When the engine rattled itself to a stop he opened the driver’s door letting the damp afternoon displace the snug of travel. He was home after a long day watching the half hours pass and his students come and go. And now they had gone until next year leaving cards and little gifts.
 
The cats appeared. The pigeons flapped woodenly. A dog barked down the lane. The post van passed.
 
The house from the yard was gaunt and cold in its terracotta red. Only the adjacent cottage with its backdoor, bottles filling the window ledges, and tiled roof, seemed to invite him in. It was not his house, but temporarily his home. He loved to wander into the garden and approach the house from the front, purposefully. He would then take in the disordered flowerbeds and the encroaching apple trees where his cats played tag falling in spectacular fashion through the branches. He liked to stand back from the house and see it entire, its fine chimneys, the 16C brickwork, the grey-shuttered living room, and his bedroom studio from whose window he could stretch out and touch the elderberries.
 
Inside, the storage heaters giving out a provisional warmth, he left the lights be and placed the kettle on the stove, laid out on the scrubbed table a tea ***, milk jug, a china mug, a cake tin, On the wall, above the vast fireplace, hung a painting of the fields beyond the house dusty in a harvest sunset, the stubble crackling under foot, under his sockless sandals, walking, walking as he so often felt compelled to do, criss-crossing the unploughed fields of the chalk escarpment.
 
Now a week before St Lucy’s Day he sat in Tim’s chair and watched the night unmask itself, the twilight owl glimmer past the window, a cat on his knee, a cat on the window ledge, porcelain-still.
 
He let his thoughts steal themselves across the table to an empty chair, imagining her holding a mug in both hands, her long graceful legs crossed under her flowing skirt. When she lay in bed she crossed her legs, lying on her back like the pre-Raphaelite model she had shown him once, Ruskin’s ****** wife, Effie. ‘I was in a pub with some friends and I looked out of the window and there he was, painting the church walls’, she said musingly, ‘I knew I would marry him’. He was older of course; with a warm voice that brought forth a childhood in the 1930s spent at a private schools, a wartime naval career (still in his teens), then Oxford and the Slade. He owned nothing except a bag of necessary clothes, his paints of course and an ever-present portfolio of sketches. Tim lived simply and could (and did) work anywhere. Then there was Alison, then a passion that nearly drowned him before her Quaker family took him to themselves, adoring his quiet grace, his love of music, his ability to cook, to make and mend, to garden like a God.
 
Sitting in her husband’s chair he constantly replayed his first meeting with her. Out in the yard, they had arrived together, it was Palm Sunday and returning from Mass he gave her his palm as a greeting. He loved her smile, her awkwardness, her passion for the violin, and her beautiful children. He felt he had always known her, known her in another life . . . then she had touched his hand as he ascended the kitchen stairs in her London home, and he was lost in guilt.
 
Tonight he would eat mackerel with vicious mustard and a colcannon of vegetables. He would imagine he was Tim alone after a day in his studio, take himself upstairs to his bedroom space where on his drawing board lay this work for solo violin, his Tapisserie, seven studies and Chaconne. For her of course; of the previous summer in Pembrokeshire; of a moment in the early morning sailing gently across Dale sound, the water glass-like and the reflections, the intense mirroring of light on water  . . . so these studies became mirrors too, palindromes in fact.
 
The cats slept on his sagging quilted bed where he knew she had often slept, where he often felt her presence as he woke in the early hours to sit at his desk with tea to drag his music little by little into sense and reason.
 
When Jenny came she slept fitfully, in this bed, in his arms, always worried by her fear of rejection, always hoping he would never let her go, envelope her with love she had never had, leave his music be, be with her totally, rest with her, own her, take her outside into the night and make love to her under the apple trees. She had suggested it once and he had looked at her curiously, as though he couldn’t fathom why bed was not sufficient unto itself, why the gentleness he always felt with her had to become hurt and discomfort.
 
He had acquired a drawing board because Elizabeth Lutyens had one in her studio, a very large one, at which she stood to compose. He liked pushing sketches and manuscript paper around into different configurations. He would write the same passage in different rhythmical values, different transpositions, and compare and contrast. After a few hours his hearing became so acute that he rarely had to go downstairs to check a phrase at the piano.
 
Later, when he was too tired to stand he would go into the cold sitting room, light some candles, wrap himself in a blanket and read. He would make coffee and write to Jenny, telling her the minutiae of the place she loved to come to but didn’t understand. She loved the natural world of this remote corner of Essex. Even in winter he would find her walking the field paths in skirt and t-shirt insensible of the cold, in sandals, even bare feet, oblivious of the mud. He would guide her home and wash her with a gentleness that first would arouse her, then send her to sleep. He knew she was still repairing herself.
 
One evening, after a concert he had conducted, Jenny and Alison found themselves at the same table in the bar. Jenny had grasped his hand, drawing it onto her lap, suddenly knowing that in Alison’s presence he was not hers. And that night, after phoning her sister to say she would not be home, she had pulled herself to him, her mass of chestnut hair flowing across her shoulders and down his chest as she kissed his hands and his arms, those moving appendages she had watched as he had stood in front of this student orchestra playing the score she had played, once, before this passion had taken hold. At those first rehearsals she had blushed deeply whenever he spoke to her, always encouraging, gentle with her, wondering at her gauche but wondrous beauty, her pear-shaped green eyes, her small hands.
 
He threw the cats out into the chill December air. He closed the door, extinguished the lights and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. In bed, in the sheer darkness of this Ember night, the house creaked like an old sailing ship moored in a tide race. For a few moments he lay examining the soundscape, listening for anything new and different. With the nearest occupied house a good mile away there had been scares, heart-thumping moments when at three in the morning a knock at the door and people in the yard shouting. He carried Tim’s shotgun downstairs turning on every light he could find on the way, shouting bravely ‘Who’s there?’. Flinging open the door, there was nothing, no one. A disorientated blackbird sang from the lower garden . . .

He turned his head into the pillow and settled into mind-images of an afternoon in Dr Marling’s house in Booth Bay. In his little bedroom he had listened to the bell buoy clanging too and fro out in the sea mist, the steady swish, swash of the tide turning above the mussled beach.

to me
Niagara is represented
by the seasons

it starts off
as a new year,
fresh snow on the ground,
endless possibilities

you step out of your house,
maybe on Devine Crescent in Thorold,
and that first breath
of crisp winter air
fills your lungs
and freezes you to the bone
and reminds you that you are alive

everything is always
so still
on January 1st

like a clean slate,
an empty canvas

and then movement begins to paint the beginning of a detailed picture

[migrating geese,
the rustle of a tree,
a car alarm going off,
the sun trying to peak through the grey clouds,
a friend shouting your name]

and the moment shatters
and the new year officially begins

maybe it starts off
with breakfast at Lester Dees
and quickly, but silently,
unfurls into a whirlwind
of school and work and birthdays and holidays and movies and dates and a trip to Niagara Falls and a stroll through Niagara-on-the-Lake and a hike through the Escarpment in Grimsby and joy and happiness and sadness and laughter and tears
and moments

spring blossoms
you feel drenched by the April rain
and weighted down from melodramatic February

but you also feel that sense
of hope
that tingling in your toes
that something good is coming

so enjoy a drink
on a patio in Port Dalhousie,
and crank the volume up
a little bit louder
before a concert at Mansion House,
and take in the scenery
as you run along the Welland Canal

because spring is here

as the days get longer
and the sun gets hotter
summer, lazy as a sloth, engulfs Niagara

Crystal Beach is in full swing
and summer becomes home
to barbecues, camping adventures, road trips, hiking at DeCew Falls, late night laughter, reminiscing around a campfire, the reuniting of old friends, dips in ice cold pools and water gun wars

and as slow and nonchalant
as it entered your life
summer slips away,
like the golden sunsets that it harbors

the leaves change to brilliant shades
of red, yellow and orange,
we wrap ourselves in scarves
and hats and mitts

the world quietly changes around us

fall gives us
warm nights by the fireside
and hands locked while walking along the Escarpment, the city stretched out below

while the squirrels scrounge for food,
we, too, scamper around,
wondering where the year has gone

some will exhale,
a sigh of relief
and some will allow
a large, satisfied grin to stretch across their face

and fall is just that,
a time to reflect
on all that has gone right
and all that has gone wrong

what resolutions did we keep,
and what did we let melt away,
with the humid summer heat

Niagara changes every year
but it is consistent in its ability
to mold new life, to stretch itself, to immerse itself in every season, to provide outlets to enjoy life, to be that friend that is always there to fall back on
and to provide those memories that bring a smile to your face
and leave a warm feeling in your heart
Niagara is home.

Sometimes poetry doesn’t happen. One needs more space to work things out, to play around with what you’ve got until you know it well, have felt its worth, weighed it up and reckoned it.

You go somewhere a little known. The location is not a complete surprise, but time and circumstance newly fashion its affect. Is it really eight years since last you were here? Then it was late autumn, now it’s summer’s end.

It’s sad my driving worries you. You drive with me, in a state of constant anticipation, making sure the speed is legal, the line of car to the road is straight. Often, your left hand reaches involuntarily for the door-handle restraint. The more I try to be steady, the worse it seems to become. But today I hand you the keys before you can ask: so that we may start this journey well. Since early morning the sun has shone, and as we head north the clouds assume great floating forms, magisterial, ermine-cloaked.

I like to watch you when you drive. I think it’s the pleasing proportion of your seated self, the body and limbs often motionless in their purposeful position. I look at your profile, the flow of your hair hiding your ears, the cleft and point of your chin, your nose I love to stroke with my nose, the wide mouth whose lips don’t fit my lips when we kiss, and this morning a warm glow on your left cheek.

