Onam Reminds



Onam reminds me of the venomous mind

That overthrew  a just ,kind king ,unkind

Aryan imperialism subjugating the Dravid

The white over the black , dark apartheid



Justice of the black is unjust for the white

A matter of jealousy, dissatisfaction and fight.

For the British, Indians were raw to be refined

As Allopaths frown upon Ayurvedics  as bad.



But, what is the truth? think of the covered past

Weigh evidences: from history, literature and art

Of all non-whites; really, they were and are super

In many respects, hence, awake from your stupor.



India shall not be a kite of any ruler outside

No race is Blessed to override anyone beside;

Almighty considers all equals - by their deeds

It is That, that fosters all by weighing our deeds.



When greed of man rudely jeopardizes the Nature

Nature jeopardizes human life, making a fracture.

Torrential rain or draught is a positive measure

Applied by It on earth (as earth-quake) to treasure.



Man like Vamana  tries to grow and measure the earth

Other planets ,heaven or hell to exploit Nature’s wealth

As Jehovah ,the Almighty, Brahma, or Allah, the Cause

Of that Pulsation is everywhere, beware man! and pause!

In the dour ages
Of drafty cells and draftier castles,
Of dragons breathing without the frame of fables,
Saint and king unfisted obstruction's knuckles
By no miracle or majestic means,

But by such abuses
As smack of spite and the overscrupulous
Twisting of thumbscrews: one soul tied in sinews,
One white horse drowned, and all the unconquered pinnacles
Of God's city and Babylon's

Must wait, while here Suso's
Hand hones his tack and needles,
Scouraging to sores his own red sluices
For the relish of heaven, relentless, dousing with prickles
Of horsehair and lice his ***** *****;
While there irate Cyrus
Squanders a summer and the brawn of his heroes
To rebuke the horse-swallowing River Gyndes:
He split it into three hundred and sixty trickles
A girl could wade without wetting her shins.

Still, latter-day sages,
Smiling at this behavior, subjugating their enemies
Neatly, nicely, by disbelief or bridges,
Never grip, as the grandsires did, that devil who chuckles
From grain of the marrow and the river-bed grains.

642

Me from Myself—to banish—
Had I Art—
Impregnable my Fortress
Unto All Heart—

But since Myself—assault Me—
How have I peace
Except by subjugating
Consciousness?

And since We’re mutual Monarch
How this be
Except by Abdication—
Me—of Me?

Nota: man is the intelligence of his soil,
The sovereign ghost. As such, the Socrates
Of snails, musician of pears, principium
And lex. Sed quaeritur: is this same wig
Of things, this nincompated pedagogue,
Preceptor to the sea? Crispin at sea
Created, in his day, a touch of doubt.
An eye most apt in gelatines and jupes,
Berries of villages, a barber's eye,
An eye of land, of simple salad-beds,
Of honest quilts, the eye of Crispin, hung
On porpoises, instead of apricots,
And on silentious porpoises, whose snouts
Dibbled in waves that were mustachios,
Inscrutable hair in an inscrutable world.

One eats one pate, even of salt, quotha.
It was not so much the lost terrestrial,
The snug hibernal from that sea and salt,
That century of wind in a single puff.
What counted was mythology of self,
Blotched out beyond unblotching. Crispin,
The lutanist of fleas, the knave, the thane,
The ribboned stick, the bellowing breeches, cloak
Of China, cap of Spain, imperative haw
Of hum, inquisitorial botanist,
And general lexicographer of mute
And maidenly greenhorns, now beheld himself,
A skinny sailor peering in the sea-glass.
What word split up in clickering syllables
And storming under multitudinous tones
Was name for this short-shanks in all that brunt?
Crispin was washed away by magnitude.
The whole of life that still remained in him
Dwindled to one sound strumming in his ear,
Ubiquitous concussion, slap and sigh,
Polyphony beyond his baton's ******.

Could Crispin stem verboseness in the sea,
The old age of a watery realist,
Triton, dissolved in shifting diaphanes
Of blue and green? A wordy, watery age
That whispered to the sun's compassion, made
A convocation, nightly, of the sea-stars,
And on the cropping foot-ways of the moon
Lay grovelling. Triton incomplicate with that
Which made him Triton, nothing left of him,
Except in faint, memorial gesturings,
That were like arms and shoulders in the waves,
Here, something in the rise and fall of wind
That seemed hallucinating horn, and here,
A sunken voice, both of remembering
And of forgetfulness, in alternate strain.
Just so an ancient Crispin was dissolved.
The valet in the tempest was annulled.
Bordeaux to Yucatan, Havana next,
And then to Carolina. Simple jaunt.
Crispin, merest minuscule in the gates,
Dejected his manner to the turbulence.
The salt hung on his spirit like a frost,
The dead brine melted in him like a dew
Of winter, until nothing of himself
Remained, except some starker, barer self
In a starker, barer world, in which the sun
Was not the sun because it never shone
With bland complaisance on pale parasols,
Beetled, in chapels, on the chaste bouquets.
Against his pipping sounds a trumpet cried
Celestial sneering boisterously. Crispin
Became an introspective voyager.

Here was the veritable ding an sich, at last,
Crispin confronting it, a vocable thing,
But with a speech belched out of hoary darks
Noway resembling his, a visible thing,
And excepting negligible Triton, free
From the unavoidable shadow of himself
That lay elsewhere around him. Severance
Was clear. The last distortion of romance
Forsook the insatiable egotist. The sea
Severs not only lands but also selves.
Here was no help before reality.
Crispin beheld and Crispin was made new.
The imagination, here, could not evade,
In poems of plums, the strict austerity
Of one vast, subjugating, final tone.
The drenching of stale lives no more fell down.
What was this gaudy, gusty panoply?
Out of what swift destruction did it spring?
It was caparison of mind and cloud
And something given to make whole among
The ruses that were shattered by the large.

