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564

My period had come for Prayer—
No other Art—would do—
My Tactics missed a rudiment—
Creator—Was it you?

God grows above—so those who pray
Horizons—must ascend—
And so I stepped upon the North
To see this Curious Friend—

His House was not—no sign had He—
By Chimney—nor by Door
Could I infer his Residence—
Vast Prairies of Air

Unbroken by a Settler—
Were all that I could see—
Infinitude—Had’st Thou no Face
That I might look on Thee?

The Silence condescended—
Creation stopped—for Me—
But awed beyond my errand—
I worshipped—did not “pray”—
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
prelimenary coordinates - a blindman playing chess.

well... you either drink, and write sparingly,
     or you don't drink, and you write
a novel...
    but who would have thought, that there
would be poetic odes involving coffee...
     it's staggering how many women write
poems and have to concern themselves with
coffee...
  i down a litre of whiskey a night, don't know
what a hangover is anymore,
        and i can beat out more words
than women, who use a stimulant and write
   crumbs... when i expect a loaf of bread...
if not this website, then another, and the scenario
is the same: the glorification of coffee...
           it just shows you how barricaded the human
narrative is, of the soul...
        poetry merely nibbles, and i know it's
flaws... write without paragraphs,
or care for punctuation marks... and it's immediately
a poem...
   or... oh god forbid! there's something profound
being said with a few words...
      and it has to be profound...
                      yes, i'm the Gargamel and those
are my smurfs...
                             strange that Freud didn't think up
the man-child complex...
                         which is the opposite of the madonna-*****
complex, which he actually did...
           Edward Hopper was also bemused by
these two mental pharmacologists...
                did a little sketch holding Freud as pillar 1,
and Jung as pillar 2.
    but coffee and poetry: i'd expect more from this
latitude...
        and it's still a case of:
                   people cling to the raft that's their
mental narrative mondus operandi...
                Kant tried to say something as concrete
with 5 + 7 = 13... and read any philosophy book...
    Kant isolates the ''i think'', and Hegel isolates
    the i = i, or i am i...
                              and these are serious thinkers...
but Descartes has said a limit...
                       thinking defines subjectivity...
      thinking the essential component of what's
   not thought about: the existential compromise of
   being per se...
                    and how i always seem to find philosophy
as a stumbling block concerning everything i write...
    it's almost as if i can't escape the world of
abstracts...          a degree in chemistry didn't help either...
     am i truly so un-realistic?
               not that i'm afraid of being drawn toward
the un-real...          it's that humanity seems only like
an infertile groundwork speeding toward a forgivable
promise...
    i just wanted to say: you drink and write poetry...
or you don't drink, and write a novel...
      and true to a heart's cause i will say:
that straitjacket of what poetry is...
                           whether rhyme... or other technique...
    hanging over it...
                           it can't do:
      i abhor Nietzsche for making poetry a science...
  and it is: too scientific...
              i'd never think so little can be deemed
so perplexing... or having that essence...
                    so yes... Kant
                         really does struggle to say something
profound, but he actually does...
                     over and over again... namely:
i'd never could think of so many faculties of my mind...
    not that's what i call a plastic saying...
      ****-licking brown-nosing, call it what you like...
it's just so terrible that philosophy cannot reach
toward being a humanism, like a novel always can...
     which is why i could eat a historical novel
        by Kraszewski in three weeks in between allocating
that time to the festive season,
                     and it took me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... until i let go of that post-scriptum necessity
of having to stop at every setence and do a rubick's cube...
     a bit like: well... aren't those electron-migration
   schematics they teach you in chemistry, a little bit pointless?
   who give's a badger's nut-sack about how electrons migrate
when a a cabron to oxygen bond forms?
                         but they do teach that...
           which is why you can take a novel to bed,
on the train... but so much focus is needed for that other novel,
the scientific one... the grandeur of... philosophy...
                and that's when i let go...
   the last part of the critique does allow you to read
piece of work... like a novel... unless of course that was my
need to do so...
                    so yes: transcendental methodology in Kant's
critique: does read like a novel... at some point
you just have to let go.

ii. ...

and you do... try saying philosophy without saying
something pretentious....
               and i dare say: as long as the fewest number
of people concern themselves with it:
  the more chances we have for electricity,
plumbing, food on the table...
               but by now there's this talk of a curse...
premature Socratic antics... mind you: he was an old man...
but Plato be ******, he wrote down what the old man
spoke: and a clear number of them succumbed to
      the tumble-**** effect...
                      no real prospects for life...
        and, evidently, the dead gods philosophised,
while the rest remained: prone to throwing a show of
macho, and worshipped the body...
Olympus shone...  
   by now you should know that i don't know what
i'm doing...
                  give me the killer-switch to launch a nuclear
strike and i'd probably say: maracas!
shake shake shake...     fidgety in the brothel...
shake shake shake...
             that's the weird thing, every time i went to
a brothel i became over-heated...
      i sat there, the whole **** place always reminded me
of a perfume... jack daniels...
   and i could feel myself over-heating...
  i don't known if that was the angel conscience talking
to me... but i always felt those eyes of scrutiny...
       mind you, once the whole "naughty'' escapade
took off... i forgot those relationships where
                    an impotence was crowned...
   don't know: maybe prostitutes just know my pin-number
and hold to say to little richard: off to the crusades with you!
     phenomenal...
                                         well... thank god for
the north african imports! i'd start thinking all european
women are bound to be: neglected.
               and was it ever, not only about ***?
    it's nice to doubt it...
                           next time i'll woodpecker a grave.
but hey! the promised land!
                           at least you'll have someone to cry
over your grave...
   and did i tell you how there's this cult of the grave
in Poland? yep, that's not a personal reality,
it's a populist manifesto... i'm starting to see it
as a hell where people sort of forgot to state their emotion
to the people, now lying in those tombs...
         give me a Hindu wedding with fire!
  i wanna become elemental!
and look, libido on fire... a billion vishnu-******* in
Bangladesh...   it's this thirst for fame in western
societies that's going to be a downsize...
                                 over there that's like a **** in
a tornado...              ha ha! it really is!
   but then again, here i am, a graveyard hyenna...
walking in Liberace's talk of style...
  most of these graves, really are: tacky...
    just like Liberace, the greatest showbiz conman of
the 20st century... i love the fact that he fooled so many
women... i mean... that guy was almost as good
as ****** when it came to mesmerising people...
but Liberace had a nieche audience... so...
                 no khaki for the ss...
                                           and i dare to hold
an ethnicity? in tune with bob marley: one love, one people...
it has never been so painful to strategise globalisation...
         it's this ethnic cleansing that everyone agreed to
provided they received a smart-phone...
                   or a McDonald's fetish... and that's saying it cheap...
but that's how it feels on the periphery of H'america...
little ol' England boycots Europe...
                     and it's like: huh?
                                           presto! dum-dum.
    sometimes i start thinking that i have a hydra for a tongue...
and the more i drink, the more i start to see
       it splintering up into a polyphony construct,
but more a case of: polyphony of subjects...
   and yes, aren't we all those internet losers...
when the most powerful man in the world...
     uses twitter. bastions of respectable comment!
yes, i.e. newspapers... we're riding this meteor to the end...
          does anyone still consider newspapers to be
the pledges of a free society? i must have been asleep for
the past 20 years then...
                      someone switched on this chaos-turbine,
and we're all shoving our two cents of opnions'-worth into it...
and it's not stopping...
            and yet you still read in newspapers, this underlining
feeling of being condescended... as if they are the sole
authority... they have to behave like little despots...
                           social media's power is invested in its
shock reverberation... think: Marx in the 21st century...
           but can you? is this some pseudo Marxism?
             i might have bypassed all the king-makers and
walls... but i have no leverage... my opinions are
     as cheap as chips... well: we got ourselves a unison converson...
   i still don't see how the television zeitgeist still thinks
that the internet zeitgeist is no connected with ''real life''...
i mean... **** me! where's the highstreet with all the shops?
on the internet. where is the frontline of wars? on the internet.
  where do suicides take place? on the internet,
from all the cyber bugs that people start to represent...
    if this isn't real life... then i guess i must be sitting,
and writing this in some medieval castle in transylvania,
    and my computer is powered by a legion of
hamsters on exercise-wheels, in a damp room, lit by a candle.

iii.

