you left your blueish dress
twisted by the pool’s edge
like a cold monument
to every single misstep
and my heart is overwhelmed
with visions of a dancing grave

via crucis in the morning
carry me to our palisade
while these tiny arcs of light
leave my eyes, breaking easily
and your voice keeps me awake
i believe that i need this

you were wrong
i am nothing
but one more familiar face
amid the pageantry

Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where

The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.

Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.

She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.

“Give me a reason to live” He said,
staring into the abyss that moaned his name.
“I can give you a thousand” I said
Grabbing a hold of his hand in an attempt
to ****** the satisfaction oblivion will gain.

The feel of your lips against my skin
Burning my flesh,
Lingering.
Your fingers raking through my hair,
Pulling and claiming what’s rightfully
Yours.

The way my fingers fit
So Perfectly in between yours.
The way our hands move,
Creating a Play with mere shadows.
Our moans
Groans,
Shouts,
Screams…
The way they are mere instruments
In creating a beautiful, sweaty symphony.

Darling, if not for me,
Or our memories,
Live for yourself,
Live to create new memories,
New favourites.
Live to be something,
Someone,
Forget thousands of reasons,
Baby,
You just need one.

Thus, then, did Ulysses wait and pray; but the girl drove on to
the town. When she reached her father’s house she drew up at the
gateway, and her brothers—comely as the gods—gathered round her,
took the mules out of the waggon, and carried the clothes into the
house, while she went to her own room, where an old servant,
Eurymedusa of Apeira, lit the fire for her. This old woman had been
brought by sea from Apeira, and had been chosen as a prize for
Alcinous because he was king over the Phaecians, and the people obeyed
him as though he were a god. She had been nurse to Nausicaa, and had
now lit the fire for her, and brought her supper for her into her
own room.
  Presently Ulysses got up to go towards the town; and Minerva shed
a thick mist all round him to hide him in case any of the proud
Phaecians who met him should be rude to him, or ask him who he was.
Then, as he was just entering the town, she came towards him in the
likeness of a little girl carrying a pitcher. She stood right in front
of him, and Ulysses said:
  “My dear, will you be so kind as to show me the house of king
Alcinous? I am an unfortunate foreigner in distress, and do not know
one in your town and country.”
  Then Minerva said, “Yes, father stranger, I will show you the
house you want, for Alcinous lives quite close to my own father. I
will go before you and show the way, but say not a word as you go, and
do not look at any man, nor ask him questions; for the people here
cannot abide strangers, and do not like men who come from some other
place. They are a sea-faring folk, and sail the seas by the grace of
Neptune in ships that glide along like thought, or as a bird in the
air.”
  On this she led the way, and Ulysses followed in her steps; but
not one of the Phaecians could see him as he passed through the city
in the midst of them; for the great goddess Minerva in her good will
towards him had hidden him in a thick cloud of darkness. He admired
their harbours, ships, places of assembly, and the lofty walls of
the city, which, with the palisade on top of them, were very striking,
and when they reached the king’s house Minerva said:
  “This is the house, father stranger, which you would have me show
you. You will find a number of great people sitting at table, but do
not be afraid; go straight in, for the bolder a man is the more likely
he is to carry his point, even though he is a stranger. First find the
queen. Her name is Arete, and she comes of the same family as her
husband Alcinous. They both descend originally from Neptune, who was
father to Nausithous by Periboea, a woman of great beauty. Periboea
was the youngest daughter of Eurymedon, who at one time reigned over
the giants, but he ruined his ill-fated people and lost his own life
to boot.
  “Neptune, however, lay with his daughter, and she had a son by
him, the great Nausithous, who reigned over the Phaecians.
Nausithous had two sons Rhexenor and Alcinous; Apollo killed the first
of them while he was still a bridegroom and without male issue; but he
left a daughter Arete, whom Alcinous married, and honours as no
other woman is honoured of all those that keep house along with
their husbands.
  “Thus she both was, and still is, respected beyond measure by her
children, by Alcinous himself, and by the whole people, who look
upon her as a goddess, and greet her whenever she goes about the city,
for she is a thoroughly good woman both in head and heart, and when
any women are friends of hers, she will help their husbands also to
settle their disputes. If you can gain her good will, you may have
every hope of seeing your friends again, and getting safely back to
your home and country.”
  Then Minerva left Scheria and went away over the sea. She went to
Marathon and to the spacious streets of Athens, where she entered
the abode of Erechtheus; but Ulysses went on to the house of Alcinous,
and he pondered much as he paused a while before reaching the
threshold of bronze, for the splendour of the palace was like that
of the sun or moon. The walls on either side were of bronze from end
to end, and the cornice was of blue enamel. The doors were gold, and
hung on pillars of silver that rose from a floor of bronze, while
the lintel was silver and the hook of the door was of gold.
  On either side there stood gold and silver mastiffs which Vulcan,
with his consummate skill, had fashioned expressly to keep watch
over the palace of king Alcinous; so they were immortal and could
never grow old. Seats were ranged all along the wall, here and there
from one end to the other, with coverings of fine woven work which the
women of the house had made. Here the chief persons of the Phaecians
used to sit and eat and drink, for there was abundance at all seasons;
and there were golden figures of young men with lighted torches in
their hands, raised on pedestals, to give light by night to those
who were at table. There are fifty maid servants in the house, some of
whom are always grinding rich yellow grain at the mill, while others
work at the loom, or sit and spin, and their shuttles go, backwards
and forwards like the fluttering of aspen leaves, while the linen is
so closely woven that it will turn oil. As the Phaecians are the
best sailors in the world, so their women excel all others in weaving,
for Minerva has taught them all manner of useful arts, and they are
very intelligent.
  Outside the gate of the outer court there is a large garden of about
four acres with a wall all round it. It is full of beautiful trees-
pears, pomegranates, and the most delicious apples. There are luscious
figs also, and olives in full growth. The fruits never rot nor fail
all the year round, neither winter nor summer, for the air is so
soft that a new crop ripens before the old has dropped. Pear grows
on pear, apple on apple, and fig on fig, and so also with the
grapes, for there is an excellent vineyard: on the level ground of a
part of this, the grapes are being made into raisins; in another
part they are being gathered; some are being trodden in the wine tubs,
others further on have shed their blossom and are beginning to show
fruit, others again are just changing colour. In the furthest part
of the ground there are beautifully arranged beds of flowers that
are in bloom all the year round. Two streams go through it, the one
turned in ducts throughout the whole garden, while the other is
carried under the ground of the outer court to the house itself, and
the town’s people draw water from it. Such, then, were the
splendours with which the gods had endowed the house of king Alcinous.
  So here Ulysses stood for a while and looked about him, but when
he had looked long enough he crossed the threshold and went within the
precincts of the house. There he found all the chief people among
the Phaecians making their drink-offerings to Mercury, which they
always did the last thing before going away for the night. He went
straight through the court, still hidden by the cloak of darkness in
which Minerva had enveloped him, till he reached Arete and King
Alcinous; then he laid his hands upon the knees of the queen, and at
that moment the miraculous darkness fell away from him and he became
visible. Every one was speechless with surprise at seeing a man there,
but Ulysses began at once with his petition.
  “Queen Arete,” he exclaimed, “daughter of great Rhexenor, in my
distress I humbly pray you, as also your husband and these your guests
(whom may heaven prosper with long life and happiness, and may they
leave their possessions to their children, and all the honours
conferred upon them by the state) to help me home to my own country as
soon as possible; for I have been long in trouble and away from my
friends.”
  Then he sat down on the hearth among the ashes and they all held
their peace, till presently the old hero Echeneus, who was an
excellent speaker and an elder among the Phaeacians, plainly and in
all honesty addressed them thus:
  “Alcinous,” said he, “it is not creditable to you that a stranger
should be seen sitting among the ashes of your hearth; every one is
waiting to hear what you are about to say; tell him, then, to rise and
take a seat on a stool inlaid with silver, and bid your servants mix
some wine and water that we may make a drink-offering to Jove the lord
of thunder, who takes all well-disposed suppliants under his
protection; and let the housekeeper give him some supper, of
whatever there may be in the house.”
  When Alcinous heard this he took Ulysses by the hand, raised him
from the hearth, and bade him take the seat of Laodamas, who had
been sitting beside him, and was his favourite son. A maid servant
then brought him water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a
silver basin for him to wash his hands, and she drew a clean table
beside him; an upper servant brought him bread and offered him many
good things of what there was in the house, and Ulysses ate and drank.
Then Alcinous said to one of the servants, “Pontonous, mix a cup of
wine and hand it round that we may make drink-offerings to Jove the
lord of thunder, who is the protector of all well-disposed
suppliants.”
  Pontonous then mixed wine and water, and handed it round after
giving every man his drink-offering. When they had made their
offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded, Alcinous said:
  “Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, hear my words. You
have had your supper, so now go home to bed. To-morrow morning I shall
invite a still larger number of aldermen, and will give a
sacrificial banquet in honour of our guest; we can then discuss the
question of his escort, and consider how we may at once send him
back rejoicing to his own country without trouble or inconvenience
to himself, no matter how distant it may be. We must see that he comes
to no harm while on his homeward journey, but when he is once at
home he will have to take the luck he was born with for better or
worse like other people. It is possible, however, that the stranger is
one of the immortals who has come down from heaven to visit us; but in
this case the gods are departing from their usual practice, for
hitherto they have made themselves perfectly clear to us when we
have been offering them hecatombs. They come and sit at our feasts
just like one of our selves, and if any solitary wayfarer happens to
stumble upon some one or other of them, they affect no concealment,
for we are as near of kin to the gods as the Cyclopes and the savage
giants are.”
  Then Ulysses said: “Pray, Alcinous, do not take any such notion into
your head. I have nothing of the immortal about me, neither in body
nor mind, and most resemble those among you who are the most
afflicted. Indeed, were I to tell you all that heaven has seen fit
to lay upon me, you would say that I was still worse off than they
are. Nevertheless, let me sup in spite of sorrow, for an empty stomach
is a very importunate thing, and thrusts itself on a man’s notice no
matter how dire is his distress. I am in great trouble, yet it insists
that I shall eat and drink, bids me lay aside all memory of my sorrows
and dwell only on the due replenishing of itself. As for yourselves,
do as you propose, and at break of day set about helping me to get
home. I shall be content to die if I may first once more behold my
property, my bondsmen, and all the greatness of my house.”
  Thus did he speak. Every one approved his saying, and agreed that he
should have his escort inasmuch as he had spoken reasonably. Then when
they had made their drink-offerings, and had drunk each as much as
he was minded they went home to bed every man in his own abode,
leaving Ulysses in the cloister with Arete and Alcinous while the
servants were taking the things away after supper. Arete was the first
to speak, for she recognized the shirt, cloak, and good clothes that
Ulysses was wearing, as the work of herself and of her maids; so she
said, “Stranger, before we go any further, there is a question I
should like to ask you. Who, and whence are you, and who gave you
those clothes? Did you not say you had come here from beyond the sea?”
  And Ulysses answered, “It would be a long story Madam, were I to
relate in full the tale of my misfortunes, for the hand of heaven
has been laid heavy upon me; but as regards your question, there is an
island far away in the sea which is called ‘the Ogygian.’ Here
dwells the cunning and powerful goddess Calypso, daughter of Atlas.
She lives by herself far from all neighbours human or divine. Fortune,
however, me to her hearth all desolate and alone, for Jove struck my
ship with his thunderbolts, and broke it up in mid-ocean. My brave
comrades were drowned every man of them, but I stuck to the keel and
was carried hither and thither for the space of nine days, till at
last during the darkness of the tenth night the gods brought me to the
Ogygian island where the great goddess Calypso lives. She took me in
and treated me with the utmost kindness; indeed she wanted to make
me immortal that I might never grow old, but she could not persuade me
to let her do so.
  “I stayed with Calypso seven years straight on end, and watered
the good clothes she gave me with my tears during the whole time;
but at last when the eighth year came round she bade me depart of
her own free will, either because Jove had told her she must, or
because she had changed her mind. She sent me from her island on a
raft, which she provisioned with abundance of bread and wine. Moreover
she gave me good stout clothing, and sent me a wind that blew both
warm and fair. Days seven and ten did I sail over the sea, and on
the eighteenth I caught sight of the first outlines of the mountains
upon your coast—and glad indeed was I to set eyes upon them.
Nevertheless there was still much trouble in store for me, for at this
point Neptune would let me go no further, and raised a great storm
against me; the sea was so terribly high that I could no longer keep
to my raft, which went to pieces under the fury of the gale, and I had
to swim for it, till wind and current brought me to your shores.
  “There I tried to land, but could not, for it was a bad place and
the waves dashed me against the rocks, so I again took to the sea
and swam on till I came to a river that seemed the most likely landing
place, for there were no rocks and it was sheltered from the wind.
Here, then, I got out of the water and gathered my senses together
again. Night was coming on, so I left the river, and went into a
thicket, where I covered myself all over with leaves, and presently
heaven sent me off into a very deep sleep. Sick and sorry as I was I
slept among the leaves all night, and through the next day till
afternoon, when I woke as the sun was westering, and saw your
daughter’s maid servants playing upon the beach, and your daughter
among them looking like a goddess. I besought her aid, and she
proved to be of an excellent disposition, much more so than could be
expected from so young a person—for young people are apt to be
thoughtless. She gave me plenty of bread and wine, and when she had
had me washed in the river she also gave me the clothes in which you
see me. Now, therefore, though it has pained me to do so, I have
told you the whole truth.”
  Then Alcinous said, “Stranger, it was very wrong of my daughter
not to bring you on at once to my house along with the maids, seeing
that she was the first person whose aid you asked.”
  “Pray do not scold her,” replied Ulysses; “she is not to blame.
She did tell me to follow along with the maids, but I was ashamed
and afraid, for I thought you might perhaps be displeased if you saw
me. Every human being is sometimes a little suspicious and irritable.”
  “Stranger,” replied Alcinous, “I am not the kind of man to get angry
about nothing; it is always better to be reasonable; but by Father
Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, now that I see what kind of person you are,
and how much you think as I do, I wish you would stay here, marry my
daughter, and become my son-in-law. If you will stay I will give you a
house and an estate, but no one (heaven forbi