Throwing themselves beneath the mechanized yard-work goliath,
Salvia flowers bow their heads, heralding my passing
Stooping to remove their violet hats,
Thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot by passing metal,
A muddled **** of
half-death, half-birth
Floral genitalia broken into fragments, shards of color
Yet always they bow
Stooping, self-subjugating, submissive, servile, stretched
to their absolute maximum, fibrous tendrils ripping from the bed of grass

Until they flutter gently
Half-mocking their half-living counterparts
Still rooted firmly in the mulchy beds.

The ways in which things fall apart.

Slowly,
like sandcastles,
and snowmen.
melting away,
in the rays of the sun,
the soft gentle waves.

Quickly,
like the way fire takes apart,
a paper plane.
one final blaze of glory.

Painfully,
like your words,
eating away all of my dreams.

Never more,
never more.

We fall into the stars.
silent and holy,
alone in the cathedral,
waiting to feel,
the presence of nothing.

That which tucks us in,
and tells us,
that the monsters,
are just illusions.

Is that what dreams are?
monsters?

In the dark,
out of reach,
intangible and fragile,
waiting to flee when the lights come on,
slipping away,
to the corners of our mind.

So what is this feeling then?
is it the presence,
of a state of heartbreak?
is it the absence,
of the dreams we shared?
does it haunt you too?

Or,
are you not afraid,
of monsters anymore?

Perhaps this is when,
we forget how to be children.

Stuck in a world,
of the finite and real.
alone and cold,
because we forgot about love,
and our dreams.

We took on their dreams.
the ones they forced down our throats.

Day after day,
year after year,
it only gets worse...

Once we lose the the bliss,
of endless possibilities.

Once we discover,
that we cannot be an astronaut.

Once we learn,
to accept our given fates.

We are lost.

Nothing can escape,
the winds of change.

Why then,
do we run?
and hide,
pulling the covers up over our head.

Why not embrace the inevitable?
open the window,
fly away,
and never come back.

We allow ourselves to be chained,
firmly to the ground.

We are responsible,
for our wont of love.
having pushed it out,
to the fringes of existence.

A hermit,
alone,
so profoundly alone.

He takes solace in his infinite wisdom,
and grace.
small comforts.

Wishing for just one companion.
one person,
to help conquer the dark.
with which,
they can brave returning to the cave.

But this other is elusive,
and cannot be found.
rather they must find,
their own way out.

That secret path,
hidden in the shadows,
along with our dreams.

Society tries,
to obscure all hope.
if we do not play along,
with this self imposed torture.
everyone will turn against us.

They are so lost,
that they cannot see,
cannot even fathom,
their poor and tortured lives.

They do not know,
why they cannot be happy.
why they cannot be free.
what being free would even mean.

To be truly free,
from that subjugating will.
which is itself a fiction.

They have created the overlord,
the one who sits atop the mountain ruling supreme.
they pay their homage to him,
dominating themselves.

We however,
cannot be dominated.
we will not allow ourselves,
that easy way out.

We alone can be held accountable.
for this pain we feel,
is of our own creation.

Our own monster,
roaming in the night.

Yet still,
the joy we know is transcendent.
freeing us,
from our own traps.

We see the overlord for what he is,
a monster,
an illusion,
a dream,
a sandcastle.

Content, with a tinge of love,
I repent
All I've given up.
Realize what I've surmised
Is a traversed trial of fire.

Higher, higher;
The atmosphere you admire:
Lighter breathing,
Muscles beating,
Entreating my desire.

A pyre,
The phoenix feeling renaissance:
The lover's having ---
Once the want to be satisfied ---
Which was, while shattered, reconciled ---
Compiled a mile-long list
To mist the ever-flowering tree
Of prospect,
Respecting past
Opinion.

Your dominion over my
Ever-subjugating heart
(Pulsating a Morse message)
Belittles meaning in
Stockholm Syndrome,
For I am no
Shackled drone;
And, forever,
This you've known.

We are symbiotic.
We are psychotic.
Celeritous symbols
Sampling this:
Extended metaphor.

Extempore, we entertain and
Adore each other,
The world we are to each.
So: teach me how you look
With beseeching reach
Into deep territory in sleep;
Incept directly
And affect me
Romantically.

Augment what is meant and true.

Tessitura, psalms, and songs of praise, they branded atheism when singing Christian psalms in the streets making ineffable groans, where the exordios looked from the back with Delphic prose, where the dart that opens the curtains of the hallelujah tormented, with darts that rubbed weathered in the tentative to rise of the stores of Sanequerib. They are relatives of Incipit Psalm 69. " Saint John said as they continued to climb the Calvary of Profitis Ilias, but this time in the company of the Help of Isaiah, with a great spirit of being from the cavern of Elías in Haifa, at a flat point at the time of the Benedictus. Already the Assyrians were returning the same way they came, as Isaiah prophesied, in the morning with ejaculations that ended with the crass rottenness that could end the day without a step other than an anti-Jesuit one. Prayers go and implore the Omnia Vanitatis, the moment when the sun honors, taking you towards the close of the day with the perpetual antiphon. The vigil was reaching the lines of Isaiah does not rest, in Trinitarian doxology. Where is the darkness, where is the glory to see you...? If the stars collide with each other in Baptismal frowning, and in the mystery of Vernarth that lies a complex, tied to becoming that never begins, and what was Christic history of a morning introit.

Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth express in the Trinitarian doxology: “Through Christ, with him and in him, to you Almighty God the Father, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all honor and all glory, forever and ever. Amen"

The triangular taxias of the Hetairoi made faunas that came cutting themselves with the wind of the "incipit" of Psalm 69: "My God, come to my aid;" Lord, hurry to help me ", by the Keras or wings of the site of Arbella; or Gaugamela rather said…, sonnetized by some Pazhetairoi, made up of 32 Syntagmas, as units of sixteen revived Falangists from Court V of the Helleniká Necropolis, bilocated on Patmos, a few feet from the Mandragoron project. Thus the triangular spellings of war were formed again, to the astonishment of all those present. Alexander the Great, already graceful, was over-trained in irrigation and supplications, he was consisting of 128 Syntagmas, with 62 Falangists covered by the Cinnabar that subdivided them into bones by sixteen of the Lochoi or guides. The Syntagma bipartite was enlarged by two Syntagamatarchos captaining two units, all with their semi-open belly, re-liquidating their viscera by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the Saltimbanqui Hydro comes from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), from an underground channel which carried spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here he has to mend the propellers and water ropes to do his acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When he bites his tongue, they repair it with the verses of Hafiz's Koran, there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with his wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monte Blanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan that trembles with uncertain doubts here on Patmos "

Saltimbanqui of Bascule says: “We are Epi ghosts, green in reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almeria of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Will take you back to Limassol. Curiously to the same ship as the Eurydice that sleeps in the swings of the sea, and in the arms of the petulance of Dionysus in a new awakening of lethargy of theorization of the superstrings of Anaximander, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, already that this is not just purely empirical research. "

In between them, they form even and odd rows. The horizontals were tinged with the Red Blood cells that became volatile and surrounded the Xyston lances, for thirty soldiers of the Diloquia, with their dismembered arms that began to take them back with their hands tightly girded by the song of the Theological Shemesh of San Juan, which subsequently rescinded last in the sum of two taxiarchies, constituting a Syntagma. The units rose with the sickle that cuts definitive death, to reconstitute it in five thousand that should tread through the hierarchies of formations, amid the frolics of the Phalanx, where Vernarth protested to all “Khaire, Kalos irthate apo tin kentriki, Welcome from Hell !"

Thus the Phalanx was constituted among the Syntagmas in metaphors of the Falangists. In this way this antiphon was revealed martial, denoting synergies of the Sybilla Herofila that conferred to the world of Trinitarian Doxology, among ashes that remained by a solid cobblestone witness of the reluctant troops that testified to the sense of interpreting the law of bringing to the world what to their lives it owes them. The prophecy shone from an intangible Isaiah before all in this concomitant episode, and to the degree of the reign of Judah, here together with the prophet Elijah, they faced the hardened fragrances of blessing as oracular teachers of so many goods, and of the benefactor that protects by inspirational mandate, making laws for the end times before closing his own eyes without having prophesied them.

The rows in “V" contrasted with the corridor friezes in the crowned troops of the Hetairoi, and in the syntagmas that became appressed from the triangle that opened the three-quarter proportions of Athenea's physiognomy in Pergamum, subjugating Alcineo, so that finally it was forged in constellations of equanimity in the fifth courtyard or "V" of the Necropolis of Helleniká in the allegory of Vernarth, stopping the plausible dogma of the initial that glosses the Law in Vernarth's "V". This in turn in double syntagm of the Syntagamatarchos guide, in the high sky of Patmos, and in the medrones growing on the antlers of the proclamation of Wonthelimar, which made them a twin "W" in the star that shines in the medrones of the Ibix, in the Cornacabra and in the Cornucopia, with certain docile movement, adhering to acrostic and prehensile preliminaries of the Isaiah saying.

The Phalanx Alexandrina Heterochromatic of Alexander the Great volatilized between the villi of his Falangists, climbs the Holm of Zeus and causes a "Gore" or horrifying reflection, allowing the rhizomes to become a hundredfold, which will make the nominal order of five thousand, for each member of the Syntagma, in an astonishing quantum that reproduced itself to materialize before Him. Then he tied each one of them as Prometheus chained to each of the oaks, from an Akane grocer, incontinenti withdraws a sharp dagger and opens each one's veins to free them from the isolation of so many years settled in their last heterochromia of the War Iridium that he conferred on them, to endure the visit of the spirited Grim Reaper. This causes liberation, in this way they re-install themselves in their bodies, with Iridium or iris that made them see before their optics in two biases of Hoplite alter egos, impacting half of their body. Alexander the Great, being the philanthropic heir and of Platonic legacy, made them superfluous in the melanin that fell from the Epíchisis or libation vessel, to taste the effluvia of Dionysus with the maenads, with wide ambivalence filling them with viticulture, so that they would flow through the veins of his soldiers, and to revive them with the Dionysian must of melanin to the left eye of the Hegemon King Alexander the Great, with Jasper in the left, and the right with ultramarine from the bottom of the Ionian, on the banks of the washed banks of Patmos, in high swells of Greek alcohol that was distilled from the Mosacism of the stones when unraveling the peripheral forces from the prefectures of the great native of Pelas. They ordered areas of all Greece under their heterochromia flow that gave life to the Perifereoaki, or periphery for Central and Western Macedonia that came with great vigor, with Epirius central, western Greece, Peloponnese, and Crete. East Macedonia and Thrace, Ionian Islands, North Aegean, and Thessaly, later they would go for the Aldehyde alcohol that summarized and epitomized Dionysus taking him with four eagles that distilled the unprisoned Syntagmas of the lines of 16, 32, 64, etc...., for purposes never to start on an omega all the way to the Ionian Islands from Corfu.

Alexander the Great, went near the pre-urbanization of the Mandragoron towards Vernarth, somewhat dizzy, and before attending to him he presented himself first to the Zefian; who looked at his iris like a foreman who re-divided his visuals, by prevailing in eagerness to restore his soldiers, to help in the construction of adventures of life, and to assist in building the Megaron, which still rested in the myopia of mythological vision of the Gods tied in animosity with the Titans. Overwhelmingly, he highlighted the clouding or turbidity that was seen beyond the radius or visual field of two realities, found in visual refraction and interference with refractive statisms of the periphery that led him to the other world in Babylon when death imprisoned him...? Here the root revived, it became parallel in a unique world with divergent lights, which entered his Akera or right-wing of his soldiers, bringing visual acuity that brought the perchlorate volatilizations that hovered in the boots of his soldiers, when they marched in awareness of the retina and of the mean light, that for the first time was clarified in true holistic and political from a Parthenon with the musk of mortals and immortals of neo Hegemonic ophthalmology, which he was already re-leading by his command, where he was going to invest his greatest and most spiritual elemental Commander Vernarth, with his Himation.