for me, this is how reading a philosophy book looks like:

| | |
     fig. 1
                                          /   \
                                            _
                 ­                                 fig. 2
    Δ
       fig. 3
                                           A
                                               fig. 4

it's like i want to see something with some clarity;
there is clear movement
      concerning a book like that,
              but unlike a standard novel:
there is clearly nothing concerning the: any given
  hope to disperse the mist.
                you're given the blunt truth:
the use of language...
                     again, it would be easier to call forward
a use of a tomahawk... or a guillotine...
            philosophy books never establish civilisations,
they break them.
                and do i think that the crucifix is a profanity
of the tetragrammaton? yes.
                do i feel Spinoza's anguish? probably.
when you read philosophy to start to waver,
it's almost necessary to unlearn language, and with
each philosophy book: learn it over again.
     you can't remain strapped to this culture
of emphasis of singled-out words...
              we can't find a constructive basis if we're
about to start any mechanism from such a dynamic,
isolating certain words and weighing them
                       obstructs language...
                 i can't even begin to fathom a pledge
to using a language, if there are these plebian obstructions...
i did write some notes when i spent these past 3 weeks
in Poland, but i'm scared of rewriting them...
                    i can claim to have understood
their content at the time,
but the context disparity is too much for me...
                 i'm rereading them in England
and i can only see England as a nightmarish construct
of such grandeour... that i might only be seen
speaking truth in the north of it...
                nor do i like the tri-tier categorisation
of man... if you read Kant, you'd be afraid of
man's laconic approach to the mind, stating
the three boundaries, and literally no faculty interactions...
  consciousness (the artist), denoting the overly-sensitive,
the subconscious (the worker), denoting the athletic construct
   and liberation from the daily toils of pure physical
    disposition...
and the unconscious (the zombie)...
   if you read Kant and explore the faculties...
and then turn toward the Freudian populism:
   there's enough reason to be concerned...
                  i can't be saying someone anti-vogue:
and that was my proper concern, that i might be saying
someone not recountable in any sort of realism...
          that mine is an isolated case...
         ditto alongside: why are we juggling the tri-tiers,
and so bombastic and even celebratory in huddling
toward these safety-nets of being human?
    thus said: the reflective man has died...
       in his place came the reflexive man...
                             and if there really is a worthwhile
stance to be a: **** sapiens...
   then all hope for a bewildered man is gone...
                 when the potency of robotics escaped science
fiction, and all trodden paths of orthodox science were
      fed to science fiction, humanity could begin
the process of discarding the offshoots...
          
iv.

the new testament... a book riddled with metaphors...
no wonder the greeks exploited the hebrew literalism...
and yes, plato the precursor made this very real...
by testifying that poetry had no place in the republic,
the new testament had to become solely poetic...
   the new testament is a rebellion against plato's republic...
it's a book wholly compromised on metaphor...
culminating in a book that's founded on imagery...
the gosepls are, once again, arithmetically speaking,
resembling the crucifix... which damns the concept
of the tetragrammaton...
                      as a book: it's only gibberish in
its final circumstance of revelation as a book of imagery...
   and in its preceding case: a book of metaphors...
who wouldn't be apprehensive to be born human
with such a thing being rampant?!
                    imagery is gibberish, given that we
have compentent painters out there...
and metaphor is metaphysics, given that we have
competent magicians out there...
   so how far apart are the words: qua             and
                   quo?
   as good a question as: how far apart are the words
                          phor               and phren?
       φoρ                       &                            φρην?
        so in the congregation of μετα, how are they
so apart?  looking at language from an alphabetical
perspective... it's hard to see anything inspirational...
    nor the tangens divergence of words
that are nonetheless so proximate in their construct...
a bit like the genetic proximity of man and ape,
or man and a banana...
   φoρ (the bearer of the beyond) -
                φρην (a mind concerned with things
under the curtain) -
                        and so: the futility of looking for
        a soul... became translated as the new found feudalism
of looking for a mind:
  given the common consensus: we're all mad....
so too looking at mythology could be revised:
  that myth of narcissus and echo...
or narcissus and psyche...
                         or φρην & πσιχη -
                we already know that there's an aesthetic
in Greek, at least they showed us
      that it can be σimple, when acknowledged
  and practised -
which means transcribing the ease of handwriting
   into a digital format, can be seen as an unnecessary
complexity - as if me currently looking for a word
that ends, and showcases the most obvious Grecian
aesthetic (without mention ο, ε, ω, η, œ)...
but with due mention: so where the second variant
of α, given there's æ?
                           it really is hard to find coherency
in human language... i'm still trying to conjure up
the second sigma... unless i hit the plural noteς...
there... i hit them... as simple as that.
  and yes: the father of the french hooked c
in garçon, came from this: the sigma used at the end
of wordς... i suspect that how things were denoted
to be possessed in english, also came from it.
once again: handwritting is bewildering on this digital canvas.

v.*

i don't have an atheistic argument, or a theistic argument,
i'v
Hunger and Desire grew
'til bellies everywhere were
ruined for sustenance,
so in went the troops to wage
war against ideas and
when they arrived there were no
soldiers to speak of

so they set up tents
and didn't go away

they sang drunken war-songs
until the moan of starvation bellies
sang louder and more terribly

"That must have been them
the whole time!" they said, and
suited up for the charge.
So they trained their shells at the city
excited to see if target practice
had done them any good

but all they did was mortar themselves to bits

squadrons of video-game experts
sent drones overhead to drop
Hallmark cards titled "Why it's your fault"
and coupon booklets for American
chain shopping outlets to come

but they only marginalized
and condescended themselves

"Bring in the reinforcements!"
they cried, even conscripting
their hapless targets. This mob,
too, was a hungry belly
bellowing for satisfaction,
a cannibal ***
simmering

So they set up tables and stacked
boring paperwork, filing away
spirits broken by shrapnel and white
phosphorus

but they only resigned themselves
to imaginary lines and the plunder
of Control, insensibly
****** themselves to death

while they watched,
perplexed.
“Two things are infinite:
the universe and human stupidity;
and I'm not sure about the universe.”
― Albert Einstein
Amy Ems Jun 2013
Do you know what beauty is?

Some say it's these eyes.
The same eyes that have been rubbed with fists
that don't know their purpose,
fists that only know these tears are foreign,
and it is their job to eradicate them.
These eyes are two-sided mirrors,
only showing what the outer person believes to see,
not what's really there.
These eyes have known smiles, but not sleep;
joy, but not peace.
Are these eyes still beautiful?

Some say it's this smile.
The same smile that has been too many frowns,
curves of confusion and wishful thinking.
These teeth, straight and strong
only because of man's work, not nature's.
Teeth that were once blamed for unattractiveness,
and kept hidden by tight-lipped
excuses of a smile.
Lips that are anxiously bit rather than kissed,
red with embarrassment and the feeling
of never measuring up.
Together, these lips and teeth create a smile,
but alone they are just forcefully arranged teeth,
and lips that worry.
Is this smile still beautiful?

Some say it's these curls.
The curls that are, but don't want to be,
and only are because hormones got a hold of them.
These curls are soft, but disguised of that
by flyaway frizz that wants freedom
but will never get it.
These curls are angry at their boundaries,
and they take that anger out on me.
The truth is, I could never set them as free
as they wish to be.
Are these curls still beautiful?

Some say it's this size.
The petite waist and slender arms,
the curvy legs and prominent chest,
this childish height.
Smallness makes the big feel bigger,
stronger, more capable.
But it also makes the small feel smaller.
This is the same waist that hungers perpetually,
the same arms that shiver when no one else does,
the curves that hesitate instead of bragging,
and the height that's mocked, condescended,
and shamefully despised.
Is this size still beautiful?

