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Benjamin King Apr 2013
She slowly fainted in his arms
after failed attempts of his charms
she had not coped with what he had hoped
only gone in the way of harm's

And the blade was stuck
deep in her heart
he watched her pupils dilate
but had no fraternal feelings to impart
upon her undesirably fierce and dry fate

Moments of minutes went by
the atmosphere began to clarify
the scenario that would terrify
much more than the most potent
of cacti or fungi

And near he was drawn
without fear towards the dawn
of grotesque mutilation
an act of sheer exploitation

This hunger wasn't getting any younger
he had to heed the need and proceed

First he quenched his thirst
of desirous yearning
infected her like a virus, earning
euphoric pleasure, but this was not the real treasure

Second he reckoned that a peek wouldn't hurt
it was a situation he couldn't revert
so he dug in deep like a creep
with shining silver he mined and drilled her

Third and last, he conquered and harassed
her entrails, which disgustingly unveiled
a regretful miasma pouring out of the lifeless plasma
she got the last laugh, but he didn't hear any laughter

Now the darkness approached
his mind gradually felt encroached
and on the cold, rugged, concrete floor
an innocent beauty lay
tainted with horrific gore
and not a single thing to say

Thereafter he collapsed
with a peculiar shout
as he blocked the whole world
out.

~

It was a bright summer morning
dewy, dabby and wet
dark twinkling thoughts
competed to fill his head
fragments of odd memories
of vivid amenities
flickered like an unstable light bulb
projecting images of resolution
implying personal evolution

A trail invited him
the green hills excited him
and he wandered the path of exemption
like a pilgrim, seeking redemption
but he came upon a tree
with branches full of fleas
he examined it for a while
but went on like a careless child

Sliding down a hillside surprised to collide
with an unoccupied, undignified graveside
he quickly absconded and swiftly responded
to an extroverted residence presented with great convenience
and as his legs were tiring his energy was expiring
he became an intruder, quite aspiring.

The hallway seemed warped
on the wall a cachet, forked
a regal insignia
to the eyes like ambrosia is to the tongue
and that was when someone sprung
out and swung a knife at him
yelling and screaming about his break in

He was apprehensive
he turned from defensive to offensive
concerned that he would be defeated
and as she retreated he dealt a lethal blow
ending the show, felt the afterglow
as the knife like a dart
spiked and impaled her restless
and fast beating heart.
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
The Count De St. Germaine lives still. It is indeed so.
He is now a devout Atheist and wants the worlds to know.
Perspicacity that eclipses the stars,
Magnanimous whispers that linger afar.
Yet where are you now, in this age so discordant?
Trump's deleterious voices speak in tones so abhorrent?
***** rockets rip the skies asunder
beneath them still tethered the most monumental of blunder.

His name Is Donny. He came from New York.
Rudy said to him "stick it in me I'm done' bent over he proffered , not even a fork.
Some odd scurrilous juices did run down his head.
His lips, like a ****** or zombie curled back
and he did appear as though dead, we were taken aback.
He rummages through dumpsters both near and afar.
banned from Mara Lago and booted from bar(r).
Scrounging and maniacal like the ***** man- Raccoon he truly  had been . Hand went deep immediately into trousers, he was ready to sin.

Alas, like his master he would not pay for the deed. Thank god for interruption, there should be no spreading of said seed.

Eric and Donny Jr. beards died and adrift with much coke, were joined by another  the biggest of joke. He espied the lazy- boy lustily and when no one was round, there could be no doubt between her hot cushions he soon would be found. He denied and scrambled again for his pants. He righted them hastily and said " I'm J.D. Vance."
The Don he did die  and tremble as so. Falling asleep he did not even know.
    He fell to his
knee.
   Ivanka? !   Help me !
  Beard boys ?
two was enough but now there are ...
three?
Melania dressed like Carmen San Diego.
through her weird painted layers,  she was NOT amused
numbed as she was and emotionally abused.
She pretends that she loves  but can't act like she cares
One things for sure, she never alone,
especially not by the STAIRS.

