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From the interstitial bile of the Profitis Ilias, was emanated the inaugural armour of the codes of Radius’s Eurhythmy. With it traces it typology of the three broken areas of energeia purple that will raise from bases it elementary of the contrafactum of melody of the Raedus. First with the paragraph’s of the Prophet Elias in the portion of the firstly 103 meters but awarding the contrafactum melodic same on the text of the Raedus Codex, that they will be rhythmic epigraphs of hallelujah and beginning of the Kirye. The polyphony will be an elevation of liturgy that will deliver doubly for the pipe that carries the prolific ascension to the face of the surface of the Profitis Ilias. Hypostasis Will be the substance, but of be to of way of the true unified to the all of the reality of the Áullos Kósmos.  To some 1, 7 years incessant light followed coming the Fourth Saeta of Zefian, to order the Áullos Kósmos with the ordination of the Go Auric that will conclude the retina that remains of the firmament and of his path like full earthly extra. The quota of prophecies will reside in the tectonics of the cliff and in fail them of the rocky mass, on the upper blocks from this outcrop from the inferior layers, from the start of the materials allochthonous on the hole of erosion, going in the Sibyls and the Prophet Elias until the 103 meters of the height.  

Codex I -Tectonic Nihil

The honor explains the Regressive Legend of this good piece of Meat Corpulent and Brain also, was born to write his astragals in his terminal syllable, whole and dying with the blood of Etruscans Steeds and Macedonics, each had golden piercing hanged internally in one of his six ******* paranasal, sealing the life of this blood caretaker Franciscan and swordsmiths extemporal so that with his last four molars yielded the light amalgamated Crystalline and overflowing in the gums of the lapse that soaks of blood the fields equestrian. In this codex Sibyl Pérsica would enter by the cylindrical vault, she advanced with a light secluded and stepped a snake, under the steeled hooves of Alikanto. She with his veil and oil lamp announced the arrival of the Messiah, here the awakening semblance invokes by the honor of his come, to Parents and the Mothers. The Souls of Trouvere appear beside Estratónice, Lochnith, and Wonthelimar.

It says Lochnith: The world abdicated the pontifical, have run the curtains so that enter the light, Moses here has to come with the true curtains that house the lunettes, the thrones of the Sibyls and Prophets that come us the miracles salvations that are born of his entelechy, for the one who is forbidden in the thousandth portion of the broadcast that break out like an affair signal, and testamentary of the Apocalypse to the Poielipsis in creation testament were live in the whispers of Emmanuel, in the verses burnished and oracular of Sibyl, daughter of Dárdano and Neso. With meager differences and matrices between Hellespont and Dardania, like Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and this last between the outstandingly in Eon Kareem, but in the corresponding bifurcation approximated to the baptistery. The Hexagonal Primogeniture will mandate the hardships of hexameters in front of the hectometers that will do evidence of the Escatón a third world is like a consistent reality, real that will carry us to the hope of a life satisfied and trained.  

Codex II - Tectonics Supra Lithosphere

Three white eagles’ headed flew by Tel Gomel, carrying blood in his claws twisted of spines turgid. They brought the vaticinator of double death predicted, with his double craze put and his double helmet that transmitter the rings of the putrid Tanat’s by the faces, and by his lips lackluster feeble in Him, Vernarth had sent them a missive with the Eagles in low flight; all they were dressed of the stink of the field of yellow fog and black battle, on the silty hooves of Beelzebub that heaved in the ones of Alikanto, they moan on the lymphoma of the size of a dream of six decades in his ridge crucible, that wheezed purges by his full snout of rests of lymph remaining in the interstitial of his teeth Burnished canine-alanos. His heart reconverted in armour red ad limitem with blue endocardial flourishing. When putting the twilight of the blowout lying of wind Eolionimi and Shamal, went breaking the vertical with the halter of his greedy steed to the spit helicoidal volatile mats in the catacombs of Markazí where residents of his lineage forge dwelt in abominations of the Lives that renacían victorious from the fire of cult to the city that houses his true Life and Soul in Sibylla Pérsica.

Singing of Wonthelimar: Already the veils have collected will carry the candles that wire the souls freed of Trouvere cries of prosperity expect us from the medrons that rebirth of the immanent presence of her same, to meters on the level of the lithosphere showed the Rings Ibics to the meeting of a tertiary matchmaker in the Saeta of Zefian,  and behold where interprets the law, the future gives us the pennant of justice insufficient of Light but there of the cavern that is born in the turns of the third world. It says Of Meturgeman or Rabí that break down the avatars of his advances, by ends off-center if they have to be the verticality of the Sibyllas with the mind of God. Like this we go topping by this axon of spiritual fatigue, centering in the nervous excessively that goes out of the body of consciousness of the cosmos, transmitting impulses of the same by Elías´s links, where the motor structure of the teacher and the testamentary of Leví, and Greek Aramaic Leví in Qumram subsisting to the big speed of how has to pass the Messiah priestly will interpret all the word of the Mashiaj in the Áullos Kósmos in his order motor and behold the Messiah  Priestly, and the patriarchs like Set, Enoch, and Isaac having the work of unraveling the illusions and mysteries of the cosmos of the same way that the angel interpreter the nocturnal visions in the apocalyptic relates of San John the Apostle.

Codex III -Tectonic Quartzite

The disloyal Ghosts came from 70 km of the Iranian city of Shiraz province of Fars, near the place where the river Pulwar ends in the Kur (Kyrus).  His construction and destruction would be provinces that will be subjected until the conquest of the Persian Empire subjected in October by Alexander the Great. Persépolis Remain turned into rooms of the Harem and in *** of magnet bizarro between massacred gods. The transitions of the porches in the sides are joined by angular towers in the Apadana of profane interlock. The two big doors remained opened in eternity groaning salts in interminable assets of predefinition and recharge in his abortive degree.

Here they were the comrades of Vernarth overwhelmed of preparations and attires in the lobs of Mars on his shoulders after oracles tempest of the burning sun in his heads.  Anahita; Goddess of the nature, pours the blessed waters of the nature that washed with morbid rains the bodies of the fallen in the ***** battles with the roosters of the Zoroaster, cutting the palanquin where are seated, and enraptured in polytheism with Ahura Mazda with a short difference like cloister and capota, ad carry to shoe the monarchic attires of Macedonia in front of his defeated realm by the subjugated constitution of golden blood of Alexander the Great and Vernarth tied to the Macedón or Zeus, fully Hellenic that ran vast both strides by muted seams of basaltic streets of paving stones, and obsidians between paradises of vintage and wind. The Sybilla Eritrea shows his veil not only collected but significantly knotted on the belly that alludes to the state of gravity of the ****** in Incarnation (scene of the Annunciation). The meters of ascension to see determinant the first 103 meters of climbing insinuate the appellatives of Erqia, Eriflam Herifle, and Riquea.

Singing of Estratónice: In the marble reside of white Apeiron of indeterminate infinite matter, exempt of quality and that finds in the eternal movement of the Eolionimi, that has to dwell in his belly a savior white from the Áullos Kósmos or paradise of Vernarth, the word will say that it rescues the life of the mortal the facets of the Katapausis would make amends the effluvia Hebrew in the ponderation of the mainstay of the virola that embraces the saeta of Zefian falling from the altitude. The biface solitude will trespass the rocky subsoil of the peak of the Profitis Ilias like this with tender meters that will cross the Fero of absorption of his Santity and Salvation of the Humanity.

Codex IV Tectonic Cenozoico

From Rodas, the geological temporary scale will contribute us the evolutionary frame of the rocky mantle, and superpositions in the happen of time. I register fossils of organisms that underlying in layers or endodermis of the prehistory of the Dodecanese. Vernarth After crossing the Helesponto transgressed his for psiquis parapsychological in the substitute Brook to Sudpichi like a weightless mantle of a Machi praying to the Kósmos Negechen by the rickty Rehue prophesying to him on his hands dismembered of bravery, of big assistance in 300 years of souls Nge-Nge Mapus deu in the raging nose that propelled the wrath; similar substitute with which trigger the knot, Champollion with some sphinx uncovering the allegories of Pandora from the Valleys of the Kings.

Singing of Sibila Líbica: The sparking plugs will inflame the Iridescent eyes of the Mashiaj flashed in the likely settlement mortuary of Alexander the Great in the oasis of Siwa: Oh My warm wind of Libya that flatters my chees, and my shoulders that groove in the light of the callous brain coexistence of Zeus. Singing by you my Didaskein; treating or teaching to the baffled herd that confuses the menages that were born to. B.C., not having a reminiscence of Irradiation in the mastery of the continuous-time of not contravening of ignorance, but yes to find him agreed and effulgent!    

Codex V Tectonic Brisehal  

By the desolate empty Dasht-and-Lut, Brisehal a huge shady of structure is moved him when is covered until all half orient, even disobeying to his parents; beings in uncrowded places of contemplation that were surfacing of his big mountain of the delighted desert overflowed the lemurs strolling alone as wanting to take off the last spark of politics that remained them for surrendering in his own banishment encountered. Brisehal Was an eminent mount with a head of the can similar to Anubis, but million times of the size upwards and with a clorhídricbreath, like a perspective of the congregation to go into the garden-realm of The Skies and in his laps. Before shivering the day with the movement of his shuddered step, Brisehal was two years moving day and night in the surface that did alluring of lux Solaris.  Brisehal In this fifth codex liquefied in the black layer of the tunnels of wind that hide by Dash-and-Lut, until the sensory layer of Dasht-and-Kavir, attracting by the tunnel of the grotto of 308 meters of height of Patmos intra geological, all the sculptures and images of the cusps did near to the 103 meters of initial altitude in this vertical underground in attachment with the parallel that retracted in cubic tones drilling the doloninas or geological depressions in the extensive of Lut for a giant that is born of the wails and lacerations of Vernarth when it was tutored by saetas in the middle of the field of Gaugamela, even moving to Maceo. When they moved noisily the dolines, lower mountains conceived deduced with the greater effect of his swivels nerves were immense thunderclaps that even reflected until the spheroids nimbus reddened by the riot of Dasht-and-Kavir. It turned off left to right pretending exile the Desert of Lut tubed in pro generation by both do of optical rope or fibers in high energy density, and that it could cohabit beside Vernarth disabling in the odyssey of the Horcondising (Paradise of the lineage of Vernarth to Gaugamela).

Singing of Brisehal: The veil that receives the indifference, has knotted in the abdomen hatched of the earth, and of the dolonina that protected me of the folio that barter what there was or of will have to become. The Gesta of all those that suffer from foot and rely on, have three abortive routines in his gravidity of a white relative, that did to shelter me in the love to my gentleman Vernarth. Sibila Eritrea neither in Greeks nor Latins has to sortear the breviaries of the maximum pontifex that speaks while dozing of anilines nights where anybody perishes awake in his epítome?

Sibilino By the Saudi, from the vórtice direct the gulfs that hide from where rebirth like choruses of Esquilo, behind the springs of Agamemnon in where Clytemnestra opens plains that do to run the Shamal by his dry disposition of dew, but humid of the sap of Eritrea faces in springs subtropical that tears dry of the tough body fallen in tears that will not hear by the tenacious hemp?

To the-Haffar, the third party is with saetas in his thigs, arms and pectoral, where the star does open shining for the one who dies by her in the first lightning of the night Thurayya, with violent embraces to receive to the one who from a codex receives the fifth bowl for violent winds of fishermen that resolved of the wind in a fine dust of the cleft hands of Aldebarán, peepholes of bilges of ogres that are born hell to die as pious in arms of Sybilla Eritrea, and in prologues of Brisehal with so many meters of wingspan, nevertheless that of any rye in the greater degree that have to ceremoniously in perks of a revived Sybilla Líbica.      


