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177

Ah, Necromancy Sweet!
Ah, Wizard erudite!
Teach me the skill,

That I instil the pain
Surgeons assuage in vain,
Nor Herb of all the plain
Can Heal!
Emmky Aug 2018
Gently part my almost see-through skin with a scalpel
As I watch your trembling hands cut deeper into my torso
Take my bones and open my delicate rib cage without breaking
Where my trapped heart is welcoming worms, beating weakly

And I'll caress your cheeks twitched in disgust by what you see
Rotting mess inside my body, just pull it out and wrap it in a cloth, put it in a jar
Stuff my chest with your pieces, wishes and expectations
Only to be disappointed in me and my love again

For I gently tug at your sleeve and ask in a small voice
If you could make me dead and numb for a while, so I could rest
Because I wasn't born for warm and tickly feelings inside my tummy and chest
For loving in the way romantic books portrait and movies make standard

And I try to laugh it off whenever I don't feel so well from what you've put into me
So you won't scar my ******* but you find out and do the procedure anyway
But I never say anything, though it makes me sad you hate your art
I guess it can't be helped if the person you love is dead no matter how hard you tried

Can you hear my bones softly crying in summer breeze as they're healing
And can you feel my fear whenever your fingers trace my neck
Still continue to pick perfect heart in exchange for mine
That you buried to hide and I dug up without you knowing

“Fixing me” is your explanation, no hint of sorry in your eyes to be seen
But I was never broken in the first place, so what's there to fix in me?
You took me apart, stuffed like a teddy bear and sewn together so I could be torn apart again
Though you're always failing, you keep trying to find a way to make it work

Everytime I see red streams flowing from my wounds you assure it's alright
And that you'll try your best tomorrow to find my love in the Valley of the Dead for I lost it there
But why would you do it if you love me the way you say you do
Why would you put me through the things you put me through

I'm the one to believe my crows when they say that they saw
You tried to **** my heart so there's no going back, happened many times before
But you can't **** anything that's already dead
So keep your so-called necromancy tricks to yourself