You will know the house,
Caught up in a spell of tales played out for a century or more
Within earshot of whispering catacombs
‘*** mortuis in lingua mortua’
You can’t miss it –
Architecturally complex, ornate with ormolu,
Elevated, enigmatic, a work of art.
You’ll be enchanted
But take heed, its façade will beguile you.

There is no sweetness of honeysuckle,
No singing of ascending larks to embolden the heart.
The plot is strewn with hen-bane, stinging nettles, snakeroot.
Generations tell of a skinny hag feeding on innocence,
A path scattered with ashes of children
Whisked away with a broom of silver.

Don’t dare to stray beyond its palisade of porous bones.
Don’t bide your time admiring its guilded thistle.
Appreciate if you will, this well-crafted masterpiece from several angles,
then make a hasty escape to Viktor’s Great Gate at the end of the walk.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

In the midst of everything
I linger and stare
at pallor stranger
passing by

and I gather thoughts
with eager ease;
hungry prey
with moistly lips

Awaiting on some lonely stroll
with woman-hood not far behind
and look upon her nightly walk
her path I follow with gazing stare

Better days, her beauty speaks;
returning from some horrid dream
of young fantasy at home she left
longing to be with shining gleam

in my stranger twinkling eye
Not knowing that our paths will cross
she does not weep for love that was
but dreams lightly of love anew

When I pass with tender step
from staring silent on my stoop
I hunger lust forevermore
and wildly I shall proceed

Succumb to me my little bird
like melody on palisade,
and sing me songs of kingly halls
that echo deep in eternal crag

In darkness feast I shall on her
in waking dream I shall become
until too late the deed is done
in nightmare lover's hands lay still

Oft these thoughts of wanton things
that tend to drive my waxing dreams
waning not this horrid inkling
monstrous thoughts with monstrous wings

Barking mad in empty head
this wretched thing it does not sleep
to leave me be I wish it now
and bother some more lurid soul

and cast down he from highest steed
from peak to deep by cavern cold
chasm wide like open arms
embracing the forgettable

the last of man will lay at rest
his voice will wring among the stars
his body lay beneath the ground
his mind that murmurs in the void

Mortality shall be driven aft
to deeply bowels of hubris Hell
where no man can utter cry
of wanton deed or lustful way

Where the tallest man
to walk the Earth
is the tallest man
to stand beneath it

All the while his heavenly thirst
is nothing short of bliss

They leave Jerusalem, with the acrobats from Shiraz. They were ghosts of poetry, wine, roses and fireflies; they were conjuring the path of the twelve camels to the intersection with the Cenotaph, where King David with the Cherubs of Kafersesuh will stay. They were Epi ghosts, basking in camelid footsteps. They went in all the intermittences of the bent nails and plants of the areas of the marquee of the other four ghosts that accompanied him. They were the jumpers with water wheels, wheel scales with tutelary cords, some with stilts of gold disgrace from the coins of Judas Iscariot and the last propelled by a caper that ruled all the others on the wings of the Fireflies. Withdrawn from the road that leads to the Kidron valley, 2,500 years of clay tablets from Persepolis fall on all of them, they were phonetized with the plaintive nightmare of Tirazis's one-eyed poem; which is currently Shiraz, in this way these ghosts escorted the Hexagonal Birthright, they were exiled from their ghostly cities for not paying the tribute of obedience to destroy and rebuild. As they began to be with them in the cove, the ghosts of the acrobats boiled with the eagerness to prevent everyone from being saddened by the departure from the orchard, which was falling further and further behind their footsteps, dancing with their pirouettes along the way, they told little stories. in the ears of travelers.