Codex VI - Strigoi Asthenosphere

In the spring of 331 b. C., Alexander the Great left Egypt returning to the port of Shot, where was his fleet. Of there it headed to Antioquía, crossing the valley of the river Orontes, and arrived at the River Éufrates to the height of Tapsaco, were founded the city of Nicéforo so that it was a strong square and tank of the supplies of the army, Here it was learned that Darius was found in Arbelas as he was crossing the Tigris, and heading north along the eastern bank of the river. The Sybilla Cumana found in the height 97 of the tunnel of wind when auscultating these waves very near of the dolonines, in avidity of the Pythia Délfica with divinatory proselytes that visited the folds of his attire, in places of his divinatory crowd cerebral. His relativity Cumana waste of energy of the Mausoleum, prophesying life for all in the passion of the life together with the abandoned bodies by the souls of the Devotio Roman, and in the poverty of the soul that drains scared by not remaining desolate between half of the parchment of Lilith, and in the offering of the Strigoi by breaches of troubling visions in the darkness of the cavern of Chauvet, when sacrificing competitive emotions of the Votum maléfico of Lilith.  Only one can exist like an inviolable part of the tradition of the chastest Wonthelimar, attempting the Xiphos with human chamois in tectonic offering and frizzing the altitude 103 of the tunnel of wind of the Strigoi.    

Vlad Strigoi Sings: Mardiath, noble and loyal hussar of the sea of Vernarth, Boss of the fleets of the Gulf, came by the cover when giving the turn by the bauprés, sees collected and hit by ropes in parasitosis that shined like a stray in the oars of the gods, and pleading that felt in the whistling of the wind. It approaches and it descends by dark sheds stairs with direction to the piston of water, who heresy in the ship Vladiana is quarreling when I training me in writing when saying who love the one who I am not, alone receipt phlegmons multitudinous Saecula Saeculorum, not hitting any foundation to confess me. They say not knowing that reveal due to the fact that it is not content that compares to the one who does not have Age, Life either Compassion that only has to communicate me like messenger Strigoi! Now I know that anybody will sing my thoughts, there is not ink that dares to spread a comparable quill that resists my word of ammonium Strigoi, usurped of a shipping Ballinger to some Flemish pirates, seconded to the side by a barge of Panescalm, that threw to 64 one thousand bodies massacred of the Bubonic Plague. Mardiath, get out of the Ballinger and leaves his sword to Vlad beside a geographic table to rediscover a destination in some doncella that could attend his disorders, more than ganglion suppuration in prostration. It traces back the course to shot to find with Vernarth and his minions to direct finally to the braves fields of Gaugamela and the Prehensile Ctónicos who revered to the gods or telluric spirits in the tectonic infra world by opposition to celestial deities, appearing in the tubular ascension of the warm wind that topped the consecration of my roman arteries, and all those that were up expecting them. The oblations of light lit the particles of the woodworm that suspended expelling those that magnetized the fosca matter. The unconnected syntax did periodically in the words of Strigoi from the Capite Velato or head watched from the Ballinger Strigoi that attained relocate. In double increase of sap did it minor to resist his life and his closure lying minimum in front of Wonthelimar, and Mardiath that satisfied him of the company in the eyebolt that sustains the road in his sullen life.

It sings Mardiath: The troops of Vernarth would split from Shot were found his fleet that came from Sudpichi from the Empire of the Horcondising. It explains the legend that in the heights of the Gulf when his army goes sailing, break out on his squares a mysterious tempest of hot airs of Ormuz to the height  665 in miles of Um Kasar, had found pertinent shipping of current Romania. when spotting them and take part inside this frigid ship at all there was, only crunches of topmasts and his sail greater that was spurring and presenting fenced curtains that came from of Sighisoara/Transilvania; where the alike Vlad Tepes stated seated behind a chamber of captaincy writing in his buffet. Each true interval took out a handkerchief to dry his ****** nose, like a pinch of gelatinous darky ink and sullied. It sings Isaías: The presence in the versed and corresponding folio, does relative the prophecy of Emmanuel been born of a ****** that associates to similar prophecy Virgiliana of the Cumana justifying his prophetic symbolism and beholds the caution that blackens skies where the light retracted, thousands are chained during the annunciation of a thousandth abyss like the fateful Strigoi only troubled pastures will have to transplant rebellions, that dying slept for the winnow of the ideal of incipient spiritual ******* dressed of execration. It has trigged the conflagration of the heart that resists the death and that is in decline several times in the conditions awaited by the apostates when denying of the water that does not do them Optimus and does elliptical the radius of obedience in the heart Vernarthiano satisfied of granules of Physconia grumose, whose frequency they become encysted in bodies of traitors reigns and of fungus lineages. The reign of the saints will judge plurality in the thrones with devastation in fatuous beatifications in Pérgamo, already admonished by me.    

Codex VII - Báculo of Sheesham  

Vernarth it calms lying down on the bunks of the fire of Sheesham. Beam and Incense with ultra olfactory and sensory powers, delineating the elementary and phenomenal cores housing and adapting híper connectivity with probity Hinduist the akasha executed the essential foundation in all the things of material cosmovision; the first palpable material element and concrete was created by the god Brahmá (air, fire, water, earth are the others). Did it treat one of the classical elements of Hinduism, pañcha-majá-bhuta or? Five big elements; His main characteristic is the sabda (sound). In sanscrit, this word means "space. It is the physical and eternal substance Akasha, of the ether that flows by the Akasha-Nautas and by Vernarth in each regression parasicológica. Vernarth Takes of a báculo called Key of Sheesham purchased it once anxious for delivering it to his beloved Toscana in the Cathedral St. Mary dei Fiori, in one of his Regressives Lives. They expected it astonished by the tyrannized impulsiveness of the noble in Florencia, of which once again came delayed of the tillage of the barley and of the god’s fatuous next to the Porcellino. It expected long hours until it went out his beloved Maddalena of the Eucharistic ceremonial, while the carried in his right hand his crosier, and in the left a rectangular box sizeable for his hand, inside carried essences of the potpourri of lavender and vellorita, a ring with a stone of amethyst coated by a concave skittle of gold, in the outline supra circulate carried medieval ornaments of silver of Etruria of the Party of the past barley. In front of this acquiescence Sybilla Samiense, followed carrying the clairvoyance where the prophet Isaías there was untied the conflagration of the heart that resists the death and that is in decline several times in the form today from Kafersesuh in Ein Karem, opens the stamp of residing in the cradle where María poses beside his son, already being part of the lithosphere of Getsemaní and of Vernarth in the heart of Maddalena.

Phylogeny in Getsemaní: The **** erectus crossed with multiple pieces of evidence of beings pro-evolutionary-adaptative, Neanderthal/HomoSapiens. Children of Israel wrote parables, epistles, verses, histories, and books, his vocal tract and phonetic spoke of tempest and environmental factors between sky and earth, of the big noise out of us, but little silence in us. The elementary is larynx that only pronounces the image that reports concepts evocative minimal of the sound in distinct placings of the melisma in mega sound. Speaking us how the language varies according to the history, and the half civic-climatic instructing us to his threshold and descendants when giving off by the effusions aerial of the language in assiduous levels tracheo-laryngeal. Earning authoritatively the intervals of vocalization, and relation of the junction with the agriculture and all his dimension descending by his internal walls, but going up by parietal overexcites out of her same.

Of the little air that remains to the world, to follow digesting temporarily assumes leaving flow his extra-air that possessed this in particles mechanically inert, and no in sanctified prophecies with miracles inferences and Inherence that Innova factótum, in the súper existence of which even do not perish by the hand of a monarchic mandate. Like this, the world swallows air in halves suffocating and contaminated whole, whereas others redistribute it for the one who needs to seat at the table to collect the Bread and share it with the other half.  Here it echoes the echo of body Christic, that in Aramaic syndicate much more than a language in his blood, grapheme and phonemes of stylistic in vibratory shock further of his deep stretch reverberating with the grace of his billed divine. Joshua swallows spikes and leaves simultaneously having us in his arms like children of olive-nursling, risk a sheep in his arms giving us lactate hydro-milk of the sustain of a verb creator. Fact strict to preserve the Aramaic and no stray with turning the turns of the leaves in the history, the Aramaic has to incorporate for the times that Joshua grazes us after more than two thousand years even. The one who is walking of one side to another to say us that it still is here, only comfort suggest your walk plagiarized with his larynx the sound of his expression the sheep is mammalian but mammalian that the man as his billed formulates bleats always reflected in the base of his skull for the rest of his children like biblical language, under all the rainbows of Querubines bawling beside boys surrounding them in identical intention! **** habilis, **** Sanctus in a process that possesses Orthodox bases and peripheral anatomical capacity, a linguistic Pythagorean shortcut of the dalliance and sternum when confusing it between yes, not altering his structural complexity neither functional. Of the potential of the Lepidoptera and winged insects, will arise the phenotype that will relate and relativize the mechanical aramea or Aramaic method for no stray the divine tongue, as well as it also is sublime the laryngitic torque of the one who possesses blood and body Aramaic, as his mechanized mystic devours the minimum words with the maximum in an all of the ranges of cacophonies and of prototyped field, they see to my field here spoke the spikes and the insects more than the own mechanical potential of your Voice.

The tunnel of wind filled with Lepidópteras that flew rising in shape helicoidal, everything sensitized with the imminent advent of the saeta magnánima of Zefian that came crossing the perihelion from the high Áullos Kósmos, dialécticamente with abundance credibility in the interior of the geological tunnel of the Profitis Ilias, list to the turgent of lactation doctoral theological. Timoratas And long justices rounded in those who were even exhausted, entre ajar the colophon of the days that began with the identification of the báculo Sheesham, appointing regent of tribulations that drains by his length of trip, to the basality static focusing idiosyncrasies and interests of the Prophet Elías that it received them in the height 103 with passages of Corintios that the saints go to help in the administration of the saints millenials. His capacity will not have the limits of his previous earthly life?  


Codex VIII - Ultramundis Alikantus

Alikantus Archetype of his a short astral trip three days that topped in Gaugamela...! Bulle In hides and discomfort after lightening his igneous hooves by slippery Lerapetras of Lasithi in stepped that seemed to be the same inflows of committed that brought Kanti of Creta, that pyrographed the floor Traciano before arriving at the request of his address. It resorts to Medea, before arriving at Tracia after errate by distinct places in search of protection and councils to protect to his master Vernarth, while it subjected to the last libations opiáceas of vivid liliáceas and angiosperms encapsulated in his pectoral right in the anonymous of Alikanto, asking him to Medea a potion to be able to supply him to his master and reduce inflammation his pectoral for like this can use his armour Áspis Koilé in the fight, as they subtracted three days for the duel. Medea Arrived at the city of Athens on a tempestuous day with a gray dantesco Fusco on the palm of the cliff escaping previously near Abdera, in which the orient proceeded to evacuate sooty plectrums to the sunset. Medea While it looked to the sky, took a piece of anthracite of feldspar to create javelins of aluminum that would have to carry Alikanto to his return, beside the potions for deflating his pectoral infected. It painted the sky with grey lines plotted and lodged later in his wry loop,  sighting from the infinite signals that came joining up in a ray of an alloy whose semblance seemed to be a king, it was Egeo, that not only offered him hospitality but it would link with Medea with the hope that his sorceries allowed him to conceive a son in spite of the advanced of his age. The sorceress fulfilled his expectations by having a son to call Medo. When Teseo, the secret son of Egeo, arrived in Athens had to that his father recognized it like heir Medea took it as a threat to the future of his son and tried to poison it. But Teseo discovered it, accusing it to commit horrible crimes and witchcraft, Medea had to escape again. This crusade had the assistance of Alikantus that transported it flying from Abdera, not to be captured and can supplement the potions that had requested him Alikantus, also with javelins that had to carry to Vernarth to escort him off the splendorous insult. The convulsed Sybilla Cimera customized the symbols of the ceremonial willing forging classical gestures of prodigality, and that at all less was a cornucopia given to zephyrs of the Ultramundis, that revolutionized the boss around that shuddered in the pickets of the dermis rocky that dressed the walls of the final tubule of 103 meters. The channel located referred inclinations of Likantus that harassed, and customize the final discretion of Teseo to finish with the folio of Egeo downward breaking the sentence of his son, and evading it of his stepmother. In this colisseo rooted Teseo beside his mother Etra that did not reveal him the name of his father until it fulfilled sixteen years. Arrived at this age, Teseo could raise the stone, shoe in the sandals and the sword of his father, and initiate his trip to Athens to be recognized like a son of the king. From this obviously Vernarth in the film of Gaugamela dressed him in the sandals Persikaia that did of him the one who never was, and if it died would carry them settled until the altar of the comedies in the Tristanía, where all that surrealist exceeds the loquacity narrow of reality, more than at all in racked muses in forced symptomatology of paranoia or of a heroine Sybilla, that mediated with the Arms of Christi in the iconology of the Codex Raedus.