The heart of the matter is that beauty
is simply misunderstood.
Beauty is the surface of unfathomable depths.
It is not beauty at all, but merely
an acceptance, or a recovery, or a new birth.
Something that was,
but wasn't until it was discovered.
And if this is the case, why aren't we searching for it?
Why are we waiting for beauty to appear
when we could be finding it?
this is kind of personal and i'm hesitant about posting it. wrote it in the light of the supermoon last night because it wouldn't stop pestering my mind, but i might not keep it up.
medicine Apr 2017
You just don't know if you are just being critical or judgemental. Careless or stupid. You got excited and bored at the same time. Loving the moments but still want to go home. Laughing and feel condescended at the same time. Feel pity but have no courage to help. You think before you said something but sometimes you just rambling nonstop. You feel motivated as **** and then you wondering if you could just vanished. You pray, pray, and pray but you still feel not content about yourself. God will guide you when you lost. But you are not lost. You are on clear paths. Gun on your sleeve. But you just high. High of hurly burly of life. Cause you unintentionally took the wrong pills and then your life suddenly change.
Martin Narrod Jan 2017
Make me *** and I'll come for you, until they pull me down and make me cough out loud. I'm a street named Chance and I'm awful loud, I read right to left. I hear colors not sounds. I'm a maniac, maniac, for Empire Carpet. I've been hospitalized for being honest, and condescended to for living life on the edge, with a knife in my bed, a pillow under my head. Where I've pollinated my sheets with the easements of sleep, and circumvented my best friends just to shake up the news. I've been used, I've been lied to, I've been amused, I've survived abuse, I've been bruised, I've leaned toward the obtuse, I've leant forward for truth, and I've written down my upsides and foretold my mishaps, I'm a backwards commando for import and export of hazmat, and especially bath mats, CB2 or IKEA, Bed, Bath, and Beyond, or just farther beyond. I remain calm, while the adverbs stack in my palms, it's the trick of word pimping to work verbs into adjectives, articles attached to their nouns, an ellipsis or eroteme, a period or comma. I said I am *******, so now won't you come. I've evolved what I've said into parts of a song. So push back on me and I'll push back in you, I'll take your words and re-dedicate them into consonants and vowels. Hang up your heraldry, and never put down your ***. Keep your habits to bedrooms, and your words to never forget.
Amanda Thompson Feb 2015
I was nerdy-
Round glasses, long hair that went everywhere
Braces and chubby legs- my nose always in a book
My face- a ruddy bumpy mess with early acne at
age 10
You glanced sideways at me on the bus-
Perfect hair, trendy clothes, active party life
Made you higher- then me-
Made you better- then me-
Or so you thought, as you condescended to
smile at me once in a while
Like a dog on the street
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged
Learned my social skills from books and public television  
Got better with age
Used to think the best way to like a guy was to insult them
all the time
Punch them in the arm- make up teasing songs about them
While secretly I pined and longed for a hug or a kiss-
Thinking it'd make me happy somehow
You laughed at my antics- seeing right through them
And teased me about every boy I liked in junior high
Spread the rumors, thought it was a game
Joked with your friends about how silly I was
Not like rejection wasn't hard enough without ridicule
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged
I was a fat seventh-grader
Trying to fit in without necessary clothes
Or the money to buy it with
Stole my moms old hippie shirts and
All my sisters stuff I could get away with-
Wanting so badly to be the girl with a certain style
You- wearing your new outfit, best haircut, trendy jeans
told me I looked ridiculous
Said each new thing was absurd
I wrung my hands- pretended I did not hear
But hopeless- cried later-
Thinking that i’d
Never be popular
Never be anyone to notice
Never be possible to love
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged



Now- full grown
Hut short
I have the knowledge of how to dress
What to do, what to say,
who to talk to

But most importantly though-
Now I know
That none of it matters-

Yet even now when you stand
in the pictures you take at the party you
never thought of inviting me to-

When you laugh at the memory of high school
drama without ever trying to understand
what actually happened

When you figure Im not worth getting to know

Its easy to revert
And go back to the little girl
Wanting so badly just to belong

But I try not to and bury that loneliness deep

And in the end, Im stronger for it, I guess-
Stronger for the bruises and blows you delt-



Strong enough
To let them go

And strong enough
To let your words fade-

Thank you
for reminding me
that I don't want to belong
AditiBoo Jan 18
I took the test
It was positive
I knew what I had to do
But how... when it is illegal to do..

And who...
Who decided to dictate
What a woman
Could do to her own fate

Please, tell me who...
Who believed themselves better
Than a struggling woman
Having to choose to destroy a part of her

I beg you, tell me who...
Who condescended on the pain
Of an incapacitated, cramping, crying woman
Ejecting blood, tissue, a life in vain

I'll tell you who it wasn't
Certainly not the man
Who said 'let's keep it casual'
And walked away with no future plan

A woman torn and a child unborn
Is a story of intimate pain and private loss
Not a tale of judgement and scorn
Not a law for men to gloss and floss
The Jolteon Feb 2015
The scarf caused confusion
To his ignorant thoughts
Consumed by hatred and violence
He rang out eight shots
The media danced
In a pathetic flurry
Talking of "parking spots"
And "those Muslim students"
First things first
It was a hate crime
The killer had been to their house
More than one time
He condescended
He threatened
He talked down
Like bigots do
Yet this is something
The media tends to ignore
Let's focus on something less tense
Like a nice little parking spot
Next it must be said
That these were Americans
Just because they're not white
Doesn't mean they weren't born here
Yet let the media dance continues
Label them simply as "Muslims"
It's easy to forget
When it's just an "other"
So the story obscures
While these three young people are dead
Will Obama come to their defense
Or start another war instead
The sky was lost in colors, everything was snowy white, sparkling with whitish clouds that were arranged on top of other pearly ones, which tended to break from the high stupor brought by the Cherubs and Seraphim to receive Vernarth and Alikantus. Arriving at the highest plain, Vernarth saw the Mashiaj who was waiting for him, he was wearing a white garment, and on his neck an ornament that the Hoplite Soldiers of Arbela had given them. When
Vernarth dismounted, and a Hoplomachus could be seen on his Lynothorax, which was the same medallion that warriors carried to face divine death in combat, donated by a Thraex, who had always accompanied him with the Kantabroi with the sulfur mists after dark. rusty battles, and that he wore a manica on his arm that seemed to point with the tip of his finger at chapter
XIX of the Apocalypse of Saint John the Apostle, on both legs an Ocrea labeling the chorus of hexameters that the Sybillas chanted to revive him. And his head rotated three hundred and sixty degrees carrying the Leonatus with another Helmet under his arms with oculars with grid and crest, on his right leg a Xiphos hung like a thelamo that hung from both angles of his legs to approach when carrying his horse thrown by his hands.

His belly heaved with anxiety, in his hands was a folder that Drestnia and Etrestles had written, which had condescended to him from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, saying:

“All the cities of the world will be called Athens…, because from there you will arrive at Patmos where you are in all places. Everything is old because it soon gets dark, and the funeral address is the first death you had when you were an infant..., all the people who are with your majesty yearn for civility that you imply in the legacy of the deep Christmas in Patmos, with tablecloths, wines, rolls and thick Corinthian wines in their plausible Patmian creation,
leaving them in the corridor that reaches the end, where the alabaster replaces the burning manger..., as a story of two stories and battles, which are exalted narrating the wars after they are their dominated lands suspended in the waters of the Aegean, and tinged with an apparent unrealized pact. The whole the world will be called Patmos, where nothing and no one will defeat you
without first a dirge when the gargoyles of your veins sob, when their capitulation is filled with culture that swirls between the white tablecloths of Kissamos and Kimolos, behold where the Sarissas They will parade through the pantheon like thousands of solitary lances towards the perpetuity of the patrimony that doubles the clouds pregnant with liquid bronze, to be
scattered throughout Athens like marble shawl stoles carried by the Meltemi with the prudence of ennobling cousins shocks of the storms that augur your departure. Nothing of minimalism or arbitrariness that cannot be resolved in loopholes that are hidden among the requirements, in which all the threats have admonished the canopy fallen on your integrity, on the Cherubim who fights with his empty hands like a beautiful angel fallen at the dawn of Miletus, being already a state governed by the Hoplomachus with his dyed sword, where you can see what you can be more than a convention of gladiators, just like that and indeed disposed towards the courage of what the daring produces with the infamy of seeing you pray alone in his black stretch.

In everything you were left alone, favorable only to the disagreement of what you should be or do, then return what you can do, you are already a legionnaire who carries the world on his back struck down with his Corinthian Kantabroi. Why did you stain your tanned hands, why somehow did the Nikephoros bring victories that take time to come and go soon? Thirst for victories they bring vessels and flows incapable of satisfying you in the immensity of their anguish and everything is done just when what fits my thinking fills my belly, and what saturates the belly remains tied to the Rudder of your precocious olive trees, from so much that the drum sounds, it turns it into empires of stones that do not coin the subsidiary complaints of their warfare, if you dare to be hostiles who bring food for dinner and everything that spills the tediousness of piling leftovers where nothing else is huge what an insult to sigh.