He prayed to Clarence Thomas to make it not so.
Clarence said " he bitty ne bitty  say what little Bro ?
Oh, hells no !  dis ain enough monies . I needs me some Winnebagos  and hella more doe."

Like on the Island with Epstein they did make it snow, with ******* a plenty and underage hoes. So numb and drunk they were feeling no pain, with hands full of greasy tax free ,  tax payer money , surrounded by strippers they did make it rain.

Like ancient shaman or the God himself Tlaloc. cept with much smaller and unwanted ineffectual mushroom shaped ****. Bullets did whizz by his ear they did sail. ****, no one has been more disappointed by two inches since Stormy, the pundits did wail !!



I walk in a somnambular haze through this twilight mundane,
listening for echoes that might still remain.
But only the wind, in mellifluous guise,
sings secrets in silence beneath boundless skies.

These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir, in autochthonous rebirth.

Their hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.

A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.

Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...

The denigratory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this: our time of greatest need.
Come to us know in council.
Post haste and with speed.
Race ever faster on righteous
breed steed.
Deliver us from this egregious misdeed
enveloped in lust and slathered in greed.
Help us plant a seed.
Regrowth !
Rebirth!
I plead.
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.

These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.

Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth  assuredly bide.

A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.

Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...

The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.
My woeful lack of vocabulary; I can but hope this crude assemblage of words conveys even a fraction of my admirable umbrage.
Ongoing communication with the Count De St. Germaine
Born Around 1710 in San Germano, Savoy, as the natural son of an Italian princess.
He visited me again not long ago.
Speaking as he did, he did come and then go.
with endless perspicacity eclipsing empyrean fires,
One's magnanimous susurrus in aeons aspires.
Yet whither art thou, in this age cacophonic,
Where malisons spew from tongues misanthropic?

I perambulate, somnambular, through gloam’s desuetude,
Harkening phantasmal echoes in crepuscular interlude.
Yet only zephyrs, in dulcet effusion,
Intone their clandestine, windborne allusion.

listening for echoes that might still remain.
But only the wind, in mellifluous guise,
sings secrets in silence  to cerulean skies.

These polysemous effulgences  both wax and wane,
Guttering yet indelible. We rise above both spectral,  and arcane.
antediluvian hush, betwixt frost-laden dearth,
Manifests a logos, in insipid girth.
antediluvian silences drawn,
vertiginous  in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir, in autochthonous rebirth.

Their hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in tumultuous tide
the fractal that innervates, presupposed  then shied .

A palimpsest of null embraces
where these false augurs drink from hallowed places,
and time itself forgets to turn. Why Obsess ?
For Nihil’s  never but always caress,
Christo- fascist rising imbibe from those urns abyssal,
And Chronos forgets to turn his gear yet again.
How do we start and where to begin.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clock,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
the collection plate from church to state.

The denigratory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this: our time of greatest need.
Come to us now in council.
Post haste and with speed.
Race ever faster on righteous
breed steed.
Deliver us from this egregious misdeed
enveloped in lust and slathered in greed.
Help us plant a seed.
Regrowth !
Rebirth!
I plead.

Dearest Count,
Forever must thou linger in shadow’s creed,
As we toil ‘neath venal decrees of greed?
Come forth in augural council and  heed!
Post-haste upon thy seraphic steed!
Deliver us from this abhorrent misdeed,
Enshrouded in vice, in carnality steeped.
Lend thy hand that we might seed
Regrowth!
Rebirth!
I plead.
Deixis,.   elongated into Deixiixis, as logomachic parataxis,
subsists,
an entelechy of ontic dyspraxia
persists,
periphrastic in cadence, sempiternal in
guise,
obumbrating the paramorphic tautology of
skies.