Vernarth Seated in the edge of the Ultramundis, and broke in front of the cosmos and the solitude that hid all the beings that floated in the ditch that he collected in his moaning, in such judge that it rejected all the creations when feeling his wails, where the demons looked him from the darkness that fragile hastened his Magro occipital, attacking him in front of Medea evading the Satanic circumscription to contravene it the agreed with Egeo. The perjures reigned in the doubts of tragedy favored of Komedia parading in victorious procession, and singing triumphs of duality paranoic tragic, enthroned in the martyrs of tribulation, and in the seeds of the one who does not cease Tragediopathic Ubis, and in facts that speak of the hunger of solitude in all man plunged of the Ultramundis, as only dimensional of the one who burns in his doubts and of Anastasia frustrated. Vernarth Saysekáthisan and the Duoverso in consequence of the Universe seated to dry his tears then Vernarth received from the darkness of the Ultramundis a golden light of steeds Hippeis with an aura of Tesalia, where the krima or criminality become in three chambers threaten from Maceo to the confrontable in the half-hour of Arbela. Vernarth compress desisting the essays of procrastination reconstructing bodies’ severed here more than going isolating of his own souls and sins, with Hebrew souls of root Néfesh that took spooky in capsizing of decapitation of the one who lives exponentiating in the solitude of the Ultramundis. Inexorably the infra earthly holiness of the surrealism exceeds any verse, if it is that it was Lazarus here in the tunnel of wind the one who raises in front of Vernarth embracing him,  and playing it cool the greek of Likantus to fulfill him his mission.


Codex IX Ultramundis Phalanx
            
The labaros of the Phalanx saw from Asia some of the faithful groups of Alexander the Great. They appeared like ursids and Amphibians that came by the near step from Gorgan. "The Red Snake" was a defensive construction from here come the palfreys of Alikanto, preview with big camerades of animals for the body adhered to the cavalry of Alexander the Big. This incredible barbican begins on the coast of the Caspio, north of Gonbade Kavous, and continues to the northwest and disappears in the mountains of Pishkamar. They continued on the buttresses beside Bears and Leviathanes, they formed part of the totemic dreams, that taenia Vernarth when it assumed hallucinations doped by regressive turn by hieratic spaces to the slip away in hardships and incorporate in connection with animal pets in rhythms and waltzes of the applause of his atabales. Alikantus came speedy flying almost without detaining and without distracting when he brought the poisons and instruments of the armory of the panoply. He came Already had for the hours that came to fill out details before taking the game besides the Heavy infantry, Light, and Thessalonians. Inside the most elementary of his mission, he was to do the protocol of the potion, broadcast the preaching beside the Lumberjack, and distribute the javelins to the Hetairoi of Vernarth.

When anchoring the cerulean hoofs of the fire unknown of the Gods, attains to discern as to Vernarth took him out of the back of an Elephant attacker was besides accompanied by the cunning guard dog of Alexander called Péritas, that insinuated him start and raise with windstorms in warlike stratagems. Vernarth Came of his last session frugal Opiácea, for institute vegetal nervous lianas that commonly remained with some of them, and remained cut off in his cephalic vein and jugular stalking his ******, that always spreads in laurels of Cocoon, and by averages of intríngulis that had to gobble up by some days. It would follow daily being joined to the infinite that saw him be born, like the most magnificent Commander of Alexander the Great neither imagined nor collated! The wall Gorgan possessed a length of at least 200 kilometers upper to any one of the Roman walls that outlined in archeology like works of bastion. It was exhausting to exceed it and take a course with beasts since they were upset when being near Tel Gomel to the present that they were approaching the mulch of Vernarth; due to the fact that they were his very adored pets besides the Crocodiles Tupak. The Alazanes were prescribed by a watchdog of the wall of Gorgan being of the Persian army that was seduced by the bears to combat beside Vernarth.

Next to the Bumodos, already saw Vernarth play with his pets, Bears, Crocodiles, and the can of Alejandro Magnus. Further submissively approached shoring his frozen neck, Alikanto or Alikantus preceded with donations and drugs for his master brought of the sleight phalanges by Medea. Vernarth was appreciated and almost emancipated of the branch mowing and the strains venal that populated mostly in his pectoral and both full arms of smelly tattoos that had colonized him. Almost when getting dark on burgeoning them and fluffs of Zeus then begin to arrive the phalanges of Vernarth. The Phalanx of Macedonia was the training of infantry created and used by Filipo II, and later by his son Alexander the Great in the conquest of the Persian Empire. The phalange Macedonia arose, in fact, like the answer in front of holistic modifications and tactical Hellenistic of Theban strategists, Epaminondas and Pelópidas of strengths of earth that deployed at the beginning of the 4th century B.C. For opposition to the superiority, although it already was decadent in training hoplític spartan, that had exerted in the terrestrial fights between the polis Greek until that dates.

The Sybilla European carried a Gladius in his hand but exchanged it with the Xiphos in alternation by the death of innocent entrusted by Herodes the Big, and of the escape of the Holy family to Egypt. This confirms the liturgical grouping of the Triduo Pascual; the alluding passion of Christ and perpetrating the typical dolorism of the Devotio to his death, and triumph to his resurrection. The transposed of surrealism transports to San Juan digging in all the layers and hordes of the Faith, his componential of tribulación that moved in the Egyptian and Greek cartography, moving the triangular areas of the Phalanx, that moved en geometrical block reaching the edges of the hypotenuse gradient and of the tunnel of wind that elevated them cornering to the beast that visited them pretending to be feeble and imprecise.

The dolines collapsed in myriads substances in suspension, while the two swords Gladius and Xiphos were satisfied with blood Greco-roman. Here vegetated the verb of Elías in the corporal resurrection with similarity of triangular body Lazarinus that saw dragging by the power of tow of the ionic Phalanx in his stuck. They were Beings Equis that abstracted in a start of the Be X in his contrary algebraic; an incógnita or something that could take any quantity in other words something unknown, so that the algorithmic links and cater corporeality resuscitator in Lazarus of Betania inside his angles of Holy Geometry. The winds of swing presented viviparous in future observances of visions and perplexity of consciousness, governing fiscality that does resurrect in rabbinic worlds from the highest occupying thrones in the bracket, but of thrice ignoring the belief by means of greater incredulities that the direct truth and more brief. Elías is attracted by the Cinnabar that ponders in an apocalyptic mosaic, in the chamber Esdras, at the end of the mundane reign dissolved and that dies in the same Messiah. Satanás Does not tire to attack the credibility of the Phalanx in manifolds of dispensationalism, perhaps being strongly attached to Carmelo and of the unloyal that never revive in his same bodies unconverted.    


Codex X Ultramundis Lepanto  

Of Lepanto appeared exhausted the Armis Christi with burned eyes volatilized in stratospheres that received them Belligerent. Cual if they went alien castes settled in inflexible breath, refloating from his clámide in fuss and idiosyncrasy. They arrived cracking the pristine stretches from Tel Gómel when they arrived it charges it a military strategist asking him clemency to extend.

Falangist: With the crest in my hands and the Dorus on my clámide from the floor said; each disposal that tried in the double edges of my sword that dent. The upper leaf Sansevieria nominated me to a Hebraic past and to a medieval future, it was the Sword of Saint Jorge, notifying that my family in Kalidona was under a state paradoxical, given to my two greater children that were quoted to the service of the militia. The second inferior edge of my Xiphos and the Sansevieria bent me ruin in front of the prosopopoeia to the entrance with discouraged to defray the sclerosis of my soul follows exploding, surpassing and impelling to my wife in spars of easy undress. I know that my descendants remained buried under the effect of mortal meeting in the catharsis of Pompeii, the future of Saint George that patented! All emigrated and will escape afterward to remain desolated, and attain to return the inopportune comrades to the reintegrate in the verbena of St Mary in Athens, the Saint Patron saint comforted me and prepared my resist of such bad numerary so that someday left to fall my seeds in the wisdom of archangels peasants with sacral devotional fruits. I sighed and I groaned rubbing in my animals! my empties eyes day and night were mesmerized to the ethereally magnetized. They did it beside me, with the singularity of not to affect me, they went by little booklet near to moan not to see them demagnetized by some fatalistic effects and consummatory.

Etréstles moved by the tribulations of the Child of the Falange, bent imposing non-existence afterward that his words involved the exhortation to Hera by his benevolence consummatory to be able to reside beside her. Like this, they would remain immune to progressive lives under the influence of sharp primary stew and secondary in arms of the phalanx. Shinings the eyes of Hera when the spirit of the Falangist is entering to her were not vanities but if the advent of the vanity in ínfulas to the Acrópolis is carrying it to her.  

Sibila Tiburtina sustains it gathering him in his arms saying him: You will receive the heat that you will imprison in the house of the great priest, a scene that will be represented in Prócoro in the neutral corresponding folio. Events and expletives will be of the past, no longer allocated him neither he annoyed. The Arms Christi again swirling with the Souls of Trouvere in last irascible chinks of the winds Eolonimi in the holístic of all the winds that appointed to Vernarth. "They did not go back to live your children heard a Macedonio military", The physical resurrection of the unconverted take place after the tree of Mars when they free to the innocent fallen in the belief versicular that divides the ray with his half where any minute will be able to hit it. The passages of the tunnel of wind are the wasteland that dies revived by the *** cutting overflowing fibrils of vitality from the high for overflow it downwards for those who even expect amazing miracles, walking beside the alive with hypocoristic triviality reborn in his same blood that was spilled. Everything famous goes walking with pennants that raise of his own sepulcre, cutting lower capillaries of the impetuous rising of his pale cheeks, where the scepter Greco-tridentate will be a forbearance of the one who frees and purposeful escape of the tree of Mars. Now lie down beside your children and will be between the hazels and Eolonimis doing revived of the Tágmati or order of succession of the Polis like the unit of elite tribulating the final stretches of the straight of the Ultramundis to the fries the 103 meters glorified.

Etréstles during the millennium of the Satagenesis and Deidagenesis beside the Heosphoros and the Uomo of Valplacci they prostrated to Lucifer in front of Etréstles (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Cap. 45 - Palibrio USE), reflowing and emulating wars of the Peloponeso, is being east a garrison of the general of the Athenian fleet in western Greece. The mentor floats were directed by the admiral Formión that defeated all the Lacedemonios in Naupacto. When they approximated to the province of Nafpaktia, of the Nomo of Aitoloakarnania confined followed the indivises and weightless musks disseminated, disintegrating immortal souls with the damage of the break exhaled that is extinguished in his offering. It is as well as it could cause some aversion not to be condemned to the Hadic infra world, to Tee castes of gods and semi-gods with Sansevierias in green leaves, and clover that chained to the freedom of the furious gases of Xenon and Lithium, slipping away by drainages and spaces where any sword neither launches will cross the atmosphere of Gaugamela-Macedónica, only Vernarth here was hádic and will have to pipe by the untouched pavilions of the spotless backsstore with heroic lineage. Any curly tease or flagrant will slice sanctified carnosities purchased in quoted sessions in the manacled of the Bumodos with the drugs and the potions of Medea.