If your love really was like necromancy, I wouldn't need a different heart to know
The pureness of another human's feelings they adore me with
That cause my chest to blossom and throat to sing freely
If your love really was like necromancy, I wouldn't feel so cold and barren in my own skin
For my past and future lovers
Nicklaus Bailey Oct 2019
1-Establish Lux as a farmer with his brother, father, mother. Show dissatisfaction at a lot in life, yearning for more, however Lux feels compelled to stay with family and help them. Establish a close relationship between the brothers, a good mother/son relationship, though a testy relationship with his father. Strange symbol branded on Lux’s chest, been there since he was a baby, no one is sure what it means- or no one is telling him. This is Lux’s L.S. beginning. Establish also is the world Lux is in, the facts of the ministry and the church, the knights and wars of before.
2-Introduce a festival in town with knights from “The Brotherhood” being present, establish them as knights capable of magic and swordplay, “The Brotherhood” knights are taking new recruits at the festival. Wanting to join, Lux goes through the trials and passes, though after a harsh reaction from his father, Lux does not leave with the knights. With Lux out of scene, a conversation between the mother and father should reveal the man is not in actuality Lux’s father, but his uncle, and his brother had been married to Lux’s mother (now his wife) though died fighting in a war between “The Brotherhood” as a member of their ranks, against a rival faction known as “The Order”  peak lux’s curiosity and focus on the desire to leave as established in the previous chapter. This and the next chapter are Lux’s “Go The Distance”
3-The end of the week long festival nears, and Lux is on a hunting trip with his younger brother, returns and is questioned by his father why he wants to leave so much. The truth of Lux’s true father is revealed, and though Lux’s uncle expected this to convince Lux to stay and not go into danger, Lux is angered rather, and leaves in a hurry to catch “The Brotherhood” knights before they leave. Lux is put under the tutelage of a man who claims to have known Lux’s father, though it is revealed Lux’s little brother followed him, and is taken into the recruit pool as well, despite never going through the testing. Note- perhaps have Lux refuse to go with the knights if his brother is not also offered a spot? Hero’s journey, he needs a moment of hesitation and refusal to go. This should be reflected like Lukes refusal to join ben, or Bilbos refusal of gandalf, but quickly change their minds.
4-Training begins the moment they arrive at a camp. Lux and his brother are immediately outfitted with leather armor, dark and gritty in contrast of the shining metal of the rest of the knights. Lux is doing well in training, sword play coming natural, shakey with a bow, and ofcourse a natural talent at magic, (though make a point that in fire spells Lux only manages to start small flames that he can throw, and struggles with healing magic) though his brother is struggling in all aspects and is beat by his trainer. Lux’s trainer urges Lux to ignore it,though Lux finally snaps and challenges the man. The two enter a circle made in the dirt with training swords, and though Lux appears to have the advantage at first, he is quickly beaten and left gasping and ****** on the floor. The trainer leaves Lux there, and soon a hand reaches down to Lux. A female trainee named Ciara picks up Lux and, joined by his brother, the three wander off for more training for the instructors. Introduce Peter, a man deeply infatuated by Ciara, rather than a knight Peter is a Father to the holy church, unable to fall in love and forbidden to marry. Subtle on Peter’s infatuation with Ciara, should really build Peter as a good friend to Ciara,
5. Lux, his trainer, CIara, and her trainer are all out in the forest doing patrol after reports that remnants of “The Order” have picked up their pace in activity in the surrounding areas, raiding small towns and taking young men and women as recruits. Lux and Ciara are separated for a time and grow closer through talk and laughter when they see two knights in armor that is shining silver on almost the entire body though the right arm and pec are a scarlet red, drinking water from a stream. Confirming with each other that is the description of “The Order” Ciara says they should find their trainers though Lux charges. Ciara is close behind, catching the two off guard. Both are quickly overpowered through the use of advanced magic from “The Order” but Ciara’s trainer jumps in, kills one, but is killed by the second. As he turns, Lux throws his dagger and hits the man in the eye, killing him. Lux and Ciara carry her trainers body back to camp. Ciara refuses to speak and when greeted at the gate by Peter, she embraces him and cries into his shoulder. Have both Lux and Ciara attempt healing magic to no avail. Have Lux grow frustrated at feeling the ABILITY to heal, but unable to do so.
6. Lux is punished for charging, while his trainer is taken to a secret meeting where they discuss what to do with Lux, but out of respect for his father, they keep him in “The Brotherhood”. Lux has not seen Ciara since the incident, though he can see her in the crowd when he is being taken to be whipped, and receives 10 lashes, to Peter’s dismay who recommends either banishment or death. After the punishment, he is cut loose from the posts holding him up and Lux’s brother charges the ground, picking his brother up and taking him to his bed. As they pass Lux manages an apology, but is unsure if she accepts it. Lux is informed she will be trained alongside him. Make Peter do some ******* **** idk. Resenting “The Brotherhood” Lux should vent to his brother about his growing distrust of the situation, asking if his brother has felt the growing gap between what they feel they can do, and what they can do.
7. Show training between Lux, Ciara, and brother, distinguish a growing connection between Lux and Ciara, much to Ciara’s surprise and reluctance. Show Lux go into his trainers room while he is absent, and sees a sword on the wall, bearing a strange symbol. Lux trainer will explain that the sword should belong to Lux as it was his fathers, and when it is time he will inherit the blade but for now he must leave the blade alone. Lux asks about the situation behind his father's death. Explain the following: The Brotherhood were not always the knights guarding the royal family, before his birth the royal family was guarded by The Order, who are the reason The Brotherhood practice both swordplay and magic, as the Order are master swordsman and powerful wizards, prolific in blood magic and necromancy. When one member of The Order desired the throne for himself, he split The Order in 2. The Brotherhood worship the Gods, but in his desire and lust for power, the man struck a deal with the old gods, evil barbaric entities who require blood and death as sacrifices for their eternal power. This is Nero, a man that Lux’s father took in and treated as a brother, both being trained as knights for The Order. During the civil war, Nero attacked the Royal Palace and though he was badly defeated, he did **** Lux’s father in the battle. End chapter on this story. This chapter should be shows as Lux is uncertain of The Brotherhood and his trainer, but with the story of his father, he is conflicted. If it is true, then they are just. If it is wrong, how many more lies has he been told?
8. Show Lux becoming prolific with a blade and very intimidating magically. When he, Ciara, and his brother are sent on a mission with no trainers for the first time, Lux naturally takes charge. They track knights of The Order down to a cave, where they are tested both physically and magically. Ciara and Lux both protect brother as much as they can, though brother is able to hold his own. They manage to corner one who instead of being taken prisoner, stabbed himself in the stomach after giving an ominous warning. As Lux approaches the body, he sees on the cave wall a crude drawing of a man with the same symbol on his chest as Lux’s, holding a sword with the same symbol as Lux’s fathers, a figure resembling a large black and red dragon behind the man. Dismissing it, Lux tells Ciara and brother to not bother approaching, and the last of the knights are dead. The report back to base, and Lux informs trainer of what happened, leaving out the symbol.
9. Word carries out on base that more and more caves are being found with members of The Order, all with strange paintings on the walls. Peter speaks with the knights, explaining he has been praying and granted visions of a large scale battle. Have Ciara grab Lux’s arm at the sound of war, which Peter will notice (important for later) and in a hesitation to prepare for a battle that may or may not come, the commander of the camp demands the trainees be knighted, their proper gear be made, and to meet with the main force.
Cut from Lux to Peter alone in a church, praying to the Holy Mother begging for guidance away from the desires of his heart, and in his prayers Peter slowly realizes that he will not give up his desire for Ciara and decides to betray the Brotherhood in hopes Lux may die and he may be able to gain Ciara’s affection. Peter is seen leaving by Lux, though when questioned says he is going for more Fathers to pray and meditate on the matter.
10. Peter tracks down members of The Order, informing them that he wishes to give them valuable information, surrendering to them. Peter is taken to the leader of the knights operating in the area, and in exchange for one thing, is willing to tell The Order where The Brotherhood is, where they are going, their numbers, and anything else that will be of use. All he wants is them to make Ciara fall in love with him./ While Peter is doing this, Lux is kneeling in front of his trainer who knights him with fathers sword. (maybe do a crusader knight knighting, this is oath/this is how you remember it) When Lux is handed his father's sword, the cold metal instantly feels warm and the grip adjusts to his fingers and though it looks heavy, appears just the right weight to Lux. Lux is given armor, though when he takes his shirt off he sees the symbol on his chest glowing, same as the symbol on the sword. Trainer only says “magic is a strange thing, boy” and Lux is put into armor and finally leaves the shed a knight after only 2 months of training./back to Peter who is given a potion, told to have Ciara drink it and leave with her before they make their move. As Peter leaves, the leader barks orders to men who address him as Nero. Perhaps instead of Peter getting the potion straight from Nero, have him get it on a witch in the woods who is secretly affiliated with Nero, have to work out how she gets the information from Peter, but she could use magic to contact Nero after. Perhaps part of the agreement is Peter must turn his back on his abandoned faith and be her student and as a test of loyalty he must tell her everything he knows.
11. As The Order masses its numbers, knights of the Brotherhood are entering the giant city dedicated to The Brotherhood(Remulus? Romulus?) and Lux is in awe as he sees the a giant palace, and near it a graveyard with tombs. The tombs are the resting place of knights of The Order who gave their lives in service to the royal family, and now knights of The Brotherhood join their numbers. A newly marked grave is standing as a monument to Ciara’s trainer. The day is given to them to explore the city, and Lux/Ciara are alone together. Share a kiss. Witnessing the kiss, Peter comes from the shadows and informs them that curfew is near, and they should be heading back to the castle/as Peter watches the two make way to the castle laughing/holding hands, he heads to a monastery. He kneels before a picture of his god, praying asking to be told what to do. He knows he is a man of faith, so why are lust and desire even capable of entering his heart? He begs for pardon from sin as he sets his heart on giving Ciara the potion.
12. Now that the trainees have been knighted and the generals have been informed of Peter’s vision, prepare for war. The inhabitants of the city and many villages around are all pulled into the Castle’s walls, able bodied men and boys are given swords, women and girls find refuge in the newly emptied dungeons (all criminals hung/drafted?) Lux is witness to a battle plan, and overhears that during the last battle at the capitol city, The Order had used dragons to its aid, and though there were no confirmed sightings of dragons now, The Brotherhood should still set up catapults and bastilles on the off chance. Lux finds his brother and Ciara and informs them of what he has heard, though Peter comes and informs them that Lux must just be tired from nerves, and no one has seen a dragon in a generation. End with Ciara stopping a near brawl between the two, and Lux heading to his bed alone, and Peter now with Ciara, when a sound fills the halls. Scouts are reporting a massive army on the outskirts of the city.
13. Rain. Silence. Lux, Ciara, and his brother are among the numbers at the front gate. Rain hitting the ground. Hitting armor. Men are vomiting. Peter along with other priests are swinging burning incense between the rows of men, chanting prayers and songs of their god. Pounding. Pounding so hard that when it hits the front gate, the rain flies off the door and hits Lux’s face. Lux looks to his brother. The two nod. Lux looks into Ciara’s eyes. The two kiss. Confess love. The gate is broken open and the war begins with a thunderous roar in the sky, a dragon spewing fire on archers perched on castle walls as troops charge. Lux and the other knights hold their positions with a great clash the two armies finally meet. In screaming and fighting, Lux loses his brother, and The Brotherhood are pushed back, further and further. Lux manages to grab Ciara’s arm and the two run to a set of stairs going down to one of the dungeon entrances to warn the others that they are losing, when the dragon knocks over a giant pillar, stones hitting the two. Lux stays conscious from the first hit, and sees Peter approaching an unconscious Ciara with the potion in hand. Stuck beneath rubble, Lux watches as Peter pours it in her mouth and wakes her with a kiss. Begging Ciara for help frantically, she walks away with Peter, and as Lux cries out for his brother, more stones hit, causing him to go unconscious.
14. Lux awakens in an unfamiliar setting, on his knees. His hands shackled to the wall, his armor and sword feet in front of him, a man standing behind them. The man asks if Lux knows who he is. Looking up, Lux can see from the torches a tired face. Shaking his head, the man informs Lux, “I am Nero, commander of The Order, Captain of the Conquered Reaches, and rightful heir to the throne. And you are Lux. My nephew,” Nero smiles, touching Lux’s face. Accusing Nero of killing his father, Nero softens his eyes at Lux and stops moving. A look of sadness. “Your father's mistake is the single most regrettable accident in my life,” tells Lux more and more about his father. Informs Lux why the symbol is on his chest. Its magically bonded to the blade. It makes blood magic more powerful. Nero then informs Lux that his father had found a dragon egg just like Nero did, as Nero pulls the egg from his robes, shiney and black with streaks of scarlet. Nero offers Lux out of this cell, and he will gladly show him the ways of blood magic and make sure that Peter pays for his betrayal of the other knights. “I do not find The Brotherhoods newest members traitors, how can they betray a cause they never were offered? But how do you think we knew you were going to be there when we did? All of this has been for you, Lux.” with a wave of his hand, the shackles fall off Lux’s wrists and he falls forward. Reaching to the egg, Lux hesitates slightly, looking down and seeing his reflection in the water. With a wave of his hand, Nero projects the image of Peter kissing Ciara deeply. “That passion she gives him should be yours. I cannot create love. Only transfer it with a potion. When peter described the man who took his beloved, I should have realized. But together, I can rid the potions course and Peter will pay, Lux,” and as Lux watch Ciara enter Peter’s bed, he firmly grabs the egg, which begins to shake and crack in his hand, emerging a tiny dragon. Nero’s past: Nero will portray his story as such: He discovered that Lux’s mother is the illegitimate daughter of the queen. When Nero went to tell Lux’s father, he was stopped by the queen who attempted to have him killed, for if it was discovered that her late husband had an offspring, she would have a claim to the throne. In the ongoing fight, Nero claims he accidentally killed the queen and was discovered by Lux’s father. The fight was a misunderstanding and he was never able to tell him the truth of his soon to be (pregnant) wife. The split of The Order were those who believed Nero and those horrified at the death of the queen. Nero claims the royals betrayed him and those who followed the truth. Show a refusal to believe at first, though as his imprisonment lasts, and he goes over it again and again in his head, for weeks as Peter gets further away with Ciara, left with visions of Peter and Ciara making love, his Nero pleading with Lux’s father, and the conflict. Ambiguous if this is actually true or just indoctrination.
15. Lux’s training begins immediately. He is placed in the middle of a circle, men attacking from all directions and must fight them off with his blade and newly learned blood magic. Slicing his palm before gripping his blade, the warm metal now burns hot in Lux’s hands, and he drops the blade. Scolded with beatings and lashings, Lux learns how to embrace the pain. Magic flows through him stronger than ever as he adapts. Fire flows from his tips when before he could only manage an ember. He heals fatal wounds when before he could hardly manage a small cuts and broken bones. Lux is routinely beaten and whipped, his dragon growing and watching all the while. Weeks go by. Lux concentrates only on killing Peter and revenge. Pain, anger, and of course blood fuel blood magic to its extremes.
16. Lux’s brother is brought into a small room with other generals who managed to escape the battle of the capitol. He is questioned if he has heard from Lux, Peter, or Ciara as their bodies were never found. All the remaining forces are falling back to the capital, where a final stand will once again be made. Lux’s brother is told he may visit home one last time and must report to the capital in no more than 5 days, and his trainer will accompanying him/Lux is kneeling once again before Nero, though he feels the sword tap either shoulder as he is knighted into the brotherhood. He is given shiney armor and as he puts it on, is instructed to place his sliced palm on the opposite shoulder and watches as his blood flows into the metal, turning that arm and shoulder scarlet red. He is officially in The Order. Lux is tasked with one task to prove his loyalty. **** his stepfather and attempt to convince his mother to come swear loyalty to nero if she refuses, **** her too. If he does that, when he returns his dragon will feed on the personal sacrifice and be ready for battle, and in return Nero will make sure both Peter and Ciara are waiting for him. “It will be done, Lord Nero.” show conflict in Lux if he is truly willing to do all of this, and conflict on loyalty to Nero. The Dragons growth and power is connected to Lux’s ability in blood magic. The more anger, hate, and pain he puts into his abilities, the stronger the dragon will become.
17. Chapter starts with Lux standing outside his old house in the early hours of the morning, the sun peeking out of the mountains but being quickly covered by storm clouds. As darkness settles over the brief light illuminating the house. Lux enters the house. His stepfather enters the room hearing the door open but is grabbed by the throat.during the fighting, Lux manages to strangle his step father and throws his body to the door as his mother is running into the room. As she surveys the situation, there is a cry from the door, and Lux’s brother and trainer are standing in the door, sword in hand. Lux begins to unsheathe his sword but his mother moves between them, talking to the brothers. Lux demands to know from his trainer if what Nero said is true and that his mother is the rightful heir. Confirming Nero’s story partially, though claims that Nero attempted to blackmail the queen with the knowledge of the heir to gain more power. Lux tries to persuade his mother to join him and come be with Nero, that his father would have wanted this. When she refuses, he explains that she would not understand what he HAS to do to end this war, and when he is done the conflict will be resolved and order restored. Argument between lux and brother over oaths broken. Mother approaches Lux, touching his face tenderly speaking softly watching as her son is breaking. She offers him to leave the conflict entirely and to just live home with her, though as she turns to face Lux’s brother, Lux stabs her. Gasping she looks back to Lux, touching his face once more, “You look so much like your father in that armor” Lux , trainer and brother fight, Lux leaves his brother unconscious in the house quickly, though he kills his trainer outside, taking the bodies with him back to Nero.
18.Lux returns to the agreed upon spot to meet Nero, but is instead met by Ciara, who in his confusion and hesitation desperately tries to convince her to leave with him when out steps Peter with a staff in hand, who has now learned the magic of the old gods. When Lux raises his hand, his dragon lands behind him with a mighty roar. With a smirk, peter does the same, and a white and blue dragon lands behind him, a roar just as mighty. The dragons take to the air, circling and roaring, spitting blue and black flames at one another as Lux and Peter fight to the death. Just as Lux manages to defeat Peter after taunting and back and forth, there is a loud crash as Lux’s dragon lands on the other teeth in its neck, ripping its head off entirely. Ciara comes to her senses immediately, seeing Lux in armor of The Order standing over a wounded and ****** Peter, the blood spraying on them. Stepping toward Ciara, Lux is surprised when she steps back in fear. Allowing her to leave, Lux watches as she sprints away. The conversation between Lux and Ciara should be that of both trying to convert the other. When no understanding is made between the two, it is Lux’s love for Ciara that allows her to leave, she sprints to the horses and makes her way back to The Brotherhood. Turning back to a wounded Peter, Lux raises his sword when his eye catches sight of a faint glow on Peter’s chest. Kneeling to rip the man's shirt out of the way, Lux finds the same symbol that is on his sword and own chest. Peter is Lux’s lost twin.
Will add more, unsure how to end the first book. (Have a trilogy in mind)
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.

The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.

A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.



© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A
, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh
John B Jul 2014
Dabbling in daunting errant

Walks the line of sane and saint

Map's of mice and men immortal

"turmoils end or endless toil?"

Journey's end or genocide.....
"More meat for the grinder!"

a description for one of my retro alts figured id post it...
Says Leiak: “I have parleyed with the spirits of Strigoi for more epsilons and nocturnal tenths than of the Vóreios of Zefian, endless in the gloom that have divided the chains, with magic that blinds my eyes in the budding sunrises of Ovid and his horizon, With the Katana of a Lapp warrior between the blades of the benevolent Hagakure of a samurai, between the two flaming zones was the Celestina next to me, to degrade alone and old with her ****** folds, collapsing in frenzy as she lost between her fingers with the whiteness of his ciliates, so that as Celestina was the decoy of the Ars Amandi, Ovidio also appeared on the Mataki tablecloth, without hindrance of the worn and lethargic over-relief between the sheets worn by his thumbs and outer fingers on the sheet of the Ovidian index, prevented from having, and rubbing the Mataki full of colorful eyes to see if the third book walked only on the belly of the Celestinas courtesans, or were a strong choice The omens that Strigoi had already confided to her at the door of his ear, with fribrous and cold astragali that they grafted into the damp darkness of the other bleak wetland of the Mandrake. My stoicism has been extolled with the courtesan in a filial augury with the daughter of Laban, for Jakob's needs after twenty years in Harran, in the antitragus of Raquel's ear and hers desert of kabbalah of hers. Laban made obedience to Mount Gilead a command, before a sub-first-born being pulled on the heels by his brother Esau, fear was another option of the augury of sensitivity that was approaching instead of moving away from a greater panic, if at all. Whoever comes and draws its bellicose root from the complete saying of Yahweh turning his back on demons that imitate him, but not being able to walk like him on the desert without leaving footprints. Leiak had all these spirals of Spartan Mirages, where all boasted of democracies, while others evidently in the land that he watered them by hands that also secured the Xifos with blacksmith and agricultural handles, with riches that only provide wood for ships that Will they never sail, not even in half-freedom from the oligarchic mirage with men of war in the pulp, and that they will walk free in the polis until it puts them in the ****** battle where their bones will trade for soft money or lavish exchange?