We have become so careful you and I, with what we say and the way we say it. Politeness, attention to detail, purposeful decision-making, we both make allowances, keeping the conversation airborne, the tone steady, the content ‘of interest’.

After ninety miles it’s good to get out the car, good to get out in a village now bypassed by the main road, a quiet place. A church rises above the village and like a former coaching inn next to its gates faces down a wide street of 18C houses. Scattered variously there are a few unusual shops – wooden toys and metalled stoves. Here we prepare for the next stage of this journeying. On bicycles we’ll take minor roads to the coast.

At the top, after a steep climb out of the village, there it is: the sea. Since childhood that sighting moment has remained special. There’s a lifting of the spirit. The day remains fine, but a cool wind from the land is soon at our backs (you take care not to be cold and wear a scarf around your neck and ears). After just a few miles, we turn gratefully onto a very minor road where cycling becomes a pleasure. Passing vehicles are occasional and we are not continually pressed hard to the kerbside by speeding traffic. We could ride companionably side-by-side, but we don’t.

There is time to look about, to take in the dip and fold of fields and hedges, the punctuating farms and their ribbons of road. A fine manor house rises out of a forest of trees climbing in coniferous ranks to a limestone escarpment. On the breast of a hill we come upon a tapering stone tower that assumes the point from which the rolling landscape’s perspective flows. There’s a combine at the edge of a field and later its grain ‘tender’ heavy-laden meets us on a narrow bend. At a former mill a weir, where the greenest of green shade over water is too vivid not to photograph. Passing a row of cottages an elderly couple, sitting on their front porch, smile at our friendly wave. Above, swallows dart and spin.

A main road interrupts this idyll, and after a long straight ride with the sea a distant backdrop, we arrive at a coastal village overwhelmed by its recumbent castle. Lunch is eaten in a quiet corner of an ancient churchyard. Crows gather on the stubble in an adjacent field. We sit on a bench in the sunshine, though a cloudy afternoon beckons in the west. Later inside the church, where one of the northern saints is laid to rest, an unsteady light plays variously across the stone statues of the sanctuary.

Distance and a head wind begin to strain the calm confidence of the morning. Perhaps we have come too far and expect too much of ourselves? It is cheering though to beat the rain back to the car six miles hence.

Ten miles further up the coast the tide has retreated across a horizon-reaching expanse of sand and mud; it leaves a narrow causeway to an island beyond. It is a long way to its disappointing village full of car-borne visitors, attendant dogs and tired children. There, a little apart from these tourists, we sit to look out upon a further but tiny island where another northern saint found solitude. Wading into the cold sea he would face the setting sun as it fell into the folds of distant hills: to pray until dawn.

You are so tired when we reach the hotel. You are so tired. Our en suite room holds an enormous bed and a large long bath. From its window just a slice of sea can be seen in a gap between houses. I insist, for your sake, on immediate food and soon the strain on your pale, day-worn face begins to disappear and some colour returns as you eat. I catch your eyes smiling – for a brief moment. Oh, your green eyes, my undoing, so full of a sadness I have never fathomed. How often my memory returns to another room where one afternoon, newly married, we were the dearest lovers. In its strange half-light I caressed your long nakedness over and over, my hands and body visiting every part of you – and your dear face full of peace and joy.  

As dusk falls we walk down the village’s only street to view the sand and sea. Then to bed and hardly a page turned before you seek the sleep you need. I soak gratefully in the large bath. After engaging in a ‘difficult’ book for a few minutes, I soon turn off my light. But I am restless and the bed is hard. So I begin to reassemble the day moment-by-moment, later to dream strangely and sporadically until dawn breaks.

.
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.

Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.

Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.

Sea billows rose and fell from inner turmoil and out of the briny deep came the goddess herself she
Came out of the break waters strolled upon the shore and in mid stride she began to change into an
Island maiden she wore sea shells down low on her hips they made a wondrous skirt for a top she had
Turquoise Linen created from blossoms that were gathered from the Banyan tree which also seems out
Of place with its roots so high above ground she had such a stance of nobility it appeared as if the Island
Was bowing in her presence perhaps it was her eyes they were watery soft they seemed to change colors
Like the waves do when they curl and the sunlight floods them her arms were like the flowing branches
That gave a distinctive glow that spoke a whispered welcome and her hands were delicate as all sea
Shore flowers combined her movements were like the swaying palms she spoke and mystery like a
Sea cave with water rushing in it was voluminous it was enriching you felt great swells enveloping you
Like the sea **** with under water currents at play she was a dream like version of Pele the goddess of
Fire they had met at the water’s edge when Pele was causing the lava to flow as vents steam and ash
Was awash the island seemed to have started burning at its edge and was moving inward it was a bit of
Amusing distraction for them both and it did contrast their personalities one with the heart aflame and
The other a heart of deepest blue waters that have enthralled and captured the minds of many sea
Faring person’s duty would only allow them the briefest respite one temperate the other the waves
Wooed her from far and near and she could do no other than answer their call tonight it was on this
Unfamiliar escarpment she made the perfect picture her postured back framed by this high cliff with her
Facing the sea her soul surged to the surface with the amusing love filled look that filled her face as she
Looked ever homeward into mysteries only she could divulge but today was her time of stress some
How some where someone had wounded the seas crust and the other wise contained oil that was
As an inner ointment and salve that could be depended on with wisest understanding it would release
The thinnest lines to increase the seas life and otherwise continue its hidden life to creatures that were
Foreign and restricted to land mass it held a special interest undoubtedly it was there interference that was
At fault she listened to the voices of this tribe but could come to no solid conclusion as to what in
Particular had occurred but by going ashore she gained new perspective she gave herself to unfamiliar
Rhythms wasn’t this hard surface the continuation of all harmony that as a whole had endured these
Seeming eons of time she finally agreed this was just a ripple in an otherwise calm universe so she
Gave way to her hunger to return to the sea and all of its pleasure and comforts she knew her news was
Good and all would rejoice as they heard it no longer would the sea weep out of character but be the
Unending story of renewal with a fixed unstoppable future as it has always been

it's the morning of Tuesday
June twenty fifth, and the fog, again
rolls in against lima and listlessly scales the escarpment
and Dana (like I) high on ******* and circumstance
has gone with Chris and Cameron, to watch from the cliffs
(this time something loose has shifted, and I hope they kiss).
and Corey is here
asleep to my left
tired from a whole day of travel and
Dana calls her an insomniac but
I think she's at rest.

And an empire is how she took off her shirt
and gold is the way she doesn't object
when I trace maps in her back and put an ear to her chest.

because I don't know who this is or why
my fantasies fixated here, but they work, unbidden
behind purposed eyes
buena vida es buena ficion y
good fiction is impossible to expect.
like when under your skin, New England, dunes
drift and dance to the hand at your neck.

because I have everything I could ever want and for
me in my figured out life, these flighty daydreams aren't problems but
more like preproduction films to maybe see, to get lost in, given breath and a bit of sunlight.
because I have never heard Corey complain or object and until I do I
will continue to give to her everything I have, will continue to
try to understand the invisible hairs at the base of her spine.
try to reward what goes unrecognized.

because we're all bent up patchwork machines, and
I'm sure Corey crumbles inside as much as I, but
when you fly to peru and lay with certainty your head against mine,
into a stranger's neck, and lie still
when you could struggle to explain but don't even try
when you are beautiful, but keep on going still...

the ******* can't what my hands will,
in walking the staircase of her spine.
keep me watchful, and up all night,
to try in fingertips to recognize,
that you are beautiful and someone needs
to see you to sleep. to feel you to fly.

Walking alone,
at the seaside,
relishing,
mountains,
trees and flowers,
watching,
escarpment,
cliff and clear water,
at the foot,
the sea and clouds,
united,
on the horizon,
the sky further,
further away,
the sea,
wider still,
and wider.

Wild Turkey sojourned the lavender -
encrusted , wooded depression
Panola sunlight tarried , engulfing a peppered
granite expanse in the vivid 'Light of Creation'
Life teemed in pools of rainwater , Jays foretold the impassioned hour
Pungent , dew marinated fields shone as the
Lamp of God* ......

i

sacchariferous exhale's, I shalt insufflate into her bronchi
An Ode of enchantment, a beacon of escarpment, Filipino oblige;
We shalt junket all the way to France, the way politician's do
Concord, oh amour', at the end of the day Cogitation's, sky blue.

ii

The artist's shalt adumbrate ourn outter appearance's, as ghost's
They shalt brush us onto an primeval canvas, Enlargement ****;
Phosphorescent simper she giveth, as I grace her foreign perfume
Thither the acropolis, to mine land of Greece, Corinth, in all tune.

iii

The people their do greeteth her, they layeth out the red carpet
White wall's of these spítia, nacre full of plenty, open market's;
The children here art collaborated in epoch, decorative style's,
As mine queen shalt seeith, they weareth golden leaves, wild......



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/ pag-ibig magpakailanman.....