Hydro Saltimabanqui: “I come from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), an underground canal that carries spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here I have to mend the propellers and water ropes to do my acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When we bite our tongues, we repair it with Hafiz's verses from the Koran; there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with my wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monteblanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan trembling with uncertain doubts on its way to Jaffa. "

Saltimbanqui of Bacule: "We are Epi ghosts, the reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almería of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Here we look; from here we will board the barge that will take them from back to Limassol. Curiously, the same ship from Lepanto that sleeps in the swings of the sea and in the arms of Anaximander, in a new awakening from the lethargy of the super-string theorization, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, since this is not just to research purely empirical. "

Says Anaximander: “First…, we have no proof that string theory is not ultimately correct and in the future in any verifiable way. Second, we propose a project of the order of string theory, which is necessary for science and its importance, going even beyond the scientific to also project itself on the metaphysical and the religious, right here in this order of greater what to do together with the rope that leads me to Patmos.

Saltimabanqui of Bascule responds: “metaphysical and religious legitimacy, here we are tying knots in the rope that inaugurates a new masonry in the observable futuristic look. Here is the original fiction of continuing to raise the necks of the ants over our optics. We will jump on these ropes, but we will fall on intervals of placental physical dens, which were born from the new embryo in the twelve caves of Gethsemane, in a primitive late germinal process. The micro phonetic vibrations will lift us up from the hunger to follow and leave King David in his cenotaph, gored on his hips by the Cherubim, marking his holy antlers that become entangled in the blunting of the cuneiform scratches of his epigram.

In the middle of the magical theorists exotically as associativity of substance causally of the poetic and multiverse song, believing in the ghosts of Shiraz, as dreams injected to sublimate the Aeneids that they lamented on the bottom stones, even though they were independent of their material origin. Multi universes, multi paraphrase for who has to dress the word “Rosa in her noble long dress to the cliff of Ebdara when Vernarth acclaims his brother Etréstles, he comes with the Auriga from Messolonghi. Rested and determined to head to Tel Gomel, he comes with his horse Kanti to keep him company on this crusade. Kanti defied the Cliffs of Crete, he was servile to Markos Botsaris, 1821 (Royal Hero of the Liberation of Greece in the Turkish Invasion, Koumeterium Messolonghi - Palibrio USA), until in the afternoon he approached from a herd of beautiful places of steeds to him. This was heard by Etréstles and he seized His horse to have more than a Life from his company, more than a lost and lost aroma of his natural mother, to reach the one who would treasure it”.

The ghosts attribute quantitative passages from before leaving King David, and then continuing on the road to Jaffa and advancing on the ship back to Cyprus; Limassol. All were hyperkinetic bowls leveraged by the terrain that was on the **** of the acrobatic histrion foreshadowing the contours of the temporal filigree, which in each one made them smile at the carriage with oxidizing wheels, still being immaterial beings, but alive in its marvel gases, wading the serious bile that emerged from the glasses in his allegories. His footsteps and his undulating phonetic figures did not stop over the caravan, which had already passed Jerusalem. They were already undaunted by themselves and overshadowed by the foreboding modulation and encryption of the rehearsals they were doing, over the heavy atmosphere that seized and begged a small piece of the attention of those who did not celebrate their Shiraz pirouettes.
The areas, volumes, and lengths were fully encompassed by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the acrobats ran along the banks of Ramallah, it was already winter, the city received them with winds and rains from the southwest alternating with cold and dry winds from the northeast. The acrobats went like master geometricians to condone the fuss of the caravan, devising a dodexagesimal system. (Twelve centuries of ultra-nocturnal geometry and shipwrecks at the Alexandria lighthouse)

Positioning as a base the number 12, to measure times and angles that they needed to avoid the voluminous rains that hit the caravan.  Incredibly, the volumetric position of the plantar legs of the camels seemed like wheels that rotated without stopping in any anti circumferential radius, making some clouds a shutter that enclosed them like a trapezoid of God's flock in the high semicircle of the waters that tried to fall. , like axiomatic staves of Euclid's beard tempering his elemental construct.

The linear position of each one of those who were mounted was a perfect ergonometric based on the Muladhara pressing the four red petals on pressing the Achilles heel of Vernarth, which was dimensioning the Ramallah triangulation, with the fungi that were housed in its Xifos sword in the jet tip that carried the dodexagesimal cartography. In the same position, the Apostle Saint John seemed, he carried the rosary in his left hand in geometry that elongated his nose and feet in an adonis triangle, thirsty for one hundred and twenty degrees of the sextant that broadened its spectrum to align with this Birthright. Thus the stars and planets are positioned as celestial spheres with the gravitation of the Olivos Berna, revolutionizing curved and flat equations that intuited to go beyond the crossed pirouettes that the acrobats did all the way, even further than those of the withered path of oil, purposely of the axiomatic systems that the Ghosts of Shiraz intended to establish.

Shiraz  Ghosts

These Persian Epi ghosts, axiomatized abstract and ideal entities relating models of austerity and lyricism, which fluctuated in the lines and planes of movements of the clouds with the counterpoint of the legs of the Gigas, leaving marks in the sand like a point Morse, straight and flat, until the fifth step that tried to cross the lines of Ramallah, for the parallelism that the centuries that asked Vernarth to reorder the geometric geography of time and the positions that were added as a delay effect in the Garden, essentially of a hyperbolic vision, to appropriate the entities of the Ghosts that grasp with their little finger the strings of the times associated with Gaugamela in his palatial sovereignty with the footsteps of Vernarth and in the phylogeny of a world that is born behind the confines of religious micro- genetics , from whose space is born in another and would accommodate a circular bijective function, to attract the aerosisms of Ein Kerem in the new life signs of J Joshua in the reborn One-dimensional Beams.

Vernarth diluted his bones to sit near the tarsus and accommodate it at the end of the vertebra of the Muladhara (Chakra of 4 petals), making a sub-technical geometric function to preserve the figures of darkness that were also diluted, to arrive at night close to of Jaffa, in the surroundings the isometric fire existing in each one and in two dimensions…, but born of a common one. Raeder and Petrobus wore their floating eyelashes full of dusty and dense manias on their faces, with splinters gum that they had released from one of the pirouettes of one of the mountebanks when colliding with the basic postulates of the Ghosts of Shiraz, deducing undulating spaces like snakes within the isometric fire that dazzled them with the burning senses of humor of the last drops of the Shemesh codifying themselves in an absolute intuitive measure, beyond all dimensions, which is Consciousness destroying the planes and spaces that multiplied among themselves as members of another geometric conscious dimension.

Arriving at the Ben Shemen crossing, everyone undergoes collective hypnosis; the ghosts manage to embody each of the components of the Birthright but omitting a great factor. They relegated the Hexagonality of the genetics of this caravan, not raising the ghosts when calculating the area of once they were being intracorporeal within the members, thus having to abandon before the last ray of Shemesh threw them on their faces ashes of the Gehenna, for this supposed reason to leave them condemned to recycle the human species, for the purpose of reproducing sacred human beings, but being subservient to the cravings beyond the immortality of the miscalculation that led them to the citadel of Karim Khan, surprised with its stamp of thick stone walls and circular towers in the heart of Shiraz. This gave them a warrior aspect contrary to their fame and history: this was a city famous for two thousand years for its culture, with its gardens and its poets, now if in a conspiracy by this beautiful odalisque ruse that attracted the guide of the ecstatic ghosts, in a bad moment of extradition to a bad context of epi ghosts not yet defined in their pockets of apprentices boasting on the laurels of weak and doubtful ideas, which still swarmed within his white heart, trying to reach Vernarth's as former commander Hetairoi, now a servile mystic. In such a way, the complicated as ghosts like "Sufi", being, in reality, the genetic soul of the double ax that carries the double edge of today ..., of the sacrament of Medea in Abdera.

