, I will ride the Leviathan or the enemy of Ahab's wooded foot, so that together with them in the confinement he goes in search of stimulation and thus appears among them before the same madness. I raise my neck in fear to see the frightened rabbit, fleeing by the fire emanating from the dragon shotgun, as if he saw myself reflected in him so defenseless and unable to wander through his extensive and own habitat, clean of the superior beasts, delaying the greatness expressive of my freedom, of my recognized and predictable meaning, because if my legs feel like thin rows, I can use my arms with confidence, just like the dog run over in the Prehistoric Park.

After a few nights of wakefulness and being immersed in a ****** battle, he makes a preamble to the pain, which is his physical lumbalgy and lithiasis. The psychological pain makes his fingers entangle as if holding them back so as not to bind the fork to his eyes and not also incur in cooling his brain with high doses of alcohol. Because Libídine's troops are ready to set sail and dilate and cause baseness rage, and confusion, which reveals nothing other than being very vain, like discarding the feces. Dizzy is the drunk, destroying neurons with the saline dendrites circulating in his adult body, taking the healthy infantile body away from him. In a strong need to open his eyes, he abruptly comes out of the animistic scholastic dream, where his patriarch the subconscious shares in the awakening and retaining operation of learning. He finally woke up alive and last night if he slept. The morning light spontaneously passed the sclera, and like a very light feather, it rose with its usual companion leaves on his back; calling them ... my sheets!

Another majestic and sunny day greeted him, and the birds that fled to the south, came back inviting rejoicing, inviting happiness, the immortal joy of not being locked in loneliness and bitterness for a long time, but that this hommo in its violence will depend on nature and what each bird carries around the world in Mission of Peace. I know that within the captivity that I endure my conscience has experienced, the same hell enveloping my whole being on the edge of the cliff, where I will fall and float in the burning breath of the flames.I know well that neither countless myths nor superstitions will elucidate the torrent of guttural and non-guttural voices, and those that come from the nucleic experimentations of the origin of the voices that seek outlets to expel them. When he ate with great vigor, he felt his super-manhood emerge, which made his yearning for freshness and power arrive, as if only knowing that he was very strong in every way and very perceptive. Ludwig says that there is nothing to hide, so he will take advantage of going out, and this time he will do it in the direction of Lake Calypso, where he recreated the view of him, and why not, he will share with another homogeneous to his intentions. This will shorten the time left to see his Antoinette, and that her sculpture will hydrate the emotions vexed by Debra's ingratitude, even though she was a passenger on his trip. Her stay at the Lake was serene and with an even climate, that is, the legacy of a good Christian was transmitted by the light of the lights that illuminate the planetary Earth. Ludwig shortened time and at the same time the possession of his spirit, which was the multivalent relic that reached wherever his thought wanted to go because he was gifted in projecting beyond his borders; his consistent body and feeling comfortable with himself and what surrounds him in that beautiful Lake. In the lakeside places of the Earth, none of them should cause him the same pleasure, as has happened with his pupils that, ticklish with laziness, fall into a sleep that he did not expect ...:

The Dream

“The high dome of the Abbey, where the symbolic cross dominates with ******* and authority, is the panorama, where the date or the day is not known. This Abbey can be seen from any point of the Orb, where its architecture delivers the grandiose mystical profile, full of wonder and exaltedness. He is walking along the bay, almost in the final twilight. The night is the darkening stain that suggests relaxation shock, and fatigue; a Mystery of the same feeling of shelter, of the sea cold that also suggests the multiple verbal messages of the Sea and the sky. Where Selene's sparkles bring millions of messages to the plasma, and that it receives them gracefully with dilated and flabby pores. He continues to walk among the crowds that perhaps throw themselves at the brights of the Moon or the stars, or at the artificiality of their belongings. When suddenly the Abbey reddens from the base to the cross, radiating light beyond its profile, until in a short time it became flaming ripples --- Ludwig said What heat ... it's impressive ...!, but something has to be done, I can't stay like this. Not very high from the cross, a few meters away, a pale light turned, with great force that was supposed to have some connection with the burning fire of the holy Abbey. And that light always revolved with the tendency to go out of its orbit, and with unequaled evil to incinerate the Ecological City, his beloved city, where for the first time he saw the light. And so the evil sleeping pill happened, an unknown light left its orbit in the direction of the sea, falling on the dense aquatic mantle. While Ludwig ran without direction, others did it with panic and tremulousness, they were right because from the dense water a ship emerged with crew members who were only exterminated and nobody could escape, not even the most pious, nor the strongest, nobody escaped from the radios exterminating shots. But Ludwig remained unharmed, he saw that the Abbey did not burn, on the contrary, it was reestablished. Looking at the sea he watched the slaughter of those beings, exterminating everything, absolutely everything. Through the middle part of the hills of the city he was still running, perhaps as the only survivor. Saying ...: “I must have caught some baseball bats lying around. Who knows if I would ****** some moment of death and fight with him to save myself, but that was not, and what I carry in my hands is the invisible weapon, the hopeful weapon, or the surprising luck. But the inhabitants of the Photoprism continued their destruction, and the nocturnal black was seen as the hemochrome of callous bursts of dread. Only some voices said what only the pain allowed them to say, placed in the center of the suffering with the unknown of not understanding death and all the derivations. Today the deadly Photoprisma, killed the lives of those who possessed it, as if wanting to ambition the bay and the Abbey, and it seems that these are not the only ones in the Ecological City, but that there is more than the land itself that the light did not disintegrate. Later it dawned, leaving the ravages of the Photoprism drag. It vanished as it appeared, threatening to appear in another magnetic field ... Ludwig walked confused, but safe and sound ... "