Names, like pins in a pineapple
Painting a landscape, escarpment
of who I've been
I try to live explosions
But find my fingers missing

Sea billows rose and fell from inner turmoil and out of the briny deep came the goddess herself she
Came out of the break waters strolled upon the shore and in mid stride she began to change into an
Island maiden she wore sea shells down low on her hips they made a wondrous skirt for a top she had
Turquoise Linen created from blossoms that were gathered from the Banyan tree which also seems out
Of place with its roots so high above ground she had such a stance of nobility it appeared as if the Island
Was bowing in her presence perhaps it was her eyes they were watery soft they seemed to change colors
Like the waves do when they curl and the sunlight floods them her arms were like the flowing branches
That gave a distinctive glow that spoke a whispered welcome and her hands were delicate as all sea
Shore flowers combined her movements were like the swaying palms she spoke and mystery like a
Sea cave with water rushing in it was voluminous it was enriching you felt great swells enveloping you
Like the sea **** with under water currents at play she was a dream like version of Pele the goddess of
Fire they had met at the water’s edge when Pele was causing the lava to flow as vents steam and ash
Was awash the island seemed to have started burning at its edge and was moving inward it was a bit of
Amusing distraction for them both and it did contrast their personalities one with the heart aflame and
The other a heart of deepest blue waters that have enthralled and captured the minds of many sea
Faring person’s duty would only allow them the briefest respite one temperate the other the waves
Wooed her from far and near and she could do no other than answer their call tonight it was on this
Unfamiliar escarpment she made the perfect picture her postured back framed by this high cliff with her
Facing the sea her soul surged to the surface with the amusing love filled look that filled her face as she
Looked ever homeward into mysteries only she could divulge but today was her time of stress some
How some where someone had wounded the seas crust and the other wise contained oil that was
As an inner ointment and salve that could be depended on with wisest understanding it would release
The thinnest lines to increase the seas life and otherwise continue its hidden life to creatures that were
Foreign and restricted to land mass it held a special interest undoubtedly it was there interference that was
At fault she listened to the voices of this tribe but could come to no solid conclusion as to what in
Particular had occurred but by going ashore she gained new perspective she gave herself to unfamiliar
Rhythms wasn’t this hard surface the continuation of all harmony that as a whole had endured these
Seeming eons of time she finally agreed this was just a ripple in an otherwise calm universe so she
Gave way to her hunger to return to the sea and all of its pleasure and comforts she knew her news was
Good and all would rejoice as they heard it no longer would the sea weep out of character but be the
Unending story of renewal with a fixed unstoppable future as it has always been

The Sea wept

Sea billows rose and fell from inner turmoil and out of the briny deep came the goddess herself she
Came out of the break waters strolled upon the shore and in mid stride she began to change into an

Island maiden she wore sea shells down low on her hips they made a wondrous skirt for a top she had
Turquoise Linen created from blossoms that were gathered from the Banyan tree which also seems out

Of place with its roots so high above ground she had such a stance of nobility it appeared as if the Island
Was bowing in her presence perhaps it was her eyes were watery soft they seemed to change colors

Like the waves do when they curl and the sunlight floods them her arms were like the flowing branches
That gave a distinctive glow that spoke a whispered welcome and her hands were delicate as all sea

Shore flowers combined her movements were like the swaying palms she spoke and mystery like a
Sea cave with water rushing in it was voluminous it was enriching you felt great swells enveloping you

Like the sea **** with under water currents at play she was a dream like version of Pele the goddess of
Fire they had met at the water’s edge when Pele was causing the lava to flow as vents steam and ash

Was awash the island seemed to have started burning at its edge and was moving inward it was a bit of
Amusing distraction for them both and it did contrast their personalities one with the heart aflame and

The other a heart of deepest blue waters that have enthralled and captured the minds of many sea
Faring person’s duty would only allow them the briefest respite one temperate the other the waves

Wooed her from far and near and should could do no other than answer their call tonight it was on this
Unfamiliar escarpment she made the perfect picture her postured back framed by this high cliff with her

Facing the sea her soul surged to the surface with the amusing love filled look that filled her face as she
Looked ever homeward into mysteries only she could divulge but today was her time of stress some
How some where someone had wounded the seas crust and the other wise contained oil that was

As an inner ointment and salve that could be depended on with wisest understanding it would release
The thinnest lines to increase the seas life and otherwise continue its hidden life to creatures that were

Foreign and restricted to land mass it held a special interest undoubtedly it was there interference was
At fault she listened to the voices of this tribe but could come to no solid conclusion as to what in

Particular had occurred but by going ashore she gained new perspective she gave herself to unfamiliar
Rhythms wasn’t this hard surface the continuation of all harmony that as a whole had endured these

Seeming eons of time she finally agreed this was just a ripple in an otherwise calm universe so she
Gave way to her hunger to return to the sea and all of its pleasure and comforts she knew her news was

Good and all would rejoice as they heard it no longer would the sea weep out of character but be the
Unending story of renewal with a fixed unstoppable future as it has always been

Proem

The battle at Ludd for all intents and purposes was a defeat.   Granted, the enemy was wiped out, but Sir Thomas and his men got to Ludd to late;  the loss of life of the townsfolk was inexcusable.   Sir Thomas did save a young nun named Dagung.   He left her in Ludd but she followed he and his men in route back to Gaza Castle.   Sir Thomas was a warrior and a monk.    With much to ponder, his mind went elsewhere:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Writings from the archives of Sir
Thomas de Charney

About A.D. 1290

We returned to Castle Gaza
Well into the mid-night
Much of the garrison we left behind we're still awake;
My loyal knights, sergeants, men at arms
We're overladen with people;
Towns empty, townspeople secure within our towering palisade
Even their livestock; hoards were left and hidden
Closer towns were ordered within the ramparts of city walls
Our strength was the long escarpment which faced the sea
If the infidels want to attack from that venue;  come...come
They know better, and will try to find a crease in our fortress
Days....weeks.....or months, we'll be ready

Ludd was a misfortune, a ****** beyond our umbrella;
Never again will this happen under my watch
I extended the perimeter of our municipality
Will introduce this measure at the next Grand Council
There was much to do, decisions to be made to protect the people
The treaty was broken, so it seems, after the debacle in Ludd
I dispatched an emissary to Acre to advise Our Grand Master
Until we get our orders, we will defend our defilade

My mind was in utter denial upon returning from Ludd
Caged by this young lady, a nun to boot, named Dagung; on horse
Chasing after our brigade relentlessly, hoofs digging the earth
Then “Please my lord, may I accompany you to Castle Gaza?”
After that slight curve of my lips, tried as I could; I failed to say no
Why?  I don't know what beauty is, but I can't take my eyes off her
Dagung would not leave my mind, but now what do I do ?
Good God,  my ***** and *****; sensitive to the touch
My problem is my lack of proclivities.....of..of....a, the female
This, I was not taught.  Is this not a concept to be learned ?

She, once a ******, ravaged by truculent *******
Me - warrior, monk, Templar Knight and Master at Gaza;
A ******; only of recent time understanding how a woman gets pregnant
From my perspective and upbringing
A female of this apotheosis may as well come from another existence
Or times past, or, of futures unknown
Perhaps a separate species

Before I could allow her into the Knights Templar castle
Dagung was safe within the city walls
My squire Geoffroi hired a few maidens
To prep her and look after her needs

By now she is in one of our guest rooms
Waiting on me


(to be continued)

____________

Sea billows rose and fell from inner turmoil and out of the briny deep came the goddess herself she
Came out of the break waters strolled upon the shore and in mid stride she began to change into an
Island maiden she wore sea shells down low on her hips they made a wondrous skirt for a top she had
Turquoise Linen created from blossoms that were gathered from the Banyan tree which also seems out
Of place with its roots so high above ground she had such a stance of nobility it appeared as if the Island
Was bowing in her presence perhaps it was her eyes they were watery soft they seemed to change colors
Like the waves do when they curl and the sunlight floods them her arms were like the flowing branches
That gave a distinctive glow that spoke a whispered welcome and her hands were delicate as all sea
Shore flowers combined her movements were like the swaying palms she spoke and mystery like a
Sea cave with water rushing in it was voluminous it was enriching you felt great swells enveloping you
Like the sea **** with under water currents at play she was a dream like version of Pele the goddess of
Fire they had met at the water’s edge when Pele was causing the lava to flow as vents steam and ash
Was awash the island seemed to have started burning at its edge and was moving inward it was a bit of
Amusing distraction for them both and it did contrast their personalities one with the heart aflame and
The other a heart of deepest blue waters that have enthralled and captured the minds of many sea
Faring person’s duty would only allow them the briefest respite one temperate the other the waves
Wooed her from far and near and she could do no other than answer their call tonight it was on this
Unfamiliar escarpment she made the perfect picture her postured back framed by this high cliff with her
Facing the sea her soul surged to the surface with the amusing love filled look that filled her face as she
Looked ever homeward into mysteries only she could divulge but today was her time of stress some
How some where someone had wounded the seas crust and the other wise contained oil that was
As an inner ointment and salve that could be depended on with wisest understanding it would release
The thinnest lines to increase the seas life and otherwise continue its hidden life to creatures that were
Foreign and restricted to land mass it held a special interest undoubtedly it was there interference that was
At fault she listened to the voices of this tribe but could come to no solid conclusion as to what in
Particular had occurred but by going ashore she gained new perspective she gave herself to unfamiliar
Rhythms wasn’t this hard surface the continuation of all harmony that as a whole had endured these
Seeming eons of time she finally agreed this was just a ripple in an otherwise calm universe so she
Gave way to her hunger to return to the sea and all of its pleasure and comforts she knew her news was
Good and all would rejoice as they heard it no longer would the sea weep out of character but be the
Unending story of renewal with a fixed unstoppable future as it has always been

Greetings David,

I am employed by Fletchers Construction to be the Plant Coordinator at the Wellconnected Waterview Twin tunnel project underway beneath Sandringham in Auckland.
My wife is a hardworking Senior Nurse @ Ascot hospital in Greenlane.