Pro says a ghost from Shiraz (embarrassed):

"The Universe is a sea that longs for dry shores,
without sea and without other wet longings ...,
no possible maiden could
Try to dry it with your star hands ...
Who calms the crying of the Universe ...
even so ..., simile remains floating as a verse between his dreams "

"How can I make my dreams another dimension of the universe?
if he is quiet and does not make me float in his sea ...
How can I make it possible for the tips of its stars
fill the spaces that have revealed it ...
and that have made circular shores without a sea in the mists "

"I walk alone and nobody sees me ...
so I don't wake up the candles that smile and accompany me ...
between days that turn into mornings on the shore
of the solitude of the universe, that nobody embraces him ... "

“Now the days tremble from almost falling on themselves,
They come out alive from their own loneliness of exhaustion and fullness ...of whoever appreciates them in the mists ...
being able to surrender their attention in Ben Shemen ”.
As the Ghost of Shiraz expires in Ben Shemen, he escapes all for nothing in the triad of hypnotizing conventions that still resided in the shameless air that engulfed him, all over the stationary enclosures of the entertainment spaces caused by the acrobats and epi ghosts. That seduced the indecisive beings that sailed over the limbs that made them doubt where to refrain from continuing, outside the radius of the caravan or beyond the skies that did not cease to be in good spirits, of the universe passing through the white hearts, six on the inside and six on the outside in their traveling artist folds.

The lands that are accommodated by the time of parapsychological hypnosis tremble again, as a separation from the physical magnitude of Gethsemane.  Creating a sequence that bends the heads of the ghosts, filling their translucent physiognomies between a cold past and a frozen future, from a classic mechanic, which from now on would depend on the dice thrown by the Third Phantasm of time. Here a relativism would be opened to those who want to see the past in the orchard in an unstable particulate present, leaving far from splitting both parts of the archetype of today, like a subdivided clash of several times that allowed integrating the remaining phantasmagorical spectra, taking over a story on a pluriaxial axis that prevailed in the time of a supposed numerical line from a vector, aligning itself towards the compass of the distance that shines between both northern hemispheres in the minutes that go to the right and the solid-gas seconds that burst almost in the walls of their own liberated beings. The four ghosts of Shiraz, had time differentials before this event with the caravan, verifying the simultaneous prop between the two pairs of ghosts between four dissimilar, but poetic ones that made them here at this point obviate and cancel between two relative nomenclatures of physical structure. The durability and classification of these micro-times of the phantom epi would make the database that St. John the Apostle and Vernarth will accumulate with their eyes closed, each one surpassing himself from the debatable areas, which concern to estimate in occupying the spaces physical in some of them at will so that one of them could embark to Limassol. This simultaneous and relativistic multi-active line, encloses events and squares of spaces in the cinematographic time of the parapsychological regression, as a link of physical images slowed down in the evolutionary and cognitive memory, passing from the conduit of expectation memorization events towards the set of absolute figures. not pigeonholed, but approaching the universe in grasping scales of those who value them. This elucidates even the very conception of conceiving oneself as a ghost, rather in what is called "Epi Ghosts", of absolute belonging of the identical ..., outside of oneself "Being with them and not, as a tacit phase of a dragged story with the seconds that were not lived ... "

This scaling conception will allow them to reside a few millimeters from the consciences of the caravan that was advancing automated along the tracks that already made time and distance in front of the absolute, in a jiffy, having in their faces Rizhon Lezion, who was made of images more than a marked and concrete story in a mechanics that kept the body as part of a large volume in all, to the rhythm of the plantar areas of the Camels Gigas, dividing as a stream of water that would flow fragmented between past, present and future, but as a starting pattern to the future as the only "today" for the time of the times. This unified three-dimensionality would mark the mathematical space of the attempts towards the future of the contiguous camelids of the ghosts of Shiraz, for the ownership of time between all with a single identity that cries out for the univocal will to rearm, even if the winds are very strong. Of the partition,  which separates the world from God and the believing observer into the future with a believer from a historical past in obscurantism, leaving and entering a new world whose notion is to spend connected and bound in a systematization dependent on the great causes, although the static feels isolated from the dynamics, inquiring probative to unite between the ghosts and others, even though they are inferior forces under the line of the generous gaze and the parallelism of the attentive spectator, which suggests more openness to receive and delegate the circumstances of all physical, emotional, spectral and mental-spiritual dimensions, flexing the emotional states hierarchical night and day. Everyone falls asleep hugging on cushions of lamb saddlebags, making it possible to get closer to them too, close to the Ghosts and sleep next to them hugging with the decanted strength of the frames that hang from their faces showing the emotion of being favorite children of the Mashiach, absorbed in the Kidron Valley.

The frontier of the future will be the pre-act of not traveling too much of the physical love to the touch that only awaits the love of the sleeping of a Cherub, this may occur when the sheep climb the hill of our consciences, and manage to be perceived as the simultaneous harness of satisfaction, who lack the vision that would speak to them of a past belonging immobile, to this ethereal topology that will have to biodegrade the molecules of the seconds that sleep in the sheep-man wool saddlebags, at a higher speed than it would last to go back near from the palisade, where it crosses the path to the immemorial arcades of the Mashiach, spinning around all creation at a speed that determines a verse in its soul around the orthogonal of Shemesh, quadrupled and cloistered in its self-consciousness scattered like iceberg down the back in the submissive thoughts that long to be tied to more precious time.

Our lord has us more tied to an absolutist past and future, looking at his calendar divided in such a way that it always fits the day that hurts the shadows of a sharp past, so that it always smiles in us, as the best luminous sign, of whom and with whom to repair the damage of various wounds that travel through the times of time, always wounded, to and from the borders of an anachronistic past. The ghosts, always fast tetra, marginalize themselves to the sound of greater diligence, they fled in Rizhon Lezion, to wake up a little further away from the rays of the stationary Sun, which from now on always surfaced in the degraded dark circles of the mountebank, prowling around the festivities of who knows how to wait, to make a toast under the pretext of faith and hope that exempts the cardinal turned into a flower in white attire.

Shvil from the Angels

The fast epi phantom tetra was emaciated, they lost their north and since they could not walk, they were not energized by the radiosities of the earth, which dominates those who lend divine graces if their feet rested on the tapestry of those who threw their footsteps in winter already near Jaffa. The Shvil Angels were angels that were on the route that cordoned off the pilgrimage of Vernarth and Saint John the Apostle, they were full of flowering Berne Olive Trees that made trunks of floral arches at the entrance of this ancient port. They were three when they walked, they were always distributed so fast that they seemed to be six, but they ended up averaging the quantum of three for each of the components of the Birthright, which from today would be the great circumcision event of the Universe, to make it part of those who one day will have to caulk the rhombuses of the fragmented light beams on the path of heaven so high, in the name of the phrases that never tire of looking at the incautious years that are of our father by the exogalaxies in the total company of the invisibility and relativity of cautious time.

This Semitic seashore beauty indicates and invites us to reach its salty Hebrew waters of Yofi, reinforcing the phonetics that runs madly through the border hills with its heart in hand, when foreigners appear in the name of plausive phylogeny. That brings him a piece of bearable land from the Universal Flood, this is why the ancient Canaanites have to receive them with the table set, to entertain them with winter flowers in Jaffa. The Hellenistic tradition relates the name to Iopeia, which is Cassiopeia herself, mother of Andromeda. After Pliny the Elder the name is connected with Joppa, who was the daughter of ******, god of the wind. Where Vernarth locked his Aspis Skolié shield so that it would shine in the bilges of the Eurydice, under the pentagon’s of the bronze layer of his shield, every time he approached the Dodecanese when the Auriga descended from Andromeda on the back of a punished rower by the storms taking him away from his mother galaxy.

Thousands of years BC Its merchants glorified themselves with their baskets full of belongings and merchandise, for its inhabitants, who today pretended to be pharaohs who paid tribute to the marine corners through the coast that today seemed to open up with more new waters that were reborn from the capering of the swells, founding thus the omens of embarking to attempt and submit to the omens of sovereignty between Judah and the Hellenic lands, to work with noble trees in their armories and utensils, of which they played an honorable part after the maintenance of the emblem of the last portion, of the shaft of the libertarian triumph of Alexander the Great over the Phoenicians in Tire. In the New Testament, it is related how Peter resurrected the believer Tabitha (Dorcas, in Greek, gazelle) in Joppa (Jaffa) and, later, how near this city he has a vision in which Yahweh told him that he should not distinguish between Jews and Gentiles while ordering the removal of ritual (kosher) food restrictions followed by Jews.

The Shvil of the angels distanced themselves from the desire of this station without reaching them and not making them drink salty water from Jaffa, therefore they resorted to Petrobus who a few meters before reaching the port, summoned a large number of Dodecanese Pelicans who were waiting in great celestial flocks, which hovered happily above the sky welcoming them. The pelicans levitate from a risky juggling act, over the caravan and headed to the high seas, collecting saltwater, then they went along the initiation path of Shvil and reconvert the saltwater into sweet with hazelnuts so that they would have holy water, to insolate it and pour it into the canteens of the temple guards of the Canaanites who were waiting for them, to distract them, making them believe they were other Syriac lands such as those of Ashera, which in this act, perhaps it would be good for them to sponsor the Hexagonal Birthright.