Codex XI - Ultramundis Raeder      

From Patmos saw come hundreds of hanged boys of the stringers of the pelican blue of the Dodecanese. Raeder cames Hanged with both hands on the rings of iron plating of jasper; from the Greek "iaspis", that means "stone marked". Raeder found it in sharp hydrothermal, in volcanic rocks, and in sedimentary rocks in the surroundings. With four palmate fingers that shod in the hoops of amethyst for the owners of the house that celebrated the actions of thank you, and the celebration of the guidelines of Saint John that sent them transported in his peak golden shoe. Generally, they were more than five thousand those that transited by the regions, they swallowed canonized water of the sea Jonico with the big advantage to reproduce saltwater seas in freshwater to drink. They carried them to each house to fill his vessels and also in periods of seed, irrigated his tillage in summery periods where scarce, with his brown golden plumages raffle the fields of olives and of the ***** vineyards of the Goddess Afrodita. With his whites plumages, they spray the tillage of barley with vinegar and recently wheat fields fished of the legs of Petrobus, his pelican of the dreams! From here they were born all the recipes by all the regions when it depressed them the Bread without firewood and tares. Patmos has recorded in the stringers of the pelican planning every day and go looking for houses where arrive to carry them the Gospel. To all the boys like Raeder accompanied him other blessed, to carry the good news to families that seated expected near in denouements of his social limits when they expected them by the afternoons with the action of gratitude. They ate by the afternoons to expect the boys to taste them Tzatziki; Sauce of yogurt with cucumber and candy with drinks of poppies and honey, they received them in chambers near his gynoecium and right there exchanged the gifts that brought of the Grotto of the Evangelist in Patmos. The boys from the same moment in that the future mother knew or suspected that it was pregnant, attended speedy so that the distribution did not have problems considered them a divine gift,  the only children to the firstborn or those that were born of greater parents, was the privilege of these primogenitures. Reckless renowned and quotations that appear in the Apocalypse of John, in whose introduction says that the author was banished to Patmos, where had his meeting with Jesus in the called Grotto of the Apocalypse that originated everything.

The grotto or foundation of sapphire, was just to the addition of the empty that levitated from the walls of the grotto were molecules with mass hyperactive, delivering him tracks to Raeder near to the Jasper, calcedonia, emerald, sardónica, sardio, crisolito, berilo, topacio, and crisoprasa, but he magnetized with the Iaspis of the genealogy of Kalymnos that revealed him the wave vibrational on the Jasper,  the Arms Christi of Saint John in Apocalypse 21, of verse 19, says there: "The foundations of the wall of the city all lovely stone the first foundation jasper; in the paráfrasis predicted that the foundations of the Megarón will be most of these materials, but regularly of Iaspis of Raeder.

Sibila Gets flu carries the relative scourges to the scene of Flagellation in the praetorium here filigrees hematíes ran by exvotos simulating blood from the celestial, representing the corresponding straight folio. The natural laws of the Parables Iaspias do the alchemy with noble minerals immanent and hypocoristic in the cavern that revealed all this grace to Raeder for the propaedeutic of the Mashiaj when centralizing here the spacetime that said that God has similarity to the Iaspis, as its bed of condensed gold in the expiration and metalization of the cosmic essence. The similarity did that all the walls of the vault or tunnel of the Profitis Ilias governed of Jasper and Cornelian, being this last of blue greens eyes of Raeder glittering in his iris, and in the curvature of mass that did apressed in the interior of the tunnel of wind that also expanded, doing rubíes and sharpnesses of her same. The visibility of the Universe still did hyper brilliant on the inlet of Patmos, for this Petrobus his Pelicano blue topped surrounded in the arch superciliary of Apollo, to train similarity of the metals like his neighbor metalloid.

Isaías says 28:16: "Therefore, Iahveh the Gentleman says like this; Love and behold that I have put in Sion by the foundation a stone, stone tested, we look by where it begins, a stone, but first tested then angular, then lovely of stable foundation; the one who believed. From this situation the Iaspis and Sardio in the mountain of Sion the throne of the Gentleman that accompanied to Raeder and to the lamb flashing beside his idols Petrobus. They did angulars to all the stones some powdered finally and all pyramided by the dolines, in the exquisiteness of the son that presented in the cavern of the most refractory way for irradiate light that warned to Raeder to go by his progenitors. The glory of Raeder did of the glow to garrison enhanced in voices of boys by all Patmos, speaking that his parents were similar lovely stones to the Iaspis.    


Codex XII - Ultramundis Duodecim Evangelii

The twine of the Rainbow did to mutate the labaros in each color disseminated, already descends a peripeteia in the chromatic Era and niveous, discoloring in the Antiphony of entrance that says: I will give you shepherds according to my heart that grazes you in consciousness and experience. Oh God, that have aroused in the Church to Saint Joseph, Mariah, and his Rabí, wise priest, to proclaim the universal vocation to the holiness of the Duodecim Evangelii, grant us his intercesión and example, in the exercise of the ordinary debit having us to our Messiah, and serve with fervent passion in the work Redentive by our Gentleman Jesus Christ.

This big event exerts from the chasm of the Apocalypse, where daily inhabitants bound handwritten and ancient treasures  Sakkelion-Sakellarios. They upset conforming a new resolution in his scriptorium in the Byzantine period they administered alms and tributes, Curiously related with Zaqueo appearing in the new verses from Lucas´s Gospel, 19 1-10, when Jesus Christ goes in Jericho. It was a publican, boss of collectors, and very rich. The collectors worked for the Romans and besides asking for more money the Romans demanded doing this rich way easily, by what was doubly hated. Zaqueo was low in height and for this reason, when Jesus went in in the city of Jericho, all the world banked to see it and he remained backward and did not arrive to see it. Then it advanced and it went up to a species of the fig tree, a sycamore (Ficus sycomorus) since it went to happen in front of her. When Jesús arrived at that place, said him: Zaqueo goes down prompt; because it suits that today it remains me in your house. In front of this, the village muttered that it went to the lodge home of a sinner. Zaqueo retorts that it will give to the poor half of what has, and if it defrauded to somebody previously will give him the quadruple. Jesús answers that salvation has arrived at his house because he also is the son of Abraham. From this antiphony arises the Twelfth Evangelii, which arises in a file that celebrates the haughty morals of tributes that have to motivate by tribal crowds of Gaugamela for the presence of God, by what want his will and No!

The tessitura of the wind tunnel transfigured the next height of 103, after the blonde grace of Abraham murmuring his tent to generate height over Israel and Jacob. The dolines of aspersion evaporated the matter that transfigured in celestial plasma with ranks of metric coercive, of what that up to is down and vice versa for the hemispheres of the Sefirot, and for the Shemot or name of the start of the origin transfiguring in would idolise of Creation in the Universe-Duoverso. From all the corners will split to give reading to this big incident no easy to read, and listen neither less feel in his once become vibrations by the immortality of the events memorials of the history like regent conveyor of the meeting of all the frivolous voices that sin of ignorance, and those that know by ensuing ebullient. That they will be quadrupled the parchments to the fighters that finalize alive or died in Gaugamela, each one carrying in his hands one of them bled. All the crosses relations of the ancient society, infuse parallel of sustainability of Faith by means of the generosity, almost transferred of an essential charisma praised of the esoteric core of the Same dogma, confusing on the way that it has to transport it without having consciousness of the destination that will carry it, and comes badly from the limen of the doubt from the beginning. Since a king, impious Manases was imprisoned and exiled, designated king impío, convivió in the depths of the heat of the Averno. For the modern Christians, Manases is an icon of the Divine pardon, of where arises the traditional pray socrative of Manasés from the jaculatory of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, since after being one of the kings more bloodthirsty and pagan of the Jewish, forgave him and even was buried in the city of David, pantheon only reserved for the faithful kings with what deduces that God forgave it entirely.

The Sybilla Délfica carries the crown of spines of the Coronation of Jesús become equally in the praetorium, and as in previous cases to the scene that represents in the neutral corresponding. In the triade Eritrea, rather Herófila, if caste and clairvoyant Délfica and apologetic, his vernacular artery did it native of Marpeso, Trojan Tróade, as in fantasies to be a daughter of a Nymph and Shepherd. It chose it did him escort for the Duodecim Evangelii, from Samos this robbing to Patmos in the foundation of the Megarón with the same polygonal of the Chapel Sixtina in the quattrocento, where Vernarth had assistance in Regression parapsychological of the Quattrocento Duodecim Evangelii, announcing that the Vernolatría serious part of his Apologetic life inspiring prophecies with the Parables Iaspis, extolling erudition after the grave that was in the forest of Apollo Esminteo, returning to his origins to a sinkhole in the Córico mountain.          

Codex XIII - Nix in the Tenebrousness

All the demarcations derived to witness Bastos and impolitic utensils of the undivided Gaugamela. Three days before that the Falangists protested to Vernarth for when they were clouded by the Ekadashi. They fasted three days before and delivered to the visas of Zeus, graduating fulgid movements in his lunar seals eleven days before. It is the penultimate stair; already remained hours to walk by the woodworm that shook the heels of the Phalanges, all the accouterments and animals were conferred to the mysticism of essence and to his disputable worshipper. Now in the boundary circle of the heritages of Gaugamela, Darío came from afterward to move the Tigris, organizing his troops and his harem. The Macedonians had an army that added 7.000 riders and 40.000 children. The heavy cavalry of the elite of Alexander was the Hetairoi and was formed by the nobility of Macedonia, that accompanied Alexander in this battle and went the decisive factor in the faction, Vernarth commanded more than 40 one thousand children, saving narrow relation with the Hetairoi with his arms twinned of divine caste, and the Hoplites Greek that took part to cover the rear of the phalanx, that Vernarth defrays from the more furtive boundary of his doctrine in this mobile taint with thousands of Macedonians singing institutional quarrelsome poetry. From the Dodecanese, Kalidona and all the central Greek archipelagos came to surrender the figure of Vernarth, accompanied by Etréstles of Kalavrita, big hero and defender beside Markos Botsaris (Capitulate 6, pag. 36 Koumeterium Messolonghi / Palibrio USA) in this Magna Epos. Also, Raeder incorporated beside Petrobus the Pelican Blue, Brisehal of Dash-and-Lut and Vlad Strigoi appearing of the transversal valleys of Transilvania, suddenly after having arrived of the Reign of the Horcondising, tackling his Frigate in Valparaíso juxtaposing in the nine elements and in megatonnes to be ratified from the start in a new Celestial wasteland. All camp to five kilometers of the Rio Bumodos, in the ***** north where the shady blemishes favored them of a new lunar phase in tendencies, effusion, and backflow that was the apotheosis influence of energy. The worshipper of the clan did not give him any importance especially only given hierarchy by alone gnosis because in these goods could improve his devotion, so they are occupied in his service.  They are to the expectation to have the juncture of renovating even more his mourning for himself by second certificates to his right-handed with astrológics cosmic interpretations of the Ekadashi, being able to be explained by the shoots of the material world.  The concept contravened to the reverences is that the Ekadashi will be the day in that the Gentleman will persevere attaining the unitary joy dean, contesting flashes incessant by the unbalance emotional community of the assistants, like ingredient spirit that is allocated in his spree, and has to treat to give more start to Vernarth in his regression parapsychological. But besides it is necessary to conceive that we are in singing of subsistence of the hypotenuse, by which do not have to think this Zeus requires extremely our third. He is entirely self-sufficient and is tied to his transcendental world of the vilorta, but not to leave us alone with his vague shimmers of collectivity!