For sanity, about six years ago, my wife and I bought a lifestyle block butting on to Egmont National Park @ 1250’ elevation. We built a beautiful alpine lodge, cut tracks down the heavily wooded escarpments, built bridges across two streams, reticulated roof water between tanks to a boulder built fishpond then to a shallow, stone rimmed lake which empties down an escarpment to the stream.
We have planted hundreds of trees and shrubs on this property, rhododendrons of beautiful form and colour, magnolias, a forest of silver birch, oaks, tulip trees and acers.
The property is a wonder of swooping hills and dips which, from it’s elevation, looks out over the grey Tasman sea toward Tasmania. Egmont looms in it’s white, pristine splendour over our left shoulder and the close, dark Puhakai range rears abruptly, spectacularly, betwixt the volcano and us.

Growth here is slow because of the climate, the 300 inches of annual rainfall, the short summers and the depleted volcanic ash soil.
I am 70 years old, my darling wife considerably younger….we both want to see our plantings grow to significance within our lifetime…
Thus my request for access to your wonderful fish fertilizer.

Respectfully
M.

I am walking on this small and winding path, through a field. We've decided that it's not an important field, it grows nothing. Animals may have eaten here, once, but they aren't right now. And the path seems well travelled. I'm taken back to something, in science class-- maybe. About letting the earth lie fallow, for a season? I'm trying to say that thoughts of tresspassing were furthest from our minds.

Sarah is carying her heavy bag on her back. I've offered to carry it, but Sarah is one of those people who will recognize their own mistakes and deal with them. I am feeling prudent for having brought only my small brown messenger bag. The sun is just setting, we've been walking for most of the day. We are not nature people. There was a lot of time spent in the city, some spent navigating the train network-- the crazy system of connections and missed schedules. Local and express trains, too. I am not one to ever complain. Sarah is content to swim with the current, and I admire her for this.

She asks me, "Do you think we're still going north?"

We are supposed to be somewhere. I would not rather be anywhere than here.

"I am not sure." I say. "I am having a hard time being worried about it."

"Okay.", she says.

The tall plants with purple bells on top are falling apart as we brush past them. It is maybe eight o'clock, but it is summer, and the world smells warm and eager to have us in it. If earth is a mother, she is reading us a bedtime story. I am very sore, conscious of my decision to wear sandals this morning. Sarah is impossible to read, but paint her content. Had a sheep or farmer come up and asked me, I would have said I were falling in love.

Because of this, I want to say something, one of those things that will mean a lot more because it is between the two of us. I am thinking, "There are a lot of stars.", but instead, I say, "Have you wondered why they call it the Test Path?"

"I hadn't really thought much on it. I suppose it could be for a lot of reasons. Or maybe just coincidence? I don't know.", she says.

"I am thinking that it has something to do with cartography.", I say. "Maybe when they were first deciding how the first maps would be put together, they call came out here and mapped this path. Oh! And the Test Creek!"

"What does that have to do with anything?", she asks.

"Well when they had completed it, and all of the backs had been patted, etc, etc, and they'd completed the map of the surrounding area too, perhaps they thought: what will we call that first path and creek? And maybe one of them said, 'It was our first test. Let us just leave it as Test Path and Test Creek'. And so they all exclaimed what a Jolly-Good-Time it was, and went off to do whatever they did in those days, and it's been that way ever since."

"I don't really know what to tell you. I guess it's possible. I wasn't there.", she said.



I am trying to explain myself to the stars, but it's hard to pick just one and stay focused on it. Sarah has light skin. She fits in well amongst the thatched houses and rain. I am darker, and I suspect that people notice it. Hostility has been bred away for generations, here, but I can still feel eyes on me; the outsider. I want to fight these people, each of them, with my fists. I would love the chance to prove myself to them, and be taken into the tribe. Dear watchful ones: I can learn your language, your customs. I am young! Vibrant! Adaptable! But they will hear none of it. Sarah would, I think, fight them too, but she has nothing to prove to them. My attempts to read her leave me thinking she is longing to do something different with herself. She doesn't know what that is. If she did, she might not be here with me. I am both hopeful for her, and wishing she'll fail.



There is supposed to be a monestary around here. We are walking to the left of a deep forest, the creek lies between us. The occasional overturned tree would make a good bridge, but it is dark at this point, and we've decided that the monks would prefer to be left alone. Everything is colorless, but still full of life. At night, in the winter, in the city were we both used to live, everything died. We would sometimes walk along the short paths that lined the escarpment, and I would keep my knife in my hand. I think Sarah understood that it is a dangerous thing to be alive among the dead and dying; one must be careful. She never said anything about it, but Sarah is a poet on occasion, and so I assume she understands most everything. But here, there was noise, life. We come across a patch of ground riddled with holes the size of Coke cans. Deep holes.

"Do you ever wonder what they might be up to down there?", I say.

"I've thought about it, some,", she says, "but I imagine if they did anything really spectacular, we'd have heard about it."

"Did you see that special they aired on one of the science channels? They took some ant colony... in Africa. A certain type of ants. And they flooded the whole underground complex with this watery type of cement--"

"What about the ants? *******."

"Well they all died, I guess. But it's for the sake of science. Anyway. They flooded the whole complex with cement, and it took like... six months to dry. But when it did, they excavated around the whole thing."

"And what was it like?", she says.

"Amazing. I don't remember the statistic. Something like, 'The ants had moved four tons of earth, the eqivalent on a human scale of--' or other. But the point was that these little tiny bugs made this system, hundreds of feet wide and dozens of feet deep. All hidden under a pile of dirt! It was unbelievable!"

"That is pretty cool.", she says.

"Then imagine if these creatures were doing the same thing-- on the same scale. Kilometers of tunnels! Cisterns and cemetaries and maybe even churches, tiny factories, thermonuclear generation stations! All under this field!"

"I think that you give them too much credit. But I don't know. You could be right. Though I think if I were one of those things, I'd be happy just being one of those things, and not get caught up in industrialization and all of that."

And I ask, "Are you happy being one of whatever-you-are?"


We talk like this, for an hour or so. Nothing is really said, but I am secretly hoping that the world is listening to us. There must be sheep here, somewhere, and they will go home and tell their little sheep children about us. I also think about the nature of sound waves. That everything we say is receeding away from us, infinitely, and somewhere out there our words are being rendered into an alien language for a baby's bedtime story. I'm wondering why the greatest thing I hope for in life is to be the words that put someone to sleep.

We stop. It is very late now. The house I'd hoped to get to has not appeared. Though if we ended up going south instead of north, we've only added another day onto our trip. I'm not really concerned though, which is unusual for me. It is warm out, the bugs are singing lullibies. It is dark enough to be private, yet not so dark as to be frightening. We walk off the path, and sit down in the cavity left by the massive root structure of an old-man of a fallen tree. Sarah pulls out her sleeping bag, and I lie down in the grass nearby, and stare up. It is itchy, but I'm oddly not bothered. Not bothered anymore by much. I don't plan to sleep, not for a while. I want to hear Sarah sleeping. I've decided that I want my thoughts to become a bedtime story to her, and I begin to tell them to her, in no real order.

I wanted my words to be a christmas present, boxed and beautiful. Or a chocolate bar. Or something. They come out jambled, as I fall in and out of meter, gesturing at the sky and making grand generalizations. I tell her about my childhood on the farm. About the way my uncle, reaching for a rope in the hay loft, fell and broke his neck three summers back. It was the first time I'd seen a dead body. I tell her about moving to the city. The brick and stone, and my initial fascination at the way things could always be in motion. After a time, she comes to lie next to me, wordlessly, and places her head on my chest.



I am no more now than I have ever been, but I am tied off at the end. I am not in danger of fraying. I won't sleep tonight. I will run through the house, switching off the lights and straightening all of the picture frames, while Sarah is sleeping. This is something I will defend to the death. I will fight off the wolves and gypsies and try my best not to wake her with the slashing motions of my right arm. I am feeling like no one has ever deserved more to rest, and that I will give my life so that she will have it. I kiss, softly, the top of her head. The sheep watch quiety, and hold their children close. This is what it's like to be at rest.

Sea billows rose and fell from inner turmoil and out of the briny deep came the goddess herself she
Came out of the break waters strolled upon the shore and in mid stride she began to change into an
Island maiden she wore sea shells down low on her hips they made a wondrous skirt for a top she had
Turquoise Linen created from blossoms that were gathered from the Banyan tree which also seems out
Of place with its roots so high above ground she had such a stance of nobility it appeared as if the Island
Was bowing in her presence perhaps it was her eyes they were watery soft they seemed to change colors
Like the waves do when they curl and the sunlight floods them her arms were like the flowing branches
That gave a distinctive glow that spoke a whispered welcome and her hands were delicate as all sea
Shore flowers combined her movements were like the swaying palms she spoke and mystery like a
Sea cave with water rushing in it was voluminous it was enriching you felt great swells enveloping you
Like the sea **** with under water currents at play she was a dream like version of Pele the goddess of
Fire they had met at the water’s edge when Pele was causing the lava to flow as vents steam and ash
Was awash the island seemed to have started burning at its edge and was moving inward it was a bit of
Amusing distraction for them both and it did contrast their personalities one with the heart aflame and
The other a heart of deepest blue waters that have enthralled and captured the minds of many sea
Faring person’s duty would only allow them the briefest respite one temperate the other the waves
Wooed her from far and near and she could do no other than answer their call tonight it was on this
Unfamiliar escarpment she made the perfect picture her postured back framed by this high cliff with her
Facing the sea her soul surged to the surface with the amusing love filled look that filled her face as she
Looked ever homeward into mysteries only she could divulge but today was her time of stress some
How some where someone had wounded the seas crust and the other wise contained oil that was
As an inner ointment and salve that could be depended on with wisest understanding it would release
The thinnest lines to increase the seas life and otherwise continue its hidden life to creatures that were
Foreign and restricted to land mass it held a special interest undoubtedly it was there interference that was
At fault she listened to the voices of this tribe but could come to no solid conclusion as to what in
Particular had occurred but by going ashore she gained new perspective she gave herself to unfamiliar
Rhythms wasn’t this hard surface the continuation of all harmony that as a whole had endured these
Seeming eons of time she finally agreed this was just a ripple in an otherwise calm universe so she
Gave way to her hunger to return to the sea and all of its pleasure and comforts she knew her news was
Good and all would rejoice as they heard it no longer would the sea weep out of character but be the
Unending story of renewal with a fixed unstoppable future as it has always been

Turbulence

As he sat watching the shadows
flicker across the beige carpet
the morning air explored
the room, caressed his unsocked feet.
She appeared, briefly:
to walk to the window
to be reminded of the view.
Turning purposefully,
she sent him a wave of turbulence
out of the folds of her long
patterned-blue skirt.