But the paths of the angels have confederated before the noisy crowds and Ptolemaic lemurs, who were incorporated into the empty spaces that remained. Faced with this gravesite, Vernarth shouted to the sky with the force of Falangist tradition to himself, and acclaimed heaven, for the sake of freeing them from their definitive income to Jaffa, summoning the Hypatists; elite warriors and spearmen, for them to gather at the portal of the ante entrance of Jaffa, for others who never came from nowhere and nowhere, only blocking it from its perfect plan of memorial and theological heritage conservation, upon return from the exit Judah, to embark with destiny through the sulphurous point that  will boil them in temporary waters, towards the Cyclades and then the Dodecanese, triumphing in inhabiting them wherever whoever was and whoever arrived with foreign promise.

As dusk falls in its first nubile shadows, the  Shvil presents itself to you with these three angels dressed in ivory white, each with a book in each hand and in the other a candelabrum, giving signs of ultra-interpretive catechesis, allying with silica. In combination, after the vision of the charms of the knowledge spread. Earth and sky in the second angel, washing the Semitic dew of anguished Jaffa, with teachings of sleeping well and awakening, to walk in the lands that want to seize the senses, of those who are called not to be oppressed, behind the bars of the Morbid and illiterate pan-vision of the angles of hasty entertainment of the angels when they were called by the Angel Regent, simply relaying information easy to carry to their hearts, in faint powers and poetic lessons, before falling into a thorny forest, burning their tongues in furrows of afflicted human positions, to later redeem them fervently with the judicious power of God.

Vernarth, is distressed by matters of seeing them so tender and so fragile, allowing them to crawl toward him gently. Finally, on these three rules of the Shvil, Hanael introduces herself; "Speaking of hindrances stuck in the literary cabal of grateful compliments for all".   Alluding to Vernarth, a subject desensitized and also distant from any Sub Yóguica disciplinary doctrine. This led him to stand behind San Juan, protecting himself and scared of everything around him, he was seeing in front of him, on the upper left side itself, that Zebedeo was, San Juan's own father calling him!

Saint John the Apostle says: “Justice, at this time, allows us to alleviate ignorance, if the riddles allow us only to look for the answer, God will not be here…, it will only be emotional catharsis, through a merely ideological  Shvil or passage, which moves our meaningless sentences, definitely leading us to the coffers that rearm one after one, after the mistake. We are faithfully interpreted by them, but we detest our regencies with the Escaton, when we all pretend to follow his light of thunderous density towards the sky, prophesying to follow him without losing ourselves in him ..., held on his shoulder glossary. On the claws that are released from the dazed angelic prey, correcting its wavering vision, unraveling the living presence of condemnations or salvation, in Eden with your bare feet or in hell with no departure time”

Inexplicably, some Praetorian soldiers of Domitian appear, who would be restricting the departure of the tretacontero to Limassol, curiously they were the same ghosts from Shiraz that continued to represent such a bad event, just as when he was expelled to Patmos by Domitian in 95 BC, in size was the scandal that the Shvil angels produced with their impractical ideologies, who opposed such spectral imagery, in such a way that they replaced their figure with that of another Hellenic man who wanted to embark for Patmos, the other members were fully incorporated to the ship, which frolicked on the pranks as it proudly carried them to a new ocean. Around the last drops that jumped in Jaffa on the coastal rocks, others appeared when the last divided and scattered drops were going to shine the navigation temples, thus it is possible to board in the same ship that brought the principle from Limassol to Judah that transited from Lepanto.

The chapel of ministers reappears offering a ceremony, which would return the messianic remora to the Angels of Shiraz, to return to their former positions within the paths of biblical characters, who tend to commit adultery in the game of loss of consciousness of the Escaton, probably requiring that everyone have to make pilgrimage routes for all humanity secluded and liberated by themselves. The Saltimbanqui finally manage to jump into the boat to sail to the Dodecanese, but the Shvil of the Angels stayed where other celebrities will require them to reroute the Shvil Escaton.

Alas, awakened to the glorious smell
Of grieving petrichor and lichen
Intoxicating scents of spells,
Has left my thoughts forsaken.
Aggrieved, unclean,
I wash myself in the river,
Alone again, once with my mind,
The cold water does bring a quiver.
Rushing gently across its bend,
Its current does drag along
A heartache inside a massive depth,
A misery that floods it anon.
It seeks to help wash stains of past,
Blood from mistakes without thought,
Caressing my hands as I dip them in,
It cleans at the souls I’ve wrought.
I’ve brought spite to all I’ve been,
I bathe in hatred and stigmata,
Correctional growth of paradigmatic folly,
Proves equality to tumultuous fodder.
-
There has been death here,
Drowning and sickness,
Villainous nature subjugated
To corruption and bleakness.
Disparaging remarks whispered of men,
Bring to light lost life and love,
Discouraging thoughts of mine herein,
Anticlimactic and soulless above.
The trees began to whisper,
Moving slightly in the breeze,
I thought I would move quicker,
But something that couldn’t trapped me.
-
Bringing about a fallout cloud
That kept my mind thus smoked,
It is hard to cherish anything
That the water itself could soak.
-
I wanted to leave,
But I was locked in the wood,
I began to need it,
Like any Stockholm would
The treasure trove in which I was kept,
Was something of a fairy-tale
It hid monsters, death,
And only one nightingale.
Its swansong allowed me to sleep,
Gorgeous at night, it cast in weep,
A story of one so scared, The fear of bleeding out
One day upon the growing creep.
Vines and lies surrounded me,
Its whole existence was false,
Nothing could be this natural,
And the dead forest scoffed.
-
Could there be someone else here?
Doubtful, I began my search,
Through vasts I spied, time again,
But nothing upon this earth.
The forest fell in love with my heart,
Its emotions curious to her,
She tortured me with affection,
My reality was blurred.
I found my way across her floor,
Trekking miles to a never-end.,
Purgatory does not know this pain,
Hopeless abandon, fell unto myself to fend.
A trip, a fall, unique and random,
I impaled myself with a sharp cry,
A sharp palisade jutting out, I then whispered
“What if I don’t want to die?”

Through the street lights  and brutalist cliffs,
blinking beams echo my breath.

Laughter still bleeds in my throat, conversations still pierce my ears, alas
A Kodak haze,  a synchronized buzz

and agony is gone. For most are
nothing but pines,

A sleeping balm, a charming whiff, all the
same submissive to a whirr.

As a child, they  left me in awe
Now I know they're nothing more

than a palisade for the sea.  Those
that bid time in the isometric

backwoods, simply haven't the clue,
that no concrete can still her.

My life is three walls
Soon to be four
Lock the room
And remove the door

They all talk to me
About nothing much
Their daily routine
Or such and such

One is my friend
Who I keep close by
When he is dead
I always cry

Two is bulky
But full of power
He can make a whole day
Last just one hour

Three is the largest
In terms of space
Yet he grows thinner
As if it's a race

When I'm without them I feel
Unease and fear
If only I had four
I can't wait till it's here

When the night falls,
I am at my best.

I could topple from the sky for a saunter amongst the wingless owls arbitrarily.
Carrying my futile attempt on serving the sun with a contempt glance,
As I let my imagination run free like nine jockeys in one horse race.

When the night falls,
I am the captain of my own ship.

I could set my course straight to my hiding place without any further ado;
Where I'd sail to where dreams and phantasies collide until the clock strikes two.

But most importantly,
When the night falls, life isn't like crossing a palisade or walking through a horrible gale;
Life isn't like a perpetual movement of climbing up the rickety stairs or losing a bet to the middleman.

Life isn't as stilted as when I stood dead on the yawnful street or as boisterous as the crowds watching King Louis guillotined to death.

Because there is only peace.

The skies may be the blackest black; the air may be the emptiest space,
but none like the night
where I can sit and stare,
and watch as the moon and the stars
shine my way.

We met at the junction of your misery,
both high-strung and molars grinding like toothache.

Maybe it was my fault
Or maybe it was your folly,
But neither you nor I were aware
that this was a swath that brought us to our disrepair.

I should've known better,
I should've handed you my resignation.
Even heaven knows you've always had a palisade mouth;
sharp edges with misspent words,
teeth kisses with minor incision.

But we were shipwrecks coalesced by force,
fate's own masterwork where devils meddled their crooked hands in the ***.

Like a time bomb awaiting to explode,
we were in for our imminent destruction.

But I had nowhere else to go.