The rays of his eyes seemed distant, but they were diffuse and alternate, they wandered through the lens of his clouding, which blinds a partial of the left Akera, or flank of the Hypaspists that dazzled Parmenion. Here the optics of Alexander the Great, remained in the diatribe of the small eye next to another that was enlarged, being hyperopic of a mysterious confine in the severity of Dionisio when confronted with him, in light effects of the high liquid vineyard, refracting meridians in his troops next to the Hexagonal Primogeniture who observed them behind the magenta image, which was the one that flashed from the Clouded holm oak and eclipsed by calm heat movements, and rising air masses that were in the opportune station of good sense. When being aided by the Maenads and the Herophile, they were teaching from a parent, who now sponsored the entire political and spiritual will of the Hoplite side, made up of the King of the World Vernarth, together with Alexander the Great, after receiving the photocoagulated lightning bolts. of the officers, under redeeming and reduced of the metabolic, and of the oxygenated preeminences of new lungs for each devout consecrated body, towards Saint John, the Apostle, pigmented and mechanized with aggravating heterochromia, and extensive in the bodies raised in new parallels that have to confront an anonymous or semi-god by turning for his own.

(1)

In a moment
the adrenalin rush
courses through my veins;
a torrent of frustration.

Rational expression gives way to loss of all reason
as vitriol spurts forth from my lips;
a stream of abuse:

I want to goad you
I want to hurt you
I want to abuse you

The foul profanities are carefully aimed
sent hurtling from my mouth
in a barrage of spittle, all semblance of sanity gone,
and the air reeks with rankness from my verbal barrage.

A vein pulses at my temple
and the crescendo of my heartbeat
is a rhythmic chant that drives me on
to ever greater extremes.

And as this onslaught congeals and festers in an instant
inside my head, it forms into a clenched fist
that assumes control of its own existence
to strike out and feel the satisfaction as it makes contact
with your soft flesh and delicate bone.

My froth and spittle is flecked with your blood
but I am removed from the person flailing you,
punishing you,
and I have no control over him.

My eyes, if I could see them reflected in your fearful eyes,
are wide and wild,
my lips are curled back over my teeth,
my mouth opens widely as my screams of rage
are vomited at you,
my gasping breath rasps between rants,
my chest pistoning,
as you lie at my feet bloodied and subdued.

Now as I stand over you panting: an animal subjugating my ****,
your eyes look furtively and fearfully into mine,
wide and frightened.

(2)

In a moment my wild triumph flees and such regret washes over me as I kneel, cradling your head in my hands, brushing away the sweat-bonded strands from your face.

I plant a soft kiss on your lips and our tears mingle saltily:

I lick my lips and taste that salt
But it only serves to heighten my guilt.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, and pull you close, letting your tremulous heartbeat calm me.

fractured rays pass through tattered treatments
the broken fast moving clouds ever changing
shadow creatures dance across my desk and skin
playfully morphing from recognizable shapes
to distorted images of madness
my concentration only hastens the changes –
thoughts race to match the sky
bounding effortlessly from subject to object
objectification to subjugation
absconding subjected objectify-ers
subjugating the obtuse –
swaying tree tops pepper my field of view
a light breeze plays among the needles
damaged branches dislodge and fall
in the ever-changing Fall –

Chapter XXIII
Invisible Eclectic Portal

Installed in the Eclectic and invisible portal of the Evangelist Saint John levitates in his sacred basaltic cavern Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio - USA). They would be in communion with the clan archery, who would resemble them as their proper ectoplasm; Thus, each one will form a unique part of the masonry that will dictate to redirect them in their messianic tasks from this stage of ascension.

Vernarth; being aware that he will have to enter the cave, after having ceased his work on hold for three months. Skinny from the myriads of wars and parapsychological regressions, he remains dazzled to dedicate himself to the beautiful places open towards the horizon ..., neighbor to cave painting and astronomy. In the colors of his mathematical prayer, capturing the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos. The saint appears only certain days looking at him from afar to encourage him in his progress, he is seen as a beautiful young man dressed in a robe of delicate pink tones, whose delicacy repeats psalms of the angel that normally accompany this Evangelist around him, with the colors Greens and blues of the landscape in the square of the sky that appears in redemption beyond the glory of the resurrection, rather super spiritual intelligence. In Skala's water, a shipwreck indicates the confusion of the men of its prophetic light, and on the ground a small pierced demon manages to divert the attention of Etréstles overwhelmed by digging it, so as not to stop the movements of the splendor of the effusions of storms in sacred sentence. This demon could be Tytillinus, who according to legends provoked bad thoughts in the clergy during religious services, and is the one feared by Saint John, who would not give them safe passage to enter and be able to entrust them with the task that they had predicted for him for the services in Katapausis.

Vernarth; he was with everyone working in the masonry of the Temple near the extramural wall of the Cavern of San Juan, he was Etréstles Eurídice, Raeder, Petrobus and Alikanto imbued with the flutes that sounded, over exciting his ears with royal denotes, which he always had of a special quality when he remained in Kalimnos. Everyone knowing that the threshold of proximity to the cavern was flooded by the enigma of the gloomy presence of Tytillinus, all rearranged themselves towards the poles of the tangible etherization of the psalms from 120 to 132, thus giving fire to the antipode of Divine Mercy, to repair the crown of the fifteen hours in the afternoon, thus disintegrating those that coincide with that of fifteen hours in the morning. Somehow abstaining from the northern confrontation with Tytillinus, center of the hooks of bewilderment and evil thoughts. Thus, the best way is to be swallowed by him and reside in his caustic stomach, making him believe that you will be consumed by him, and then fall close to himself when vomited, confusing him so that you yourself are one of his calves.