Sibila Helespóntica sustains the cross, the last emblem of the Passion represented in the chaining. As it corresponds in his straight and immediate folio representing the Crucifixión of Christ in the Gólgota, the spaces car selected consigning in the ashlar that came close in technical whispered of works that inspired to Sybilla of Helesponto, she approached with the gear and the utensils of the altarpiece of her same, decorating them with passions that represented in the lineup, eleven days before being sprayed the alcohol on them of first degree in his heads to leave them in the intemperate, and to posterity that came to the goddess of the darks Nix spilling petals macerated and turned sour on all they to inhume them in blasphemies of the god Erebus, in the deep light scarcity of all lethargy marginal to redeem them of the chaos, on an earthly crushed sea unfamous that will be the surface of Gaugamela transiting in the catacombs, with earthy rivers and elusive phlegm escaping of the insectaries light of Ultramundis of the god Tartar. Nix Runs alarming in his muddy tiled, appearing as a winged woman dressed with a black toga cover of stars. It will drive an armature thrown by two steeds properly accompanied by his children twins Hypnos and Tánatos, here besides them trepidation running by any place, for attesting the regrets of the Falangists Hoplites, after being suddenly invaded by mythological strengths of the Auqemenides. Through condensed pulses and of others no designated will be represented on diverse types and in supports of xylographic monumentality in the ceramics and even in the patrimonial immaterial with the hindsight of the Áullos Kósmos. From the Basiliscus will aim to Betelgeuse, dispensing in the Arms Christi to advance to the Fontana's and to Parables Iaspis, staging the Sibyllae Prophetae, vaticinating the paved of the Iaspis of lovely stones for fragment in the elevation and in the maremágnum issued by Sybilla of Helesponto,  raising on the height of 133 in the ordeal of the Gólgota, in orient skull of Abimelech and of Jezabel from the kraníon symbolizing the traffic in places of executions from a kraníon admonished.  

The place of the Gólgota also is uncertain of archaeology. All he knows is that it was out of the city, further from the second wall. It had to be a hill, as it could see from some distance and was near to a way, homologous to the initial of Getsemani, Saint John Apostle amplifies that a new grave was near, in an orchard. The tágmati translated as "order" Indicated the ranks in the Roman army; the saints of the Ancient Will and of the tribulation receive his bodies glorified near the return of Christ to the world. Being Greek root Tagma of put in order from the thoracic head and abdominal, in tagmatization and differentiation of regions of the body or tagmas formed by series of metámeros or similar segments between himself differentiated of the rest. The Ultramundis of the god Tartar here is conceptualized, and corresponds with the metamerization heteronomous of inert organic, and opposes to the of metamerization homonomous, in which all the metámeros or bilateral symmetry in all the appendices that are equivalent. They are those centurions that drilled the rib of the Mashiaj in the Gólgota with whispered symmetry from the head, thorax, and abdómen of the Tágmati, sorting out from the launched Pilum awarding them the Christo Salvatore Vaticinante, but in the dictamen or professing the same symptoms of his passion by the tagma abdominal, toráxico and head in his crown of spines Ziziphus.    


Codex XIV-  Ultramundis Primum apud Orionem finale    

Challenged by the sortilege of the Augur Vernarth gathered with his General Commander and invites him not to separate further of extending them that edging by a docile lunar greyish wind. They gather and they put near one of another.

Vernarth Says: That joy turns to my meditation behaving in this contiguous night to our Falangists Consecrated, and to the cavalry sleeping in Machiavellian dreams when falling in his sink, until in his parishioner and in his steeds so that they do not lose his eyes sung in the drain of the pressing. All lodging as if lying in a genial lawn and honesty of the belly of the Chaos, exhorting hallucinations to those who sleep in the cap of the kraníon, with the wise utopias of the Erebus. Dozing likewise  utopias to the high and rubbering in Orión with a pythoness expression and changing his tacit. Leaving hardly a space of turn to change the tri face cariátide tackling the secondary mirages of Aurion, turned into a decimated Muse captivate for desirous delectation treating them as his heirs, seeing them flatter with his scarlet layer and inscribed with Lambda in your magazine in Gaugamela.  Alexander Magnus answers: That the satirized arms re-spin by the ****** of Amón, popping your eyes-hearings and eyes unheard folded in the martyrdom glaucoma of Anubis, re transforming the constellation of Aurion after we heave us annihilating them in this silent furrowed already embattled! While, I have to wash down your sentences more cleaned with one thousand tempests more than the refrained gallantry that receives in my corrected hemisphere, unbalancing the **** Target of the night, situated in the Lambda on her so that it accompany me with his nurse to the temple, truncating the investment sovereign to the moaning in the lead of Febo.  

When observing Vernarth that the spittle of Febo or the personality of Apollo in Alexander the Great fell repaired, quickly the appraised on his jaw drying him, smiling him and at the same time changing his gestures of nervousness. Taking him and attaching him, since it seemed a retained dizzy of his long addresses parliament with his feudatory. Then it would be prosperous to leave him seated in the side of the aspect that escorts him. In this instant separates and extends his arms to the envious koelum or dialect sky, joint to both swords that also will accompany them with the bronze shake chatter, snorting in the retracted navels.

Vernarth Retorts: Dissolute In my infancy had to walk with my dogs as a ray stayed in his frame when it advanced me to them only sniffed my scarlet aureoles; that they were red stars súper giants and near to the Earth fading. Today it is the belt of Aurion beside the Big General, beating in his groove and changing his course precessional. His hallucinations will move, so that it remains alone in his reddish outline, but not in his physicist componential.

In this way, Vernarth moved the tunnel of the zephyr with the tip of his Dorus when they bent, the shining final of his tip warned to reopen in the intestinal of the firmament when going out launches. Mechanical ran Years light by much more than it has to describe, in front of exact science and in front of a Dorus inaccurate, in a universe that only this distant whereas Vernarth is doing using the protocol of governance, pulling on the floor with the drum, ratling by his dorsal in direction to his shaft that volatile attached of the abbreviated adminícule, for one launches used like Sword Xiphos, arriving at the vertex of Betelgeuse to approximate to the legatee space of radiosity, and of Persia joined in a billed merely advocator. It appears Vernarth behind the cloudscape coughing with cloying fever with a dazzling ruby hypnotizing the muffins of the colossal fénix cosmic, and lighting up to Alexander Magnus when waking up. Sibila Frigia, finally sustained the cross with the risen flag of the same representation that does it the own Christ resurrected in a corresponding scene of Resurrection, in extensive complement of the Sybillas with his Gothic imagination and recentish, with the Sybilla Frigia being the priest that will chair an apolíneo oracle of a historical realm in the western central part of the highlands of Anatolia contrasted with Casandra of the Ilíada.

The incipient muffins sequence to redeemed reigns in that the puérp postpartum aurora, intercede nonetheless of the facets and of the screams of the Cáucaso, of the one who this chained in the irons but frozen of his isolation, for the one who the panic of the Diaísthisi or presage, traps him in millennia taken from a heart stuck in the thorax of the Tágmati, to the Apollyon offered in the abyss of the consecratam, and of the abyssal jumping from the fathomless floor the abysmal destruction providential, and his tulle issuing in those who will not shine after exalting concluded in silty bottoms of the fosca. Regards and Tares will govern intolerable pacts s and promises, early tinted in the heartbreaking disclosures of Saint John, glimpsing to diábolos interventors of Apollyon beside the Sheol of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, redeeming them in Nínive and ordering in Arbela and Gaugamela in the indissoluble planted zones of the Camels Gigas of Apollyon.    


Codex XV - Apud Secundus finale  

Arbela falls in the hands of castes of the mesnades of Etréstles of Kalavrita, collapsing like lightning and exceeding the charred farmhouses of alien Mosul, to his intrinsic compartments. Of to the contrary was the authority of Maceo, found immediate to Syrian troops, mesopotámicas, medas, split, sucianas, tibarianas, hircanias, albanias and sacesanias, scattered like disturbed Leviathanes of himself same and of debased titans in all the execrations not specified of this avalanche, so that they are carried by his dean leader, and donated to his physiognomy like limpid preys of misfortune when predicting for them in the banishment of his bravery. Later once encysted in the cracks of his stinks would look for in the fatuous emanations of the Phosphorus (Crash of the morning of Venus) drizzled by the glories of the morning and of his distractions, changing the decomposed inert matters to the Aqueménides, incontinenti to be bordered with all the fascination of the dawn. The commanded by Maceo; the commander of Dario, brought a heart to be transplanted from a wise person Dervish that had split to install it after conquering the epic Gesta, and his conjecture of it. They believed to ****** his ascribed gentlemen that seconded to his disconsolate of him…, but brought off by half the substrate character that moves the incessant rumbles in the bitterness of the cicuta unfunded in the Xiphos, offering to the twilight to mark the withdrawal between lights.

Etréstles, spotted a stray prescription in the field of battle, expelling it from the divine sky of Arbela. By the conferred adherents him to Vernarth in this round stroking to Alikanto by the gibbosity right of his steed Kanti, this would cause that they would cross on the same line and gave an oppressive split kinetic curve so that the lancers hyper vibrated with the spin of twist of his masses contracted, adding a field in the tips of the sky to the discouragements and the static Persian. Like this they fought together near of the children, infamous legislation plagiarizing the movement and tying the ribs of rows from left to right of the Syntagma, to fluctuate in the strengths of his graceful Falangists of anxiety. When observing this Moving away Magnus, redouble his heavy cavalry and also challenges similar concert in the maneuvers executed by Etréstles, designating it Diabolical Officiousness curiosity, as they visited inseparable in the Runes of the circulatory movement and in the cardiac system or Kardiá, reimplanting in the spin of twist of return of the children and the cavalry, but with the whole mass of his horses bluish lapis lazuli, wheezing of his nasal like a domestic nasal breath!

Auriga Says: Your venerate you milestones come to upset to the new beings, come to occupy your organisms with arrows on his bodies deterred by the quiver magic of Artemis, with new incarnations and manly gallantries?

Etréstles Jumps from Kanti, represses some militias that were surrounded, and reaches to spot Vernarth, to there is of the hubbub of his transmission recharged on the intimidated enemy. Sometimes they affirmed of one of his hangman of him to resist the pain of his ribs of him, while he vigorously tightened his sword and resisted the suffering that paled in his face, but increasing the size of his arms and legs, to unchain the big booming voice of Sheol or Hell, that piped him in the big stupor of the Persians resigned, afterward he clarified an all in the miscellanea was of the ardor and the pain of the souls expelleds, to testify the quantity of his independence consumed. The lightened environment of emptiness in the tunnel of the Profitis Ilias did feel in the peak of the surface, where was and trembled in the acroteria of entry of the Hexagonal Progenitura. Majestic Gravitational waves struggled here invested, oozing from the volcanic base of Patmos in vertexes of the physical fields and of elementary particles of great similarity to the caverns of Getsemaní, in the suggested detain of the phylogenetic mechanics and of the instauration of the phonetics, all embedded and propelled by the particles hitting on them, causing opposition of mass in the empty internal of the pipe covered by chairs of the Iaspis, propelling unions in progressive waves in viscous fields, very dense when being generated by the Arms Christi and the Souls of Trouvere. These elementary particles of God plunged into aroused basilisks in compound particles in the dynamics of energeia, preexisting already quoted, and adopted by Vernarth in his last parapsychological regression where he collided in the field of Higgs Ipso facto. In the areas W and Z, rather in the W of Wonthelimar and Z of Zefian like patterns of Lights without mass in his vectorial that were attracted by the maremágnum of his matter, where the viscosity is maybe, the confused darkness of the material fossil, mutating by atomic energy from the starvation of the Phoebus Shemesh, or false Sun of Apollo-Leviathan in his demolished asthenia. It was captive of a viscous moraine that collides between yes, arousing occupations of the empty field, already typecast in the boson of Higgs, and in the photons of Wonthelimar that taenia of on dowry, to be prone to the binomial W and Z, in the energized tangent of the shallow elementary bodies transformed in particles with mass. The interaction of the particles resembled a quantum field of the Orchard of Getsemaní with asymmetric and rocky graphics, that supremely did immanent in the trinitary energy that absorbed them in his arrest, concatenating the converted tendency of the field of Higgs in a quantum physical structure symmetrical, therefore in a perfect triangulation trinitarian of elementary particles, activating equidistant of his uniformity between if in all the spin of twist and in the three ataxic angles of unsteadiness of Zefian inroads of his fourth Saeta. The statics longed for the tendency that propagated in a fourth Angulo, but this time in the Progenitura Hexagonal in his six sides concealing the two equilateral triangles, subtended in no massive strengths, that is to say; feeble in a load of a photon, but if having to cross the unions of field that were him apt to auscultate the physics of God. We have to understand that all dogma gathers interactions with the field Diaísthisi or to presage, that recovers the mass of all this or that ventures the idleness of some silent particles that conform his weight, and the global mass affine of his material existence, sponsored by the proton in a cubic meter if it is accelerated. The field that underlies here in Patmos will be of upper physics from the Boson of Higgs or of God, for the grant of mass and of weight in the empty tunnel of wind in the Profitis Ilias, re sustaining the necessary ineffective light of the Febo Shemesh apocryphal of Sheol (Hades and Erebo), for constraining the symmetrical balance magmatic basality of intraterrestrial energy, contributing the supernumerary of her, turned into Light for the reborn world of the Apocalypse. The elementality bearer of the particle of Patmos, in his context of quantum physics, will enumerate like the theory of the Apud Secundus Finale, to generate interactions in the spacetime, that reduce physicality and delay when attending his credibility, in front of facts supra abnormal and bearers of his hyperactive dogmatic abulia, understanding that the graphic of his cerebral activity is genius of the quantum physics, provided with energy without mass, that vertiginously adheres to the protons of his physical strength consolidated, turning it into a kinetic inert element atomic, and in one dynamic of physical solidity. For all the solidness of the wasteland of the Apud (In) of Getsemaní, this will not be consecrated like a mystery, rather it will aspire the just act of immense clemency of the body compacted in the emotion of the feel gravitate, and accelerated transfiguring in an atomic elementary impulse that crystallizes the creative Faith, or was to the Vernarthian Duoverse! The Boson is massive, all the matter that is him leading will be poured by the standard of verticality in the creation, predicting theoretically in the tree of physics whose pipe hyper lives between the root and its foliage, and will consult the effect of his origin for greater challenges of his divine experience.