Proem

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

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

Writings from the archives of Sir
Thomas de Charney

About A.D. 1290

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

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

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

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

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

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


(to be continued)

____________

There I sit,
On my beautiful Nel,
The big girl that always lights my world.
A Russian Don by blood,
But she’s a Texas cutter to me.
Here we sit,
Watching this wonderful West Texas sunset.
She grazes on some prairie grass;
I chew on a cat-tail.
I wish we could have ridden,
With Jesse and Bill,
And become legends,
Here in these hills.
The canyons would echo our youthful cries,
Of excitement and joy,
While we just ride, run, Live.
Maybe in those days,
Nel could have run in the pastures,
of an old Texas myth,
and I could have wrassled some cows,
to earn the spurs of my grand-father’s,
father.
If we were on the trail,
Drivin’ some Angus and Belgian Blues,
Up north to Kansas City,
And maybe one night,
The boys and I could sit around the fire,
And stare up at the stars,
Wondering which stellar painting,
Looked most like our horse.
I want the times,
When Grand-dad and Nana Ma,
Would sit on their porch,
And gently swing another night away,
Like they had done,
For the last 50 years.
Nel would be my company;
My loyal bride;
While I rode south towards San-Anton’.
And we would meet up with,
Travis and Bowie,
To fight Santa Anna,
As he rushed the ol’ palisade,
Of the mission where I would die.
The Bexar province would weep for we few,
Who stood for the ideals of a noble, new nation.
Yet,
All ideals eventually come and go.

Well, me and Nel,
We ain’t never seen a cattle drive.
We ain’t ever been outside this here pasture.
So our dreams remain dreams,
And our hope remains void.
My Cowboy Dreams,
And her beautiful mane,
Grow faint and grey,
Every Single Day.

You were too good to be true.
I realize that now,
and I wish that I never met you
'cause then baby,
I wouldn't be so use to kindred words,
beautiful eyes,
somber smiles,
and tearful goodbyes.

I wouldn't miss your smile,
that silly smirk you used to tease me with,
the tickles,
the gasps,
the sloppy, desperate kisses.

But,
I put my heart out on its own palisade,
paraded it down empty halls,
and left it alone to fight a war it would surely lose,
with yours.

Waiting Still for Tomorrow

Deafening tone,
Makes me not alone,
Continually singing a sorrow.
Bring not today,
For I beg keep away,
That lament until Tomorrow.

It whispers so loud,
“You are lost in the crowd,
Lost in a sea of harrow.”
It’s censure grew — strewth!
Mocking my sad truth,
Threatening what follows Tomorrow.

I attempt to evade —
Stopped by a palisade,
Yes, stopped by a wall of yarrow.
Plucking mere few,
Intent to make new,
My wounds and be healed by Tomorrow.

“Sweet yarrow await,
I shall be kept late,
By that tormentor who inflicts sorrow,”
But yarrow soon will fade,
Leave my mind in the shade, and
My heart waiting still for Tomorrow.

it's in (behind (and flittering)) the palisade of your *******
and empire of crimson beats 10,000 times more magnificent
than any razor of dawn slashing nights enormous throat
the precious pumping of its chambers sweltering majestic pulses
and from the ***** of your love comes galloping your aromatic
flavors. a tongue of passionate lilies bubbling incandescent. and
the habitual crescent of your lips. it,s loved more astutely by no other
save this I. dithering about the delicious hillocks bounding from
your ivory femurs. a blossom in the courtyard of your hips. more caressed
than
          . i

i.

Tis, she is
That lost artwork that hangeth on display;
In the supernal supernatural museum of the creator's stage.
              
              ii.

               Tis, she is
               That lost sculpture mankind hath overlooked;
               In the hall of cherub's and serpahim book's.

iii.

Tis, she is I
As I am her, we art not separate, we art fused together;
From a otherworldly dimensional world.

              iv.

               Tis, we art from the palace
               Filled with the water of life, in a flowing chalice;
               None ill-will nor malice, just a palisade of intimacy.



©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry

It's cruel and indecent of me
to expect you to climb
these walls

They are my walls,
I realize that now

To hide behind
to shut out the light
I care not to see

So I built this palisade
and from the ramparts
I can see you struggle and fume

It's my fault
I know
but I can begin to see

The sunlight
through the cracks

I'd construct you a Kingdom
out of the salt-bleached bones
of past lovers

Hollow out the marrow
the femur, fibula
Develop instruments out of them
flutes, string chimes, reskin the drums
for your arrival

I'd ***** walls so high
That they penetrate the clouds and wage war
on the skies
Submitting the sunlight
Trapping it at your feet

And each day at the gallows
memories of old will die
for you to sit comfortably

If you grow weary of the palisade
and develop a longing, an ache
the forest, and it's density
is just beyond the gates

For you to run and smell
the richness of freedom
without requiring its taste

But please, return to the comfort of my walls  

the protection of my arms
Before the walls collapse
before the Kingdom lays to ruin

if i know a strength then i know a weakness
(and i know it)
                            come
                     right  over
                      here and i'll
                                           tell
                                    you
                    ­       what
                                    it
                     ­                   i  s
                                         ­     (i'll whisper it to you)
                                                    and it is you!
                                           it is in your slightest body's
                                           cavities that is where it is
                                           the 2 immeasurable heaps
                                           of your *******(who between
                                           them hold that flittering stutter
                                           of your love muscle)over your
                                           tummy they distend perfectly
                                           roundest and nubile
                                           and over what a belly
                                           that patient field of softest dermis
                                           (but it's not perfect(and that's why i love it)
                                           )it's besmirched by some little coarse darlings
                                           who meander down its sloping palisade
                                           into the impolite swarm of your hips
                                           those dears creep down into a sturdy
                                           copse of sharply culled(by little pretty pink
                                           razors when you took a shower last night)
                                           filaments(and those prickle babes poke and
                                           tickle my nostrils as i build into your strongest
                                           smallness a leaping vociferous erosion,
                                                        ­                                                         '
                                                               ­                                               '
                ­                                                                 ­                                ,
                                                               ­                                            .

An old fairy-tale book molders silently
in a cardboard box, in my airless attic.
A coat of dust has stolen its grandeur,
the pages are dog-eared from generations
of small, sticky fingers.

Inside, a castle succumbs
to ten years of neglect.
The knights slip into apathy,
leave their armor unpolished,
and start to ponder
a change of career.
An empty-headed princess
languishes in her tower
among yellowed love letters,
with no hope of the rescue
promised to her
in twenty pages or less.

There isn't anyone left
to fight the dragons, nobody wants
to believe in them anymore.
The children averted their eyes,
and slowly built up
each palisade guarding
the magic left in their heads.

the siege begins again
as it has and is and always will
stay inside the castle walls
there's no need for this
we shall build and rebuild
the bastion
these walls shall never fall
after the last
swore they
would never be
breached again
swore none would
come close

but here we are

they surround the palisade
they tempt you with gifts
and batter you with armaments
they fly different flags
and different banners
they carry different faces and
different names
but always the
same catapults
the same battering rams
laying siege with their
sharp tongues
and gilded hands
come to burn
come to plunder
come to take everything away

for days and weeks
the siege continues
tearing at these walls
you worked so hard
to build
and rebuild
but you're tired
you are so tired!
of fighting
of tending to the wall
why not let loose the gates
and allow entrance once more
don't let those thoughts consume you
you can't let them in
they'll burn you down
they'll burn you down
they'll steal you away
and ruin you
you can't let them in
you can't
fall for that 
trojan horse
again

i.

Betimes, in the ages of shadowed black
Stripes were mine Mark's, scar's on mine back;
I cried for a rescuer, a healer of medicinal fact's
She sprinkled me with her babaylan docteretic caress.

ii.

The tincture's she Gaveth me, were godly induced
Whenever her lingo speaketh, mine heart goes loose;
As tis she knoweth, she maketh me feel better to
She's a lullaby, when I cryeth, a queen, a poem, mine muse.

iii.

Tis she's mine solace, mine palisade palace
I'm the mad hatter, as tis she's mine wonderland Alice;
She maketh men crazy, with her beautiful charm's
I loveth mine queen, the angel in mine arms.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication

How do you make love?
It cannot be fabricated,
Desecrated
or violated,
But is to be vindicated.
Maybe perhaps,
We should have waited.

So how do you make love --
From the back
a view of what is now behind you,
Love made,
But with cheap materials
Nothing that can last,
Regret from the past.

--
On the top of what seems to be
A sweet serenade
On a Greek palisade,
The sunlight feeding the love you had made,
To only be shrouded by the moons grey shade.

Making love,
An experience
To be experienced
Through the love of another.
To create the blessing of physical love,
Found new in the rhythms created by the beat of baby,
Unmatchable love made by unconditional lovers.