Vernarth manages to capture the upstart image near the grotto, seeing that of Tytillinus; where all attentive listened to the words textured by the saint.

Narrating Saint John: “He was also and will be a God of the Bressans in Italy, his image was disfigured and unearthed near Bresse. Le Rossi, who had it engraved on his Brassian memorials, says that the statue of this divinity was smashed in 840 by Rampat, Bishop of Bresse, and that it only had the name of the god in whom it was consecrated. This statue was made of iron, with the head crowned with laurel, resting the right cake on the skull of a dead man, and holding in his left hand an iron pike, finished at the top by an open hand, in which we see between track and thumb the egg that a snake entwined in his hand that got to bite: these are symbols as dark as they are mysterious. Is he resting on a skull and on a gloomy laurel potion, marking as certain defeated conjectures of Father Montfaucon, that Tillynus triumphed over death? But who will be the antiquarian or mythologist brave enough to explain the meaning of the serpent that throws itself into the egg that holds the hand that is on top of the pike? Let's admit that mainly among the topical gods they were hardly known, except in some particular cities that had chosen them for their patrons, there are always inexplicable symbols.

Saint John continues, in the face of the unmerited event, I will protect you here in my shed so that everyone is released first before entering my sanctuary, where everything is obsessed with visions after those of the Roses of the ultimatum, full of aspirations rather than subjugating in the aroma of purity and righteousness. Diverting the lurking Calluses and Dans (desquamation epidermis) of the eyelids, itchy in which its internal part is ulcerated, with cracks and callous hardness. Tyllinus the symptomatic form of the demon Tytillinus begins at the edge of the eyelids, although this edge then ulcerates; but generally it begins with a heat and itching that increases day by day, until they become  uneven and rough, and eventually end up causing stiffness, cracks, hardness and small ulcers. It is then because this demon not personified declares latent and obstinate disease of very difficult to cure. Not allowing before the scant light of the cavern, not being able to erase what is clarified in a look of solemn meditation and sacred silence. In its healing, general remedies are required, a soft and refreshing diet, bloodshed, if there is a large amount, as well as purging, when the disease is habitual. Regarding topical remedies, we will first use those that moisten, soften and moderate the acrimony of humor contained in the eyelids; then we come to those who are detergents and dry the ulcers, essentially, seeing him hesitate with our deep meditations digging his dark fermented soul.

Vernarth, insinuating to continue with his labors, sees with optimism to escape from this calamity, calls everyone to be close to the law ..., once they continued taking the steps towards the cavern. Tremors appear to them by all the edges of the cave, leaving everything dark and with airs of end of the world. In the intermission, Saint John towards the response of Psalm 120 to 132, interfering the fiery bellow of the playful Tytillinus, banishing the movement of his tail to outlaw the serpent egg, avoiding creating a pseudo monarchy on them prostrating them, as almost being being beheaded repentant.

They all open their arms and surrender to this pseudo demon, being swallowed entirely, to later reside in the intestines of this pseudo monster. Subsequently everything happens as predicted by the hermit, who would be expelled from his ruminant stomach, believing to be creatures of their own nature, confused by how their children from beyond for their intro demonizations. Thus it would have existed in mythologies to tempt and dismiss the work of any unit, essentially of San Juan. It will inhabit them from the hierarchy of Evil, as it appears in grimoires and occult texts, each demon has a precise name and function. Transfigured will be the epochs in dowries for the naive people, carrying them out for rituals to protect themselves from them, since it was believed at that time that every individual who was harassed by them, would continue to stalk them waiting for a moment of weakness to attack .
Saint John is and will be an egregious demonologist, collecting thick volumes with the names and attributions of each of the demons of the infernal hierarchy. This in perfect symmetry with that of Aion, interconnecting sublime times where the concept is lost on the human temporal scale and the genotype of Satanism or satagenesis, in austere precision ranging from Satan, head of all demons, to Ukobach, in charge of maintaining Long live the infernal flames. So that freedom of slavery finally reigns before one's own demonized moral individuality. The price of such an invocation is always the soul of the individual, who will end up going to hell, the demons invoked themselves and they will invoke themselves as a light to walk on their own darkness, in the past, present and future through Special enchantments found here on the Invisible Eclectic Portal.

Under edit / continue

parting with something dear
subjugating personal desires
giving up for a greater cause....
like a son sent to war
for country sake,
like selling her body
each night
to feed a big family,
or seeing this brave mother
donate vital organs
to her dying son
just to see him live
for a few months more...

© 2017

where is my country going…
I remember thinking it was silly to say the pledge
standing behind my desk
hand over heart
mindlessly repeating phrases that had no real meaning
to an eight year old sensibility.
It is easy to recall the small logging town
with its white population
shaking angry fists at the owl people
bearded and free in their environmental fervor
chained to trees
where we liked to fish.
Those blessed with political mindedness
have sold their moral and ethical compasses
to the corporate welfare and personhood gang
giving the populace the shaft
without **** or sweet kisses.
I watch my country fall apart….helpless –
Long lines surround the peephole
and the citizens of America clamor
near riotous
to see what the celebrity flavor of the day
is wearing, doing, being,
and having
subjugating themselves to emotional slavery
for the sake of a starlit.
Gone are the communities
in which a child is spoken kindly too
by a stranger diligently working his or her
plot of ground;
today he is accused or premeditating *******
for being personable.
Feelings of discontent rise like bile
burning my throat, and giving the back of my mouth
hot spit…a precursor to *****
as I watch another liar
step up to the pulpit of power
and spout propaganda
designed to manipulate my personality
into a more malleable pawn
in this nation of despair.

all the pronouns and predicates
subjugating ******* preferences
grammar is god’s way of punishing us
protecting us from ourselves
in spite of the elves who wish to see us fail
see us impaled upon their tiny spears
dripping form from our ears
i hear their voice
yes i really do
underneath the moss
and in utero
her womb breathes
fresh air
her mouth is warm
her ***** pulses with song
and light
i faintly touch the downy mound
and let venus rise before the dawn
in turn she admires
the way i choose to expire before her
the silence and the razor’s edge

your best friends are your teachers
they never let you see them
they keep you in the mood
wanting more more more
more more more more more

more more more more more more
more

more more more more more
more

more more more more more
more

Does everyone deserve my honesty?