When in the dream he became light, in the Calypso Lake the air-cooled that later awakened his dream. Upon coming out of sleep and lying very relaxed in the lake that nurtured him, he was able to contain the murderous attitude that lived in him, and that greatly confused the love he felt from him towards others whom he would smile and caress him. Even his being forgave the men of the Photoprisma, but no matter how affectionate he felt, he would still be lost, and like everyone who is self-esteem he wanted to tell someone what he had dreamed of. He says ...: Debra, Debra ... Where are you ...? Why do I like to see you ...?, I think his body is beautiful, his beautiful lineage, his proportionate *******, they are of a true muse. And now that I try to communicate with her and with my philosophy, I see that by the long or short way I will reach her, and even if it is simplistic Debra, I will want to visit her and extend my hand with everything the heat accumulated towards her, like that of the puppies and her owner.

So the motionless waves keep her passionate love a secret and do not lose position so I will always have a wish in good anathemas to deliver. Perhaps the messenger that I look for in myself will be the thought that manages to bring Debra closer to subtract her true humanity from me and me from her. And the resignation spirit that exists in me today is how she died indefiniteness. It is the spell of man to men who do not forget what is important.
Weirdly Emigrate Chapter V
Now the need to rediscover himself rises over him, he leaves the Machiavellian stupor and the breath of his organism flavored with bile, alchemy, and pours it out until he expels his cancer-causing avital situation. Everything was already clear, Ludwig had a great refuge of himself, he was the superman who locks up all ages, who is senile and youthful; since it is surrounded by the aura of the perceptual smell of evil. That he renews knowledge and does not feel invariable, that he is a Cybernetic and divine Monarch. In contrast, the other is a mastiff that allows himself to docilize his instinct and follow the one who beats him, the one who mistreats him and shatters his will that accompanies the master who makes use of him, who uses him today, still and always. Now almost in his normal state, he decides to smell better and change his appearance, he coughs up his lobes by filling them with broth from Colibrí's twittering. He combs his damp hair and talks to himself by saying words like ...: Hello, how are you ... Who will you be today ...? Although his spirit is reluctant, he goes to the birthday of his friend Sara, a close friend of his, and lends to his benevolence. When he arrives, he repeats the protocol and cheers up his appearance, greets the ladies present, and hand in hand with the gentlemen, in Ludwig's intimacy an anti-desire pierces, the anguish of a weak pleasure that his expiring sap disturbs in the worldliness of him.

Distracted, he continues, walks with her eyes, and stops them in a brown hair, with radiant light he receives the sensual gesture, and the damsel takes her hair with her hand, pulling it towards her back. Ludwig, astonished and puzzled by her, made her look ******, he already imagined receiving from her a smile her, but knowing that he loved her, that her hair would let go of her and engender in him the impression of her as possessing the sculpture of her. He approaches her with a firm temper a little more, glancing at her casually. She, very contemplative, manages to find the vigor of her strength by getting close enough, he very thoughtful, pending her every step it would be easy for him to glimpse the future, to find his equivalence to his unpredictable existence, who for the moment would desire glory and majesty and not fugitive decadence, like something suicidal that instead of satisfying him, kills him.