Singing of Sibila Líbica (bis): !The sparking plugs will inflame, the iridescent eyes of the Mashiaj flashed in the likely mortuary settlement of Vernarth in the oasis of Siwa: “Oh My warm blow of Libya that flatters my cheeks, and my shoulders that groove in the light of the callous cerebral coexistence of Zeus. Singing by you my Didaskein; treating or teaching to the baffled herd that confuses the kitchenware that was born to. b.C., not having a reminiscence of Irradiation in the mastery of the continuous turn to the not contravening of latent ignorance, but yes to find him agreed and effulgent”!
Codice Raedus
V. TO APHRODITE (293 lines)

(ll. 1-6) Muse, tell me the deeds of golden Aphrodite the
Cyprian, who stirs up sweet passion in the gods and subdues the
tribes of mortal men and birds that fly in air and all the many
creatures that the dry land rears, and all the sea: all these
love the deeds of rich-crowned Cytherea.

(ll. 7-32) Yet there are three hearts that she cannot bend nor
yet ensnare.  First is the daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis,
bright-eyed Athene; for she has no pleasure in the deeds of
golden Aphrodite, but delights in wars and in the work of Ares,
in strifes and battles and in preparing famous crafts.  She first
taught earthly craftsmen to make chariots of war and cars
variously wrought with bronze, and she, too, teaches tender
maidens in the house and puts knowledge of goodly arts in each
one's mind.  Nor does laughter-loving Aphrodite ever tame in love
Artemis, the huntress with shafts of gold; for she loves archery
and the slaying of wild beasts in the mountains, the lyre also
and dancing and thrilling cries and shady woods and the cities of
upright men.  Nor yet does the pure maiden Hestia love
Aphrodite's works.  She was the first-born child of wily Cronos
and youngest too (24), by will of Zeus who holds the aegis, -- a
queenly maid whom both Poseidon and Apollo sought to wed.  But
she was wholly unwilling, nay, stubbornly refused; and touching
the head of father Zeus who holds the aegis, she, that fair
goddess, sware a great oath which has in truth been fulfilled,
that she would be a maiden all her days.  So Zeus the Father gave
her an high honour instead of marriage, and she has her place in
the midst of the house and has the richest portion.  In all the
temples of the gods she has a share of honour, and among all
mortal men she is chief of the goddesses.

(ll. 33-44) Of these three Aphrodite cannot bend or ensnare the
hearts.  But of all others there is nothing among the blessed
gods or among mortal men that has escaped Aphrodite.  Even the
heart of Zeus, who delights in thunder, is led astray by her;
though he is greatest of all and has the lot of highest majesty,
she beguiles even his wise heart whensoever she pleases, and
mates him with mortal women, unknown to Hera, his sister and his
wife, the grandest far in beauty among the deathless goddesses --
most glorious is she whom wily Cronos with her mother Rhea did
beget: and Zeus, whose wisdom is everlasting, made her his chaste
and careful wife.

(ll. 45-52) But upon Aphrodite herself Zeus cast sweet desire to
be joined in love with a mortal man, to the end that, very soon,
not even she should be innocent of a mortal's love; lest
laughter-loving Aphrodite should one day softly smile and say
mockingly among all the gods that she had joined the gods in love
with mortal women who bare sons of death to the deathless gods,
and had mated the goddesses with mortal men.

(ll. 53-74) And so he put in her heart sweet desire for Anchises
who was tending cattle at that time among the steep hills of
many-fountained Ida, and in shape was like the immortal gods.
Therefore, when laughter-loving Aphrodite saw him, she loved him,
and terribly desire seized her in her heart.  She went to Cyprus,
to Paphos, where her precinct is and fragrant altar, and passed
into her sweet-smelling temple.  There she went in and put to the
glittering doors, and there the Graces bathed her with heavenly
oil such as blooms upon the bodies of the eternal gods -- oil
divinely sweet, which she had by her, filled with fragrance.  And
laughter-loving Aphrodite put on all her rich clothes, and when
she had decked herself with gold, she left sweet-smelling Cyprus
and went in haste towards Troy, swiftly travelling high up among
the clouds.  So she came to many-fountained Ida, the mother of
wild creatures and went straight to the homestead across the
mountains.  After her came grey wolves, fawning on her, and grim-
eyed lions, and bears, and fleet leopards, ravenous for deer: and
she was glad in heart to see them, and put desire in their
*******, so that they all mated, two together, about the shadowy
coombes.

(ll. 75-88) (25) But she herself came to the neat-built shelters,
and him she found left quite alone in the homestead -- the hero
Anchises who was comely as the gods.  All the others were
following the herds over the grassy pastures, and he, left quite
alone in the homestead, was roaming hither and thither and
playing thrillingly upon the lyre.  And Aphrodite, the daughter
of Zeus stood before him, being like a pure maiden in height and
mien, that he should not be frightened when he took heed of her
with his eyes.  Now when Anchises saw her, he marked her well and
wondered at her mien and height and shining garments.  For she
was clad in a robe out-shining the brightness of fire, a splendid
robe of gold, enriched with all manner of needlework, which
shimmered like the moon over her tender *******, a marvel to see.

Also she wore twisted brooches and shining earrings in the form
of flowers; and round her soft throat were lovely necklaces.

(ll. 91-105) And Anchises was seized with love, and said to her:
'Hail, lady, whoever of the blessed ones you are that are come to
this house, whether Artemis, or Leto, or golden Aphrodite, or
high-born Themis, or bright-eyed Athene.  Or, maybe, you are one
of the Graces come hither, who bear the gods company and are
called immortal, or else one of those who inhabit this lovely
mountain and the springs of rivers and grassy meads.  I will make
you an altar upon a high peak in a far seen place, and will
sacrifice rich offerings to you at all seasons.  And do you feel
kindly towards me and grant that I may become a man very eminent
among the Trojans, and give me strong offspring for the time to
come.  As for my own self, let me live long and happily, seeing
the light of the sun, and come to the threshold of old age, a man
prosperous among the people.'

(ll. 106-142) Thereupon Aphrodite the daughter of Zeus answered
him: 'Anchises, most glorious of all men born on earth, know that
I am no goddess: why do you liken me to the deathless ones?  Nay,
I am but a mortal, and a woman was the mother that bare me.
Otreus of famous name is my father, if so be you have heard of
him, and he reigns over all Phrygia rich in fortresses.  But I
know your speech well beside my own, for a Trojan nurse brought
me up at home: she took me from my dear mother and reared me
thenceforth when I was a little child.  So comes it, then, that I
well know you tongue also.  And now the Slayer of Argus with the
golden wand has caught me up from the dance of huntress Artemis,
her with the golden arrows.  For there were many of us, nymphs
and marriageable (26) maidens, playing together; and an
innumerable company encircled us: from these the Slayer of Argus
with the golden wand rapt me away.  He carried me over many
fields of mortal men and over much land untilled and unpossessed,
where savage wild-beasts roam through shady coombes, until I
thought never again to touch the life-giving earth with my feet.
And he said that I should be called the wedded wife of Anchises,
and should bear you goodly children.  But when he had told and
advised me, he, the strong Slayer of Argos, went back to the
families of the deathless gods, while I am now come to you: for
unbending necessity is upon me.  But I beseech you by Zeus and by
your noble parents -- for no base folk could get such a son as
you -- take me now, stainless and unproved in love, and show me
to your father and careful mother and to your brothers sprung
from the same stock.  I shall be no ill-liking daughter for them,
but a likely.  Moreover, send a messenger quickly to the swift-
horsed Phrygians, to tell my father and my sorrowing mother; and
they will send you gold in plenty and woven stuffs, many splendid
gifts; take these as bride-piece.  So do, and then prepare the
sweet marriage that is honourable in the eyes of men and
deathless gods.'

(ll. 143-144) When she had so spoken, the goddess put sweet
desire in his heart.  And Anchises was seized with love, so that
he opened his mouth and said:

(ll. 145-154) 'If you are a mortal and a woman was the mother who
bare you, and Otreus of famous name is your father as you say,
and if you are come here by the will of Hermes the immortal
Guide, and are to be called my wife always, then neither god nor
mortal man shall here restrain me till I have lain with you in
love right now; no, not even if far-shooting Apollo himself
should launch grievous shafts from his silver bow.  Willingly
would I go down into the house of Hades, O lady, beautiful as the
goddesses, once I had gone up to your bed.'

(ll. 155-167) So speaking, he caught her by the hand.  And
laughter-loving Aphrodite, with face turned away and lovely eyes
downcast, crept to the well-spread couch which was already laid
with soft coverings for the hero; and upon it lay skins of bears
and deep-roaring lions which he himself had slain in the high
mountains.  And when they had gone up upon the well-fitted bed,
first Anchises took off her bright jewelry of pins and twisted
brooches and earrings and necklaces, and loosed her girdle and
stripped off her bright garments and laid them down upon a
silver-studded seat.  Then by the will of the gods and destiny he
lay with her, a mortal man with an immortal goddess, not clearly
knowing what he did.

(ll. 168-176) But at the time when the herdsmen driver their oxen
and hardy sheep back to the fold from the flowery pastures, even
then Aphrodite poured soft sleep upon Anchises, but herself put
on her rich raiment.  And when the bright goddess had fully
clothed herself, she stood by the couch, and her head reached to
the well-hewn roof-tree; from her cheeks shone unearthly beauty
such as belongs to rich-crowned Cytherea.  Then she aroused him
from sleep and opened her mouth and said:

(ll. 177-179) 'Up, son of Dardanus! -- why sleep you so heavily?
-- and consider whether I look as I did when first you saw me
with your eyes.'

(ll. 180-184) So she spake.  And he awoke in a moment and obeyed
her.  But when he saw the neck and lovely eyes of Aphrodite, he
was afraid and turned his eyes aside another way, hiding his
comely face with his cloak.  Then he uttered winged words and
entreated her:

(ll. 185-190) 'So soon as ever I saw you with my eyes, goddess, I
knew that you were divine; but you did not tell me truly.  Yet by
Zeus who holds the aegis I beseech you, leave me not to lead a
palsied life among men, but have pity on me; for he who lies with
a deathless goddess is no hale man afterwards.'