Wild Swim

Evening,
but not yet dark in the Slad Valley.
Beyond the village they left the road,
and down, down a woodland way walked
into a gentle polyphony of birdsong
that is the evening chorus;
a more considered singing,
an equal music and exchange of song
far from the wild chorusing at dawn.

High above, the delicate traceries
of ash leaves;
at their feet, the chocolate-brown fall
of beech flowers.

His hand sheltered her fingers
lightly placed into his folded palm,
but ready to unslip: to observe, to touch
to wonder at the trackside vegetation.

Down, and further down into the valley,
the setting sun illuminating golden
corridors between the tall trees,
they came upon a presence of water
in the air and before the water seen;
a lake, a rhomboid reflection of sky
and still, sun-stricken pines.

Feeling his body wish the caress
of its earth-coloured water
he walked the lake’s line
gazing down into the opaque stillness
seeking to judge its depth.

He might swim; he would swim;
he would feel the water
kiss his body, his feet discover
a hidden floor of mud,
of stones, of vegetation.
Yes, he would lower his naked self
into that cool texture of fresh,
untroubled water.

He undressed before her,
placing his glasses into her care,
each garment into her arms.
Removing his sandals he stepped
into the water until its cloudy surface
covered his thighs, his ***.
He lowered his body and swam,
a few strokes at a time, stopping
then to test the depth,
for his feet to feel the tangled
floor of the underlake.

He turned,
and still in his depth walked back:
to see her standing bemused on the bank.
Out, and in the evening air, he stroked
his hands over naked flanks,
stomach, arms and ****,
brushing the wet away from his body
until a sense of being dry prevailed.

It had not been cold, he thought;
it had been gently invigorating.
A full freshness enveloped his body.
It would stay this passionate longing
he so often felt when alone in her presence,
and in the unconfining space
of the natural world she loved.
It remained with him until hours later
when, regaining the presence of his body
as it stretched itself in their generous bed,
he slept, dreaming of water’s kiss and touch.


Newark Park*

Turning into the drive
a lake of  buttercups
floated in the blue morning
on islands of grass green
between parkland trees
where peacocks called.

Entering the shallow house
barely two rooms wide
light flooded and warmed
the cold stone flags
of this hunting lodge
saved from ruin
by an itinerant American
who searching on a motorbike
for a manored home found his domain
high on the brink of a limestone
escarpment. With a view to die for,
most certainly to live for,
he was captured, captivated
and later confirmed
to all its Englishness,
its history, and despite
its cold, cold comforts.

Most certainly a man’s abode,
long-ago ladies but not wives
would gather for a grandstand view  
from behind its rooftop balustrades,
there to observe the hunting
in the forest far below
and then to entertain,
be entertained
far away from prying eyes
and wagging tongues.

I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.

Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.

Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.

I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.

Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.

Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.

I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.

Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.

Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.

.
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.

Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.

Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.
.

Vernarth says: “We will be able to find in this path of Light that is my life, what is the wood that stretches and upsets the material surfaces in the gifts of God, with the prevailing low water of the minimal plastering of rainfall, but if in the flow of astonishment that will leave us all in the breath of knowing how to be and understand, which is my hand directed by Vitruvius, and that his interval measures do not cease to outline everything that can or could generate cracks that cross the rules of Survival, where everyone who is a survivor of the Arbela Site, will be identified as an unfolded constituent of all solid material, providing the minimum percentage that will make up the majesty of a revived heart. Vitruvius remains with me ..., and his hands sustain greater fantasies that reside in the divine architecture that will be the origin of everything that existed and will exist. The long wattles will extend in the new layer that resides between the Kidron Valley to Gethsemane, and from Nazareth to Eilat, and that those who walk around will winnow footsteps that will later lead them to Bethany, and that Alexander the Great ... my General! Will be protected by the holy mantle of Mashiach, after we are both released from this mega Purgation. That the magnitude of the planks and the broad-headed nails will be hammered by the antlers of the Uilef, and that the utopias will make me see from above and it will be like being on the shoulders of Brisehal or the Colosso of Apsila so that wattles be always and permanently sprinkled by my prose of advent and passion of my Redeemer. I am prepared with the edge of my Xiphos ..., every day I cut a piece of my arm! As I heal again, I fissure the meats that closed, letting the softness of my skin be the skin that restores the nail that will slice the second rows of concession arteries, so that they are assimilated to the third that could reach the same way as those received by the Mashiach. The length of the miracle is imperishable and the nails with a small head will make the break where they will not be finally nailed, interweaving the preparation vines that will cover my arm and that of Alexander the Great, more distant from the third arteries that still bleed, so that they are prepared in the fourth row of the syntagma group in the arteries that will be those that hold posterity carrying everything with my sectioned dexterity, but always holding onto the Xiphos behind the brilliant mortar of Arena. Nothing exists, everything only existed for the first entelechy of Zerubbabel when rebuilding, and our Redeemer uttered that everything will be turned into pieces of stones with bones of long wattles that would extend to the layers of clay being his tomb, that yes passing through the mortar that will make all mankind redo the sawdust of the whole earth towards the devastated earth. In this way, the four rows of arteries will lie in the preparation rows with my right arm burning when I first touched the Empyrean taking me with it from 775 BC. C. until the time of the first century of the Era of Our Lord ”.

Cosmic thought crossed the four brains of its component of unfolded time, after being attracted by the foolishness of the thoughts that traveled without generational limits of Tikun, in such a way that the thoughts that were fixed on the orthogonal of infinity were detached from time imperceptible with the summation of the loss of the unknowable space of the abstruse of the Vav Hei Vav, creating the total dissociation of the past from the peristyle of time, leaving the future numbed in the antiquity of the Hellenic past, but reviving it in the passing of the transgression mean, between the antitragus of the head of the four assistants of the Vav Hei Vav, to transfer them through the shell of each one in their inner ears when sizing what will pass silently through their cognitions and in their Over Being, or Quantum Being that will take them along paths from the 700 years old to the first century in the constitution of Hera in Olympia, and rather towards the recalcitrant subjection of the stones that made it up to be subject to the nurse nomenclature of the understanding of the cosmic thought of Vernarth, who had slender few sponsored in all the naturalities that tried their mimicry, doing nothing else what has not been noticed far from it, from where the natural deformation of cosmic thought will bend as it is transcribed in all the textual evolution of the four united minds of Vernarth, Alexander the Great, Saint John the Apostle and King David. The luminescence would be attracted by all the rivers in the Vernarth Opera with the Bumodos, Eygues, Lethe, Euphrates and Nile, Acheron (the river of sorrow), Cocytus (laments), Phlegethon (fire), Lethe (oblivion), and Styx. The Bumodos would be the stigma of the pain of the Thymus of Vernarth that would be even more active and sensitive than his heart, and the Eygues that would be his faithful companion that would help him to promote the pains of lost loves with Wonthelimar, when the haze and storm left him alone in the sugary sand with labyrinths and the contact of the last frictions of his loved ones, leaving only messes in a Siddartha that would tend to be tempted by humanity, making us believe that nothing is more powerful than the propensity of evil to have in the constitution transgenerational family, to remain anchored in Ha-Shatán's slander, harassing immanent relics of the worship of man who settled on the banks of rivers in the expectation of quenching their thirst for wisdom or for the Vav Hei Vav, as a portal of entry of the trip around the world that unites us with our encore adventures, that are always united to the past of the upper ***** and that does not leave us any second of the present in his waves of contemplation as a Hoplite man in the fantasy of his dreams, managing to make the rivers of oblivion or Lette propitiate the future that will not make him forget what in the past was an underground part of the currents of a watery thought, what is The verb will be and should be the subjugation of those around him who harasses himself.