When he was preparing to meet her, he did not hesitate and the last steps to her were the most solid, wherever he was with his idea of having her, he hung in his stomach the sharp desire to put out his eyes with a fork and thus proceed at a slow pace in his masochism in frisking his agonizing death. There came the other gesture where he would drop his arm and brush it with hers, with a stealthy touch he could see a certain excitement between his teeth, and the saliva was escaping from his mouth when he looked at himself in a mirror, also seeing how it trickled down his makeup chin impatience. He never believed that such a phenomenon would happen to him, so it was where Sara, who was tasting a delicious menu, was going to tell him that she was leaving her and that later he would call her. As he left and went through the front garden, he felt the birthday song being sung to the piano and at the same time he saw someone outside with an immutable expression --- And Ludwig told himself that the strange-looking one was an Augur del Budú, that It weighed on her stoic peace of being normal, which was just her high-profile imagination. Then he walks through the Prehistoric Park, crosses a low-level tunnel that endangers his balance when he barely sees his hands, but he manages to advance without paralyzing his limbs and reaches the main street where he sees a dog run over, takes it, and says to himself. ..: "I will take it to the food chain of my Green City, where the pure bacteria will gnaw its tissues ..." With great strength and noble spirit, he entered his Floral Forest, where he points the Cypress to the Sea, thus releasing it and sheltering it with his Deist energy, which is more than medullary and unbeatable. He withdraws and cannot help turning and looking at him, as if said Energy wanted him to resurrect the dog. Believing in his conscience, he asks permission to rest, he lies lightly on the humus; where photosynthesized leaves inoculate the percentage dreams of vegetables, trees and flowers. What the archer in his bolt threw, his chest oppressed unbreathable pneumonia, driving him to sleep for twenty-four hours. When he wakes up, still lying on his humus bed, he wants to lighten his heavy load by eating well, and drinking himself into alcohol. He did not know how to proceed, whether to beg or rob the wealthy of his leftovers, or humble himself with God and disavow him from throwing misfortunes, carelessness, cataclysms, the self-criticism of being imperfect, and whether he has to bleed or He has to defecate, provoke personal disgust, and may this lead him to lust, baseness, sin.

The more he brooded, the more weightless he became, and the murderous scavengers lurked around his will. Like a narcotic effect, it loses its cognitive capacity and reverses itself swirling through the funnel of reverie, where the sub-world circulates and where repressions, oppositions, and powerlessness collide. At the initial place where he hallucinates and sees himself entirely, he leaves the vigil and goes into the subconscious ...: He sees Debra in her moderated state where she was leaving that space --- Ludwig looks at her and so does she, but nothing is said to each other, only he says to himself "I prefer to love her to my distant ideal and not body versus body, just as the thought of her makes of her a kind, sweet and current portrait ..."

When he begins to walk renewed, he sees several Debra in reproductive phases, they worked ardently in his subconsciousness. Some kissed him, others beat him, others confused him and others hurt him. In favor of his life and for his salvation, the virtuous side would mercifully go to dismay him and open the floodgate of reality, to desolder his eyelids and flowing air go with its dreamlike substances. Already fully awake, he sees through the window of the branches how the clouds moved and how everything moved, the bushes with their branches and their flowers. When seeing with alienated simplicity and electrifying the sky, the radiant light beams touch the vibrant colors, which touch his heart like a disquieting shout, although at the most acute in his decay it will be like the noise that broke his eardrum, or like the chard that her stomach upset. He gets up and straightens up, by the time he's standing, he takes a paper and writes ...: "How relieved I am to dabble in sleep ..., now that I make the inscription tangible ..."

When he left his home, he was accompanied by a splendid sun, the birds fluttered with indescribable happiness, the prevailing clarity and cleanliness of the environment was already perceived, seeing that everything was hubbub, he continued to be a victim of his endogenous suffering. But the children's laugh made him laugh, dissipating his sorrow. Passing through the Prehistory Park, where he always believed that trees were Dinosaurs; he remembered the jerks of his father when he took him to school. He concludes that there is no place on earth that is not ancient, and here in this park you can smell the sacrifice of the primitive to survive. In the same way, the Mammoth in instincts was the same as **** Sapiens, only that it took its spear against the animal because it evolved faster, without knowing why ...?, Perhaps to see this inhabitant moistened in the Jordan, very close to Jesus Christ. The world revolves around the man in need, who invents what is necessary, in this case fighting his hunger. In this way he kills the Mammoth, cutting it into pieces to then eat it, and whoever takes the food from it, simply dies in the struggle to survive before his ambitions.