Dry Well

A Gift from Fort Apache Energy, Inc.

“We will be drilling with a fresh water mud system
which has no environmental impact.”

- Allan P. Bloxsom III, President

As woodland creatures shy until the dark
Drift as a silent blessing through the trees
At dusk some sad folk gather ‘round the wounds
Gored geometrically into the ground
A palisade of wood and water and earth
Now guarding nothing but pale desolation:
A pond of death whose hydrocarbon sheen
In corpselike stillness entertains no life
A sewerage ditch bedecked with human turds
A dumpster skip piled high with promises
Piles of unidentified white powder
An unattended garbage fire, a shirt
Some bolts, planks, screws, sandwich wraps, cigarette butts
A cargo cult of curiosities
Liturgically in statio around The Hole
That venerable new hole, that hole of hope
That fabled argosy laden with dreams
That fell into the depths, and never returned
At dawn a tower stood, adorned with lights
By dusk it was folded, and stolen away
Like the long-storied tents of Araby
Or a Roman camp in the Teutoburg
Abandoned among the darkening woods
For the curious primitives to poke
And **** about, chattering in their tongue
About the marvels of a superior race
Who make no environmental impact.

In the spring of 331 BC C., Alexander the Great left Egypt returning to the port of Tire, where his fleet was. From there he went to Antioch, crossing the valley of the Orontes River, and reached the Euphrates River at the height of Tapsaco, where he founded the city of Nicephorus to be a stronghold and storehouse for army supplies. Here he learned that Darío was in Arbelas, so he crossed the Tigris and headed north along the eastern bank of the river.

The sibyl Cumana was at level 97 of the wind tunnel when listening to these waves, very close to the doline karst, in avidity of Pythia Delfica with divinatory proselytes that crossed folds of her attire, in pleats of a brain divinatory flock. His Cumana relativity was spent on the mausoleum, prophesying life for all in the passion of living together with the bodies abandoned by the souls of the Devotee, and in the innocence of the soul that slips away, daunted by not being desolate, amidst the parchment of Lilith, and in the offerings of the Strigoi, for breaches of troubling visions of darkness from the cavern of Chauvet, by sacrificing competing sense-emotions of Lilith's malefic Votum. Only one can exist as an inviolable part of chaste Wonthelimar tradition, groping the Xifos with human sheepskins, tectonic offerings, and fringing the altitude 103 of the Strigoi wind tunnel.

Vlad Strigoi Sings: “Mardiath, noble and loyal hussar of the Vernarth Sea, Chief of the Gulf fleets, came from the deck when he turned around the bowsprit; he was picked up and hit by ropes in parasitism, which shone like strays. Oars of gods in supplications that were felt in the whistles of the wind. He approaches and descends dark staircases in the direction of the water piston, whose heresy in a Vladiana ship was pending. “When I train myself to write by saying who I am or what I am, I only receive massive abscesses Saecula Saeculorum, not finding the basis to confess. They say they do not know what to reveal because there is no content that compares to someone who does not have Age, Life, or Compassion, that I only have to communicate as a Strigoi messenger?. Now I know that no one will sing my thoughts, there is no ink that dares smear a comparable calamus that resists my word of Strigoi ammonia, usurped from a Balinger ship to some Flemish pirates, seconded to the side by a Panescalm barge, which shot 64 thousand bodies massacred from the Bubonic Plague.

Mardiath graduates from the Ballinger and leaves his sword to Vlad next to a geographical table to rediscover destiny in a maiden who attends to his disorders, more than a ganglion suppurating prostration. He goes back to Tire to meet Vernarth, and his henchmen to finally head to the wild fields of Gaugamela "

Chthonic Prehensiles referred to the gods or telluric spirits of the tectonic underworld, as opposed to celestial deities, appearing in the tubular ascension of warm wind, which crowned the consecration, and those who were above waiting for them. Oblations of light illuminated particles of woodworm that were suspended, expelling those that were magnetized from the phosphorescent matter. The disjointed syntax became periodic in the words of Strigoi, from the Capite Velato or veiled head from the Strigoi Ballinger who managed to reposition him. In double increase of sap, it made him less to resist his life and his closeness, lying minimally before Wonthelimar, and Mardiath who filled him with the company in the eyebolt that supports the path of his sullen life.

Sings Mardiath: “Vernarth's troops would depart from Tire where his fleet was, which came from Sudpichi, from the Horcondising Empire. Legend has it that in the heights of the Gulf, when his army was sailing, a mysterious tempest of hot air from Hormuz broke out on his squads, at height 665 miles from Um Kasar, they had found a ship from present-day Romania. When they spotted them and intervened inside this frigid ship, there was nothing ... just creaking masts and their main yard that was spurring, presenting palisade curtains that came from Sighisoara / Transylvania; where the very similar Vlad Tepes was sitting behind a captain's room writing on his desk. Every so often he would take out a handkerchief to dry his ****** nose, like a pinch of gelatinous ink, shady and stained”

Isaías sings: “The presence in the corresponding versed folio makes relative the prophecy of Immanuel born of a ******, who is associated with a similar Virgilian prophecy of Cumana, justifying its prophetic symbolism. Here is the admonition that blackens the skies where the light retracts, thousands are chained during the announcement of a thousandth that climbs abysses like the fateful Strigoi, and only tribulated pasture will have to transplant rebellions, which lie asleep for the awakening of the ideal of incipient spiritual ******* dressed in execration. Has the conflagration of the heart that resists death been unleashed and that agonizes several times in the ...? The conditions wait for the apostates to refuse the water that does not make them optimal, and makes the radius of obedience of the Vernarthian heart elliptical, full of granules of Physconia lumpy, whose frequency encysts in the bodies of treacherous, kingdoms and fungal lineages. The reign of the saints will judge plurality on the thrones with devastation in the fatuous beatifications in Pergamum, already admonished by me.

hallowed lands touch idling feet
madly mumble marching in
waiting lips and wings of bright
watch and hear the games begin

lucid furnace of its dream
or something akin
yearn a sketch of resurrection
sample sights of spring

dancing fingers live the warmth
on tips of trailing twigs
beat a pitch, phrase a song
for blossoms breathed within

which meets a palisade of change
relish his laughing sin
and halts in ***** of her sky
to womb of shadows bring

a day of gleaming fragrances
in orchards verdant seen
caged and frozen in her eyes
or melted in his being

if limber kiss of morning dew
may steer a flock of wind
through listless green of jilted rhymes
let the games begin

we sing the concrete jungle
(you can get lost in the country, too)
in fact, you can get lost anywhere that is
and people that drive away from their problems
thinking that it really is location, location, location
are lying to themselves

because the reason he decides to take a job in Utah,
probably isn't because he hates where he's at, or because
his boss is a ****, but because the unease that pulses through
his hands tells him, verbatim, that you could belong somewhere
else, you just need to keep moving.  If you've ever tried to run
and talk sense into yourself at the same time, you'd know that
the two aren't so much mutually exclusive, that you're either
running or you're thinking and most people
don't like to be




alone




with themselves, so we've perpetuated the notion that distractions
are healthy and ourselves are not, that most thoughts are too heavy
to bear and the crack of each cannon drives you borderline pyschotic,
so we hide in the trenches or break for the trees,
pretend we don't exist,
pretend we don't hear
what goes inside our heads
and all the feelings that could
be real that churn inside our chest
like the taffy machine in Depoe, Oregon
wrenching and loving and yearning and angonizing--
how we've learned to so mercilessly ignore ourselves
is beyond me


so when we pack up our travel trailers and claim that
anywhere is better than here, I'd propose that everywhere
is the same, and here or there, whether between the red rocks
in Moab or the aspen trees in Palisade, while ultimately different
coordinates, look
just
the
*******
same

by: W. A. Marshall

There’s a thornbush blocking my path
its branches shudder
from dust devils
like the tormented
coat of a colt -  
the spectral bush must burn,
for me to see
through the canonical flees
that clutter the infinite path.

My splendor is disguised however,
it hides inside my chest
I point to my breast
a parched mark of the sun,
cauterized by nations,
an open country itemization
goes further now
with the bush burned and gone  
down into a damp stairwell
the lane leads me -
where I can hear
distant hammering of fists
on rusty cellar doors
beyond view from mounted kings.

Their whispers never heard
a fat consequence
that I shave away and away
day after day
in order to admit to myself
my impatience inside a palisade
causes me to stagger.

To escape my flight
or hide when the dark night
creeps on fog and seed
howling winds blow
down the staircase
and into the cellar
where the moon collapses softly
along my reoccurring path.