In this way, the words ran in the sorry speed of the harassment of the immobile Ha-Shatán but fiercely restrained by what surrounded the verb as in the meadows of Ein Kerem that was surrounded by the contours that made her not fatigue in the gaze of the heaven, when everything that was close was in fullness with the organic nature that contained it, and everything that was summarized from the rhythm of the Hexagonal Chapel of the Shepherds in its rhythm, like a swarm between winds that carried pollinations in the first words that they contained themselves from the latter to later reconnect themselves by means of the buckles carried by the offspring of the lambs and the primordial respiration of the Cosmos, which they said above all as a verb that sprouted in the seeds themselves that were escaping from their reproductive capacity. Vernarth already knew that he had little time left to be near his Hoplites and that the ocean of arrows that would fall on his destiny would be from bittersweet Theosophy that would fall on the back of the herd, like Manna that would emancipate itself in tons of languages that can define the Thought that may pre-exist. Perhaps thinking, but anchored in the turn that contains him, between words that would no longer be writing or any wisdom that reduces him, rather the gesture of the Peri Kosmous that would transmit something to us through those who do not speak or indicate ..., rather of the same abstraction of all the Pelicans that would advance by the vital energies that wear away the concepts that sway between the waves by the Aegean seas, and of the silence that of this same thing already begins to lose the horizon in the gaze of your observer. Nothing was friction that generated words that could be the sustenance of an Era that was spent for more than seven hundred years in the hands of the oppressors who would waste it in seven seconds, leaving everything in the hierarchy of a reality as the Plan of the Spare Universe. called Duoverso, which was precisely the simple river that joins both Universes lying between themselves as the appearance of the river Acheron or permanent misfortune, imagining ourselves in every bad good fit to balance our thoughts where the first will be offshoots of the Vernarth principle, until four o'clock. arteries that prosper to reach an occult knowledge, where every being that walks twice the same way is not the reality of the times in which every day the footsteps of the Mashiach are seen from Bethany to Ophel or from Ophel to Bethany, like an anthroposophic hill and foundations that will make the city of David seven hundred meters high, carrying this peristyle in the gallery of time, going through the majestic iteration of the journey of the imperceptible quantum being seven times in a row with the seven long paths of the rebound between Bethany and Ophel, on the very promontory of Saturn reviving them in the narrow promontories that make you see that thought is more than a sacred place to remember what is dear, which is precisely what is to be appreciated and observed when some steps escape and are not of the forged walk of the Mashiach from Kidron to the Tyropoeon; towards the escarpment that would put the relays of the new sheep that will also graze on Patmos, and that despite the turns of antiquity will be the strip between the ancient era and the Middle Ages, as precepts of the sacred mountains that will grow in the eschatological of the advent of Thuellai when Profitis Ilias was the source of synergy in the figure that will unite them among the evil that grows Vg The Golgotha and the sacrifice *** Bei Himnom, proceeding with Zion of the Earth and David, as a precept of the plains of forgiveness in the Moriah from where Abraham, already provided with his “Hey”, mediated and possessed the benevolence of the Maker to bring to life to his Son Isaac, to shelter him in the rubble in everything that was not of his patriarch's fruit, and then it could be reissued in the nobility of an epigram that would be the return to Ophel after having crossed the circumflex of the word used in this paragraph, to continue through the mountains that will be the emphasis of Patmos, constituting the square for its defense and blocking all the walls of history that will be carriers of all the threat of installed evil, making them the systemic forces reluctant and doomed on the southern ***** of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem between Tyropoeon to the west and the Kidron Valley to the east dominating the ill-gestated shadow of Ha-Shatan.

At the top of the escarpment she stood.
In a strange surveillance of the area.
She seeks only the love she lost.
Thick black veil hid her features.
Dressed in ebony for the love she lost.

The moon was high.
She kissed the sky.
Firmament brimming with cold fired emotion.
The moon.
Her corona glowing.

It was the eve of Christmas.
The night he'd said goodbye.
Watched her silently
As she moaned her sad lament.
There every year 'pon the that day he went.
Another curious soul.

From a distance stand and spy.
The midnight hour rolls in.
Wind will rise without reason.
It will topple her from her feet.

She seems so real.
He feels her pain.
Glued to the spot.
He's compelled to stay.
She rolls from edge.
With a fearful wail.
The sound of death occurring.

He needs to check that she's okay.
Goes to the edge.
Peers over.
That wind.
It knocks him off his feet.

A few moments on the ridge.
For a short moment in time your life takes his place.
They romp and play as never before.
It's not forever.
It's never more.
Icy death snatched him.
A moment in time she's sated.
She's took his life,
Just to hold her sweet lover once more.

Every year curiosity wins
Always outweighs fear.
Another victim in her spell.
This year another sad victim fell!





By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

I shouldn't even
say this but I'm
in love with you because
of your pseudo intellectual abstractions.

Might I scale the escarpment
of your heart with quiet nods?

Sara Fielder © June 2019

jam broken fingers into unforgiving rock
stab stones beneath fingernails
cut the quick and pack with dirt.
pry and force then heave the body up.

repeat.

thin air cannot fill to capacity
lungs which crave more oxygen
than their shape can stand to keep.
another foot, another five.
repeat.
repeat.
repeat.

The whipping Wind and Its gentle Breezes call
                                 whispering of wings, aeries and westerlies.

scorn the Voice and clamber on, this vertical my only chance
to gain ground, gain purchase, gain peace.
devoted to this ritual of pull and ******, panic and strive
a wreckage of creature-form smeared across the escarpment.
grapple for territory but don't look down--
below is the Dark
i thought i left so far below.
it haunts my shadow, dogs my ragged breaths
it's gaping maw hangs open, ready
to swallow me whole.

The Wind beckons:
                         Let go.
                           The dark follows all who try to scale the face.
                                                           ­                   Let go and I will catch you.

"No.
I've come so far.
I've earned too much."
broken knuckles and gashed shins scream
at the injustice of this siren call
to fail, to quit, to concede my only way to the summit
and now it is nearer than ever---
though to my eyes it remains the nightmare
it has always seemed.

Rest and breathe.
         Feel you form and know yourself.
                        You were not built to climb and crawl;
                        You are no worm nor serpent.
What have you done to your skin that it does not feel?
What have you done to your eyes that they cannot see?

that melodic muttering rustles within
stirring something deep below my wind beaten flesh--
STOP.
Cram shut ears and struggle on, and do not hear Wind's whisper.
Ascend though arms seem insufficient to the task.
raking desperately with bloodied fingers against the wall
a sudden answering rip sears across the back.
white hot pain etches its sign into weathered skin
and is then soothed by a flowing trickle of warmth.
scarlet drips onto my legs, my heels
staining, painting treacherous footholds
as marrow pulls against my spine
in shapes heavy and cramped
in their first taste of life.

swoon, overtaken by the struggle so long nursed against the rock
and the war of transformation waged against shoulder blades--
vision blurs then swirls
hands grip then slip
seek then lose
frantic, thrashing about for a hold:
                                                           ­  no promise given by the stone.
f
a
   l
     l
       i
         n
            g
             plummeting
               unstoppable
                 acceleration


Let go, arms outstretched.
                         This action, flight's only catch.

the Wind's plea scarcely able to be disobeyed
let go or fall, i am lost to the cliff all the same.
soaring downward masses at my back
snap and crunch taking shape
though dripping still from their curious birth
                                                           ­             
                                                                ­            hopeless now but to trust
                                                           ­      to try in ways so unlike striving
                              

*and let the Wind take me.

you cannot escape poetry.

there’s poetry in the uneven streets of *Salcedo.
just to exhibit, ogle at the preen park
  and watch the ravenous trees write in a treatise:
    only shadows are engraved. gravity, their paperweight.
there’s poetry on the oncoming figure,
  a woman in a pencil skirt, disfiguring herself
to pick up her wallet – she wrote herself in cursive,
    cruising in front of the aperture, a form of C in crescendo,
then jackknifes back to slender posture reaching for the sky,
    arms to sides like armaments poised to strike.
making itself known through whimsical imperatives,
   the wind that bludgeons the trees, and smites the poles:
      written in hieroglyphic – the fall of leaves and the felled
  ash of morning, deepening in its station.
you cannot escape poetry
    whereas, I start remembering you without consolation.
  the sudden onset of your memory thrusts through
       the escarpment following a steep descent towards
           my body, a figurine, without water.
you will die here. and from what has been retained,
      will arrive the inescapable.