What if I speak against what is wrong, when everyone else keep quiet because of paranoia

Should I mould the words in a way which appeal to the masses

How cruel the world is, subjugating one's feelings to feature in other's good books

Won't guising ourselves violate our personal authority

The passive sadomasochist
Meets with momentary lapse of reason
Suddenly grasping conceptual reality
Of both life and of death
Now a step closer to what we know as sanity
We can become enlightened  beings
Seeking our own reality
Surrounded buy brutality

Creating this wanted character
the physique of life
This instant transformation
For what the moment brings
Love hate lust anger and humiliation
Became what they say, listen
Listen to all the beautiful voices
Will you make your own choices?

Soon they will fall spiraling again
Not far enough to reach the top
The tolerance grows thin
And the subjugating begins
be grounded and the earth you will feel
and it all transcends
To many times questing is this real
Century made to lie cheat and steal

Death in mind and gun in hand
were should we go now?
Whose reality relates to your own?
Above them all in your sub psychology

Death in mind and gun in hand
Escape the ideas they gave you
and traverse this amazing vast land
free the person inside you

Such symbolic sentences...I fancy them.
Situations so strange...as well as how I end them.
Simple seeking of silence...useless in its longing.
Subjugating secrets...cruel in its withdrawal.

Shall we share the shyness? There is plenty for you...
Should we show our shallow shells? We will certainly protect you.
Shall we scare the separated sons of servants? They never told you.
Should we sell selfish souls? I did not mean to punish you.

Which is just?
Maybe all of them, if you must.

Which is right?
A few of them, if it helps you sleep at night.

Where is she?
Right in your heart, I promise truthfully.



        -- Yes, I know. Eventually, there will be writing on the wall.


                                                         ­           

              
                                                  
             ­                                       (It is only a matter of time.)

Nothing's changed.
'cept that smile. Now, leave's a weird taste,
of one part pity, two parts haste.
Sorry for subjugating you to this foolishness.
Guess saying "no" was for the best.

i struggle throughout the day to find any semblance of hope or kindness that can show moving forward at all is worth the time, effort, pain, and grind to simply exist

i tremble at the most nuanced implications; i become cold, and my skin aches with sheer terror over being alive, striving to comprehend between each sunrise and sunset why the desolation hasnt taken me as of yet

and then the plot comes, and i break

each and every time i begin to feel the tangible sensation of worthlessness and hopelessness i cry; alone, harboring diligent conviction for everything i wish i could do

the actualization of mortality is an ever-present ghost haunting me where i rest, where i sleep, where i walk among the growing crowd of grey, listless faces. it overcomes my efforts, it drowns me in subjugating thoughts, flights of fantasy for the dream to give something meaningful; to drive change in a place, for things and people, that could bring goodness or kindness to them too; to deliver unto my own being a sense of purpose and meaningfulness that surpasses the mass mediocrity which suffocates this world and transcends my own hope to do good unto the world at large into something more powerful than words, or wishes, or dreams

i become overwhelmed with the cost of being alive, the choking sensation of doubt which derives through strife and worry for all things monetary which beguile any path towards meaningful philanthropy

in this world, only the rich can afford to live or be free of worry, and i wasn't designed for this world to begin with; i wasn't meant to be, literally, and yet i wasn't given chance or love to find the means for myself before the miring angst and pain which stifled me had made me succumb to it, as such

every choice begets a driving fear which cripples any means to move forward

i have been behind in everything, from everyone, for so long that it becomes painful to even think to wake another day, and the sombre grasp of reality that what given chance or hope or intent i could ever have for others, let alone this world, come crumbling down in an avalanche of susceptibility, vulnerability, and agonizing defeat - i wish nothing more, in those moments, to end my life

nothing and nobody would miss me so that it would hinder their efforts - there could be zero affect in the long run, something which i find peace in knowing: at least it wouldn't be of any loss to the grand scheme, or the short run

i would leave, as i was meant to never be to begin with

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of tyranny,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my hackers live,
Land where my loyalty is,
Land where my bankers give
Let misrule ring!
My native country, flee,
To land of autocracy,
Thy name I love;
I love thy arrogance,
Thy sweet high-handedness;
Your subjugating dominance
Of thee I sing.
Let Russia swell the breeze,
And ring with Putany
Sweet brother's song;
Let lying tongues awake;
Let American freedoms take;
Let law and justice break,
Let Trump rule ring!
Allies like Moscow Mitch,
Have America in the ditch,
Let Fox News ring!
Republicanism is a b*h,
Our government for the rich,
My Lackey's be enriched
Of thee I bling!
Corruption's' God to me,
Author of tweetery,
To me thee sing.
Long may my brand be bright,
With dictator's impending night,
The fools have given me the right,
I'm  God your King!

sometimes, no, almost always: you need to feel like
a tool, to feel you're alive!
for the greater good, for the higher purpose....
so long i attempted a solo project:
and what did that bring me? despair!
no more!

manchmal, nein, fast immer: du brauchen zu
fühlen wie ein werkzeug, gefühl du bist leben!
für die / der(?) größer gut, für die höherzwieck...