Vernarth, the world of Messolonghi and its eternity comes to give you the admission of a Commander!, who negotiates with greatness and simplicity, just as you can understand each other from sixty-four springs that have closed the eyes of Pericles just like yours, where the laws will have to compensate and fill vessels that remain empty for this toast  "Stin iyia sas o Khaire" from
Elpenor to your house and health of a Nikephoros devotional or conquest to win over everything,... but stay drunk alive and be reborn in other taps condescending to mythological ups and downs, where the laws revive the second or third vigils of banquets that lead into the orbit of a Hoplite. Do I see you comfortable in the klismós that carry you to the Empyrium, where the scattered saliva mixed with wine is confused with models to take you to your new home? perhaps of particular or unequal equals or relative merits that will make it exist and will prevent the possibility of doing it again. In the eighth Messolonghi Cemetery a great riot has been made, she prescribes to pay you honors with Markos Botsaris at the head of which all the gold spilled on the table will be made with bows and arrows, shields, and spears to take them to Patmos and Athens by river sounds that sound from the Hékein or the formality of lavishing to do or utter, so that everything is in favor of desolate places that will not be felt by all of Greece when they understand that you carry all the cries of the Warriors who hide behind the moor so as not to see they sob, still feeling the drums of the compass of a victory where wine flows that are written in the stands of Epidaurus, signing the chaste peace with their Medical Wars. It seems good to you that the ghosts speak of democracies, and that they also govern them with the spill of satisfying public ovation that only does it with two or three flags, Oh Cóphade I dress in a foreign outfit that enlivens your lightness from head to toe, I want to see you come back to life on the plains without stopping riding with Alikantus, free from all stratagems and fantastic smells of lavender, and grasses toasted by the summer of the hall, oven of Athens. Do not be afraid, we have distances that
are difficult to overcome, it will be the expulsion of our hearts if we allow ourselves to be caught up in the irrigation of their vulgarities that always complain of open will, do not be afraid, Pericles entrusts your departure just like you at sixty-four, in such a Syntagma double of 32 who appreciates you right and left in our companies, with courage obsequiously in becoming where the wind rises in Abdera.

We can dare to say that we are a group of seven, in the association of 25 Syntagma men who will accompany us split... but not divided! That it is nothing more than death as a double life that is placed in front of you, that shows its opposite side of the Syntagma where victory and defeat offer omens of reviving in both fights, not all of us are saved by our annihilation, nor by their qualities of Picking ourselves up even among those defeated by invisible
conflagrations or just because of the excessive feeling that what ends or begins is not impregnated with beauty, we know that you will come at Solstices and Equinoxes are free of their austere plagues, and reborn from Aspasia or the social life of socialites that Your eyes are drawn from seeing so much beauty ignites in the theater that never ends, and for this, we know that we will measure what fits in your gallbladder, and the wine that we are ashamed to recognize in order to satisfy you, O Brother, receive from an entire nation and from the inhumed of Messolonghi how they will see you happy to come to visit us, whose boastfulness disappropriates panegyric Homer, with plausible lightning from all borders if it is that a Sycomo to makes your initial on its bark, granting a new star to Greece where you can observe that it bears fruit from where you cannot taste it, but you are going to affirm yourselves well from the trunk where you can write values that are similar by virtue of the Kashmar that points to the Aegean Sea.

An immortal never claims a sycamore, rather he claims it with probity that resembles the wealth of a story written by locals who know well that they are spring harvests. No one will be able to hold more praise than Drestnia, and I to receive you in our land clear of enemies and that they sit at our table for the mere fact of avenging challenges that speak of saving and retreating, of counterattacking with perseverance carrying in your hand what breaks the Light and becomes subject to you "The Xiphos Sword". At the end of the voices they are filled with hope and fortune of your sword that could stop time, and bring you made of meat in the herd of Mosul as a weak mischievous, for this reason, it is equivalent to our parents that they will enjoy our vows, such cenotaphs for the weak who have to live protected by vigorous walls that have to engrave in their narrow, empty, and perplexed urns Freedom from other unfortunates who did not enjoy it, who did not cower from dying on earth that does not recognize martyrs who are still destined to live glorious declining. How foolish it seems to you when the mouthful of bodies from the battlefield rise with the same to everyone's heaven, and from evils that become benevolent from so much miracle to live next to them, fearful right there before the city bailiff who does not dare to dare to bury you in their domains, to see you resurrected in the domains or district of the fearful ruler. Now take your halo, take it with your five senses, and make of it courageous thirds where your seal is declaring that no one will erase or forget it "
Oblatum - Magnus Volumine

John is defined in the Gospel of him as the disciple whom Jesus loved (cf. Jn 13:23). Thanks to the special signs of predilection that Jesus showed him at very significant moments in his life, John was closely linked to the History of Salvation. The first sign that showed him the great affection of Jesus was that he was called to be his disciple along with Andrew, Peter's brother, through John the Baptist who baptized in the Jordan River and of whom they were already disciples.. In fact, as Jesus passed by, the Baptist introduced him to him as "the Lamb of God" and they immediately followed him. John was so impressed by his personal encounter with Jesus that he never forgot that it was around four in the afternoon that Jesus invited them to follow him (cf. Jn 1:35-41). The second sign of predilection was having been a direct witness of some events in the life of Jesus, which he later reworked in the fourth gospel, in a theological way very different from the synoptic gospels (cf. Jn 21:24). And the third moment in which Jesus himself made him feel his friendship and his very particular brotherhood was when Jesus, about to give up his spirit (cf. Jn 19:30), wanted to associate it in a privileged way with the mystery of the Incarnation, expressly confiding it to his mother: "here is your son"; and expressly instructing his mother: "here is your mother." (cf. Jn 19:26-27).

The sources from which the data on John's life as an apostle, as an evangelist and as "adopted son" of Mary have been extracted do not always coincide. Some sources are more convergent and others are more dubious or apocryphal. From the gospels we know that together with his brother James - who will also be an apostle - the two were fishermen originally from Galilee, from an area of Lake Tiberias, and that together they were nicknamed "the sons of thunder" (cf. Mark 3:17). ). His father was Zebedee and his mother Salome. We find John in the narrow circle of the apostles who accompanied Jesus when he performed some of the most important "signs" (cf. Jn 2:11) of his progressive revelation as a type of Messiah very different from the one that the people of Israel was expected (Lk 9, 54-55). In fact, when Jesus resurrected Jairus' daughter (cf. Lk 8:51), when he was transfigured on Mount Tabor (cf. Lk 9:28), and during the agony in Gethsemane (cf. Mk 14:33), Jesus tried to make them understand that they had to transform their mentality linked to hope into a violent Messiah, similar to Elijah because, on the other hand, he was the beloved Son of the Father (cf. Lk 9:35), he was the Messiah come from the heaven to communicate divine life in abundance (cf. Jn 10:10), and that he was also going to suffer rejection and injustice from the religious leaders of his people (cf. Mt 16:21). In the Gospel of John, Jesus appears as the Teacher who also tries, in vain, to make the Jews understand the paradoxical logic of the Kingdom of God (cf. Jn 8, 13-59). His disciples, on his behalf, are invited to be born again (cf. Jn 3:1-21) to worship the Father in Spirit and Truth (cf. Jn 4:23-24); Jesus prays for them so that they remain united by divine Love (cf. Jn 17:21) and that they are fed by the Bread of Life (cf. Jn 6:35).

During the Last Supper, John had leaned on Jesus' chest and asked him: Lord, who is the one who is going to betray you? (cf. Jn 21:20). John was the only one of the apostles who accompanied Jesus to the foot of the Cross with Mary (cf. Jn 19, 26-27). John was the first to believe the announcement of the resurrection of Jesus made by Mary Magdalene (cf. Mt 28, 8): he ran quickly to the empty tomb and let Peter enter first to respect his precedence (cf. Jn 20, 1-8). Tradition adds that some years later he moved with Mary to Ephesus, from where he evangelized Asia Minor. It also appears that he suffered persecution from Domitian and that he was banished to the island of Patmos. Finally, thanks to the advent of Nerva as emperor, he (96-98) returned to Ephesus to finish his days there as an ultracentenarian, around the year 104.

The Gospel attributed to John was named after Origen. It has also been called the "Spiritual Gospel" or "Gospel of the Logos." His style and literary genre are full of "signs", symbols and figures that should not be interpreted literally. In the prologue of his gospel, John uses refined theological language to show how at the beginning of the New creation, in the New beginning the divine "Logos" already pre-existed; logos meaning the eternal creative Word of the Father, which was later translated into Latin as "Verbum". In the prologue of the fourth gospel Jesus is presented as the "Divine Word", the "Light of life" and "the pre-existing Wisdom of God" (cf. Jn 1:1-18). This gospel invites us to accept, through a faith full of amazement and gratitude, the surprising revelation that the Word of God, which no one had seen, became flesh and has made his home among his people. (cf. Jn 1:14). For this reason, the word "believe" is repeated almost 100 times, because God wants all men to be saved (cf. 1Tim 2:4) and to have abundant life through faith in Jesus Christ, God made flesh (cf. Jn 11, 25).