In a lost paradise where the sea shrinks with feminine conscience, compassionate flashes are ratified in each groove and I calculate footage, this previous present attracts the magnanimous representation of the lightning emission of its speech representing itself where the queen judges the king Consummatum Est, with little difference from culinary art and its very dense genre. Here is the carious aspect of the bluish faskéloma or exasperating of the paws that move the occasional ones in sub-vibrations softening in the shiny mark of the sessile columns in consistency of its weak receptive propagation and masculine science, lacking what prospers with moist regulars of flashes that are cooling from their imbibition. With thousandths of his enchanted parasitizing and prior ego I wonder afterwards not far from a Para-Celestial and sacrilegious lore of Lochnith; Who, what and where would have been able to support such or such, rising on the beams and girders that make a whole for an inaccurate Menthe, going to the arcane of the seventh external love with clear magenta lights, on rounded ultraviolet reliefs, here is where everything lulls from the adverb Eleusis, seething with a consonant flight that suffocates in spite of a Pseudo Vernarthian, where it will go without any exception disrupting the courses of hesitation, leaving no more the divine portent and going back to the loaded Cibatus or barley in northwests that flatten ultra winter, mowed down to its glacial bluish water discharge in unequal thickening of fast secrets with thirds of vox with bordering called in pair of trios, and symbolic of a reborn flashed subsoil of a lifetime swollen in its low course and ministerial occultation that isolates itself on Patmos. The skies were beaten where nothing germinates from dreams waiting for thousands of those like me with acute senses of the Anthesterion, or of March taking me towards an enigma not posed even if it is not clarified yet not resigning from love or smelling in the singular uni-lunar desolate with venerable fulminations and inquinas of the branch of the bakchoi, which was whistled by an Aulós that was remade generic when restarting fasting from a day rebuked and repaid in the emaciated Cibatus. Such light grasses were polarizing prohijadas when recovering from resounding beginnings of the rhizomatous aromatic nuance, and from super life machined from the metallic oscillation of the fires and rites ruined in the aromatic arthrophagous of Lochnith, nauseating at night in flowing enigma and gramineous rictus, intermingling while he longed for the ritual and his graceful plumes in feasts that honored his Canephores transferring mead towards the bakchoi psychic adept revealing himself from the masculine to the feminine in aqueous positive bed and supra negative redemption, which was fading into sharp matter attended while the world was created that they would live with more than forty stratagems, seeing themselves praised before their eminent Truth. Myself…being its own tyranny…, which erects whoever classifies it sacramental, and notices the squalid lack of control of its barbarism flash when I still pursue the darkness of my purge that is falling even without finding where to do it, falling however from its end and of guilty thunderous glances..., what more public decree do I wish, for more rituals that you have close to you when feeling sharp minorities of its aftertaste although in double life and night your memory continues to spy on whoever denatures you from the paganism of Lochnith, more than a proselyte , plus that a lien conceived in dethroned galleys of homeland and fusca haze. Meanwhile, quantities of Omphalos from the ego micro center are distancing themselves from mine, my faded lost throne hallucinates lost knowing that it is a probable sculpted flash subject to the gleaning of the Cibatus in fraction of the cereal ritual, and of sanctified illumination with tableares that have to dwell all the times that they revive from the vivid purple red, and from the debtor clairvoyant mystery sky that is reviving in the revealed luminescence that throws it in ornate nickels and acidic rattles at midnight falling on a positive particle devoid of yours returning to mine, and preparing for the flashing praise that pigeonholes him from his crippled fallacious and previous theory suggested after favors by not being reconverted. Lochnith capitulate capitulation suffers from glare towards her beloved, placing his phalanges on circular and angular waves on the virtual milky river of Eleusis caressing her face and glare from her. “I, Lochnith, was on the cliff with my Canephor Aerse, near his Athenian paternal landlord, I was going to say goodbye to myself and carelessness, not being able to see myself in the reflection of the water separated from my ego, knowing that Aerse would not choose me, much less to my abandoned superior.

In Keri on the Island of Zakynthos, I synchronized the fall of Aeschylus in Leucas, which perhaps without my local would offend me by reputation and snoop on cliffside suicides that only see nascent effigies of the bakchoi as a potion for serials of life and cities of the incongruous dramatic space , where its tragedy and antithesis do not fit in the basket carried by my priestess Aerse. I am flying over the structures of the acropolis, not yielding as a deity who prophesies where there is no room for the world in which she and I can inhabit. Lochnith, jumped after her as she was falling down the frontispiece of the cape..., She watched him as he fell..., forbidding to skew him from his gestures and get close to her so as not to fall where the wind is more docile and free, intervening with pashkein inclination or entangling them of the vipers and rims of the heroic hair in a condition of evanescent reckless touch against her suitor, trapping her from the Omphalus that she had tied to her neck transferred from brilliant didactics before a puerile boxing of vicissitudes, and spring flower shops next to the flayed serpents of Persephone and Kashmar floating on the Lilies of Aerse. Prey to the escarpments and cliffs, she remained possessed among the sedimentary dolomites that emanated near her veins before plunging down the steep side in over cascading prayers for her, always knowing that he would love her on a singular base of enchantments while he looked smiling before fall yielded In the end, forty-one seconds she was thrown off the cliff..., Lochnith passes from one end to the other the Omphalus of her neck by a lofty plume ready for love, imagining herself in the midlands of a ruthless positive affection of the mysterious flashing Eleusino, and by the divided ***** that took them as they fell into a splendid world with serials and images of Aerse, tied to the prehensile sacrifice and the cold hand of Lochnith, together as they fell between their subconscious selves, becoming heaped and vivid as something plunged towards them fleetingly, knowing that he I was going to survive him.

Lochnith's gleam was northwest of Athens once lost in the scrupulousness of a pagan polis and cult that kept docked in the sands to find her on the cliffs of the acropolis, where they had lost each other after two thousand years since they Theodosius abolished by decree the rituals of Eleusis. With revulsion and unprecedented insight, Aerse remained a recluse with excessive eagerness to self-eliminate, possessing for both the due imagination that he had possessed of the devoid neckline of the omphallus causing the inclination of the avalanche and their bodies towards where they supposedly would land on the divine and Dionysian path which leads to the eschatological of Vernarth's Diokitis. Apparently they were leaving as a result of an immortal Vernarthian existential catastrophe or decline, at the same time of a rhythmic alkaloid hemlock with its Achene that carried them for any pretense by being triggered towards the meeting with Persephone without her or he knowing why to fester at Eleusinos as Lochnith and Aerse in a single concentric whole, and quantum beings of the octagonal by the straight or transversal line that slipped into the hypotenuse at the instant that they were conceived implicitly as they took him from relapses when he went towards Aerse, after winding up from his conclave Hypomorphic writing and Magna Mater Misterica. Under the established power of his ministerial, the redemption that went in adjoining the ins and outs was consigned to resurface from the subgenre, and from himself procreating exultation with the analogs of Vernarth that were prolonged in excremental purges and disagreements of the cult of what should be twisted in the ****** of the magnetic genre and of positive tendency that would be eternalized after the cessation of the active decrees by Theodosius. Eminently Aerse suffered on some semi-dead watery slabs next to Vernarth, she remained after the agreement to centralize what irradiated her humanly as semi-Itheoi from a reinforced gender that was cohesive in retrograde worship to achieve pre-flowering in all the springs of the world, where they could be seen together with Persephone in the finnis that was distanced ultra terrestrial towards a dowry of profusion and disproportionate wealth, not being categorized as a mystery rather as an unknown of a super method of rummaging in the lanterns where no reflection of Aerse could to be found by Lochnith after getting lost in the polychrome figures of the acrotera, lying in watery nitrosities on the escarpment of the cliff. Physiology will influence Eleusis with systematic naturalness for the active hydrogenated elements, and of such unknown prebiotics or phyto-estrogens where remnants of the great sepulcher of humanity are manifested, as it is found to rise from the true hecatomb of July with a hundred halters arranged with foreign beings towards the oasis of transition. The little will of the annals will multiply in millennia of obscurantism, taking him in transit to a more exciting late management by harassing the search for Aerse in a clear mystery already in the jaws of a clamoring night by the reefs of Demeter for those who know about Persephone! even being with the inventive fallacy of a addicted spirit in correlation to the rite and its lineage. Every night that he convalesces, he will look sleepless with the servile promise of divinity from a vision that fades from the winepress and the Boedromion party, moving from the born ****** position of a hierophant towards the mold that dies and that does not renew itself from Boedromia itself. The representation of Aerse was reflected with transfused majolica and Eleusinian threads when she was seen walking from the beginning floating remotely in the meadows of the knoll, from which the cyclical anagram of the lost cliff rises when it separates from its Adonis being able to expose them in mythological treachery and transcended from epic truth to be related to the treaty between Zeus, Hades and Demeter for the rescue of Persephone after being dented from the beginning of the arcana that sprouted from a distorted symptomatology. She aerse carried the flayed serpents even on her body as if she should look for them in an omnipotent volatile gray so that it would come out by itself and be unguarded by her gone eyes, witnessing secrets and resting in anarchy from where there is not and will not be. Archon or governor What a mesmerizing problem is improvised from second after third that provoke astonishment to see him in the course that he could not have of his cursed detection! Aerse was beginning as a curious Canephore, he came to meet his ephebes Lochnith after excessive self-inferred hypotheses by following him at her command detailing the Kykeon that paled her psychotropically from a discarded and mineral exhibition, of which she would be devoured by the numinous portent of the Mashiach with his Sunday appearance or concerning the numen manifested with the eternal powers in front of the hieratic presence of the man who looked at her paternally, with a crass profile like a Damian Hessian drawing them in, plotting in a colossal fascinating stealth. Here she wraps him up but does not approach him and falls, lost in love, such a Faustus dilemma, granting herself at the initiation of the portal of the twelve lunar months in Eleusis, with immutable years and origins where they will bounce to meet in childhood that made them known as Aerse and Lochnith . Here in the greatest trance of life, both would begin to overcome all the twists and turns of the gestated gloom that separated them due to the shaken annoyance and confusion still divergent in sediments of runoff and bark oscillations that emerged from the unevenness of the acropolis, until a meeting in the amazing light and divine libertarian of two tendernesses, and martyrdoms that purely push them back towards a new end of the muddy gleam in a found paradise where the sea unfolds by male consciousness and is ratified mercifully in each flash of the striated. They will meet again in similar attachments divided by the fluctuating one who unmasks the one who drives him away with his dominant ******, and ill-advised caudal space seducing the contiguous public and private astral bodies that have never been coarse or dissimilar in ablution or sacraments of gods the pagans, everywhere nor whatever its fragmented remains by the gullies and ravines of the Kêphisos. After the remnants in politics, the desolate serpents of Aerse flowed down the river, as a link section that declared itself from an initial that was an evident flash that enveloped them as a cardinal canon with bucolic politics in all the nearby regions. Athenians, after the vertiginous regressive parapsychology like an Eleusino flahsback or Anadromí sto Parelthón Eleusia, with the visualizations of Aerse and Lochnith when they follow each other through the learned induction of feedback that was arranged in the inclinations of both, refining their morphological bastimento for the purpose of instituting them as articulators of the evocation of the millennia. Prophecies were reported from the 8th century BC. with ends, and interprocesses of the eternal in the unknown mystery that began to be clarified with the reinvented personality of the amendment of Life and Expiration experienced with Lochnith of the month of Boedromia, fleeing from a federated Polis that would be unified to a substantial dimension and of sacred Eleusinian space with brand new warmongering for the culminations of being incorporated into the Hexagonal Primogeniture integrated in this way in the indissoluble ephemeris of foundation and hegemony of the Megaron or Opisthodomos of Patmos. This is thanks to the beaten serpents that were nesting the reanimates of the question with subterfuges that make the widths of inter-pairs prevail, which are consolidated as a reality of session and space, agreeing on the defeated parapsychological memory or future in the economy of two resignation blocks of the repealed Sacred Space, in consensus of the beams of the Vernarth Military Command forging from the beating sacralized ***** that cultly intensified from its mysterious nature and territorial domesticity to come from the attracted Agoras that were repositioning themselves with the metaphysical agents that they will be restored in the polis with the scope of furrowing in a civic action induced towards someone who virtually recognizes him in the purge of the exclaimed strangers. More ardent passion was added to receive them even being wary of further mutations vibrated with the Faskéloma, or exasperating that moves the tint of the occasional vibrations, similar to the tendencies of the Sacred Space of Gethsemane, with the disastrous passing of the aqueous levels of the Kêphisos, which it would mean the presumptive ordinal of unreal historical worlds. The parapsychology of space was absorbed with torched quadrilaterals that were hanging from the invoked meditation, they were lying on futile folders and anodyne Aerse molecules, which were still welcomed by the magical exposed extra-corporeal substances that were deduced as they were experiencing unprecedented transit preserved of the eccentric deconcentrated radio of the refurbished of the spectral chromatic. The precipitated mental field dared to invade boldly towards another unheard-of generator that dissipated between Aerse and Eurydice coming near the Coasts of Patmos, coming from hypothetical planes that flow for their definitive moderated unions. The static refluxes bounced in simultaneity of bilocation of the Eleusinian exordia that were exorbitating each other with the rollers that were uncrossing the corporeal margins that concelebrated the quantum crankshaft, and the fibrous distinction that was teleporting the rescue rituals unforeseen astrological