die zeppeline ar kommen!
die zeppeline ar kommen!
            even if i could express some things in English...
i would most certainly substitute them with:
a historical bias of etymology...
they're called the Anglo-Saxons for a a reason...
they're not called the Anglo-Swabians...
or the Anglo-Pomeranians...

i'm no ******* native, at best i could pass off as
a spy... for whom? open answers... anyone
& everyone... working a football match ground:
i'm pretty sure there's a hierarchy of those involved...
i like this indoctrination ito how things, "things" work...

i will speak, try to, German whenever i think
the English language has done a "runner" scenario...
when the minority is overtaking the majority...
we can't have minority subjects of the crown subjugating
the majority of the crown to their ******* "instigations"
of law revisionism...
can we?
        
             i will drift into vaterzunge from time to time...
because... speaking English in England is...
hardly enough... learning some Romanian helps....
some Serb might too... but my most prized asset
is... writing some gibberish in Deutsch(e)...

for me it's a learning curve... to boot....
i stroke my beard, pretend to plasy a violin...
everyone's happy... they get to go home safely....
while i get enough hours of drinking and writing
to satiate my hunger for...
the sort of conversations i will, never, ever have with others:
rather, i will have to have them with, myself:
within the confines of myself ...

beard.. patriarch figurine... i love it... it's so little, yet it's so much....
when in ***** i was referred to a woman as a man...
mind the man, insert a girl's name...
i think i became a man... overnight...
prior to i was invisible... prior to i had
merely ***-bush decorating my face...
apparently no stubble...
now... now i look somewhat presentable,
formidable... authority stricken....
even though i'm still merely a pawn...
sure... but a pawn with a narrative...
look at me... why am i so content?
perhaps... because i'm living in split platitudes...

whatever the reason.... i'm not the drunk cowering
in his foothills of his own demise at a bus-stop,
i haven't eaten since 1:30am... i'm devouring a two piece
chicken, fries & drink very much sober, waiting
for the ladt bus to take me home...

i worked, even though working didn't feel much like working...
just minding the spectators...
i'm a bachelor... i'm freed from obligations...
i write sparingly, in my spare time...
if i'm not happy... then i shouldn't be alive... period...
i also allow myself to drink excessively...
i could be dead come tomorrow,
and you know what?
i might blink... "think" otherwise...
but, at the same time, would i really, have to?

my answer resounds within the echoed confines
of... NO.

for all the excesses of compliance...
submission to a hierarchy,
i would have never, thought myself, being:
a compliant pawn...
then again... when implored with the stature
of "mandatory":
to put on a face mask while using public transport...
sorry... no...
once upon a time...
die *******... die...
of the people that most espouse Darwinism...
seeing them cower from the harsh realities
they have discovered is... rather...
heartbreaking...
no... by the number, you will die...

i ca comply, sure, to a certain extent...
but you try to put that secular niqab muzzle on
me... choke me with "pretend"
like i'm sort of waiting to be a dying horse...
while the staff perform action Z to my "X"...
you have another "thing" coming...
**** with your compliance...
i like to keep things under the cushions...
but... cushions are missing...
i'm done playing along with "your" narrative...
mandatory is one thing...
another implies: i feel... choked by the donning
of the supposed fakery...
bake me a loaf! you ******* integers! of pseudo-fact!

no one in position of authority is going around
checking chokers...
some good-to-go bypass citizens will approach you
with concerns... blah blah... ignore them....

time for "authority" is over... time for... everything "else"...
is most certainly upon us;
try to not mind the quote is... fire! fire! shouted by a clown
in a crowded theatre!

wemb (title): too-t'ah (body) for a 502 bad gateway bypass....

sometimes, no, almost always: you need to feel like
a tool, to feel you're alive!
for the greater good, for the higher purpose....
so long i attempted a solo project:
and what did that bring me? despair!
no more!

manchmal, nein, fast immer: du brauchen zu
fühlen wie ein werkzeug, gefühl du bist leben!
für die / der(?) größer gut, für die höherzwieck...

die zeppeline ar kommen!
die zeppeline ar kommen!
            even if i could express some things in English...
i would most certainly substitute them with:
a historical bias of etymology...
they're called the Anglo-Saxons for a a reason...
they're not called the Anglo-Swabians...
or the Anglo-Pomeranians...

i'm no ******* native, at best i could pass off as
a spy... for whom? open answers... anyone
& everyone... working a football match ground:
i'm pretty sure there's a hierarchy of those involved...
i like this indoctrination into how things, "things" work...

i will speak, try to, German whenever i think
the English language has done a "runner" scenario...
when the minority is overtaking the majority...
we can't have minority subjects of the crown subjugating
the majority of the crown to their ******* "instigations"
of law revisionism...
can we?
        
             i will drift into vaterzunge from time to time...
because... speaking English in England is...
hardly enough... learning some Romanian helps....
some Serb might too... but my most prized asset
is... writing some gibberish in Deutsch(e)...

for me it's a learning curve... to boot....
i stroke my beard, pretend to plasy a violin...
everyone's happy... they get to go home safely....
while i get enough hours of drinking and writing
to satiate my hunger for...
the sort of conversations i will, never, ever have with others:
rather, i will have to have them with, myself:
within the confines of myself ...

beard.. patriarch figurine... i love it... it's so little, yet it's so much....
when in ***** i was referred BY a woman AS a man...
mind the man, insert a girl's name...
i think i became a man... overnight...
prior to i was invisible... prior to i had
merely ***-bush decorating my face...
apparently no stubble...
now... now i look somewhat presentable,
formidable... authority stricken....
even though i'm still merely a pawn...
sure... but a pawn with a narrative...
look at me... why am i so content?
perhaps... because i'm living in split platitudes...

whatever the reason.... i'm not the drunk cowering
in his foothills of his own demise at a bus-stop,
i haven't eaten since 1:30am... i'm devouring a two piece
chicken, fries & drink very much sober, waiting
for the ladt bus to take me home...

i worked, even though working didn't feel much like working...
just minding the spectators...
i'm a bachelor... i'm freed from obligations...
i write sparingly, in my spare time...
if i'm not happy... then i shouldn't be alive... period...
i also allow myself to drink excessively...
i could be dead come tomorrow,
and you know what?
i might blink... "think" otherwise...
but, at the same time, would i really, have to?
have to care?!

my answer resounds within the echoed confines
of... NO;
now... prescribe yourself with
the echo of NO... rather than nie, niet or nein;
last time i heard... vowels don't allow themselves
to be echoed...
you can echo an A... only if it's coupled with the surd
H... formulated as a sigh... sigh... si-.... -igh... -igh...   -igh.
ooh! ah!

   just me... reading into the chants of crowds...
it's almost like i never left the *******
ferris wheel!