A synesthetic resplendence, evanescently
rare,
suffused with ophidian aureity, unspeakably
fair,
its chryselephantine effulgence, lambent,
untamed,
tessellates eternity, numinous and
flamed.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian
design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms
malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges
coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic
largesse.

Pleromatic enjambments, soteriological in
scope,
cast catoptric immanence upon pneumonic
hope
ontogenetic anastomoses hypostatic in
flight,
entwining the eidolon with noumenal
light.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and
obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic
profuse,
whilst logorrheic peripatetic semiosis
entwines,
anagogic mnemonics in transrational
signs.

Sempiternal arabesques, mellifluous,
divine,
periphrastic in cadence, ineffably
fine,
a chimeric chiaroscuro, empyreal,
untold,
inflorescent with argent, auroral and
bold.

Luminiferous vestiges, iridescent and
fey,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of
day,
while a transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and
vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian
past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

For naught but vacuous profundities
remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane
mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur
lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent
guise.

A thanatognomic hierurgy, insarcophagal in
spate,
where chiasmic tetragrams dislimn the orphane lapse of
state,
narthecal invultuations, ventriloquous in
girth,
unhoused within a synod of inveterate
dearth.

Palingenesic nullibiety, unreckoned in its
phase,
epitrochal theurgy encoffined in
maze,
subfulgent entheosis, extrorse in
remit,
where hemographic eidoloclasts inexorably
flit.

Aphotic decarnations, invigilant,
untold,
somniloquent in abeyance yet archiphylactic in
hold,
hieronymic paraclosure, decathected and
sere,
in anamorphic antistases refracting
austere.

Neuralgic aposemas, crepuscular in
din,
cladistically ensorcelled in the unworded
within,
a cataphractic ephemeron, unanchored and
chaste,
forever circumflected in hypernomadic
haste.

Matrescent in eidoptics, prelapsarian in
hue,
subcelestial divergences, nonveridical
through,
where ataractic hypophonics, unsyllabled in
tone,
convoke the paragnostic , the fun of all this esoteric, enigmatic language hitherto
unknown.
what do we do with words and why ?  deixis," which refers to words or phrases (like "here," "there," "this," "that") whose meaning depends on context. The extra "ii" could be adding a sense of something expanded or exaggerated.

Logomachic parataxis – "Logomachic" (related to word arguments) and "parataxis" (clausal stacking) suggest a jumbled or chaotic arrangement of ideas or words. The phrase implies a state of linguistic struggle or disarray, where the words are placed in a manner that feels unorganized but purposeful in its own way.

Entelechy of ontic dyspraxia persists – "Entelechy" refers to the realization of a potential that’s fully realized. "Ontic dyspraxia" evokes a sense of existential or being-related disconnection or disorder. Together, this suggests an ongoing process of transformation or realization, even in the face of disorder or dysfunction.

In simpler terms, it might mean:
"A chaotic struggle with language continues, an ongoing realization of existence despite disordered being."

a deep and dense concept, using abstract philosophical and linguistic terms to describe a state of being or thought that is still trying to reach some kind of fulfillment or realization. hmmm sound familiar  but then not at all.
He visited me again but a fortnight ago.
Speaking as he did, he did come and then go.

Count, oh Count,
Your perspicacity eclipses the stars,
Your magnanimous whispers still linger afar.
Yet where are you now, in this age so discordant?
Trump's deleterious voices speak in tones so abhorrent?

I walk in a somnambular haze through this twilight mundane,
listening for echoes that might still remain.
But only the wind, in mellifluous guise,
sings secrets in silence beneath boundless skies.

These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir, in autochthonous rebirth.

Their hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.

A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.

Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...

The denigratory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this: our time of greatest need.
Come to us know in council.
Post haste and with speed.
Race ever faster on righteous
breed steed.
Deliver us from this egregious misdeed
enveloped in lust and slathered in greed.
Help us plant a seed.
Regrowth !
Rebirth!
I plead.

— The End —