The Gospel of John also presents us in two very emblematic episodes the identity of Mary and the special relationship of John as her "adopted son" to her: at the wedding at Cana and at Calvary. In the narration of the sign of the water transformed into the new Wine during the wedding at Cana, Mary is shown to us as the powerful intercessor who anticipates the hour of Jesus' revelation to his People (cf. Jn 2:1- 12). On Calvary, at the moment of the glorification of Christ, Mary is presented as the Woman who is transformed into the New Eve or Mother of the disciples of her Son (cf. Jn 19:25-27). If we consider the close filial relationship between John and Mary, it is not difficult to imagine that the revelation of the figure of the Messiah in the Gospel of John has also been nourished by the direct testimony of Mary, since she, better than anyone else, in her last years of loneliness, he collected in his heart and in his memories the "signs", the "signs" and the words of life of Jesus. It is therefore conceivable that the unique experiences that she preserved in her memory, she later shared with the disciples of Jesus, and in particular with John. Therefore, it can be considered that Mary herself also progressively welcomed and interpreted in faith the revelation that the Son of her womb was at the same time the eternal Son of the Father, (cf. Jn 10:30), the only Bread. of life (cf. Jn 6:34), the Light of the world (cf. Jn 8:12), the Door (cf. Jn 10:7), the Good Shepherd (cf. Jn 10:11), the Resurrection and life (cf. Jn 11:24), the true Vine (cf. Jn 15:1) and the Way, the Truth and the Life (cf. Jn 14:6).

The three "letters" are attributed to the tradition of the disciples of John, which also have the flavor of brief homilies. The Apocalypse is a canonical book, recognized as inspired, that was born in the environments of the churches of the Johannine tradition that suffered the attacks of Gnostic doctrines. This, which is the last book of the Bible, uses a literary genre similar to that of some prophetic books of the Old Testament, such as the book of Daniel (cf. Dan 7), Ezekiel or Zechariah. The word apocalypse is the transcription of a Greek term that means revelation and not destruction, as is sometimes thought. John addresses seven letters to the seven churches (cf. Rev 1-3) to transmit to us, through very fascinating characters and symbols, a very concrete message of hope in which the slain Lamb (cf. Rev 5:12), i.e., Christ the Savior will triumph over all persecutions and oppositions of the forces of evil to the Kingdom of God and will make all things new. This will happen when God will establish his Kingdom of justice, love and peace at the end of time. In this book it is shown, with numerous and suggestive symbols, such as the seven seals (cf. Rev 6-8, 1), the seven trumpets (cf. Rev 8, 6-11, 19), the seven angels with the seven bowls (cf. Rev 15, 5-16, 21), the tiring path and the struggle that believers of all times have to face so that one day the building of the New Jerusalem will be carried out (cf. Rev 21-22), today we would say the Civilization of Love, brotherhood and care for life, when Jesus, the Alpha and Omega (cf. Rev 22:13), returns at the end of time. In this sense, the Apocalypse is also a prophetic book that interprets God's action in history, ensuring that the faithful and truthful Witness (cf. Rev 3:14) will return soon (cf. Rev 22:20) and will definitively conquer. to evil, pain, and death (cf. Rev 22:1-5).


Dedicavit

This manuscript is dedicated to Sauter Bernardino Edmundo Carreño Troncoso “ Primum Coniugem Alexandri Magnis ” of the first of the Gamelion of Dionysius of Leneo, to his Adelphos of Etrestles of Kalavrita, to Alexander III of Macedonia, known as Alexander the Great (July 21, 356 BC - June 10 or 11, 323 BC), Leonidas of Epirus, Lysimachus of Acarnania, Aristotle, Bucephalus, of the sixth of Hecatombeon, the month in which the Macedonians called him with the paelative Loios, the same day as the temple of Diana in Ephesus was burned; As Hegesias of Magnesia makes occasion for a presumption, Cassander, Ptolemy, and Hephaestion would become his lifelong companions and generals in his army. Callisthenes, another friend, was Aristotle's nephew. Dedicated to the dignity of Raeder of Kalymnos; son of Etrestles of Kalavrita, especially to Saint John the Apostle, distinguished relatives of the Transverse Valleys of Horcodndising and Sudpichi. Finally to my parents Luccaca and Bernardolipo Monarchs of Horcondising. And all the characters who will live eternally in this colossal Magnus Volumine. “Gratias Ago Tibi Propter Heroismum Tuum Vernarth, Et Doce Nos Viam Messiae” Thank you for your heroism Vernarth, and teaching us the way of the Messiah!

“I must tell you of my great admiration for my steed Alikantus, with which I will come to visit you soon, also to Kanti who have been a great precursor to take you to Athens, Thessaly, Delphi and Lefkandi. You can see that Bucephalus has joined our fight; where the “Sons of Iaveh, have eyes like a flame of fire or Aish, and feet like to go burnishing the chaff of bronze towards Patmos”, which will instigate you for the contrition of Thyatira, under the trick of my Rabbi Saint John the Apostle”


Thyatira

City rebuilt at the beginning of the 3rd century BC. E.C. by Seleucus Nicátor, one of Alexander the Great's generals. It was located about 60 km from the Aegean coast, on the banks of a tributary of the Gediz (ancient Hermos River), in the western Asia Minor. The Christian congregation of Thyatira received a message written by the apostle John as revealed to them by the Lord Jesus Christ. (Revelation 1:11) “which said: I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last. Write in a book what you see, and send it to the seven churches that are in Asia: to Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia and Laodicea.

In this regard, the Lord declared in a reproving tone: “You tolerate that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess, and she teaches and leads my slaves astray to commit fornication and eat things sacrificed to idols.” This “woman” was probably named Jezebel because of her wicked behavior similar to that of Ahab's wife and her stubborn refusal to repent. However, it appears that only a minority of the members of the Thyatira congregation approved of this Jezebel influence, as the message continues to address “the rest of you who are in Thyatira, to all who do not have this teaching, to the very same ones who did not come to know the 'deep things of Satan'." (Revelation 2:18-29).

“ Children of Iaveh, you have “Eyes like a flame of fire or Aish, and feet like burnishing the chaff of bronze” toward Patmos that has freed me from your Xorki, how to say and what not to say to you; that my voice has stammered, making me feel that once I flee, I must adhere to the Eternal fire of the Mayim, children of Iaveh, the Mayim of Hydor and saint of water, the Windmill and its sad Myloi, fall on my face ”


Magnus Volumine I    


The Vernarth's intensification of this prosopography as Prosopography Magistri Militum Strategos Typology; he has used the raffle of a History it was not known but it is Vernarth now introduces in Historiography as an auxiliary. The methodological fragment could be torn apart from its screens of a mind enslaved to having to worship a cycle that condemns it to surrender to its loved ones leaving it at the same time to be sectored from a condemnation, to prostrate itself to an Eternal Life its images nor Masterful Words that would have to distinguish the parasciences from subdividing their corporality into thousands of Othónes or Screens, in order to be able to sustain themselves from others that do not compose the knowledge of what is not History; but rather that what happens typical of prosopography allows to obtain visibility regarding the different sectors of society, and the possibilities of their members to access positions of a present that never leaves the power of the Space of a Strategoi, as Time-Space at levels of superior Intelligence subject to mandates of divine Power that oscillates in a mental power of the Militum that coexists with the Community of the Strategos, creating the entire Quantum Band of the antiquity as an omnipresent being par excellence. When its ****** envelope is reflected in its Purgation, it will trigger a presence that governs itself and leads in the trend of a "Duoverse that will only be built in its Unique unity"... given the trend of all crowds that bustle beyond the mass of their Villas or Cities that they inhabit, creating sensations and an unreal genetic world even that amalgamates a large number of generations that only increases its demography based on the autarkic mandate of a history that goes back for not knowing what to imagine of the past and of a future without present that is sustained in a Spiritual Intelligence.

The sociological mutations will be circular, and the retrograde since the collective of images will exceed everything that is sustained on a material floor and therefore it denies that what develops in an empty heart will be a specialized material of a periodicity, that does not spare New Universes that a pillar or support be added that tends to calligraphy better where imagery could prevail all the limits of common language. The grammar of ancient Greece will defend periods that are neither static nor finite, leaving free space for words that are engulfed by vast seas of stagnant bibliographical records never known never written nor destined for a secular record. The Submythology Potential is provided by the entire Belt that surrounds from South America to the Mediterranean as an infinite cord of Eternity to re-hold itself in a matriarchy in the societies of the past to recognize, that femininity is the real genesis of research from where a frequent human origin proceeds, so this it is the transcended in the Universality that transcends in the investigation of the sphere of Unknown History; pretending its ligament of prosopography, and the vivifying instance of Submythology as a unifying entity to summarize the condition of Strategos/Magister Militum we have taken into consideration the situation of our utter information in this existing prosopography works. Parapsychology is subject to a dimension closely linked to non-reflection to even the Primordial Quantum to governs, and governs everything just as this Magnus Volumeni I tries to express the independence of all literary expression if it is about Vernarth, rather it is a documentary space.