When he got out of his mind, he set out on the path to follow, and when he crossed the Fountain of Geysers and Hot Springs; he saw at the top of the Waters of Delphi, that woman with chestnut hair; Sara's birthday. She was alone and with her eyes without detaching them from the vapor, from the liquid element, so excited Ludwig approaches her almost calm, with a racing heart that he could hide when talking to her --- Well he said to himself ..., now I'll talk to you ... - Excuse me, You. I saw you on Sara's birthday, I saw you surrounded by many people. Look, I would allow myself to be by your side, I promise not to get in the way --- Thus, the soliloquy continued, with great shock I watched her and seeing how delighted she was, I could even kiss her, achieving it with ease, because it was daytime, perhaps where it was. found in the nomenclature matter.

After a while, when she was thinking of quickly moving away from the place, from the Source that inspired her enchantment, she spoke to him and said ...: “We women are not very fixed when the man casts his insatiable gaze, but we do the vanity of feeling admired. That's why I remember you at that party, I even got really worried when the saliva ran down your chin, I thought you were going to faint. As you can see, if I remember you.--- He did not take long to ask her name, and he told her that her name was Antonieta. Ludwig thought how beautiful her name was --- she has the name I like the most, and she illuminated with adulation cleared her eyes making them greener and more feminine in her manners. He knew that he would be calmer if he met her again, asking her to be so. She affirmed his request, but it would be in a few more weeks; because she had to fulfill a contract with the Ballet Company. Since she was an actress and a dancer, this was going to take place in the city of San Lorenzo. Thus it is that the ballad mishap was fulfilled, in the thick of the Park, one and the other had the magic of enchantment; her with her eyes of her green sea of the rocky shore, of the green algae and the salty green fish with the immeasurable shine in her eyes eager to dance and interpret the steam dance of that deep-rooted Thermal Spring.

Even when she wanted to start saying goodbye to her, he was imbued with her beauty, like the wind of pure air that lifts her hair with pacifism and open disposition, with the peace of a face that looks at the ****** world and at first instance positive and very beautiful. Well, Antoinette said ... I have to go. I would have liked to be here more, but I have to continue rehearsing the Work. She telling Ludwig ...: I want to let you know that we are slaves to fulfillment and we all seek to communicate, that's why like you I will also go. Together they left without saying anything and when they reached the exit they said goodbye with an injective kiss of love, with sweetness and psychology. The latter, she leaves the place until lost in the hazy gray of the day. When Ludwig wanted to talk to himself about what had happened, the preliminary virus entered her brain, so that he could not remember her clothes, only her hair from the Thermal Abbey with her spells that he introduced stiff and sharp the benefit by clouding his unreason produced by the virus of unreason. He believed he was Troilo and she Créssida, raising his suggestive and despotic view of her, whose order tells him to walk away ... Perhaps where ...? Maybe to drag the golden threads of her dress destined for her debut. By introducing his instinct to a simple will, he remembers Sara and puts forces in her footsteps to shorten her arrival. As he passed through the jasmine trees, he approached his house in a tiny way, up to the Eucalyptus massif that always welcomed him, expelling the unmistakable and pleasant aroma of his house. Before it struck, Sara said ... come in, and he came in but didn't see her, and he started looking for her around the dining room and the living room, until she came out of somewhere fast and well dressed with the scent of a great woman, with the better scents that surrounded her satin dress with attraction and grace. She tells him that she is going to the Aula Magna to see a group of Medieval Music. He tells her that if he left so after her, arguing that he came to see her and tell her how beautiful he found her friendship with her and how good it feels to be I live here, She tells him not to worry when she smiles at him, and he agreed to her words telling him how happy he was after the sun that rose magnifying everything, even she felt willing to improvise their good moods.