- roboter: funktion!
- jawohl, mein überlegen!

never, in a million years, would i think myself  as this:
compliant... then again... it's supposedly mandatory to wear
a face-mask on public transport in England...
you put that ******* niqab muzzle on me... one more ******* time...
i'll ******* bite your ***, spread some covid-rabies;
savvy?

When I shut down the screen
Raise up and lay on the bed
My mind goes blank
For there is nothing in it

And with this empty head
I often feel this sharp cold shudder
For I find no purpose
And I do not care for a thing

It is indifference
So strong it freezes my heart
Drive me crazy, I know of it
Controlling, subjugating me

Eveeything seems so pointless
I could do something, but what for?
It is all the same in the end
Such a strange sensation

For I seek warmth but too afraid for it
I only deserve nothing
And I would not fool myself
So it is best to be indifferent

But I cannot lie for there is hope in my heart
Undeserved for me but yet there it is
For I mask this hope with indifference
And I will hide it until I forgotten any of it

So NOW There’s A SURGE...
of... UNSETTLED Nerves... !!!

Because Corona’s NEW Curve...
Is INCREASING INFECTIONS...
In... CERTAIN Directions... !!!

Well... I Really Mean States...
Within The... U.S. of A... !!!

So Like The Don’s Been Saying...
It Seems... Fair To Say...

That HE And The CORONA...
Have Once Again Made...

... “ America GREAT “... !!!

Like In The...

... “ Good Old Days “...
of... Subjugating Braves...
And... African Slaves... !!!!!

But That’s NOT Quite Right...
Because... THIS TIME... !!!!!

They’re Making MISTAKES...
That Are Causing PAIN...
That’s... NOT SO GREAT... !!!

Because It’s FILLING Graves...
Well... So They CLAIM... !?!

CERTAIN Names...
Within Government Frames... !!!

Because of Protests...
Over George Floyds’ Death... !!!

Where Distancing HASN’T Been Observed...
By... Herds And HERDS of People Who...
Don’t Seem To Care About What’s Shared...
Within The Air When Protests FLARE... !!!!

So It Seems Lockdowns...
WON’T Be... Shutdown... !!!

In... CERTAIN States...
That Were Ready To Play...
The... DANGEROUS GAME... !!!

of... Restarting Things...
Whilst Corona Lives …
And Breathes Disease...
So … Now It Seems...
That SECOND Waves...
Are... On The Way... !!!!!!

But Now Latin America...
And Indeed The... UK...
May Be Headed That Way... ?!?

Due To... Illegal Raves...
And Beaches Bathed...
With MORE Than Sun...
That May Cause PROBLEMS... !?!

If Increases Come...
Breeding MORE Infections... !!!

However... SOME...
From Foreign Locations...
Can Travel Now To UK Grounds...
If They’re... EUROPEAN...

So... Apparently...
Won’t Even Need To Quarantine... ?!!!?

There’s Been A SURGE of News...
And... Medical Views...
That Seem... “ Confused “... ?

One Day It’s Okay To Be Face To Face...
As Long As You Stay A Few Feet...... AWAY... !?!

The NEXT They Say...

“ To Stop The Increase...
of Infection Rates...
Some People Will Need...
To STILL... ISOLATE... !!! “

There’s CLEARLY A SURGE...
In Talk That’s... ABSURD... !?!

Well When It Comes To Big Virge...
I’d Rather Work On SURGES of VERSE...
And... CONSCIOUS Words...

That Choose To Observe...
How Corona Has Served...
To UPSET This World...
And How It... Turns...

Because Now It’s CLEAR... !!!
That Corona Is Here...
And AIN'T Going Anywhere...
When We’ve Had Protests...
Across The Length And Breadth...
of... World Continents... !!?!!

That Are Causing CONCERN... !!!
Because of Protocols...
That AREN’T Being Observed...

By People Whose Nerves...
May Take A Turn For The WORSE... ?!?

If Infections RETURN...
And Again Start To PURGE...

And INEVITABLY.....

........ “ SURGE “.......

Human versus human
We call that the past
Human versus self
We call that the present
Human versus humanity
We call that the future
Subjugating and eliminating
To avoid substitution
Destitution's lullaby
Spoken aloud, howled
Until no ears can hear
And the cycle returns
Back to the ground

In the beginning
I am branded the hope of there expectations
At my birth, divinations attest to it
And libations gave seal to this fact.
My training and experiences confirmed it
For I lighten the world as a medical doctor
Shaking the earth with my appointment at the state
Hospital; “He is our son, a great son,I weaned him at birth”
“Yes,I remembered him, he use to run around necked”
“And cry on our way to the stream.”
Such was the echoes of the joy and solidarity in there voices.
But here I am mangled in diversity of ill-treatments. Not I but the system.
Surforcating and subjugating the hope that liven them;
Headace, fever, stillbirth, no drugs, fake drugs, vomiting,  
More death,------------------- the list is endless.
The healer needs healing, for the torch bearer is in-search of light
This is the crossroad of there faith that was not
In the beginning.