Afterward six years of knowing and introducing myself to the area of   Technology, and the Science in the Tourism industry, I made my presentation at Macromedia University, Berlin-Germany. Through this university management I had the option of presenting my concept and avant-garde projects, which condescended me to get to know the E-Tourism Perspectives area of the University of Svizzera Italian-Ticino. This allowed me to meet and join an independent study challenge with the slogan of deriving a full range of analysis, and dedicated study Heritage Sites of UNESCO. All thanks to the agreement that consecrated me at the Pantheon-Sorbonne Université, specifically Maria Gravari-Barbas, Directore de la Chaire UNESCO, Culture, Tourisme / Lorenzo Cantoni, professor at USI Universitá della Svizzera Italiana.

The university has had here in South America, in Chile an intrepid collaborator who has tried to interpret the postulates of the Sciences of Humanity exposing the nature of preserving, and keep investigating everything in the lost history of Europe, which has great significance for Culture that has branched out through the Tourism Technology, and its Digital transformation for this purpose of understanding public life in dissimilar fields that are still hidden in intangible archives, which deduce important material of study in areas of Science, Philosophy, History, Politics, Geography, Jurisprudence that would add to the world of the conservation of the ancestral peoples with all its courageous identity of the Prosopography, and the archaeological demography.

The United Nations Educational, Scientific & Cultural Organization, known for short, as UNESCO is a specialized agency of the United Nations. It was founded on November 16, 1945 with the aim of contributing to peace and security in the world through education, science, culture and communications. The constitution signed that day entered into force on November 4, 1946 ratified by twenty countries. In 1958 its main headquarters were inaugurated, in the VII district of Paris. Its general director is Audrey Azoulay the specialization and search for Culture, Education and Science is a way of contributing to humanity, peacefully granting security through the entire International community for this reason we believe that this work fulfills that prerogative narrowing organically, as been always it is here with the multidimensional epic narrative that is broken down with the prose, and parapsychology other than is a field closely linked to the intrinsic link of all the treasure that has been transmitted for thousands of years, leaving before our expectation what its ruins and works have wanted to demonstrate with their laudable dedication foundations, and expansion of multiple Sites in their musings that have traveled the history of diction of the science of culture, information, communication to create knowledge that this still remains with our reality of society that has the pattern of explosive generation of the current one. One of Vernarth's is the most important premises to create the roots of systematic knowledge, that is to say to provide platforms for their family trees, prosopography and the art of writing Submythological Prose whose the objective tends to occupy the expanded universal literature that has advanced for thousands of years on the other hand, Submythology is free of format cancels many aspects of the temporary format, and creates a relationship link between the academic and the secular attracting infinities of Cultures, historical landmarks, hybridity of languages, and above all merging and re-transforming existences of the post-Classical period; where the source and personal question does not daunt the distances of the inheritable that distanced us by geological-Historical periods, rather it makes the viability of an unexplored field up to now as Vernarth is the granting a hierarchical international value that will retransmit knowledge and skills.

In this way, agglutinating ourselves in those interstices that are not visible, qualifyable or quantifiable, only have to materialize when patrimonial beings are chosen by others who are already hereditary of an industrious will it occupies the supports of a platform of earthly inheritance, and later disseminate it throughout different sectors of the field of knowledge and the research, connoting that there are many variables that could help us interpret the foundations of the UNESCO heritage, today are far removed from communities that want to invest time in inquiring more deeply about them. For this reason, Central and Eastern Europe is at the forefront of generating multi-channels that can ensure the treatment of technological routes or flourishing that want to be found again, such as the Qhapac Ñan, or perhaps the Jacobean Route, perhaps the Route from Patmos to Judah pointing to Vernarth by demonstrating that hindsight could be perfective when visualizing facts that were not witnessed or written as they should be, VG the return to Galilee of Saint John the Apostle in the Hegira to Judah, relegated to Greece by Emperor Domitian. The amendment of such a well-deserved return confirms the wait for an immortal being in the Eclectic Portal for three months, who will mean the ordinary that rises up from the phenomenal investing in roles that many times, as indicated by the dogma of the baptistery indicating that we can be saints and apostles to preserve the patrimonies to educate and retransmit values to follow.

Vernarth Trilogy II at its end, is reiterated in deliberating that this work never ends because each chapter of Paraps, inaugurates a new infinite regressive dimension as it is in the case of Poielipsis; as it is a liquefaction of the parameter of Poiere, and the inverted Apocalypse to make changes after personalities that manage to impact the successive episodes of alteration of Life periods, as in this case Vernarth when he was legitimized to assist Gaugamela by the god Spílaiaus to make the support to Alexander the Great not only for winning the battles but for saving and winning the souls of the fallen Hoplites, generating in them an idyllic prose that promotes and sublimates the possession of the principles of an Apocalypse, that suggests protecting those who should believe without pain of what will await them later for an indefinite death. The Souls of Trouvere will stand out with the bulwark of enthronement of the state of energy that would mobilize Charles the Great by taking him to the platform of conquest of Europe crowned as emperor by Pope Leo III taking the lessons strongly rooted, and letters that would subscribe the cheers where nothing dies in the center of its own fear, because that is where the edge of a sword loses its value that it cannot use the other as an arbitrary neologism of only reigning without the sacrifice that every regime bets on, including the crown when Charlemagne assumed his great legacy at twenty years after expiring later at seventy-two. This is where fears die, not being able to hope or convalesce in concepts of Energeia that vitally moved from the similar aspect to Alexander the Great in the same even numeral but thirty-two, and letters that would be signed by cheers where nothing dies in the center of its own fear because that is where the edge of a sword loses its value that it cannot use the other as an arbitrary neologism of only reigning without the sacrifice that every regime bets on, even the crown when Charlemagne assumed his great legacy at twenty after later expiring at seventy-two.

In another topic, Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run at her bare feet for those who banish with their needs on the parental scale of their range, succeeded by Energeia's need for the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, here insulting also the principle of quantum science with the spin of subatomic particles, alembicated in the timeless particles that could leave out of the nucleus the proportion of rotation of time that could be found, and rooting of memories in rectilinear lines of the imperturbable Hellenic mental axis. One could also amend here all the licentious action of Seleucus by Stratonice when she splits the gross threshold of her son Antiochus, and Antigonus I Monophthalmos referring to the father Stratonice of Macedonia for never marrying her to Seleucus. All this generates the Epistle addressed to Vernarth to solve the strident and impalpable of the warlike Diadocos that greatly affected the female descendants, confining them to their domestic avatars in disloyal empires, where these vilifications devastate the imperial partiality through the centuries of an oppressive strength, and disagreement in their moral wrongs. From this quality the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere that remains in the present, always allying themselves in saviors of oppressed and abandoned peoples who strive in the neologism of the Epsilon or Vernarth's fifth dimension, and not restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the entity towards a mono-meaning in this causal of such an alpha that says the paradoxical demonstrating diversity of optics. Prior to this diatribe, Vernarth decides his naturalness that he decides to promote the Souls that are part of both topics to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that are apprehended in the light of genius that coexists with both. What he judged us in the unfolding of his entity and will deliver it by divine intelligence so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming the presence of Stratonice on the (substitute scale of Vernarth's relativistic emotions). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of tendencies in ex-sheets that could be attributed to dimensions of the period of Trouvere's souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments.

The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to adorn the Voielípsis as an analogous addition of quantum causality and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas heading towards the mainstay in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics to put effects of the incredulous versatility on themselves, in sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of Saint John Apostle more than sub-earthly concomitance under the same axial of geological sustaining coordinate. Namely; they will live together while the temple is established except three hundred, and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of Prophytis Ilías.