The farm wasted to comrades who had crossed the dagger, Leiak after collecting them from the fields that were strewn with bones, wasting statistics with a Republican victory. Where is the money? nor would I want my discouragement to attack affections or stoicisms to be the one who averages my flock. The great effort belongs to all or to those who lose their parallelism if regularly a sword is well taken for what since its gain would be desired there, where the possession of wealth brings more care than joys that provide its enjoyment? (Xenophon, The Republic of the Lacedaemonians, VII), so that then more swords than anyone else will charge those who lost them in battles, not even those of gold at auction, for those who collect it as an integral bronze with maximum original zeal, to who must have had it tight in his hand, until the last minute it expired when he remembered that he did it with his plow in the hoplite farm, and in furtive actions now with the "V" Lacedaemon of Vernarth in the complete love of a God that still listens! Let's sing to the beasts, they act with imaginary benevolence, but not with tangible demonicity that touches their human offspring, always fighting with their necromances as a multidimensional actant, with texts that speak of a world that abhors human environments already possessed by a Laban, or by an illustrated Ovid, which crosses Celestina with necromances who only know of their cursed wombs of dry iron, narrated of an empress not reflected in her only until the last gasp to have her convalesced who sings the song of necromancy with her. The Mataki is a peasant with leathery hands impregnated with truth, poured out by the astrology of the horse of Alikantus, which limped in the noisy wand of Betelgeuse, with magical alchemy that gave way in the caverns that could not bear any more necromancers. This is where I come from, from the forests of the transversal valleys of Horcondising, of Andromancy, who was awakened one night at the next dawn in a new world and a new morning, without knowing where it was, but it was a human who guesses its hereditary Andromancy, among dead spirits that indicated that he too is and will be one of them, the advent of a nekroi who only shone towards a female sorceress but filling the maiden fields that mowed the pastures near the deceased people. Right here Yo Leiak, for whoever falls into this spell, I will round the square of a secular necromancer brandishing, only with written science that beats with interferences of his heart, towards a new concordance of the elusive Spartan mirages, where wealth lies on poverty being nothing more than their own science, from an order or Cosmos that piles up the empty bodies of the souls in their empty stomachs, without even an astrological medicine that would measure them of any veracity in the Contemplationis in Deum, where other things will be angels that they will roll through the doors of the tombs, where no one will truly live in the paragraphs of the mute angel. The vampirism taught by Vlad Strigoi, sleeps in the gulfs and inlets where he finds to provoke what or who he woos, and takes them to his fortified castle where passion scales the accents from where it is born, nor will anyone be able to write a single verse with stanzas hidden in a mysterious heart within another, which is from a man versed in the cartoon that synthesizes the plot of a title "Here I Leiak Necromancer, one day I was Franciscan and now I follow the stillness of my master Vernarth and our Apostle Saint John ”, I almost become a clergyman where everything arises and ends in the uniqueness of the functions in this banquet on Patmos, before the greater and lesser compliments, where my heart will serve for the greater good, I live in you my lord,  you taught to close your eyes and not lose your life that does not intercept the gates of the other, here is my adhesion Vernarth "
Leiak Necromancy
Vernarth and his companions delighted in the company of the biosphere since he was in the Eclectic Spiritual Portal, and in this dimension only he could be. Later, they communicated only through his donkeys, when they wanted to send them messages or share with him, they mounted one of these equids and they could pass into this atmosphere of ultraviolet light that separated them. More than an egregious Pythagorean calculation, he already stood out in his eon of matter-spiritual energy Vernacentricus, as a quantum station of the geodesy of the Megaron that has already begun to be built. At this precious moment the secular and demiurge satellites of him arrive, they came with the foundation of the points to refer to definitively raise the Ultramundis Vernacentricus. From the Vóreios or boreal the apocalypse of San Juan will be intertestamental with the canons of Zefian that transmigrated from the powers from the transversal valleys of the Horcondising, essentially following the sensory track of the Nothofagus Obliqua to attract the iterated populations of the forest.
The patriarchs and the orthodox mountain range appeared in the cords of the fungi called Ambrosiella ceratocystidaceae, to provide the Ambrosia Mercurial, as a nutritional addition to the main pilasters of the temple, with great influence of fungal fungi. Everything was beginning to demarcate from the eruv of the Zefian arrow that was named Tetarto Vélos, or fourth arrow that was already beginning with its culminating operation with the borer beetles, demarcating the urev of the Vóreios throughout the region and on the oaks of Patmos, that began to be located from the Meli Witran Mapu Mapuche winds, beginning with Pikún-kürüf Northwind with the first two arrows of the Taxotas, and Sur Waiwén, of the Pezhetairoi, of the quantum of transmigration of the Horcondising-Panhellenic sub-mythology. Then the Puelche drags the borer beetles with more force to lift the uprising fungi of the Mandragoron by the eastern vertical, to culminate with the Lafkén-kürüf all attached to the axis that supports them from this great bilocation. The boreal is demarcated, so that the Necromancer Ezpatkul with his Augrum and gold teeth, twisted the tendency of the beetles to move the main columns of the frontispiece, being colossal in reality with twice the diameter of the central ones. Then the conclusive and posterior ones of the rectangular quadrant of the Beit Hamikdash were bilocated, to bilocate the Bern Olive Trees from Gethsemane so that they finally joined the Meltemi, and towards the aeolian winds of Tramontane Eolionimia falling on the Tekhelet of Paul of Tarsus, dropping relevant heights of some cranes with gravitating silt on their extremities, and with garbeas that were secondarily colonized on the banks of the desert areas of the rocky Hamada. As was previously proverbial, three birds climbed reflecting the crown of the kings in Bethlehem, Arriving at the sacred native city, and beginning the choirs of Nativity and passion for the hiss in tenuity on the twelve Giant Camels, where they paid special attention to rebuild another temple with a sigh greater than a Sheba Dean. The canon of Policleto was renewed with Zefian who agreed with San Juan, for this kanon that will be the relevant line of topographic surveying. Thus the basal measurements of the golden number will begin with the acroteria concerted summer seats of prosperity next to the Metopes. Ezpatkul would bring with his magic the red blood cells of Betelgeuse along Leiak with all the Templar three-dimensional morphology, naming this singular parapsychology of Pope Urban II who proclaimed the First Crusade at the Council of Clermont, in France, on November 27, 1095, to delineate the paradigm in the anatomy of Gaugamela bled into Vernarth's breastplate, as the archaic and first crusade that would inspire Christian supremacy, which was already anticipated before the Christian era to come. It will be visible gestures of the trajectory of the arrows of the Zefian Torah that were deposited with their hallelujahs from the ***** of Crete. The sulfur yellow and red blood cells marked the radiosity of the Eclectic Portal that opened to give Vernarth material egress, so he would take his tools and go with his donkey's escorts for the chromatic that will be sulfur yellow and red blood cells, both dependent on the complementation with the Cinnabar, and in the raised bodies of Court V of the Helleniká Necropolis in Kímolos.

Under vileness or absence of light among darkness or apocryphal light of Evil, in contrast to the robust equanimity of light and shadow partisan of Saint John the Apostle, for the hegemonic good of his incorruptible vision. The naturalness made the world apologetic with the immune defenses of the polish textures, they invoiced proportional mathematical measures ibidem of the Hommo Novis, and of the Geometric Pythagoreanism for a body seven and a half times of Polykleitos, starting from the base to the feet as the base of the plinth or frieze until reaching near the capital that exemplifies the chin, before reaching the cornice, highlighting the figure of the capital with the front of the proportional ligament between the trunk, and the columns duly. Here the seven-headed Kanon of a David would recite the measures of the psalms, or beads in degrees with hoped-for dimensions. The kinetics was earth towed by towing carts in tetra bronze arrows, which balanced the unbalanced balance and harmony of the created whole. The symmetry of the transverse poles was muscled to make kinetic centripetal in the inertia of the bolt when hitting the faint glow of the canon rays. Making himself the sustenance in the stone and the mound, towards the Vernarth counterpose when the Himathion was tried, he appeared disguised and in composing. After this initial task, they approached the fire and scalding water to **** herbs, which pretended to be the formula of the backhoe extracted from the palimpsest of the generals of Alexander the Great, when they distributed their illegitimate Ark with royal titles; they were Perdiccas, Antipater, Crátero, Eumenes de Cardia, and others like the satraps who came to be enunciated as kings; Antigonus, Ptolemy, and Seleucus. Residing only the most substantial military colleague of them in this parapsychological saga Vernarth; and his brother Etréstles de Kalavrita who seconded and predestined him in his monolithic, and in the constituent sovereignty of Polis, for the purpose of reigning and raising his Kopis and Xifos intertwined in aldehyde manumissions and in the alcoholic carbonyl residues emanated from the Backhoe ferment and Nepenthe, depositing LSD in substantial amounts to align itself with Seleucus, and materially present itself in the sphere of Patmos as two representatives of both empires, one ancient Christian and the other Panhellenic, placing Seleucus in that totalitarianism over that of Alexander the Great, now extinct. On the last day after working and being satisfied with the construction work of the frontispiece, and its major columns, Vernarth joins them after temporarily leaving the eclectic portal, they sit by the fire to review the plans of the subsequent construction process del Megaron, along with his seven donkeys, mentioning Borker's necromancy. Since the omens of Wontehlimar, the linemen before Borker became reigning, for the static balustrade that will surround the Megaron, where all the Ibics rings were enlisted chorally by the patronage of the Hellenic Orthodox legacy of Alexander the Great after he was rescued by Wonthelimar from Babylon, and finally take you to your physical and spiritual shelter. The eruv of the Nótos was demarcated, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes Íbix, or Hoops of ibix, like nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, Nano-Quantum Ring auguring sensitize the dermis and its carpal phalanges. From the intertestamental, such as in Vóreios, passages from the Old Testament are explored here that says…: “The temple that was the only legitimate sanctuary of the Israelite people contained within it the Ark of the Covenant, a golden altar, and candlesticks of the same metal. , a table with sacred loaves and other utensils used to carry out the worship of the god Yahveh. It was located on the esplanade of Mount Moriá, in the city of Jerusalem, possibly where the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque are located. From this dome the larnax of the Great Macedonian, a prioris, the schismatics of ancient Christianity, and orthodox Judaic will be derived, separating from each other, after the fall of the second temple. Of this class and previously this was detonated due to the undivided troops of the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar II, who destroyed it in 586 BC, also taking captives a large part of the inhabitants of the Kingdom of Judah, to Mesopotamia, giving rise to the exile and captivity of the Hebrews in Babylon. A reflective Borker of this premonition, he takes the Ibics Rings and selects one of them to join them with the first Zefian Arrow, as nano Kvantikoí Daktýlioi, quantum Nano-ring, to ensue in future similar events, avoiding invasions that cause looting and destruction. of the temple to be built on Patmos.