It's romance
like a cow in a field
kind of romance,
like when a mountain
is everything
cascading over
everything
and horses
and I can't
tell a person from a tree,
It's romance like
a silver storm
a violet blast
eating all of the stars
away (thank God
also your eyes)
It's romance like
I will never see the sun again yet
it'll consume me all the same
And you say you never knew
romance from a palisade.

It was the good feeling of defeat as he tore down my weak façade. It was scary to feel that... pain. To once more know what is was to be understood.
It was like he...

...broke through her defenses, worked my way through the cracks and fissures that marred the palisade she half erected to guard her emotions. It was easy, like maybe she...

...wanted him to, so finally I could find some form of release. He was my outlet. I plugged in, and my emotions and true feelings shone like a dim fluorescent bulb in a smoky basement. Clouded by uncertainty, but just visible. He is a lot like a...

...brace or a crutch, something solid she can depend on. Someone to confide in, share secrets with. Maybe I can be the one. Help her escape...

...this reality, it's killing me. Maybe he can be the raft that takes me across my sea of denial, landing me safely on the white sandy beaches of acceptance. Sometimes I wonder if...

...she thinks the same thing. It hurts me. I think for once in my life...

...I've fallen in love, but I know that it's...

...hopeless, so hopeless, for we exist in entirely different realms. She...

...is...

...in...

...my...*

...head.

i

Sitting on the star's, looking down below
Waiting for an eternal exquisite, to subdue mine woe's;
Going to the country, sensually, we shalt elope
This is a story, of two in romanticism's row.

ii

In the softened aisle, carried by first class limousine
She powder's on her blush and makeup, a surreal thing;
And whilst walking down the plaza, in the mezzanine
She calleth me her handsome king, I whisper back queen.

iii

And tis she'll be mine queen, I'll be her reality
We'll maketh a dream cometh true, in all factuality;
None more restless night's, amour cometh by day
A garden with a palisade, all fruit's godly made...



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

I have a set of words,
I don’t know how to say.
They’ve been lost and jumbled,
Scattered to the tides, stolen by ginger mermaids
I have to catch them, before the elements.
Should even one of those fragile blades
Wash upon your shore.
Then the wall would be thickest,
A Medieval palisade.

Chapter VI
Strigoi frigate

In the spring of 331 a. C., Alexander left Egypt returning to the port of Tire, where his fleet was. From there he went to Antioch, crossing the valley of the Orontes River, and reached the Euphrates River at the height of Tapsaco, where he founded the city of Nicephorus to be a stronghold and deposit for army supplies. Here he learned that Darío was in Arbelas, so he crossed the Tigris and headed north along the eastern bank of the river. Vernarth's troops would depart from Tire where his fleet was located, which came from Sudpichi, from the Horcondising Empire. Legend has it that in the heights of the Gulf, when his army had been sailing, a mysterious tempest of hot winds from Hormuz broke out on his squads, at the heights of 665 miles from Um kasar, they had encountered a ship from present-day Romania . When spotting them and intervening inside this frigid ship, there was nothing but the creaking of their masts and their main **** spurring, they presented palisade curtains that came from Sighisoara / Transilvania; where the very like Vlad Tepes was sitting behind the captain's camera writing at his desk. Every so often he would take out a handkerchief to dry his ****** nose like drops of slimy, slimy jelly ink. He was writing a letter in the text of which said:

Vlad Tepes says to the Vernarth captain:
Mardiath,  his noble and loyal hussar of the sea. Head of his Gulf fleets, he came across the deck, as he turned around by the bowsprit, picked up and struck by some parasitic ropes that shone like lost thighs of gods in prayers they felt for the whistles of the wind. He approaches and descends the dark ladder stairs towards the water pump whose heresies this ship Vladiana was hanging.
“When I train myself to write saying who I am who I am, I only receive from the purulence of the multitudes, in centuries by centuries, not finding a basis to answer me. They say they do not know what to answer because there is no content that compares to those who have no Age, Life or compassion. That I only have to communicate with the Strigoi messenger articulated with the souls of the dead who come out of their graves at night to terrorize the neighborhood. That it is the same as me condemned to sail and swarm the World of the Nosferatu aristocracy, survivor of all human vanity, in all the empires of the World”

Now I know that no one will answer my thoughts. There is no ink that dares spread a comparable feather that resists my words of ammonia Strigoi, usurped from a Balinger ship to some Flemish pirates, seconded by a Panescalm barge, which was throwing 64 thousand massacred bodies of the Bubonic Plague.

Mardiath, graduated from the balinger and left her sword to Vlad next to a geographical table to find her destiny in some maiden who attends to her disorders more than her ganglia suppurate discouragement. He heads back to Tire to meet Vernarth. And her minions,  to finally head to the wild fields of Gaugamela.
On the gallon of the Macedonian Wine cruet Vlad left him a notice...:

“In order for Strigoi to leave their victims alone, seeds must be scattered with nails hidden inside them. These obsessive creatures cannot go their way without first counting the seeds by throwing the brides' lace to the altar. When they ***** with the hidden nails, they start counting again… ”

In the frenzy of his prophecies, Darius had recruited a new army after his defeat at Issos. From Babylon he advanced north, passed the left bank of the Tigris, and continued toward Arbelas as if guessing that he would never escape the Alexandrian shadow, where he established his supply and his harem. Then he directed the army to Gaugamela, a place that had a wide plain that would favor the movement of its numerous mounted troops but not on Hellenic horses with Homeric gales within reach. He even proceeded to level the terrain and remove obstacles as if emphasizing fearing that the moon would resemble holes in his strategies where his dreams would fall, turning Gaugamela into an immense field of maneuvers suitable and great and indigestible for his chariots equipped with scythes to move on the oppressor wheels.

Thirty-sixth Oases in Siwa:
Alexander Magnus after founding Alexandria he marches to the Siwa oasis, where he is proclaimed by the priests as "son of Ammon", god already identified with Zeus by the Greeks. With this, he consolidated his own divine ancestry, as a descendant of the Argéada dynasty, which went back to Heracles and, therefore, to Zeus himself.

The entire dynasty moved from its acropolis under the limits of each empire to what would be the final battle. This time Darío does not want surprises, so he arrives at the battle stage in advance. As always, he has his cavalry on the flanks, with the heavy infantry in the center and the rear. It also has more than 50 war chariots with sickles on the wheels and about 15 elephants.

Alexander launches the attack diagonally and the Persian left wing defends himself as best he can. Vernarth, Simultaneously harasses Strigoi's allegories by subordinating the Persian chariots that speedily launch upon the Macedonians. Many of the drivers are headless by the arrows of the draconian archers. The rest pass by as the Macedonian infantry opens. This strategy is complemented by a second line of heavy infantry called the Force of the Dead from in the Siwa Mountains, which receives the stray tanks, while the first line turns around and attacks them from the rear guard surrounding them. Opening a gap between the Persian lines, Alexander's cavalry managed to wedge themselves in search of Darius. As in Issos, the Persian king is stuck and unable to maneuverIn this onslaught, see how the prognosis moves more fluidly, after the textual support with Strigoi in his Balinger he was able to allow himself to advance the ellipsis of the ****** battle and more importantly of the defenders of the embolism of the tyrant and secular Gods, in his caves of lost and soul pains. Since this last festival of the Siwa soils, the events of Alexander Magnus and Vernarth can be seen.

He only separated the lashed rows of threads from the majestic Bumodos, before entering the back room of the great fight. It is now thirty-six times that he needs the therapeutic methods of Walekiria, to supply him through his veins with ****** essences to immortalize his stout columns that support the beams of the Hellenic world.  Caryatid that flows through the delta of the cries of all the heroes,  devoid of helmets under the limits to resign.

Ellipsis Tomb of the Patriarchs:
Vernarth says: You are not a vision ... nor an illusion, nor a lonely image, because if so, include my image to accompany you in this tragedy! He tells Walekiria, his seductive valhalica.
My little Walekiria, not the slightest disdain, will make me leave you halfway, we are in the same position to remove the terror that creeps through the spaces of the plain of the Gaugamela cemetery. Here we will scare away all the demons that betray our plans. Only you here in the Charioteer's particle crypt. Mardiath tied to the acacia and Alikanto spitting out more fiery fires that will reduce the unproductive paperwork. To improve that others optimize the sharp means to use to overcome the medium that has darkened all hopes. Now we are going to plot the plans that we have improvised in this barracks.

Walekiria says to him:
My mind together with my feeling make me closer to you Verbarth. It seems that now more than ever I will hold on to you more. Since our gross bodies lack any possibility of holding together.

Vernarth when leaving says to him:
Of the cosmic forms, yours Being has been hit in my box in Andromeda. Vitalizing and healthy part will strengthen what remains of your exploded mind and my elevated feeling to the ethereal worlds, will make rainbow emblems for your resentment.

To be continued… / under edition