The upholstery of the Pithya Herophile attacks the subtending of the flying buttress that was supported by the cavities of the volcanic rocks of Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls due to the disoriented cognitive dissonance that was generating paradigms, which tracked the stones that formulated Aquarian sounds in their dominant tonality due to the minuscule machine of light, more distant in the incommensurability that evaded its eclipsed in the resplendent major note that became monarchical due to the hypotenuse of the rectangle in three subdominant angles. This means that the Sybille was in the high point of observing her premonitions towards the creation that was born from another end to end in the recycling of creation in the dim light of clarity of the destinations that were going to present themselves as a song of remembrance of the Poielipsis, venturing the new restart or attempt of the Delphic oracular. The songs remain in the spell, and in the banal desires that would harm a mortal that will expand to the hypotenuse or line of the sentence that marked a step impelling in the misgivings and forgiveness of the banner of risk. Santiago of Compostela was going to Stratonice with his inclinations, like a geometric racconto subduing the fears that slip through the veil of the dogma of the arch where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetating or freeing oneself from what revives in fears that do not shed light on eternal life, perhaps of a the Matematikoi himself who doubts an Ad finitas basis, and who finds out without the limits leading Pythagoras to the ground handcuffed from Crotona, always ignorant of the linguistic power that urges to rewind the spheres that still weave crossed angles placing themselves in trial, and error when considering a non-renewable past the soul of the Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception in the halters of livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated to the hypogeum where the level was to stir the embankment that will merge with Zefian's Arrows.

A diminutive atonal music possible existed in the molecules, and in trigonometric periods in which the measures were united in time as a stationary whole vivifying a great variety of fractional numbers as souls of the same numeral that finally appear to be Pythagorean digits. Vernarth's military of Phalanxes in this epic made the crucial oblique moment to break Dario's troops like a dozen Elegy that was going to re-flower what he knew of his already sub-treated destinations, other than will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive in their morbidity, and the dissociated causal of immortality that will distance itself from the prohibited abstinences in libertarian exercises of any counting that ponders on the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae on the couch of joy, and serving his doctrine that saves himself that will save us in the Messiah for those who in their souls do not have the sacrifice of a lamb that feeds, nor a base that goes ahead in the centuries grazing what no one was capable of. In the second triad of Apollo the oracle of Apollo with the Souls that reveal Charles the Great to be his favorite for the protectorate of Compostela, and his spiritual regency the invitation to Charlemagne breaks out from Aachen after 33 consecutive years in the sword dispute stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne put himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence in the second concave wasteland, and the straight ascending of the Trouvere Souls crowning Charlemagne emperor of Rome and Francos chosen by Leo III, predicted by the Apostle Santiago in defensive pontifical struggles, and defenders of Christianity. In this paradigm there is a deceased seep through of an elusive world that was joining from here in the vein of Poielípsis for the sake of some eras that came from the mutes, and anonymity that augured to link them to know within their endless intrinsically organic movement, also as a diligent active cosmos of the discovery of the Jacobean route longing to be a better region than the Dodecanese merged by the twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago, brother of Saint John the Apostle, ennobled in the 778 AD tying it to Hispania. In ****** and constant fighting, Charlemagne besieged the Saxons, he entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees as an anticipation of the aforementioned the Jacobean Route, everything worsened in this way witnessing the subjugated places in the jurisdictions of the Trouvers who were Pythagoric elite of soldiers who they had be bilocated in this Christian Era, preceded by this perfidious Basque in the woods subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to pursue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. Everyone was escaping from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront in the dynamics that will reveal the Songs of the French Deed.

This previous paragraph exhibits the eloquence of how the interlining that Vernarth had to create a Brotherhood Code called "Raedus Codex" for the high nomination polished in the Infant Raeder as a twitch of the sacrifice of his young soul, who fought battles in pursuit of defenses pure and free with the freshly grown grass of the spring of the world in Genesis. The Souls in Trilogy III will be the compendium of the Codices that will enter the Wind Tunnel what will be governed by the warm Meltemi wind, and swirled by the winds of Eolonymy, ascending all those who should be admitted and not purging those in between who they enjoyed a pre-Christian heritage citing Pythagorean antiquity behind those who must have dressed it up as a Codex Calixtinus. From this arrangement Charlemagne will drive souls with antiphons, the Apostle Santiago will come lacerated to meet his brother Saint John the Apostle, his barge will be abandoned in the Strait of Gibraltar and then arrive at Santiago of Compostela from here he will make tributes of name to ascend to Patmos. Just as the end of Vernarth's Trilogy II is faithfully transcribed, also Stratonice, the Hexagonal Primogeniture, Alexander the Great, King David Elias, Malachi, Isaiah and all the acquirer flashed in Raeder and his Pelican Petrobus, as self-sustaining defenders of the Infantile Fantasies that they continued in this complex work after a finding that fed them up in Vernarth as well as everything related to their release and investiture to say that all roads lead to Patmos, as Locus Sanctus of all the shepherds who heal their sheep that do not belong to others that are populated with white souls, for the good of other shells 308 meters below the Prophytis Ilias with the consent of Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia where the pass of the centuries they would tell them about the Jacobean Route instructed in confrontations, and concordances with the airons of the Trouvere protected by a rectangle of three Pythagorean subdominant angles in dissipated darkness of the golden astrological ambiguity of Theoskepasti of the meridian of the Kimolos. He will go away saying explicitly that the darkness became visible mists where there was nothing to hide from Psathi Roadstead in Kimolos, until reaching the Agia or the Chapel of Theoskepasti that would become visible for the phenomenon of Faith, alluding to a portentous desire that everything was tied to the same sense of compression of which the image or sound of the creation at times to became invisible but precisely understandable, as it was when imagining palpable the reality of what allows the human eye to feel for an instant that everything is real imperceptible, more present of all what can be detected by superior senses more than humans, giving way next to the Raedus Codex more present of all what can be detected by superior senses more than humans.

From Ios or Nios, bordering on Psathi, the Trilogy is unleashed when the association of all the spaced Cyclades of Vernarth will come to every equinox to shine the careful nap of the villagers of the Cyclades, close to the torpor of Thira. It will raise each Hoplite that from the point of Nios drags them with its abandoned body that could never receive the roads that led to Chora in infinitesimal distances and in white spots of all the Cycladic ghosts, who try to exalt themselves and assimilate to the villagers of Psathi.

According to Plutarch, the name Ios or Nios is believed to derive from the ancient Greek word for the violets "Ία" (Ia) because they were commonly found on the island, and is the most accepted etymology. It is also postulated that the name is derived from the Phoenician word iion, which means, "pile of stones". It was called "Φοινίκη" (Phiniki) named after the Phoenicians in the 3rd century when the island joined the League of Islanders it was probably temporarily called Arsinoe after the wife of Ptolemy II. Today the inhabitants of the Cycladic Islands call Nio Island a name derived from the Byzantine era. The name Little Malta, found in traveler's texts during Ottoman rule, is related to the permanent presence of pirates on the island of Latin-script languages.
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PK Wakefield Dec 2014
to live which what life beyond being

   (is there some I

stagger up with moonlight
the cool instant breath
of standing hot between
nothing and nothing                            )



vast and vast and vast



that enormous when of feeling the wind
around drunk drinking of the texture of a breath:

collapsing the condescended body of the moon stars laughter just inside the house outside which dreams the world of rain darkness and the impossible languor of health–


the need

the urge

the rush

to quietly pursue books of open girlness;

pages terribly comfortable to grasp and fill within letters of self.







how which we desire what to be perfectly exact of easy being:

the frond which stands strong without tending of hand–

the garden filled with the immense flower of youth.




And never to die,
never to grow old
or weak inside.



(what an impossible thing it is to know; to love; to live                    )

what an impossible thing it is to laugh
Kideía Tou Vernarth, The sky was lost in colors; everything was snowy white, shimmering with white clouds that were arranged on top of other pearly ones, which tend to break from above the stupor brought by the Cherubim and Seraphim to receive Vernarth and Alikantus. Arriving at the highest plain, Vernarth spotted the Mashiach who was guarding him, he was wearing a white garment, and on his neck was an ornament that the Hoplite Soldiers of Arbela had given them. When Vernarth dismounted he saw on his Lynothorax a Hoplomachus, which was the same medallion worn by warriors to face the divine death in combat, given by a Thraex, who always accompanied him with the Kantabroi with the sulfur mists after the battles, oxidized wore a manica in the arm that seemed to signal with the tip of the finger the XIX chapter of the Apocalypse of San Juan Apóstol, in both legs an ocrea labeling the chorus of hexameters that chanted the Sybils to revive them. And on his head that turned three hundred and sixty degrees, he carried the Leonatus with another Elbmo under his arms with eyepieces with grid and crest, on his right leg, a Xiphos hung like the telamo that he took from both angles of his legs to approximate to carrying his steed pulled by his hands.