Nano-scales for Borker's nanotechnological conception, and estimates of threats of invasions and climatic changes, in one billion (109) and one billionth (10-9). In a meter there are one billion nanometers or, in other words, a nanometer is one-billionth of a meter. For those who will have to configure the dimensions of the Mandragoron "Temple of Vernarth" with carbon atoms, the support will be made in chemical units for the re-conception of nature, and its two- or three-dimensional networks. The nanotubes with 60 carbons, distributed in 20 hexagons and 12 pentagons, according to the geometric patterns of the cellular scale, in the conformation of the Hexagonal Primogeniture, being in this way concealed by the Ibics Rings, for each linear meter and cubic, traced by a nanometer which is one-billionth of a meter. Here, the borer beetles will catch the fungi ambrosiella ceratocystidaceae and will displace the virals that move geometrically from the beams of the Icosahedron.

The ranks of Falangists moved triangularly in multiple directions, to reach the Austral del Nótos de Borker, thus they would form the magic vectors of the polyhedron internally, triangulating at the top of the ram that carries an illustrious triangular phalanx, opening up the areas with its prop. vulnerable, to consolidate the buttress of the façade; the Áullos Kósmos, and pay homage to the apse that was filled with rejoicing. Sones of the philosopher Plato, made them regular or perfect in convex polyhedra, such that on all their faces were regular and equal polygons were made, and in all solid angles also equal. From this boulevard, the theology of Vernarth and Alexander the Great, fully professor and Platonic guide, will follow, making nomenclatures of nanostructures that affirm the volume and structure of the central sections of the radier, and their foundation bases shielded by the icosahedron in the nanotechnological scale, having physical material cells, for adaptation of structural changes and their environment.

The volume will be adapted microscopically, to analyze small particles with the return of the fourth arrow or Tetra Sagita of Zefian, absorbing nutrients and discarding the environmental threats based on carbon dioxide, to make a limiting membrane beauty, which moderates the nanoparticles that borer beetles were developing. The solidity of the partitions and walls will have the exact proportion of the nanomaterials, to adapt to the general area of the Mandragoron Nótos, which will ooze the surpluses due to the porosities, towards a volume highly resistant to invasions of limestone nanomaterials, and boulders that are made from the flow of the buttress of the apse that rises towards Aorion. The interior and exterior faces will be supplements of prayers of Prochoro, in didactics that will shield with the Antiphons Benedictus, and the hive of Plato's Icosahedron, becoming a consular material organism, and solid in interstices or leftovers from the feces of the Borers, until pasting and to reach the volume of the polyhedron, and its twenty faces pointing towards the physiognomy of the boulevard, tracing the general volume of the Mandragoron, and intercommunicating the quantum support and its theological harmony.

Says Borker: “if the organic cells operate with homage and with greater multicellular fields, here are the nanoparticles, in greater fields of fiatto, and in the slides that will recirculate in favor of the throat of the Mandragoron, and in the carbon nanotubes, essential elements of the biosphere and in useful layers of life that retrace the rest. There will be 20 linear meters in the area that lavishes the width and height, the projection of this scale of nanotechnology, will make the three-dimensional shape and a large voluminous serial in the Austral Nótos ”Vernarth's purging dimension, made him materialize at times and laugh out loud because he knew that everyone who was with him loved him! and from this fraction of faith, the Angel Raphael diagnoses them bread with archangelic essence; herb with great healing powers, especially in the dimension of the eclectic portal that allowed Vernarth to concern himself with material living beings.

Definitely, the second step of consolidation of the Megaron was established in the linear that the seven donkeys eagerly left, as masons and cabinetmakers who worked together with the Hexagonal Primogeniture. From this moment everything begins to have an inter-dimensional aspect, from the Invisible Eclectic Portal to the majestic geodesy and orography of this temple, which incorporated everyone for a charitable epiphany together with everyone in the Profitis Ilias, which was already crowned as the cusp Spiritual World of the Vernarthian Eclectic.
Áullos Kósmos
Eleanor Webster Sep 2017
A ******* the train with witch's hair and dark eyes
Stared at me as if I was hiding a secret in the curve of my lip
Or the space between my eyebrows
Or in whirlpool-pupils
I wonder if there is something of the occult in the way I walk
Like a dead woman who adores the crows that pick at her bone marrow
Is there something in the hollows of my eyes that suggests
I am not afraid of the demons summoned to hunt me down
On my morning commute?
This girl was staring at me really weirdly on my way to work the other day. (This is a recent poem) she had witchy kind of hair and as soon as I found myself thinking that I knew I'd write a poem about her. Enjoy.
Merry Feb 2018
In my more misunderstood days, I once read up on how to speak to the dead
The results were unsurprising; an article on Necromancy
I read on and on, it went quite hard to my head
It went quite hard to my memories

Upon that aloof, summer day of boredom in which I was first clued in
To the biggest secret kept away by grief and adulthood
I read why unspeakable corpse magic is deemed a sin
And why such things are sealed away with intentions good
But ultimately useless
Despite the misinformation’s efforts proven fruitless

We do not reach out; we do not speak to the dead
The dead reach out, they speak to us

They reach out to us
In dreams, in books, in stories
With much fuss,
They rise from the crypts and earth
And they whisper sweet glories
In their reeking, putrid breath exhaled from rotten lips
The truth slips, the future slips

For the dead, they can see the future
For the dead, they have lived the past
Necromancy, romantic for the living longing for the dead; suture
Of misinformation; the ideation that the living cast
A spell upon the dead, raising them for past loves and lives
When in truth, they are merely here to set free our eyes from our lies

The dead do not want us the living to die
For they know how horrendous fate can be
With screeching lungs rotting, they shriek of how the end is nigh
And share wisdom mostly ghastly
Willingly, they impart visions of future from bygone past
As, they - the ungrateful dead - lusting for life to return
With one last breath,
I remind you so you may learn
So, you may pass on from your own misunderstood days:
That which colours our miserable, romantic haze...

We do not talk to the dead
That is why we believe it bad luck to speak ill of our passed-on people
The dead talk to us and they talk to us of the future
That is the truth of Necromancy
That is the truth that you will now see
Beyond misconstrued myth, it is not the raising of the dead for love,
But for knowledge.
Waverly Nov 2011
Free concerts
are full of potheads,
they get all in your ear
and start talking about
the land of milk and honey,
DENVER ******* COLORADO.

The beers cost
15 bucks
for pisswater
and barely a pint.

The girls
all wear pink spaghetti straps
sagging acid-wash jeans,
and a smell like
old milk.

The old people
dance.

the old people dance;
there wrinkly
pterodactyl arms
flapping as they swirl the air
with bad knuckles.

The air smells,
like sweat.

Sweat smells like
toilet water.

Free concerts are usually outside,
so hope to ******* Gaia that it doesn't rain,
because you're stuck there,
drunk and yelling
dancing and laughing
******* and falling.

Matt, Dang and Me.

We spent our summer going to free concerts,

because the girls that go to free concerts
think tattoos and finger-******* and toilet humor
is more ****
than money.

The old people dance with you
performing some type of necromancy
in the air
that brings dead things inside of you
back to life.

And the bud,
it's so ******* sticky,
and it causes a hacking
paroxysm of coughing
to the point that you can
taste the blood in your mouth,

because those people from
DENVER ******* COLORADO,
really know their ****.
David Barr Apr 2014
The hyacinth is glorious as she displays her gorgeous petals across dangerous stratas.
Crows may circle the church steeples in their scavenging plight for obscure answers, but the janitor is the one who knows what has been pasted upon the walls of scholastic defiance.
Cobwebs form across forbidden sandstone doorways in Horselethill, where sophisticated frailty is negated by the innocence of childhood mockery.
There is a particular smell from the cellar.
I know that chestnuts fall from trees in their designated seasons, where the threshold of the dawn is characterised by ****** of spiritualism and astral projection.
Just look at the patterns upon the side of the plate, and savour the olfactory experience of Nana.
Thank you for your basic expressions which were most rich in this age of debauchery.
LDuler Jun 2013
"There are no diseases crueler
than the ones we self-inflict"
but I still find myself
thirsting for the bottle
and you still find the beast in your heart
begging to be smothered in smoke

They sneak out to smoke their cigs
between classes
just another insolence, another act of audacity
another fleck of rebellion
a way to express their contempt
a way to say ********

to the government and the educational system
and to the clockwork holding them back
from a death they secretly long for
Because i think at least a few of them know
that it’s still a suicide
even if it’s in slow motion
And every cigarette
is a calming coffin nail

Legally, they are too young
to drink or purchase
their ambrosia and tabacco treasures
Yes they are young, minors
but they’re already afraid of growing too old to die young
soon they'll get withered and wrinkling
and they won't be able to leave a beautiful corpse

Pulling off clear, crinkling cellophane, shiny silver foil
with nimble fingers and
sliding a single cigarette
out of the pack
and slipping it into their lips
It fits so effortlessly, so easy
they've been repeating the same motion for years now
sparking the lighter,
The small flame erupts
promising relief.
The sweet taste of nicotine trickling
down into the back of their throats.
They smile.

Behind stone gargoyle smiles
thunder eyes and rock fists
they hide their heavy hearts
with shrouds of smoke
like small-featured bride faces
behind heavy veils
Holding their precious gaspers
between 2 fingers,
elegantly, the way they saw
james bond and models in glossy magazines do it
There are no children here,
just the lost and the lonely,
the ones who wear such solid masks
They’re all looking for some form of redemption,
but they'll settle for attention
Faith, on the other hand,
is a language they don't speak

Their love for each other
is not sweet and childish
it's a collision of souls,
a necessary train wreck
a desperate tempest
to survive the deadly drone of school
it can't be done alone
regroup, collect, stick together,
collide

Their arguments and apologies
have the tragic tone of ancient rome
empires rising and falling

I hear them bicker
and argue and talk
with echoes of prayers in their voices
please see me, please hear me
please validate my existence


Debating
American Spirit, Malboro, Camel
the intricacies of the taste
they taught themselves to love

To me every joke sounds like a hymn
every nervous pair of hands
the brittle after-math
of broken promises
chaotic thoughts tumbling like dust in the wind

I know they are different
but they are human and young
and perhaps they are like me
Maybe they too
have fears
maybe they too awaken in the dead of night
sweating and confused

I can see them now, drifting in and out of focus
dragging their reluctant shadows
into school and out
Frail bodies running on caffeine and nicotine
pain, boredom, indifference and panic

You can tell they long for solace
in the way they hold their coffee
tenderly, fingers wrapped round
the comforting shape and smell
and kissing their cancer sticks
with faint hopes of necromancy
and rebirth with every puff

***
they take turns objectifying each other,
feigning tenderness when really
they are just new bodies
interlaced for an hour or two
There is no emotion here
they're just kids who've always loved playing
the ***** Doctor game

Mothers
use their name as a cautionary
tale and
they're the kids
our parents warned us about.