(ll. 191-201) Then Aphrodite the daughter of Zeus answered him:
'Anchises, most glorious of mortal men, take courage and be not
too fearful in your heart.  You need fear no harm from me nor
from the other blessed ones, for you are dear to the gods: and
you shall have a dear son who shall reign among the Trojans, and
children's children after him, springing up continually.  His
name shall be Aeneas (27), because I felt awful grief in that I
laid me in the bed of mortal man: yet are those of your race
always the most like to gods of all mortal men in beauty and in
stature (28).

(ll. 202-217) 'Verily wise Zeus carried off golden-haired
Ganymedes because of his beauty, to be amongst the Deathless Ones
and pour drink for the gods in the house of Zeus -- a wonder to
see -- honoured by all the immortals as he draws the red nectar
from the golden bowl.  But grief that could not be soothed filled
the heart of Tros; for he knew not whither the heaven-sent
whirlwind had caught up his dear son, so that he mourned him
always, unceasingly, until Zeus pitied him and gave him high-
stepping horses such as carry the immortals as recompense for his
son.  These he gave him as a gift.  And at the command of Zeus,
the Guide, the slayer of Argus, told him all, and how his son
would be deathless and unageing, even as the gods.  So when Tros
heard these tidings from Zeus, he no longer kept mourning but
rejoiced in his heart and rode joyfully with his storm-footed
horses.

(ll. 218-238) 'So also golden-throned Eos rapt away Tithonus who
was of your race and like the deathless gods.  And she went to
ask the dark-clouded Son of Cronos that he should be deathless
and live eternally; and Zeus bowed his head to her prayer and
fulfilled her desire.  Too simply was queenly Eos: she thought
not in her heart to ask youth for him and to strip him of the
slough of deadly age.  So while he enjoyed the sweet flower of
life he lived rapturously with golden-throned Eos, the early-
born, by the streams of Ocean, at the ends of the earth; but when
the first grey hairs began to ripple from his comely head and
noble chin, queenly Eos kept away from his bed, though she
cherished him in her house and nourished him with food and
ambrosia and gave him rich clothing.  But when loathsome old age
pressed full upon him, and he could not move nor lift his limbs,
this seemed to her in her heart the best counsel: she laid him in
a room and put to the shining doors.  There he babbles endlessly,
and no more has strength at all, such as once he had in his
supple limbs.

(ll. 239-246) 'I would not have you be deathless among the
deathless gods and live continually after such sort.  Yet if you
could live on such as now you are in look and in form, and be
called my husband, sorrow would not then enfold my careful heart.

But, as it is, harsh (29) old age will soon enshroud you --
ruthless age which stands someday at the side of every man,
deadly, wearying, dreaded even by the gods.

(ll. 247-290) 'And now because of you I shall have great shame
among the deathless gods henceforth, continually.  For until now
they feared my jibes and the wiles by which, or soon or late, I
mated all the immortals with mortal women, making them all
subject to my will.  But now my mouth shall no more have this
power among the gods; for very great has been my madness, my
miserable and dreadful madness, and I went astray out of my mind
who have gotten a child beneath my girdle, mating with a mortal
man.  As for the child, as soon as he sees the light of the sun,
the deep-breasted mountain Nymphs who inhabit this great and holy
mountain shall bring him up.  They rank neither with mortals nor
with immortals: long indeed do they live, eating heavenly food
and treading the lovely dance among the immortals, and with them
the Sileni and the sharp-eyed Slayer of Argus mate in the depths
of pleasant caves; but at their birth pines or high-topped oaks
spring up with them upon the fruitful earth, beautiful,
flourishing trees, towering high upon the lofty mountains (and
men call them holy places of the immortals, and never mortal lops
them with the axe); but when the fate of death is near at hand,
first those lovely trees wither where they stand, and the bark
shrivels away about them, and the twigs fall down, and at last
the life of the Nymph and of the tree leave the light of the sun
together.  These Nymphs shall keep my son with them and rear him,
and as soon as he is come to lovely boyhood, the goddesses will
bring him here to you and show you your child.  But, that I may
tell you all that I have in mind, I will come here again towards
the fifth year and bring you my son.  So soon as ever you have
seen him -- a scion to delight the eyes -- you will rejoice in
beholding him; for he shall be most godlike: then bring him at
once to windy Ilion.  And if any mortal man ask you who got your
dear son beneath her girdle, remember to tell him as I bid you:
say he is the offspring of one of the flower-like Nymphs who
inhabit this forest-clad hill.  But if you tell all and foolishly
boast that you lay with ric
Najwa Kareem Aug 2017
Ramadan 2017 in Sarajevo, Bosnia                      

The first day and the second

What a blessing!!!

Brothers and Sisters in the Old Town speaking the words Salamu Alaikum

Sisters wearing veils with colors like in the bright rainbow appearing before me and my two new friends from Bosnia in a sky above a bussling bazaar, there a smaller group of humans watching and a larger group of tourists capturing a rare moment in Sarajevo on photo

Many brothers wearing kufis and many brothers with trendy hair styles paired with Western outfits gathering in the courtyard of Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque, the largest in Bosnia and sixteen centuries old. Tourists from Africa, America, Europe, and other landscapes and many locals exchanging words and gestures in a month better than a thousand

Families spending time together at the Grand Mosque and at smaller mosques and in other places surrounded by picturesque hills and green plush trees

A father, a mother, their toddler son...he practicing walking on a masjid's cobblestone, and their young daughter...she smiling at her father as he walks by. Each family member physically at a distance from each other. Each family member at a cell's distance in communion with each other.

In the mid afternoon on a Ramadan's day, a sister from Munich and I having met for the first time at Bey Mosque ride together in a taxi up a steep hill to see a guest house she knows

A smell of lingering cigarette smoke permeating the air within the house so thick beckons me to leave politely and quickly. Unaware of the smell's degree, the owner learns of its' offensiveness as I disclose my sensitivity to & the dislike of the smell of cigarette smoke, both acutely heightened while fasting

Careful steps back down the steep hill to the city center, me avoiding stumbling on a large rock or being runover by a speeding automobile, interestingly instead I stumble upon a beautiful grave yard of uniquely shaped white gravestones and a charming mosque with a high minaret

At the bottom of the hill sits a crafts and artistry shop, one of many in Sarajevo's Old Town. Upon entering and a brief conversation with the owner, a piece of generosity is handed to me, a square shape piece of wood with Ayat tul Kursi in hand calligraphy

During the late afternoon hours, a time for reading Quran by many at mosques in the city. Sisters and brothers sitting on carpeted floors, some with backs supported by mosque walls, some with bodies sitting in chairs, fasters occupied with the most perfected Divine Scripture

A brief leisurely stroll with my two new friends Dzenita and her sister Amina through part of the Bazaar, they sharing opinions of their favorite restaurants, best eating experiences, and other things

In the early evening, a time to buy food to prepare for the Iftar meal. Showing me how it's done in Sarajevo, Dzenita and Amina invite me to join them on an excursion up a hill to buy Somun, a Bosnian flatbread topped with black seeds from the city's famous bread maker. Standing in a line longer than Georgetown Cupcake, Dzenita surprises me with a gift of Somun for myself

Two dates, one cube of Bosnian delight, and one cup of water to break our fast with at the Bey Mosque. A canon bomb sounds off to announce the time for Magrib prayer and Iftar, customary in Sarajevo during Ramadan

Startled and alerted by the bomb's depth and volume, I stand up to join the congregation for communion with God, The God Most Gracious, Most High

Out of nowhere I'm invited to Iftar at a shop nearby the Grand Mosque, about 8 of us guests being served by the warm owner, she offering a meal for Iftar at her shop every night during Ramadan, a big-hearted tradition of hers

Cevapi, Cevapi, Cevapi...I'll say it once more, Cevapi -- sold in Bosnian restaurants, cafes, bazaars, and made in many homes, eaten happily by many fasters at Iftar. Served with freshly chopped onions, some served with a soft white cheese, some with a red peppery sauce, many served with Somun, all ways tried by me and tasting as scrumptious as my first experience with Cevapi in Germany, then falling in love with it

Cold winds at night from the surrounding mountains, a refreshing air yet taking my breath and power away from the chill of it, completely disappearing with my start of Isha prayer with other Muslims and the declaration "Allah hu Akbar"

9 Muftis with impeccable Tajweed each taking turns to recite the words of our Grand Lord before sunrise, me weeping from God's messages, the reality of His greatness, my servitude to Him, and a recognition of sounds similar to that of my Mumin Father's, those familiar to me since birth

Three dear sisters, university students from Turkey and I journey together on foot after Fajr from the Old Mosque to a street train, along the way stopping by a community center, our destination - their home an hour or so away to rest, the four of us coming to know each other and each others' thoughts with every step. Contempleting my desire to spend more time in the city over sleep, the three sisters showing great generosity and I embrace and exchange Salams at a stop near the main station, the three walking with me to an open place before continuing on

In the land of a marriage between the East and the West and where newspaper is used to clean a cafe window, on the list of to-dos -- shopping for gifts for family and for souvenirs, window shopping done along the way, asking myself Shall I buy a Dzezva, a hand-made Bosnian coffee set, or a vintage wood Sarajevo box, or a woven wallet, or Bosnian sweets.

In a bazaar walkway, Maher Zain's song "Ramadan" playing loudly. At another moment, lyrics about a month of devotion and sacrifice from Sami Yusuf echoeing. Shop owners in Old Town with dispositions of calm and quiet grace greeting me and others cordially and respectfully. Shopping a few hours more until near sunset for post cards with a real version of the Grand Mosque, finding only less than satisfactory versions. Time running out for shopping, another reason now to return to Bosnia, God-Willing

Magrib prayer a second night at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque. Observing the crowd, a striking occurrence taking place, a teenage boy walking a small length behind a man on to the mosque carpet. There the boy approaches an older man giving him a respectful hand shake. After prayer, a native of Sarajevo shares with me in wholesome conversation, "You are known in the town not by what you have. You are known by how well you behave."

Another invitation, this time for a cup of a tea at a cafe. Overflowing with people mostly young adults, men and women sitting at tightly packed small tables inside and a few outside, conversations merging into each other with a loud volume flowing throughout, Shisha being smoked by some, cigarettes by some, smoke in the air and the temperature inside melting away heavy make-up on sisters' faces. "This is Ramadan in Sarajevo." Madia says. "One aspect of it." says I. Not having a good feeling right away when walking in and not wanting to stay, the two of us leave quickly.

My two new friends Dzenita and Amina aka angels of hospitality and kindness reciprocating my gift to them of Milka chocolate give me a gift before departing the next day. "Tespih!!" A burnt red and yellow colored set with sparkingly gold thinly cut wrapping paper looking stripes purchased at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque gift shop. Not knowing then I collect Tesbih, their gift is now my most favorite of my Tesbih collection

Husbands and wives, men and women both young and old, well-groomed and well-dressed, some holding hands as they stroll through narrow pathways in the Old Town on a Ramadan's night. Families talking and eating at restaurants, friends in groups sharing laughs, so much to see, so much to experience. At a cafe where baked goods, ice cream, and other sweets are sold, a lady sitting with a group of others initiates speaking to me, stopping me in my tracks. Bidding me farewell, she extends me a gracious compliment

Ramadan 2017 in Sarajevo, Bosnia to Remember

The first day and the second

What a blessing!!!

by Najwa Kareem
Lauren Beattie Oct 2013
I've been tired lately,
When I'm tired it shows up on my face,
And in my body language,
Like a bold flashing sign,
Topped with puffy eyes and weak shoulders,

I've been fighting lately,
With the world and with other people,
To be recognized for who I am now,
Not what I did before,
And I've been fighting with her too,

The old, younger me,
Caught up in her surroundings,
Too focused on what went wrong,
Never looking forward and so never moving on,
Who just wouldn't let up on me,

"You're not good enough,"
I know that,
"You're not good enough,"
Okay I know that, but,
"You're not good enough."

Well you know what?
That's not good enough.

I can't use that,
There is no benefit to that kind of thinking,

Fear of rejection,
Fear of success,
Those are not good enough reasons to keep me in critical condition,

Self-loathing is not good enough for me.
It's not good enough for anybody.