He answers her by making her words difficult as if intensifying her anemic and soft ductility in her breathless lungs. She rebukes him by saying that her illness should be treated more regularly. And he answered her only by shaking her head moderately, telling her that when he was not with someone like her, he believed he felt that the weight of the calculations of the geophysical world and the floating voices did not leave her hope in the peace in peace. her brain. Sara takes Ludwig's hands, giving him her comfort. My poor friend Ludwig, Alma Matter, you have now awakened the affection that I have never felt before for someone I hold dear and feel good today. She gets up and serves him a Vermouth, to go to the exhibition. In the fourth sip he wanted to fall into the hands of a certain audacity, he could not avoid falling into the ******* of the vision of paintings and sculptures, he wanted to stop and go to the garden to philosophize, perhaps with a butterfly such as the peaceful and healthy essence, full of transparency and stillness. She in this way she stretched her nose towards the ****** leaves, filling them with pure color, with pure airy candor. Sara, looking at him through the glass door, understood his state and wanted to caress his head and face. She immediately called him Ludwig ... come on, it's about time ...! He waited for him to close the door, before cutting off his overexcitement, until Sara quickly arrived and they went to the car. Upon arriving at the Aula Magna, both were in an excellent state of predisposition. They went in and up, sitting in the box. They instantly cheered up and Ludwig, shocked, was getting ready to tell him of his well-being, but the lights just faded to initiate the presentation. They begin by instrumentalizing the works of the 15th century in Spain and France, to later continue with choral music from the  Gregorian´s chants  Solesmes.

In the intermission, they commented on the lightness of the performers with their instruments and the fiery auditors acclaiming the variations and colors of the voices. His gestures also said how perplexed some attendees were by the perfection of his mastery. As they continue, pairs are introduced performing music for Bach's Harpsichord, and ending with pieces by Vivaldi, El pastor Fido and others by Telemann for Guitar. In the final moment, Ludwig remembered his youth and among them the metallic sound of the instruments that his father carried to compose in his house, assimilating the inexhaustible sounds of those volumes in his sensations. And so the aerial images escaped beyond music and love, from that inexhaustible resistance of his body, from his doubtful states which destroyed the apogee of his evolution. Those great awakenings of little serenity like the great clamor of union that he saw in his parents that later he did not seem like that, but belligerent on all sides, and how hatred broke out and disordered in his person increasing in swearing mouths altered in not measuring his words. Very close together on the step, they said goodbye to the Auditorium, and with a melodic sound, Sara appears singing, Ludwig not understanding that mixture that she sang in her French hymn. He seemed very bohemian and spoke of the pioneers of the Juggler Song. With telepathy he carried the fulfillment of his wish for a magical state, which had no input or output, only it corresponded to extracting an abstract thought from what was divinely related to music. Outside of Ludwig, Sara sang with satisfaction the appropriate atmosphere appropriate to her, but not so with his who was about to spill an ocean of liquids from eyes and ears, in which would come the remnants of quiet time, of the conflict of the others, maybe Debra with a handicapped part endocrinately composed with the flow of mineral and organic acids. In order to open the necessary contact of a soon to relieve, to suspend the claustrophobic tormenting existing, derived from the seizing and painful gesture of her unbearable wanting to heal and not getting it.

Ludwig said intimately ...: Uz ..., Uzzz ..., What a burning sensation I feel, it will pass ...! When the fatigue was overcome, the derutinization begins, to receive the delight, the music of the plumber ingredient of early life. That if it is spontaneous, it is capable of generating great proportions of delight and externalizing the result of the bodies in agitation that still emanated from its rhythmic musical cortex. They said goodbye to the Aula Magna "Bernardo Courtois", leaving a memorable satisfaction in his already enlarged spirit.
Weirdly Emigrate Chapter IV
By what dark decline of Smyrna will my rib complain, and have to move its hanging from here of Selçuk that will consist in its protocols that guarded my lost head, and of corny demigods that surrounds soothing feats that do not hurt, instantly that we all offer the same incarnations of the cult and his victory with Saint John the Evangelist ..., I tell you that I know about this and I say that I preside and founded the condition of his sacred agonal, from his divine glory in Arbela according to how common it seems to them ..., if they are to get lost in its decline ...! that they do not fight with what is not dexterity and nothing that is not brooding if nothing knocks on the arched door?

The purse that will remain beyond Alsancak in that residence is moth-eaten, I always hoped, I always had to say ..., as I have told you that my tongue tells truths that you are tempted to see in the darkness of a dissolute courtyard in Helleniká, but between portages of Smyrna and rubrics that wave in streets that are bordering the extraverted Dipylon ... in which instance I peek into the interior wine presses ..., seeing its esplanades because if I have to tell you ... it will be something that can satisfy you and that takes me to Eleusis ...!

So many times I sighed for the stinging hinge and its memento, opening itself up like this, and if it must be wherever it compresses its resonance, here it is what I was going to condescend with dump trucks that transpose to the stage with their marbled misgivings, I beg you with my hands convulsive that I am not fortified, the tribal rain and the Xiphos phosphorus from the southwest, seeming to surpass with their longitudinal footage, as if they were laws of the horizontal with twisted millennia that bring according to what should be ...? for a long time it takes the form of an imperfect and vile being by the inverted "V" from Ephesus, towards the intersection of the edge of Pergamum approaching in Laodicea.