I know they've given up on perfection
so they want to be some kind of dazzling cataclysm
a bright, flaming disaster, a lovely wreck
they offer me a drag
but all I can think
is that rebellion isn’t a language
I know how to speak
All I can do is write this poem
which is both a eulogy
and an obituary



                                                     ­           I love them.
I love them because I know each of them is a work in progress,
because I know each is shattered in a sense
because they're just souls searching for a voice.
I love them because I'm starting to see
beyond the archetype-- a true expansiveness.
And I love them because the smell of cigarette smoke
reminds me of afternoons in France,
sitting on the curb of my dying grandfather's home
and watching the passer-by stroll through
the pavements.

I love them because everyone needs a place,
and they know that.

Their parties are an emergency exit.

They're a lighthouse for the lost.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKEiUURUVR8
LDuler Jun 2013
There to language and I are leave they out can no a don't
of do diseases beautiful speak

Their focus
dragging is crueler corpse

Pulling love their write
than off for reluctant this the clear each shadows
into poem
which ones crinkling other
is school is we cellophane not and both self-inflict shiny sweet out
Frail a
but silver and bodies eulogy
and I foil
with childish
it's running an still nimble a on obituary

find fingers collision caffeine ­ myself
thirsting and
sliding of and I for a souls nicotine
pain love the single
a boredom them bottle
and cigarette
out necessary indifference
you of train and ­ still the wreck
a panic

You I find pack
and desperate can love the slipping tempest
to tell them beast it survive they because in into the long
I your their deadly for know heart
begging lips
It drone solace
in each to fits of the of be so school
it way them smothered effortlessly can't they is in so be hold a smoke

They easy
they've done their work sneak been alone
regroup coffee
tenderly in out repeating collect fingers progress to the stick wrapped
smoke same together round
the ­ their motion
collide

Their comforting because cigs
between for arguments shape I classes
just years and and know another now
sparking apologies
have smell
and each insolence the kissing is another lighter tragic
their shattered act
The tone cancer in of small of sticks
with a audacity
another flame ancient faint sense
fleck erupts
promising rome
empires hopes ­ of relief rising of because rebellion
The and necromancy
and they're way sweet falling

I rebirth just to taste hear with souls express of them every
searching their nicotine bicker
and puff
***
they for contempt
a trickling argue take a way
down and turns voice to into talk
with objectifying
say the echoes each ­ **** back of other I you
to of prayers
feigning love the their in tenderness them
government throats their when because and
They voices
please really
they I'm the smile see are starting educational

Behind me just to system
and stone please new see
to gargoyle hear bodies
interlaced ­ the smiles
thunder me
please for beyond clockwork eyes validate
an the holding and my hour archetype-- them rock existence

Debating
American or a back
from fists
they Spirit two
There true a hide Malboro is
expansiveness death their Camel
the no
they heavy intricacies emotion ­ secretly hearts
with of here
they're long shrouds the just I for
Because of taste
they kids love i smoke
like taught who've them think
small-featured themselves always because at bride to loved the least faces
behind love

To playing smell a heavy me
the of few veils
Holding every ***** cigarette of their joke Doctor smoke
them precious sounds game

Mothers
use ­ know
that gaspers
between like their reminds it’s 2 a name me still fingers hymn
every as of a
elegantly nervous a afternoons suicide the pair cautionary
tale in
even way of and
they're France if they hands
the the
it’s saw
james brittle kids
our ­ in bond after-math
of parents sitting slow and broken warned on motion
And models promises
chaotic us the every in thoughts about curb cigarette
is glossy tumbling

I of a magazines like know my calming do
dust they've dying coffin it
There in given grandfather's nail
I on ­ are children know perfection
so and too here they they watching young
to

just are want the drink the different
but to passer-by or lost they be stroll purchase
their and are some through
ambrosia the human kind ­ and lonely and of the tabacco
the young
and dazzling pavements treasures
Yes ones perhaps cataclysm

I they who they bright love are wear are flaming them young such like disaster because minors
but solid me
Maybe a everyone they’re masks
They’re they lovely needs already all too
have wreck
they a afraid looking fears
maybe offer place of for they me
and growing some too a they too form awaken drag
but know old of in all that to redemption the I

Their die
but dead can parties young
soon they'll of think
is are they'll settle night
sweating that an get for and rebellion
emergency withered attention
Faith confused

I isn’t exit

They're and on can a a wrinkling
and the see language
I lighthouse they other them know for won't hand now how the be
is drifting to lost
able a in speak
All
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title: f-in-fat
body:
limited
function:
selfie-
hard-on        502 bypass... again: more fun than google-whacking


in English phonetics this word can almost be
conflated with: AS OF...
       i know... the F can be hardened: well...
"hardened" into a V... while the S can be put
against a mirror and made into a sort of "chiral"
Z...  
         UPA UPA genocides...
                           Ukrainians burning the Polish
flag - even digging a grave for the white eagle...
Up Ah... Up Ah... Up we go... Ah... Up we go!
ASOF that now can become... AЗOВ:
the best boy-scouts for... a long long time...
no... i wouldn't get involved in the matters of
КAЦAПЫ - so many clueless people out there...
so many... Nietzsche once mentioned that
the Polacks where the equivalent of the French
in the Slavic ethnicity...
           well... who are the Czechs, i thought they
were the French... but then again...
in his height of madness he claimed to be
a ******... so many clueless people...
                it's a bit like asking yourself the question...
what's the difference between a Serb
and a(n) Ukrainian... not much...
geographical but still the same **** sympathiser...
- i woke up today and made my mind up...
i promised myself to only read philosophy books
in my native tongue...
and i stuck true to that... Kant, Heidegger,
Kierkegaard, Spinoza, Tatarkiewicz, Voltaire...
but... i broke the rule when it came to Nietzsche...
i'm about to break the rule once more...
but, come to think of it... i already invested
my knowledge of English in this philosopher's
literary output... Nausea...
      the best months of my teenage years
were spent reading his trilogy where the protagonist
had my name: Matthieu...
    the Roads to Freedom:
Age of Reason, Iron in the Soul, the Reprieve...
now... i've had in my collection a copy of
Being and Nothingness in English for a while...
i'm tired of reading excerpts from my favourite
book (Bertrand Russell's History of Western
Philosophy) on the throne of thrones (the toilet)
so... i picked up Sartre's magnum opus
and skimmed through it... rereading the passages
i already underlined years ago...
passages about SINCERITY and BAD FAITH...
oh... wow... so relevant today...
no... i'm not going to get into the any ad hominem...
oh my my... these ideas i don't need to
dig a bilingual trench for... i can work with
these ideas directly... in English... i don't need
to subconsciously translate Kant from ******
to English... hmm... well... i do have a literary
background in Sartre... to return to his raw ideas...
this could be fun...
                    i'm guessing it will not take me 2 years
to read and meditate as it took me
when reading Hiedegger's Sein und Цeit...
yes, the time is right...
                something to counter all the moral
grand-standing virtue signalling ******* of the public...
people caught up in the world having
abandoned their truly worthwhile little almost
solipsistic lives... i mean: WORTHWHILE...
what i like about French philosophers...
they invoke... objects... Descartes used a table...
and perhaps a chair...
Sartre? he uses mirrors... and a keyhole...
i'll use mirrors and smoke...
  no need for fire...
                         that comes later...
oh... and a bicycle...
                                 it's going to be a welcome
break from all that heavy: lead... Germanic thought...
i want to take a break from meditating on
Heidegger and Kant...
some French influence will do me good...
while others... go on holiday to the Caribbean...
on cruises... and still hate themselves / hate being
there... can't relax...
   i'll drink some whiskey... scribble... doodle...
do the washing... hang it on the washing line in the garden...
go for a bicycle ride...
and change my mind... who's going to influence
me next? who am i going to become with this
person? i already mentioned this before:
it's the art of necromancy...
isn't it necromancy?! isn't it?
   reading a book by a dead person...
  not that sort of magic... not LITERALLY... but:
LITER-ALLY... em... via literature...
      read a book by a dead person: you're a necromancer...
aren't you? oh... and add and devise some
original interpretation... or a bit like...
using a fork as a knife... and a knife as a fork...
yes... spring is coming...
     i can feel it in the air...
only last night i killed my first mosquito...
    the insects are stirring... next i'll be gagging when
taking out the garbage... drowning maggots
in bleach... but that's different to...
well... my first girlfriend had this memory of...
pouring salt on snails...
   hmm... drowning maggots in bleach...
well... they're maggots... and i'm not exactly going
fishing and... i'm taking out the garbage...
i don't want the trash men to puke, either...
    then there was this one time...
back in Poland... 7 years old? maybe...
wandered off into the woods alone... then by a brook
encountered two boys playing sadist...
i inquired... so... what you're up to?
oh... we're smearing this frog with lipstick...
then we're going to set it alight...
         right... ****** off i most certainly did.
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
Tonight we raised the dead
In the morning buried it
Under the pillow of your bed
Never to be resurrected again
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
the misconception
surrounding necromancy:

you do know that if you read
the work of someone who's dead,
you're on your way to being
a necromancer, right?

perhaps i should be ashamed,
i have probably about two books
by living authors,
the rest?
           all dead.

but that's not the whole point:
better to give my hands
unto the devil,
than my tongue unto god...

and there's a reason...
a big reason...
              if you speak, what
god insinuates by your, ahem...
"thinking"...
you're deluded...

          idly deluded...
and probably dyslexic or not a fast typing
unit... crow pecking,
no hand-orientation of
the keyboard, probably never attempted
to play the piano to boot...
crock-pecking:

i n d e x f i n g e r s
   k r a f t w e r k
o l d m c d o n a l d 'a d a a f a r m
e o e o e o e o e o o i n k

so you give your hands to the devil,
what happens?
well... you start to hear whispers
regarding what the tongues ought to do...

giving your tongue to god...
well...
  the hands do very little,
waggling tongue, idle hands...
no more a poet, no more a writer,
plumber, electrician...
just a staged pulpit puppet,
a preacher! well done!
       no dusty springfield to glorify
you either...
     and we all know how much
people love to listen to speech,
but see so little of it
in terms of phonetic encoding...

i gave my hands to the devil
to hear the whisper...
the faint whisper...
the Marcus Aurelius motif...
Rome was a dream,
a dream that Rome was a... republic
...

between the cynics, the pessimists...
stoicism...
would you believe it?!
          i gave my hands to the devil...
so i wouldn't have to give me tongue
to god... and do... so so little,
belittling people with
a priesthood...
gesticulate flamboyance
come the service of serving
the cannibal "metaphor" of the Eucharist...

but if you read a book by someone
who's dead?
you're a necromancer...
   you've just resurrected someone!
and as time dynamics goes?
what with the Asiatic
reincarnation concept of a fixed number
of "original" souls
moving between placebo
animals, and humans...

    whereby the concept of time
is purely / simply cyclic,
and not linear?

   necromancy? reading a book by
a dead person?
   resurrecting them in your psyche?
you're dragging them along...
you're allowing them to transcend death...
you're dragging along someone from,
say, the 19th century...
time is forward...
           and in some respect a retrospect,
but the aim is: forward...
   in terms of vectors, that's (1, 1, 1)
beginning from (0, 0, 0)...
            reincarnation is too spatial,
too stable,
     too reinforcing: at the present instance,
and therefore reinforced as
what ought to be up-kept...

i gave my hands unto the devil
because if i gave my tongue
to god, i would be equipped with
two left hands...
     all the more unable to change
the ******* light-bulb...
living off giving sermons at the church...
simple!
These lovers’ inklings which our loves enmesh,
Lost to the cunning and dimensional eye,
Though tenemented in the selves we see,
Not more perforce than azure to the sky,
Were necromancy-juggled to the flesh,
And startled from no daylight you or me.