His belly heaved with anxiety, in his hands came to the folder that Drestnia and Etrestles had written that he had condescended to from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, saying:

"All the cities of the world will be called Athens... because from there you will reach Patmos where you are in all places." Everything is ancient because soon it gets dark, and the funeral speech is the first death that you saw when you were an infant..., all the people who are with your majesty yearn for civil that you implicate in the legacy of the deep Christmas in Patmos, with mantles, wines, rolls and thick Corinthian wines in his credible creation Patmiana leaving them in the corridor that reaches the end, where the alabaster replaces the burning manger..., as a tale of two stories and struggle, which are exalted narrating the wars after which their dominated lands are suspended in the waters of the Aegean, and tinged with the apparent unrealized pact.

The whole world will be called Patmos, where nothing and no one will defeat you without first a dirge when the gargoyles of your veins sob, when their capitulation is filled with culture that swirls between the white tablecloths of Kissamos and Kímolos, this is where the Sarissas They will parade through the pantheon like thousands of solitary spears towards the perpetuity of the heritage that doubles the clouds pregnant with liquid bronze, to be scattered throughout Athens like stoles of marble chaff that the Meltemi carries with the prudence of ennobling the first shocks of the storms that predict your departure. Nothing of minimalism or arbitrariness that cannot be resolved in loopholes that are hidden among the requirements, in which all the threats have been admonished from the fallen canopy on your integrity, on the Cherub that fights with his empty hands like a beautiful fallen angel at the dawn of Miletus, already being a state governed by the Hoplomachus with his dyed sword, where you can see what and you can be more than a convention of gladiators, such as this and in fact disposed towards the courage of what the courage produces with the infamy of seeing you pray alone in its black stretch. In everything you were left alone, favorable only to the disagreement of what you should be or do because you will not be able to return, you are already a legionnaire who carries the world on his back struck down with his Kantabroi Corinth. Why did you sully yourselves with your weathered hands, why somehow the Nikephoros bring victories that are slow to come and soon gone? Thirsty for victories they bring vessels and flows incapable of satisfying you in the immensity of their anguish, and everything is done just when what fits in my thinking fills my belly, and what saturates the belly is tied to the Rudder of your precocious olive trees, from so much that the atabal sounds, it turns it into empires of stones that do not coin the subsidiary complaints of their war, if you dare of hostiles that bring food for dinner and of everything that pours the tediousness of piling up leftovers where nothing is enormous anymore What a grievance to sigh. Vernarth, the world of Messolonghi and its eternity comes to give you the admission of a Commander!, who deals with greatness and simplicity, as you can understand from sixty-four springs that have closed the eyes of Pericles just like yours, where the laws will have to indemnify and fill vessels that remain empty for this toast "Stin iyia sas o Khaire" from Elpenor to your house and health from a Nikephoros prayer book or conquest to win over everything, ... but continue drunk alive and reborn in other taps condescending of mythological swings, where the laws revive the second or third vigils of treats that lead into the orbit of a Hoplite.

I see you comfortable in the klimós that take you to the Empyrium, where the scattered saliva mixed with wine is confused with models of taking you to your new home? Do it again. In the eighth Cemetery of Messolonghi a great revolt has been made, she prescribes to pay you honors with Markos Botsaris at the head of which all the gold spilled on the table will be made with bows and arrows, shields, and spears to take them to Patmos and Athens, for fluvial sounds that sound like the Hékein or formality of lavishing to do or utter, so that everything is in favor of desolate places that will not be felt throughout Greece when they understand that you carry all the laments of the Warriors who hide behind the moor so as not to see them sob, still feeling the drums of the compass of a victory where wine runs that is written in the stands of Epidaurus, signing the chaste peace with its Medical Wars. It seems good to you that the ghosts speak of democracies, and that they also govern them with the spill of the satisfaction of public ovation that only does it with two or three flags, Oh Brother, I dress in foreign attire that enlivens your lightness from head to toe, I want to see you revived on the plains without stopping riding with Alikantus, free from all stratagem and fantastic scents of lavender, and summer-roasted grasses from the hall of the Athens oven. Do not be afraid, we have distances that are difficult to overcome, it will be the expulsion of our hearts if we allow ourselves to be overtaken by the watering of their rudeness that always complains of open will, do not be afraid, Pericles trusts your departure just like you at sixty-four, of such a Syntagma double 32 who appreciates you right and left in our companies, with courage obsequiously in becoming where the wind rises in Abdera.

We can dare to say that we are a group of seven, in the association of 25 men from the Syntagma who will accompany us, divided... but not divided! That it is nothing more than death as a double life that is put in front of you, that shows its opposite face of the Syntagma where victory and defeat offer omens of revival in both battles, not all of us are saved by our annihilation, nor by its quality of picking ourselves up even among the vanquished of invisible conflagrations or just because of the excessive feeling that is not imbued with beauty in what ends or begins, we know that you will come in Solstices and Equinoxes free from its austere plagues, and reborn from Aspasia or social life of gatherings that draw your eyes from seeing so much beauty light up in the theater that never ends, for this we know that we will measure what fits in your bladder, and the wine that we are ashamed to recognize in order to satisfy you, Oh Brother, receive from a whole nation and from the buried of Messolonghi how happy they will see you to come to visit us, whose boasting Homer eulogy disowns, with plausible lightning strikes from all frontiers if a Sycamore makes your initial on its bark, granting a new star to Greece where you will be able to observe that it bears fruit from where you will not be able to taste it, otherwise you will be able to affirm yourselves well from the trunk where you will be able to write values that resemble it by virtue of the Kashmar that points to the Aegean Sea .

An immortal never affirms him about a sycamore, rather he affirms himself with probity that resembles the richness of a story written by locals who know well that they are spring harvests. No one can have more praise than Drestnia, and I to receive you in our land cleared of enemies and sit at our table for the sole fact of avenging challenges that speak of saving and falling back, of counterattacking with perseverance carrying in your hand what breaks the Light and becomes your subject "The Sword Xiphos". In the end, the voices are filled with hope and fortune of your sword that could stop time, and bring you made of meat in the herd of Mosul as a weak naughty, for this equivalent with our parents who enjoyed our votes, such cenotaphs and that The weak have to live protected by strong walls that have to record in their narrow urns, empty and perplexed by Freedom from other unfortunates who will not enjoy it, who will not be afraid to die in the land that does not recognize martyrs who are still destined to live gloriously declining. How foolish it seems to you when the mouthful of bodies from the battlefield rise with it to the sky of all, and of evils that are made benevolent by so many miracles to live next to them, fearful right there before the city bailiff who does not dare to dare to bury you in their domains, to see you resurrected in the domains or district of the fearful ruler. Now wear your halo, take it with your five senses, and make of them courageous thirds where your precinct declares that no one will erase or forget it”
Kideía Tou Vernarth
sandra wyllie Jul 2022
at another man’s mercy. Made
broken and little. Whittled as a piece
of wood. Splintered, as
my childhood.

I won’t be
condescended from some
man, that’s upended. No crotch
can ever cut me down
a notch.

I won't be
a glittering trophy displayed as
a float in a parade. A silky gold
toupee to cover a man's fat head. I'd
be better off dead!

I won't be
blind again, by the lies
of colorful men. Actors on a stage
till their next rampage.
Aindri Dec 2020
In a still dark night,
As one sits desolate,
With nothing but the comfort of a stream of moonlight
As that one sits almost comfortably,
Comes the sound of the phone
A shrill and rather eerie ringing
I would rather be up there
With a cup of hot chocolate
And no despair
Gradually, I went up to the phone
Picked it up
But instead of a voice I heard a nerve- wracking tone
I dropped the call
I looked out of the window
And remembered that beautiful night in June
I looked in the blurry distance and saw something
And It looked redder than the moon
So, I wore my coat and stepped outside
I opened my phone
And booked a ride.
While I sat on the torn backseat
The driver spoke with his wife
About a colossal furnace, he said it was about 500 feet
He said that sometimes it can consume the world in darkness
Changing people’s innocence
And can domesticate fear in a world of happiness
He was about to ask if the country was treating them fair
But then I interrupted
And told him to take me there
He shook and a reason he sought
But I myself didn’t know
The reason for which with the driver I fought
At last he condescended
And went down a hill
And then again ascended
I thanked him and unleashed myself in front of that place
In the wintry night air
I knew that after this I wouldn’t have any dreams to chase
I stood in front and saw the fire crackling and roaring
Over the woods as the sun dropped
I could see a shadow wavering
It came close and close
And I felt my stomach rip to shreds
Then the whole world went dark and I knew I would never be ready to fight
Right then a gruff voice arose
I could hear but it wasn’t anywhere in sight
It somehow made me realize the things to hold onto
It was as if it grasped me tightly with the air
And whispered, “You aren’t scared of the dark, are you?”

— The End —