Guess where the deposit of the Sun of Smyrna derives with its long time-lapse, and with various stony that are attached to masonry typical of the diamond plinth, showing off the docile sacramental of its high shoulders and crowned partitions like those that hurt if my eye everything! Assesses, closing angles of the sovereign challenge, here my sovereign Meton presents me the sacramental infer to the Nymphaeum or a rhomboid arcade lost in his Domus!

Where do paradises shrink from, if all this was being hidden with so many truths between tributaries and conifers that have to be disposed of in their turrets? its precarious sinister face that only restrains the Eminences of the Lycabeto, daring to adorn themselves with Lykavittós, rising among longings that are lost in my Elegy from heights that howl for peaks that have not been besieged, only resided by those songs that shelter themselves obstructed with wide domains, with trainers that guide you, not coexisting lights, that scrutinize your shelter to become your owner!

What makes you of tribulation if my consort is made eternal, now that he shields between his worries for causes and lexical testimonies with my Eggelos, who do not hear the galloping of Alikantus but if the hieratic rocky snorts descending for what their prior does not know ..., only my chaste unit has to be with its talented polygonal patchwork, unlocking only what it contains in its earthly litanies, softening the sclerosis of a raging carat, being or not defensive of a judicious Eggelos in rocks of fortune ...! only if you have to restrain yourself before they exceed the rate, and of everything that stops you and greases the cranks of what is not worthy of rest without a deponent cheer!

I urge you, Oh confreres, that your streets and stones expand like runners and cobblestones that have never been able and never will be able to pass through colonnaded atriums surrounded by those who live in Smyrna! And from there I exhort You to serve your faithful hoarseness whose rest adheres to his unconscious reality ..., Where then only laughs the annoyance and its ominous deities that carve defenses that are arranged for him to house in Skelos or of the legs that are born and die on his heels ...? And from where does it only lead him to the vault of the mystery that lies in his opportune vow?

I will mention you when no one ascribes or praises you with compliments that tempt the supine harassment of whose silhouette it is not, and that it is only the Selçuk catafalque, where the chapel of its neighbors and rye burns that divide the age of the Duoverse, leaving him desolate if my verses disgust those who have secreted and listened to my unheard reflections ..., Yes, you have to hide in burial mounds that descend from the heights that are unknown to you ..., you will only have to unravel from your baseness and fading scratches of the factions, with ties and dizzying failures from which Olympians survive and without crowned laurels!

Everything is already commemoration and mischievous funerary daring with portable fluorophores mourners, dressed in crowded slags elongations, and slants where nothing can grasp it of prosapies and past or subsequent lives, where its spits will be of the advantageous parallel that is noticed of a Mycenaean mob. What decorum above all in that setback, that only sees imploring, that they stop behind everything that protects them by the force of the black aura, that hurts and that devastates their vibrations in the triggering footsteps of Alikantus, “He who has hearing and not words that he hears what a stained glass window is in all that he knows and reflects it ”.

What was devouring you by the ardor and his horse countenance with his swift piercing in all that this crusade means ...?, Loading Aerse finesse with herons to tie and perpetuate only those who must not be lacking ..., before the supreme preference of a man who errs more than a god, and who was the gift of a panhellenic fiddling with thirteen shady places, lacerating everything that inferred him, and everything that was an intruder from the earrings of happiness hanging him like an azure earring ..., all harassment coming from Smyrna Towards the iridescent Nimbus of Patmos for the puzzles of Pergamum!
Elegy II
Yenson Nov 2020
I don't even need to prove
the sublime character of real nobility
the absolute straining of their collective sinews
has done it for me

I don't even need to prove my worth
when their fears, and inferiority complexes
cowardly somersault in hidden rages and cryptic proses
that has done it for me

I never have a desire to doubt myself
while they spew denunciations by the bucket loads
for the eager need to do this lies in recognition of my integrity
they have proven that to me

Don't even need to raise my expectations of them
for their shallow pettiness, uncouth anodyne envious stances
shows you can take them out of gutters but not gutters out of them
they have proven that comprehensively

In meritorious grace I treat all on merit
they have shown me ignorance lacks merit in all ways
that man in nature is but a beast untamed garnered with baseness
they have shown me pathetically pitiful people
I have learnt how to suffer fools gladly
they have done that to me

For that I am an even richer human
and I am humbly grateful........................

— The End —