For trance and silvermess those moons commend,
Which blanch the warm life silver-pale; or look
What ghostly portent mist distorts from slight
Clay shapes; the willows that the waters took
Liquid and brightened in the waters bend,
And we, in love’s reflex, seemed loved of right.


Then no more think to net forthwith love’s thing,
But cast for it by spirit sleight-of-hand;
Then only in the slant glass contemplate,
Where lineament outstripping line is scanned,
Then on the perplexed text leave pondering,
Love’s proverb is set down transliterate.
RebelJohnny Jul 2014
Inside of my body
Amidst death and poison
a virus lurks

in every
puddle,
pumping
blood that flushes
my tired heart
like
the river
Styx

Amidst this
battlezone
that is my
failing being
lies
a secret, sleeping

The cells swim by
They are
rarer
now like precious gems
the factories of my
fighting body

produced like
diamonds
born amidst feverish
forges within
a toxic mine

The gems,
they call them T-cells,
are now suicide bombers
converted daily
by the
whisper of
necromancy

They call
this
hex ***
a war against
your own
treasures

Yet my T-cells
are more,
runes blazing
mystic and
glowing,
antigen sorcery
that wards against
failing

Amidst
the 300,000 +sleeper
cells
that abandoned
my cause

Insurgence
bulges with
nightmare

The cells
clamour
growing with the whispers
of past victims
now roped into the
mystic chains, the wizards
call it RNA,
that bind us

An ironic family
of ghosts
who live
in each other
"junk DNA"

My body
is no junk;
instead a treasure
- what do they say
one man's trash?

My body
an
amalgamation
30 years
magic growing
twisted
like thorny vines
that must consume
their
helpless host

My
T-cells
inception
Worlds within me
the "JUNK"
of
lovers past
becomes entangled
in archives
carved in my bones.

Amidst recipes
of a poison
I cannot trace,
I am
ironically
linked
into

a
family of
ancestors
whose cries
beat in
my still
working heart

The drum
of the long fallen
crying for justice
...My blood

Our blood.
chains enmeshing
....ghosts I
will never know

Now parts of me
that lie sleeping in
Trojan horses,
all my own.
Toxic yeti Dec 2018
Love is strange
One in the  remote mountains
Lived an a evil Tibetan Lama
Who was exiled from
The monastery
For practicing
Tantric necromancy
So he can bring
His lover
A younger woman
Still a girl
Who died a year ago
The he practiced Buddhism
And his evil ways
Until he started
Vision being back
With his lover
She came back
Body mind and spirit
When the Lama
Saw her at the door way
He heart rejoiced
And he was both
Enlightened and fall
Back in love.
She was as beautiful
As the day he met her
After hearing her sweet voice
They kissed
Their tounges meet and dance
The Lama god between his
Undead lover’s legs
They coupled
Tenderly and passionately
So he wouldn’t hurt her.
For he did not want to hurt her
Or break
His heart again.
1170

Nature affects to be sedate
Upon occasion, grand
But let our observation shut
Her practices extend

To Necromancy and the Trades
Remote to understand
Behold our spacious Citizen
Unto a Juggler turned—
WickedHope Feb 2022
Hands on my throat always crushing me down, putting me out, and turning me on
I don't know how you got here but won't you stay and laugh dear
Know one needs to know what we do when we're alone
She don't even miss you and he will never know
Intoxicatingly delicious, so much so it's suspicious
How can you taste so good when the flavor's all wrong
Not sure what I'm doing but I promise I won't stay long
Pin me, choke me, bruise me colorful until I'm pacified
Scream until your throat bleeds every time your heart beats
Necromancy not love, just enough to pretend we're alive
Our fingertips glow in red hot brands leaving us hissing
Cut open from sharp tongues clashing and kissing
Leave through the window never the door
Or you might knock again and ask me for more
Let's have an affair
XOXO George
m Jan 2019
love love dove
the dove fell far
love love dove
burned to a char

craven craven raven
again rose a star
craven craven raven
picked at your scar

vain vain crane
full of empty words
vain vain crane
of the foolish birds

wail wail quail
a dying creed
well well quail
a time to bleed

a time that ends
the pain of past
a wound that mends
has been passed

i cannot lie
the pain i felt
with our goodbye
oh i could melt

i'm truly sorry
about the necromancer
the love which you gave
to the poor romancer

were you brought
back from the dead?
if so, then please
live and not dread

look on and not dread
the memories
that your mind must tread
got the lucky opportunity to read some poems i'd never seen by you
sorry i read them
i hope that the necromancy worked. maybe you can consider the necromancer the person who just helped you rise up and move forward...
i felt like writing a ****** poem what can i say
plied playful pied piper oh puppeteer dream writer of a wonder and future so bright,
oh tell pray chance the grand wonders in morrows to come a stored store for the wondering fools of this world tonight.

casting, the irons so hot, malleable, tender in the hearts delights, here in this awkwardly worded flight, of fearless tendency, oh ****, necromancy?
****, yeah, that, that can stay far from sight. now, lets lead with the fixxen to wack the mole of ridiculous vixxen and fiction so true, so true the crookedly made house, rousted clout, for he is an ego far too large this alley mouse, pretending to be a cat without a house, oh wait that's me, scratch that last part, before someone figures out i was only a silly little roustabout, and hoping to rooster, and goose the calling of mine own loud *** mouth out. crap. this *****, but we are far from done, oh almost forgot you standing there, will you do us all a solid and tell us the way out? or at least what horse to bet on in the triple crown and the powered ***** all hanging out? your a Daisey if ya do.
SuperStar
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1EreTOvelQ
(please look at this as satire and a poking of sorts, and with jumbled fumbling wit an egg on mine own face crouched on the couch with little flow to talk about. cause this is just what it is, nothing but foolish fun for the mere running of the bulls.)
It harassed free fall, it was affected by the friction force in the absence of the tefillah, the walls became more taxed and accelerated with gravity that exceeded the acceleration of time, gravity triggered the rest that was in the outside walls and made different kilometers apart, with the free fall at more than 9.8 km per second. Beneath the ground the dimension was made lower than the intake embankment, creating placements in revealing swaps in the solar position, for anyone trying to level the force of fall and its acceleration versus gravity around bodies that were moving accelerated and scattered. The earth constantly hurried its mass to preponderate and go where something or someone could rescue it, the air was inked with an offer in the cases of the imprisoned airs, which from the graves adjoining the valley of Kedron kidnapped its areas of lavender physiognomies to link it to the mantles of the Tallit, which in some cases arose with thousands of souls from their graves, to receive the cushioned rubble between which they were electro-magnetized with the blankets, and the wiring they generated, conceiving that they would gather them in the naive and demiurgical plates, for the holistic retransmission of the tract to Patmos, starting from the Cyclades all the way to the Dodecanese.

The sensitive ex-karst plates of Patmos trembled through the passageways of the Cyclades, which permeated in a ratio of the first reflection in the distance vision that approached between both physical episodes, but the second axis of reflection was made aware in an unknown perspective close to the underwater elevation of the Profitis Ilias, close to the entrance sinkhole, between the variables of the inter plates that were assigned to the reflective tapes of the Beit Hamikdash that mutated to the Megaron Áullos Kósmos. Here the omega will resume a minimum of constant forces, emphasizing the friction that bellowed by the hands of the pro-zealots who had left those sarcophagi in the Kidron Valley, in the average anchor values of the great leaks of the friction with the falling water by millions from the inexorable wind that aided the indivisible objects in the Kidron valley ratio, as a reflection of free fall hitting the friction between the Bern Olives, with torrential rains that were made periodic for an esplanade near Mount Scopus. This seat suffered from the force of friction in the fall of the wall, appreciating the burials that were and will be the reactionary phases of the Hellenistic degree. Objects faded to the state of rest and gravity that cavorted through the valleys, replicating distances more than periods of Elijah in the Judah desert itself and in the Dead Sea. From the depth of the valley, aqueous elements emerged with the proportional speed of the falls of the material and immaterial bodies, outlining the second Newtonian law, as the holy water submerged into the flow of the super-atomized savory, which was reconverted into the same Beit Hamikdash, to materialize in the submerged and hidden effects of the pagan force, hinting at the analogy of the equinoctial of the Dyticá that pushed the wave of the Kaitelka whale, in the constant of speed, tensing the force of the rocks that never stopped moving until his body igneous was quintupled in the fifth dimension beyond the consciousness of those who do not understand immaterial physical abstraction, in fractional microseconds.

The density of the rain filter that had been volumized from the submerged interstices, created the gravity of the horizontal movement that subdued the equation in kinetics that gave the differential in the unresolved expectation of the cessation of movement. Where the amount of reaction is more than what would go to Patmos, disproportionate to the macro pulleys that oscillated in the meridians, speed, and acceleration. Prior to the decoupling of the forces of fall in the already submerged bodies that were counterbalanced to give rise to the volume cords that detached from the largest chamber of the wall, to record the final sequence of wear generated by the reconversion and balance points of their masses, then the starting pedestal accumulates and is reconnected with this phenomenon of the Invisible Eclectic Portal of Patmos, being aware that they would have to enter the cavern, after having ceased their work for this mass retransmission of the reinverted wall to propel the Megaron uprising. Within three months after the Hellenistic Full Moon, the colors of the Tefilah will become mathematical, fascinating the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the reef of Patmos. The sanctity will count the astragali in front of the cyclamen for the delicate advances, wearing the blue-green of the quadrinomial that represented geodesy in its points of order and of its evangelist faction. Confusions were overwhelmed not to stop the movements of splendor in the effusions of the storms in sacred prayers in the room, which takes refuge from Kímolos bringing the souls of Helenikká, for the offices that made the trend of Katapausis after the subsequent full moon. Discounting the three months that never elapsed since Vernarth arrived on the Eurydice.