Lochnith says: “in the proximity of the mortuary reality there will be no hesitation outside of our body and geodesy of our lost zafral or of lives in transit sub or supra quantum, obsessing in the eyes of erudition and unknowns, while our contraption self-obstructs with our electromagnetic sensory interactions paraphrasing in the convoluted distance and residues of related-metaphysical electros that are reconverted into the appearance of a premonition” The ligation of the arteries of Cephisus carried the emanations of Lochnith to love him in a healing act suspended with beings devoid of physicality, on the way to specters and healings of a perverse, to repair his extra-corporeal suffering confined to those who condescend to the androecium and gynoecium as a unit of mental physical motor gender, at the instant of the exacerbated and ectoplasmic world regulated by means of the Vernarth regression that was going lowering your blood pressure, increasing your red blood cells side effect rivers intertwined with Eurydice and Aerse in the opening Othon, directed at Vernarth's outcomes that came in the bow of the super-aqueous ship with some fabrics from the ship's stowage directing the speculative and autonomous advance that was already dispersing in the waves. Dead cells of the right Lynothorax,  A savvy military mancomunal became syncretic with Lochnith, he was determined to continue reinstalling us in his white blood cells that rose when it was already dawn on the shores of independent Skalá, and in the circled cohorts of Phalanxes and Psiloi that accompanied him in minutes that seemed millennia, all succumbing to the physical dismay of the underlying necrosanct and telepathic prayer that took place at the dawn of parapsychology trances cysts of recovery that descended on them in pure novel regenerative membranes, persé of merciful acts that became thick in the flashes when freezing from the weightless rays of the ultraviolet, which was separating between Sóma and Gnómi or corporal opinion that was joining synthetic networks with indefinite emissaries and receptors, subsequent bodies of the Bachkoi chemist, already deficient for a compensatory universe and varieties that were taking shape in a disintegrated emotional quantum world. Each time the bodies were reinserting themselves into the full unknown and subjective material, the concrete material united in the network with each other as a single force was transforming into the greatest passion and sparkle among their own, reinstalling themselves in the Super Egos.

In the Latest Minute Dogmate according to the rictus mortis thesis, the globules would move like a big explosion interacting with everything, so starting everything from the beginning of nothing to the indivisible with optional digits of coincidence or inseparable digitized, such a phenomenon of meekness of aligning times were massified with the probability of finding them in the vestige of real anomalous presences that occurred millions of light years ago. Aerse replies: “My admiration, the sparkle has a measure of astral body in reason of the vigor that underlies reiterated expiation and measurable virtuosity in its perfection of semblance p and corporal providence, inquired of being transformed far from disaffection rather than a continuous healing . The smallest and most coherent in the fabulous Griffins will join my clairvoyant and component with the ballast of his final game, not reflective of another who can measure or predict him for an undivided being. But I am already here, and I am your infinite…, I no longer know of other bad illusions of trying to separate myself from this life of what Eleusis is, perhaps a cosmic coarse that is and was in all time that passes speculatively, for this flash that is reflects whether it pales visible or not, I hope it will be compact on our intertwined attachments”
As living organisms, various life methods will be postulated as an initiative in the announced Big Bang, for the profit of those who are real close and real logotypes of resonant neuroscience as a daring that will influence the progeny, for ****** volumes, exonerations of bearers experiences and evolutionary lives of the emitter outside of an ignored Parthenon, since the gender of the world is also associated with random ambiguities from anode to cathode, positive-negative towards a Hellenic parallelism of roots in life dressed with lasting vernacular inheritances. Much of Lochnith's electro-dermal conglomerate was in full congruence with retrograde Eleusian parapsychology propagating from Vernarth's Invisible Eclectic Portal, which was nebulously teleported down the Kêphisos River with saprophytic living organisms acknowledging it in indigenous originality. of the species of reborn Vernarth, and super regulation of the euphemism and mysterious underworld below their protocols.

Revelations of the mental-material, made reluctance and support of the estrangement of inviolate perceptions, precognitions, telepathies and premonition, which debuted in this intrepid adventure intuiting in perpetuity with the sensory corridors and interferences of a reality of body in an explosive world incontestable. Lochnith, was already in possession of a hypnotic mental reincarnation formula in the form of neuroscience vessels close to scarecrows of expiration, allocating the subsequent locks of an enlightened decency of the ethereal sleepy baggage and the oracular review. The more we experience the laws that explain his prodigies, the more our perspective of media and complete fiction will increase in something that begins to be typical of the laurel of a true slowed-down ******-kinetic process. Within the curvature and the dim light that remained in the Lochtian days, normality returned to them after this long epitome in the parapsychological biosphere, and the intriguing contemplation and even mischievous tenuity of idea that can die suddenly, after self-incubate in the intangible coexisting passage and medication rupture of lived art with alien morbid beings. For a character archetype, it is only known that reaping is consuming capital from the disruption of a non-profit loss and its incontrovertible paranormal, which is paranormal and parapsychological from the plane of posterity of life, which will be an act of peaceful coexistence in playful spirits, compensating for seclusion in the vaults of an involutionary dramatic past, if its material or monad (spiritual) is not dissected in the cosmic train of perception of unfolding, and of the concept of purging energy that goes out of its way in its seventh heaven. The hypnosis of death and purgation to whoever requires it in the convoy of their conscience continues to be a tiny unruly space that transports us physically, reverting to minimums that are neutralized in alien foundlings. From an aedicule depository to an empty body that is neither independent nor from the lord who claims it (V.g. aedicule of José de Arimatea). The impersonal voices that officiated at the ritual of Eleusis were heard far beyond those who could hear them merely with memorable spaced therapies, recording themselves in interspersed layers of sounds and imprecise electroacoustics in the serial of an alarming complex frequency of the regenerative stumble in an organism of Continuous movement. Everything spreads in bends of abstraction that revives those who promote the perfection of marigolds like buttercups that they wear in the clothing of the Canephores like Aerse, but soulful and latent ephemeral of the ethereal alchemical entitative of ignored molecules. Lochnith says: “My submission heals, it no longer maintains being far from who represents it and where it comes from, I know that its remains in me do not reason, clarifying more my journey towards the crown and vilifications of a nascent humanity that mourns me, and that does not recognizes by rebelling in my desires to attract him"
the sky closes in vermilion digression and you inquire that they should answer for the silence of confusion in the parapsychological aqueducts of Athens with Patmos. The organization of the Sacred Space starts with the bizarre totemic quantum by sacred paths, Megarons, fictitious hunting places, double surrounding lunar ring, curves of virtual walls, Propylaea to embrace the Vernarthian enigma and finally the Telesterion that received Vernarth with a naked torso that perched in front of Aerse and Lochnith, looking at them towards the futuristic survival with five digits in a quarter of the waning of his right hand containing the small coat of Betelgeuse and the Pleiades in inklings of the umpteenth apocalyptic Megaron of Patmos. Scrupulosity as an Electro-Eleusian placebo effect, went alone, dismissing itself in the singular of a Templar niche and towards a Megaró-Omega Telesterion for catechized who endowed themselves with super-resident halos and litters of priesthoods that fled in terror from the Aerse-Lochnith fusion, prior to each rudeness and their contours swearing eternal exaltation and idealism, to be reconverted into individuals saved and votive to love each other with third parties, escaping from small frames that still did not hold up from the ecumenical mess.