Kaitelka and the judgment of her abode would determine the corpus and the psyche of the irascible necromances of Borker and Leiak, subordinated to Zefian so that the torrential rains on Patmos are perceived by the colder of condensed water of Cassandra that Beit Hamikdash had been bringing with two anthropomorphic shadows that had been supporting him, that of a Cohen, Levita and a Samaritan, they were the guardians that came from Jerusalem to Patmos to assimilate the enthronement spectrum of free fall converted into free ascent were the fourth arrow that spectrum for the first column to be erected. The breath of all of them became more entropic each time that would be concentrated in a certain haze that was released by its titanic whale snout; Rather, I say of her presence that she was raised by some larvae, which came from certain Zeus dresses that he had expelled to free the larvae that were from her immortal garb, looking like bait for those who stalked him with necromancy. . But this time he would be very contemplative for the construction of the Megaron de Vernarth, because amphitheater was a cause of low politics for his Olympic spectrum. The energy or Evegeia, was primed for objects that took forms of papyri covered with invisible enzymes tried from Qumram, but the cause of Mortis revived the larvae making the oblivion of the era that continued after the Mortis of all legions multiplied by the phrases that were sinister from the true matter of physical remanence.
Helleniká Souls
Sofia Mar 2016
encamped on a barren savanna
a formaldehyde trick laid
beneath a palace of red canvas
carcasses of Noah's Ark
left for a menagerie of men
a spectacle of meat and bone  
the tides of oddities come crashing
against the shores of spectators
the earth opens its hands to carry
the rails that lead an entourage of
grandeur at the ring master's ordinance
God's children in satin and sequins
Devil's work bared in ink and blood
ladies and gentlemen!
wooden pews for the congregation
occupied by followers seeking refuge
in the sacred acts of manipulation
enchantment for children
necromancy for those who walk
with hearts no longer beating
for the world they once knew
prepare to be amazed!
tight ropes are spun into webs
painted skin become prisms
nature's anomalies turned
into golden mythologies
figments of A Vision
brought to life by an apparition
the most extravagant extravaganza!
and the world burns anew
contemporary tales are told through
a splendor of color and brilliance
in a palace of red canvas
lay the corpses of humanity's finest
a formaldehyde trick
of preservation and deception
come one come all!
an asylum for those consumed
a sanctuary for those comforted
by the art of celebrated illusion
an institution built on maneuvering
the depths of every man's heart
welcome to the circus
sit back and enjoy the show!
because i have a fascination for circuses even though i'm scared of them.
Toxic yeti Mar 2019
One upon a time
In ancient Tibet
There was an evil
Monk
Named
Buddha Tenpa
Who used is tantric mastery
To bring back
His lover
And consort
From the bowls of hell
To be with him
And misused
His enlightenment
And spiritual knowledge
To raise the dead
To take down his
Enemies
Monks
And
The foreigners
Who ****
His love.
Paul of Tarsus resented his visit, among so many issues of paganism and Christianity that somehow tried to establish it in Jewish orthodoxy, for goods in non-Romanesque centuries of centuries, dissimilar to a Roman statute in the past to decree it today as ****-Clerical.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Christian doctrines were limited when they settled in Jerusalem, nor did they submit to worldly Judaism. He preached it while breaking the loaves in the fasmatémporos or sacralized breadbaskets of salvation, and of the company of those who were circumcised, by those who received the kingdom while they were born into Roman *******. Everything was Estebanian obfuscation as the first martyr of the ecclesiastical order, where the universe points between races, society, and sensual possessions; between Greeks as junk between barbarians and uneducated, and Israelites between Jews and pagans, to make capital laws but hidden among the subjugated codes of dictatorialism, like all the slaves, gathered in Corinth. And of female inferiority to male supremacy, without inheriting the flesh in the reconciliation of shared worlds. His policy moves the bellows of the free winds, for an enclave that begins to be a direct belonging of another man with the Alpha, and finally, this ends up being his landowner in Omega, as a fugitive baptismal sprinkling of those who become attached to the lord, that they do not recognize and if they do it under their clothes and thoughts, that they even carry sores or wounds even on their chromosomes. The genotype is the third month of gestation with embryos that can even be heard with their heartbeats beyond all the galaxies back and forth, colliding with the head of the woman who puts order to the established opinion of the extreme polarity of the genome. The coronation sculptures were made diverse with Gothic forms that differed with duplications of the stars that were built, not specified in any quantity of accumulated energy after thousands of years to be released in the channeling of the corbel, where the Cherubs rested. dedicated today to the lordship of the ancestry of the invocation, and the exaltation of the stained glass that descended from the sky with sectioned iridescence, marking the canonical hours of the first century, the beginning of the fifth decade, where Paul was already pointing to the letter to the Romans, "Where you give free grazing to the sheep, the rams overwhelm the density of certainty with their betrayals, the sublimity of the atrial rebound movement, makes their disparate ears warn of the justification of pointing out where the danger grows". In this way, Pablo de Tarso decided to name himself in the middle of Mataki, as Pablo de Patmos, because his soul still depended on the Marial outlet for his canonical lapses, in fact becoming the main and actant incarnation of faith, with the cardinal points.

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

Mandragoron Geodesy

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

Faced with this geodesic repositioning, Pablo de Patmos makes the context of narrowing the analogy of the cross and the intersection point of them through, the Zohar Light that emerged from the iconographic program that was spreading out of the Ave Maria that was heard in echo intervals, The main one being the one heard by the oil press that Vernarth was holding, to lavish the first virginal thread of olive oil, which joined with the sleet drizzle falling between the intersecting points of Vóreios from north to south Notós, and from Oeste Dyticá with the Necromancy of Leiak to the Kaitelka Peninsula.

All seated began to pray, then the nascent of the Empyrean that came with the sleet emerged, and the ****** olive grove of the first degree, all went into a trance, the soul was overwhelmed only with light that each one could see in their features through the irradiation of the eyes of Vernarth and Saint John, and in the breathing of each being difficult and discordant. In the distance you could see the sparkles of Peter and James, together with the Mashiach, they came to enter the peace of each one of those who were here in the Katapausis, the night was warned by the Notós de Borker who prayed with the disciples of the Mashiach accompanied by the three winds from the south, which transfigured the colt of Bethany that admitted them to take them to the Seventh Heaven, here at the first stone of the Megaron with the Mataki, the seven bread baskets and candelabra, taken by the agony of the chalice that everyone carried in their bodies where they sprang from their interior, along with the thread of oil mixed with blood that had fled from Zion to Gethsemane, thus lifeless with the interdict stained the lights of the Menorah, which was propelled over the gray and agonizing shadows of the bread that asked why hand would be divided? They all say drink with their hands, but the hands of the Mashiach opened the sky first to illuminate the exacerbation of Leiak's Dyticá, saying that the sweat of agony will fill our chalices intensely adorning what is revealed by our disturbing sleet. The Equinoctial became magenta and Eritrean, where glory made it pertinent to leave and ask for an oblation in the natural reaction of the recipient, before offering himself! The shudders only spoke of the rictus, when Vernarth huddled every so often to blow the embers of the incense that spread from Aorion, spliced in the Fourth Arrow of Zefian, to leave the ergonomics bronze point, pointing out the Cherubs that came from Heaven falling, to those who went up with their sacrilegious bodies to purge their errors, adoring them with purely beatific simplicity, to bring them back to Patmos to purge there, what the error will make of virtue the light over the darkness in lives that stumble over the moaning death, whose sufferings ravage beyond life, where they suffer undaunted pains of danger, not knowing how to resist them.

Frontality becomes ordinal from unity to three, and from duality to four; that is to say, from Vóreios to Notós and from Aftó to Dyticá, making the Escurialense cross with the crossed lines filled with the celestial blue that filled them with the Seventh Heaven. The darkness macerated the embryos on the error of confronted anguish before an impartial body fallen from the discouragement of overcoming it and moving away from the eschatological. The Mashiach moves his hands through the Codices of Raedus pro generating Jubilee, for the branches that climb the thread of the olive tree that was scalding with passion, to hang on the wood of the Kashmar. The Kardiá resembled lost in the minutes of Kairós, failing to rejoice them, to then overwhelm them in some Escurialense demonym, forming the golden cross, whose four arms were already covered by blue and blue enamel, and in parapsychological fractality, making temporality move in the super imagination of Áullos Kósmos de Vernarth.
Seventh Heaven
tamia Nov 2016
the enchantress is on the hunt tonight—
behind her veil hides a porcelain doll's face.
when you smell the fragrance of dreams and death,
you know she is coming.

be wary, you are doomed:
take her spell,
be dizzy in her love like moonlight
let her song deafen you
let her magic have you dumbfounded
let her poison seep into your veins;
"honey, you don't need necromancy to know i'm your fate, your future" she says,
as she brews her poison
to be sipped like wine.

the enchantress is on the hunt tonight
she's out to get you,
there's no way out except in,
into the twisted world of the strange occult queen who always wins.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
the i.q. (intelligence quotient) is hardly representative,
you can bishop-streak as a tourist to Giza and get
the same result... quotient etymologically speaking
is simply a quote, statistically represented -
meaning it only gathered answers from
the μ - median, mean, and meridian, also
a fond mention of mode: we all wish to sleep as peacefully
as the dead, necromancy with the pepper & salt shakers
for the fancy... stirrup hunch to giddy up,
and that makes two of us qualm bitter with
                                                    the grey matter
unexposed in chess tournaments.
i.q. (intelligence quotient) v. i.i. (intelligence inclusiveness):
that too.. statistics means a lot of autism
and many tiger mommies... preferably with surname Chang....
bright kid / always the dummies -
make that five years after the the show,
show them bullied... n'ah, you wont.
meaning the only thing included is
a pyramid and competitiveness, rather than shared
genius - which is hard to come by -
yes, the inclusiveness bit of the Rubik's cube solved
like Pavlov's tongue and the palette of a dog
given Sumerian cuisine to slobber over
when ingesting a tablespoon of cinnamon as the
other educated guess: the educated joke, universities
are famous for them being practised.
thus μ and the statistician's consonant... constant...
three tiers of synonymous bishops making up one
cardinal - intelligence is well enough quotient's worth
and the pyramid for a competitive streak of further events...
but such intelligence performed as example among
children doesn't qualify others to share the oncoming demise...
we need intelligence of an inclusive nature,
not a statistical correspondence with economists dodging
hard questions with quick investment answers...
we need people to tell the difference between
inclusiveness on the plural scaling of being a part of,
rather than an exclusiveness on the plural scaling of not being
a part of (alter: an exclusiveness on the solipsistic slave-scaling
of simply da sein - i.e. being there) -
i get the pronoun ambiguity, whenever there's no i involved
and it's purely a thing, everyone in the factory asks for the
Schindler's List - whether or not people are organic or
prosthetic(s) extending into a network of parasite or host
economy projects, and people ask those questions;
meaning? people are more likely to dismiss the idea of
a soul (an indestructible part of themselves, whether
contemporary or far fetched in terms of: ahead - Kant lives on
from the 18th century, plastic surgery will make others like you
take up the augmentation many decades later... there is always
something indestructible about you... it's called recycling
in the transference of physics, or metaphysics, the soul is like
an atom... it's indestructible... but your ego isn't... your ego
has no correlative support of the soul - your soul is an
indestructible unit, prone to gravity e.g., but your ego is prone
to the more pervasive moral force, which gravity isn't
a part of in term of monotheist glue... namely conscience...
the indestructible part of your isn't a self-conscious Jungian
jargon bit watered with control that you're aware of...
the soul, the unit of indestructibility is the unconscious bit...
which is why we continue to have actors, poets, plumbers,
bus drivers... you can't destroy the soul in the collective
unconscious sense of things... the indestructible element of
your being continues regardless of your wish to sell
out and profit or take an overly conscious case of
being aware of conning the selfish gene stipend on Wall Street...
it still bites back at your **** for showing off your yacht
rather than your Mongolian yurt.
the soul is real... not in an individualised sense of things...
the individual is completely destroyed... constantly revised
via recycling... a lot of Hinduism makes his plainer but
more mythical and less hoarse in its reality of death -
the soul is a continuum, the indestructible capacity of
preservation, preservation rather than evolution -
anti-Darwinism? the preservationists... apply poetic rhyming
to ideas and the truth is ******* boring - poetry can decipher
GRAND PLATINUM ORNATE GALAS OF STATE AFFAIRS
by looking at the suffixes... and rhyming them together
getting the toad's ******* of October Fest's burps...
it is time to learn how to write poetry outside of poetry...
it's time to write testaments, it's time to write biblical accounts
of our lives... there's not time for pretty verse...
it's at this precise moment when poetry has become too
technical in theory and mundane in practice...
use this zenith moment to read language across all genres...
and never applying it for a poetic expression...
look! the paupers are numerous! but these paupers are
octopus handy in picking your ten pockets!
to have reached the plateau of Darwinism as having to preserve...
to have reached the penultimate affair of the prone
destructibility of identity, personality, character (Thesaurus Rex's
RA! or the complete synonymous archive of ego) - meaning
that the soul was a plumber you never were given
the Saturday of the appointment, and your chronology being
that of a Ford Automobile salesman in some showroom in Peckham.
Seconds, minutes, hours-
They constitute and make up time,
Yet my very fabric of time,
Was made wholly of you.

Time started when you came into being,
Time flowed when u breathed,
Time was what you made of it,
Time had only you in my head…

Time slowed down in your absence,
Mere seconds seeming like hours,
Time flew when I spent it with you,
Hours and hours seeing like mere seconds…

Times were happy when you were happy,
Times were sad when you were sad,
Times were good, times were bad,
All according to your state of mind…

My time was synchronized to you alone,
Certainly not to some GMT,
I was accurate, precise, to the dot
In time when it came to you…

A person ceases to exist when their time comes to an end,
That’s exactly what happened to me when I lost you,
My foundation for living completely destroyed,
For all the time with me you had toyed…

Without time, there is no existence,
So also, I stopped to exist,
Without time, there is no sunshine,
So also, I stopped seeing the light of day…

Without time, there air doesn’t blow,
Without time, the water doesn’t flow…
Without time, I have nowhere to go,
Without time, what to do I don’t know…

With you absent, no control on time,
The end to my life’s chronology…
I exist, as but an anachronism,
Like a hellish beast of necromancy…
I would say I’m dead, or dying, or both,
But cant, as there is no you, no time,
So all I can say is that Im non existent,
Since you wiped away my chronicles…

And to think that it all happened but a year ago,
A year in GMT measure…
A year which seemed, and still seems
More of an infinite eternity…
this is the golden tangent
slipping in the sinister land of
everything you ever landed
on the wings of our entire planet

left behind with every man who commands it
to live and breathe because of zed dog
look into the symbolistic meaning of z being the  breathing
i live to end the simple dancing  
necromancy of what is a tangent
before necromance this,  ungrateful
and dried out planet
sympathy
and all that you gave it
has nothing lost in the pavement
i have nothing ever long in things
that is what i am in this whorld
not just to me
not just to you
i have everything that is left to have

this piece of sky
folding inwards
eat my favorite eye
in between yours

i am driving into the clouds running away from me
chasing always leading to the sunsets i remember
being there in the patient virtue of your hating
and what it have me the right to see hindsight in
I'm not a patient to this believing of all that is saving

I'm not a  blatant worry to society
all those things are hidden here
in this hideaway drawer that you left open
bang your knee and remember the contents, and how they are broken.

leave this world like a patient embalming emblem
letting you patiently open the whorl pool of patient
what is the payment and grace of the spoken
for the hindsight of all those things that are left broken

so this is the river flooding over the burning bridge
this is the island , that is underwater,  thanking the ice caps for growing
this is the row boat is which you gave birth to a baby, that  someone is borrowing
this is the patience of all those that are  waiting for you to get better
this is the road home


lets try this pipe and hope it goes to your favorite level
let the mushrooms that grant you breathe of fire, become flowers that are shinning even in the daytime.
In Sicily Aeschylus agonized on the island of Gela, like an isthmus between two seas that led him to the God Dyonisius through the Hadic Speleothemes, here this god entered the skené of Euripides and Sophocles, under the support of Dyonisius and the father of Aeschylus; Euphorion of Eleusis. He was on his way to Gela when he was rammed and crossed after the temporary repercussion of Offensive on Salamis, meeting Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi as they prepared to head to the Cavern of Dionysius. The most unlikely of this parallel sequence stems from Dyonisius's spell of necromancy as he summons alongside them to lead them into the cavern. The scene or triple skené became feasible when Vernarth bilocated three times next to them scalding the campfire from the edges of the Profitis as if it were a lantern that flashed micro lightning, to reconvert the bilocated lights of Syracuse with those of Patmos simultaneously. Vernarth rises from the northeast edge of the Koilon of his theater and leads them with his incantation:

First Scene Dyonisius: “he was coming with his car of Thespis, with sparks from Catania, where he noticed that ***** of lightning appeared flying from the ether, and above them a triple frequency that acclaimed joining Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi. In concomitance, he rushes to Syracuse traveling at high speed, rising to the third light of the Menorah from left to right, in such a way that his horses squandered the fire on the golden grass.

Second scene Aeschylus: “he was going to Gela, brooding along the way with his reckless time, freezing the will that called him at that moment, and that yelled at him like Anthropokairós, deriving from his remaining spiritual memory, which warned him to do what made in a dreadful deleterious past. Avoiding him with their stiff arms when the ***** of lightning, they fidgeted to enter the scene of Salamis where he dealt with the Achaemenides.

Third Scene Wonthelimar: “he was with Vlad Strigoi, and this one next to him smelled of sulfur that he experienced with the closeness of some of them, who had already had a deal of caste and exultant existential drama. They were swiftly crewing with their transient elytra when they received the ***** of lightning, which were energetically prodding them"

Aeschylus was going to agonize Gela, after not doing it in Salamis, with some disappointment and supposedly having revealed the Mysteries of Eleusis, but he was not! Eagerly spurred on suddenly shook him when Vernarth bilocated appeared before him, broadcasting episodes of the sixteenth century, concisely from Fray Luis de León, regarding the Song of Songs who appeared from the ether passing through the triumvirate of lightning bolts that had him blown Vernarth, to show him his epitome of quantum parapsychology. When both were subjected, Aeschylus briefly understood that he perceived the judgment of Fray Luis de León by the Inquisition, for his ****** and philosophical expressions of character with his elevated prose. The dramatic anthology of Aeschylus, directed him to his Necropolis of Pachyderm in Gela, by abandoning the pairs of legs and arms of him. In the meantime from the agon or contest, Dyonisius snatched his Kairos as a singular man, and commanded the Hadic Speleothemes from where Wonthelimar came, to refer to him, just as he did with Euripides and Sophocles with the everlasting Frogs of Aristophanes. The parallel sequence of the trilogy characterized in Aeschylus continues, to end in the skené or culminating period, to receive on his head the inspiration of Vernarth's ball of lightning, already united with the three parts of him! The three scenes are combined with the interference and parallelism of Dyonisius, who exhorts them to go with them through the Speleothemes, thus making sure to save their celebrant souls and their anti-myths, who would unravel with this satirical drama with the batrachians, as a Vernarth's invitation to shake the destiny of each one of them towards a caustic reality, which breaks the man close to his agony, and in his proportionate death revealed as an existential tragedy close to the Anthropokairós omega. Therefore the destinies were stressed in three scenes that would be coupled with that of the axis of support of a death not specified by several that would continue with the same perenniality, in the company of Euripides and Sophocles, with the ballads of the batrachians of Dyonisius to enchant them as subterfuge and didactics, so that once they are captured in the gallery of the cave, and that they would be convinced with greater persuasion. The three scenes were made as one under the precept of Dyonisius, to adhere to them in the next before the Spinalonga parapsychology room, where three scenes would make tragedies and fables, which would follow from the throne of the stands with thousands of deceased who wanted to hear and re-listen from the underworld of the Speleothemes, going towards the Viaduct of Patmos.
Dyonisius Tespis
M
You wrote a poem in class
about a heart you don't have,
necromancy hidden in romance, remnants
of a younger, braver self nestled in
riddled sweet nothings.

It shouldn't have burned to read it.
Skye Aug 2018
I am stained with your colour;
Royal purple and blinding white.
I am smothered by your scent;
Marlboro cigarettes and cheap alcohol.
I am lost in your words;
Mellifluous syllables and sage proverbs.

You must be a sorcerer, for I have been bewitched.
You roam through my mind, casting hexes as you go;
I see you walk with that charming little gait of yours.
The memory of your face is hypnotising, infatuating;
Perhaps I have been cursed, but I hope this necromancy lasts forever.
Did I make the right choice?
jack of spades Nov 2015
i cant remember a word that you were saying
but i remember every single drop of venom
that fell from your fangs the night that you
infected me with death and decay and refractum,
refractus, broken up or open in a dead language
that still stings in hexes and wills the dead
to life. necromancy is your specialty, commanding
a skeletal army to all your evil bidding, all
collar bones and wrist bones and bony knees
scraped up from all the tripping you've been up to,
running through thickets away from the white lie
of an elephant that haunts your room, conjured
from when you dug up the graves of every single
name that i tried to lay to rest, every action and
reaction and dejection and rejection and destructive
tendency, tendencies, tending to distract from
the subject matter at hand, the rules bent and broken
as you spit your poisonous latin palaver,
empty talk to move the empty skulls of your pawns,
empty threats of empty memories that no longer
have any kind of meaning to me. i laid them to rest.
i held their funerals a long time ago, and there's
nothing you can hold over me besides the skeletons
you left in your closet, that you never bothered to bury.
the dead don't scare me, not anymore, and i've
developed an immunity to your toxicity so that
you don't scare me anymore, not anymore,
because you're just another passed-on memory.
i will never forget the venom that drips from your
lips, but i will not let it run through my veins anymore.
your dead words and dead memories are all uttered
in a dead language, not spoken anymore, not real,
a dead effect that cannot touch anything because
memories lack tangibility, dead regrets in a dead
language that got buried when i decided to stop
listening.
I S A A C Feb 2022
perfumed delusion, unruly exclusion
time bombs ticking and toking
vibrant illusions, visual pollution
cutting all the ribbons and strings
you tried to tie me up in, you tried to rub the salt in
to my many many wounds
I felt so lonely in crowded rooms
crowded stadiums, your eyes never met me once
I was too nervous to confront your fronts
shy away from topics that we needed to discuss
performing necromancy trying to keep this dead love up
checking the pulse, it's so gone now
we are both adults, you remain disavowed
byron Johnson jr Oct 2020
I do my best work when I am cold
I used to see a dead canvas and grow bold
Starring into the depths I had something to mold
Putting pieces back together and making gold
I didn’t care about the wreckage
I worshiped the damage
Infectious
I filled the empty with a curse
Brought life to the worst
Pulled strings so tight that the seams would burst
My magic was black and wrong but also right
I sliced smiles into faces and ripped hearts from the grieving
Always the enemy always a threat
My intentions were pure as cruel as they were
Once dead now alive
No thanks are necessary
A life for a life is a is a fair price
Am I right?
SøułSurvivør Feb 2017
I'm sorry I have not been on site. I very much want to read, but I have a friend who is in Desperate trouble. She's involved in a lot of occult practices, and her Immortal soul is in grave Danger! I'm researching the various practices she is engaging in. And actually promoting! Divination. Spirit Guides. Acceptance of Satan in the form of an angel of Light. And necromancy. This only names a few of the very dangerous practices she's involved in!

If anyone here on this site is involved in any of these practices, please contact me. My research has sort of made me more expert at answering questions regarding them. I shall say this again...

THEY ARE VERY DANGEROUS!
YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL IS IN DANGER!


I am a Watchman on the Wall. If you read Ezekiel 33 you will see the importance of being a Watchman. And the Fatal consequences for the Watchman who does not warn the people! The blood of the people is on their head!

Any advice my fellow Christian believers can give me would be greatly appreciated!

THANK YOU!

♡ Catherine

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