"You're not good enough."
Says who?
Polar Feb 2016
Goblin Market
by Christina Rossetti

Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries; -
All ripe together
In summer weather, -
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy."

Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
"Lie close," Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
"We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
"Come buy," call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
"Oh," cried Lizzie, "Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men."
Lizzie covered up her eyes,
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
And whispered like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen ***** little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds' weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes."
"No," said Lizzie: "No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.'
She ****** a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat's face,
One whisked a tail,
One tramped at a rat's pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry scurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
'Come buy, come buy.'
When they reached where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One reared his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heaved the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
"Come buy, come buy," was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Longed but had no money.
The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr'd,
The rat-paced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly";
One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather."
"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answered all together:
"Buy from us with a golden curl."
She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then ****** their fruit globes fair or red.
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She ****** and ****** and ****** the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She ****** until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gathered up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
'Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so."
"Nay, hush," said Laura:
"Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still:
Tomorrow night I will
Buy more;' and kissed her:
"Have done with sorrow;
I'll bring you plums tomorrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap."

Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gazed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forebore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one rest.

Early in the morning
When the first **** crowed his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
Aired and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
Talked as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep.
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.'
But Laura loitered still among the rushes,
And said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still,
The dew not fall'n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
"Come buy, come buy,"
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling -
Let alone the herds
That used to ***** along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glow-worm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?"

Laura turned cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy."
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life drooped from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache:
But peering thro' the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnashed her teeth for baulked desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.

Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry,
"Come buy, come buy"; -
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon waxed bright
Her hair grew thin and gray;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.

One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watched for a waxing shoot,
But there came none.
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care,
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:" -
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the ***** of goblin men,
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
But feared to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter time,
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

Till Laura dwindling
Seemed knocking at Death's door.
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.

Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes, -
Hugged her and kissed her:
Squeezed and caressed her:
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and **** them,
Pomegranates, figs." -

"Good folk," said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
"Give me much and many:" -
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,"
They answered grinning:
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us." -
"Thank you," said Lizzie: "But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee." -
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood, -
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously, -
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire, -
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, -
Like a royal ****** town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro' the furze,
Threaded copse and ******,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, -
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.

She cried, "Laura," up the garden.
"Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, **** my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men."

Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin,
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?" -
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.

Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins,
knocked at her heart
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topped waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life?

Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse's flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
ok it's long but in my opinion it will always be one of the most awesome poems ever!
Alyanne Cooper May 2014
“If you could be anywhere in the world

At this exact moment,

Where would you choose to be?”

I choose the easternmost point

Of Acadia Maine at sunrise.

Cold, salty ocean spray in my face,

Warm thermos of cocoa in my hands

And the promise of a new day

Being made right before my very eyes.

What could be more reassuring?

What could be more solidifying?

To know that no matter

What happened in the days or weeks

Or months or years or decades

Before,

Today, right now, at this exact moment,

It is all behind you,

It is all in your past.

And that sunrise you’re watching

Over cresting crashing white topped waves

In the cool breeze of morning

With the scent of dirt and earth and trees

Carried on the wind that also brings

The call of the morning dove and thrush

And Phoebe-bird,

Is the promise you’ve been waiting for.

The promise that you’re gonna be okay

Because today, today is a new day.
Thia Jones Apr 2014
I can be a sadist
I can be a ****
I enjoy a bit of pain
I'm often filled with lust

I want to be the Top
and to be topped too
I'd love to tie you up
or to be tied by you

Push the right button
and I'll be your subby
or grant to me control
I may lock you in the cubby

Stick me full of needles
or I'll put some in you
zap me with electricity
I may pass the current through

Whip me, flog me, spank me
I too can you impact
I'm happy to do whatever
and that's a ***** fact

I can be anything for anyone
pretty much more or less
it all depends on circumstance
and on what you confess

So let's stop prevaricating
and get on with the fun
let me know where and when
and which way round you run

Cynthia Pauline Jones 25/10/13
Yasmein Yousif Jun 2013
i would like a pizza topped with cheese
then sprinkled with some gnats or fleas
some centipedes and slimy slugs
and other creepy, crawly bugs

i want to add some fingernails
and oyster ooze and crunchy snails
and chicken bones and spoiled meat
and smelly socks from ***** feed

i want it topped with lots of mold
and gooey boogers that's not too old
a lot of snot, a little spit,
and guts with grainy grit
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
where was i? right, anywhere but here,
listening to some medieval music,
i sometimes sit in one place,
fade, and then find myself sitting
in the same place with a question
on the tip of my tongue: where am i?!

hard not to notice:
heaven reigns supreme with
a "st." michael coming down
with the sword...
depiction, please!
where's satan?
  coming from below armed only
with a tongue...
fair fight, by anyone's standard:
i'm dripping sweat from both
ridicule and sarcasm...

st. michael comes down with a sword...
satan rises up with a flaming tongue,
does satan lick michael's sword
to draw the blood required for
running the heart factory?

               medieval people and their
"nuanced" explanation...
so many images contra words
contra literacy of the people outside
the realm of monks...

   satan rises from the depths of
     hell saying: i wish a socratic dialectic
with god...
god replies: michael i will send armed
with swords...
who ever said: the quill is mightier than
than the sword,
implied: when the tongue has
to be necessarily silenced? then!

      das schwart,
          das feder,
    das zunge...

       how many definite articles are
there in deutsche? das, der, die?
too many or too few?

         always with "st." michael armed
with a sword...
and satan... armed with only his tongue!
i guess, the tongue becomes a tank,
while the sword becomes a feather's
tickling effect...

    angehoben das teufel von der
    tiefe: und gab sie namen...

  (raised the devils from the depths:
  and gave them names)...

why is satan only armed with a flaming tongue,
while "st." michael is armed with a sword?
is god, the god-dialectic / theology
so afraid that it has to remain topped
with unchallenged imagery
                         of sword contra tongue?

ich werden anfangen:
   ich werden treffen du hälfteweg...
            im schreiben...

                  satan rose to a depiction
with "st." michael: disarmed...
  tongue in mouth: which should have been
his hand, "st." michael descended with
a sword... come to think of it,
with satan's tongue cut off...
it still spoke to "st." michael within his
hand...
  the sword overcame the medium...
and so writing was born...
once upon a time when satan's tongue
in his hand began licking the sword
of michael...
            and? if the contemporaries
should hope to know:
writing is the res extensa medium
of res cogitans:
            writing is an extension of thinking:
it's not an invitation to speak...

writing cannot be speaking,
however much commentaries you leave
behind...
writing is an extension of thinking:
it's not an invitation to speak...

it's no disguise...
    in terms of the depiction...
enough of Milton and Dante and...
satan came to the summit
  without his armour without his weapons...
the summit of the plateau...
tongue in gob and joke in cheek...
while "st." michael descended
wit a sword and a missing tongue...
it would appear that god cut out
"st." michael's tongue before his descent
while arming him with a sword to
cut the conversation even shorter
than it was supposed to be, to take place...

the aspired to monotheistic monogamy
of king Solomon,
to imitate swans...
    Muhammad's lost enterprise of
the: greatest harem the world has ever
seen... sorry... Muo-Mo-Hammie:
the macedonian alexander beat you to
the count of 365 concubines...
as did genghis khan...
           so many pakistanis with khan
as a surname...
             your failed harem ambition?
compared to the otherwise world "greats"?
with the ******* promise of 72 virgins
post-mortem? that ship is sinking in my head...
muhammad failed in the ambition
of averaging a 100+ concunbine **** fest...
so he promised 72 for those that believed in
him...
   and if he was ever competing with
king solomon? look at solomon...
         he chose monogamy in the end...
i guess it's a noble enterprise to come back
among the lizards...
to spawn from an egg: from an womb
made external by an egg in the form of a bird...
birds: half mammal half lizard...
            muhammad failed at having
an envious harem...
                which makes me a little bit envious
of him... compared to the others...
he's quiet honest...
        but if he was illiterate...
    who the **** wrote the Quran?
    what's that book, in praise of older women?
andrás vajda...
   who would have written the first
verses (if not the last) of the Quran if not
khadijah **** khuwaylid?

i'm sorry to say: the feeling of conversation
soon turns into a feeling of conversion,
me, beer in hand, park, bench,
an old pakistani walks up to me...
flips out a digital Quran,
tries to convert me...
     opens the book on surah al-baqarah...
i point at three words...
what are these, i ask?
he replies: oh... only allah knows...
really?! really?! i ask myself...

    the three words?
   alif. lam. meem.

           allah knows?!
guess i'm allah then...
given alif: أَلِف  (α, א) a-lif
                 lam: لاَم (λ, ל) l-am
   and meem: مِيم (μ, מ) m'eem...

so yeah, "god" knows...
   how was this old pakistani going to convert
me, supposing i was simply some european
"drunk" sitting on a bench, drinking beer,
assuming i was ease target for
isis propaganda?!

    "god knows"... when it comes
to old pakistanis trying to
             recruit young europeans...
god knows ****!

if this old pakistani was seeking an easy target
like some paedo, he was much mistaken,
what does a pumpernickle (has) to do with
a windmill?! zilch!
i'm not going to exactly crawl out
of my walther von der vogelweider:
        palästinalied
that much easier...
i won't....
   i just think:
the yids have tight defences
against proselytes... they abhor converts...
islam, welcomes them,
at their own peril...
          and there i was thinking that
urdu was "superior" to sanskrit...
an old pakistani tells me "god knows"
in relation to alif. lam. meem.

             i guess the quran has an inbuilt
proselyte defence mechanism:
in reverse... ask a muslim what alif. lam. meem.
means... if they tell you: only god knows...
ha ha...
              hello stupid...
                            is the islamic world playing
a jewish game of gematria?
are the three letters supposed to represent
some sort of "covert" message?
A.L.M.?
        what, based on the hebrew alphabet
where "a" is not an an A but a consonant(s)
akin to ayin and aleph?!
the gay genesis?
          
                really?
                 we: the europeans were perhaps
the barbarians in the medieval years,
harrowed by the cold...
lucky us: lucky me: we did learn to read...
so ignorant of the pakis to presume
such and such...

             that we are still unable to read
and will fall for the next sort of *******...
look at us! we even began to question
christianity with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library where
jesus played chinese whispers with
st. thomas!

   next time i'll be listening to a camel jockey
or a magic carpet ride aladdin
i'll ask them: you dehydrated, or something?!
oh forget h'america,
their evangelical ******* is worth
as much as a free microwave or a toaster...

_

hell man...
    i mean my neighbor smokes
16 8ths in a spare of the week...

wha?
    ****...
   i remember i used to smoke
an 8th over the week...

yeah... an 1/8... of an ounce...
he smokes two ounces
in a week,
  
gets the **** on discount...
but still has to cough up
over 100 quid for the stash...

but... but... these organic
cigarettes you're pushing?

ha ha... **** me... holy basil
(tulsi leaves) -
and the peppermint and green
tea leaves?
   in ******, whatever you want
to call it, rolling paper...

i've seen the inner sleeve -
big fan of hunter s. thompson,
i suspect...
   otherwise you wouldn't
have used the second, plastic
filter...
  
   tell you what... don't put
that plastic filter on every cigarette -
halve it...
     or provide two or three...
it's reusable -
        i smoked one of your
placebo marijuana joints...
  and then i'm going to smoke
a red Indian cough-up...

   ah... these blue Indians...
Vishnu centrists -
   beyond blue blooded,
more blue skinned herbalists...

dunno... the effects are subtle...
you can only tell the difference
if you actually smoke tobacco...

but sure as hot **** on a street
in Calcutta -
    it beats the Arabic portable
hookah pipe...
   i.e.?  
         vapping - or vapourißing -

i'd say less a cure for tobacco smokers,
and more a cure for
the dope-heads...
    he (my neighbor) smokes
2 ounces a week,
   and somehow manages to stay
down on a job...

    no ******* way...
    he says it helps him to sleep...
like me...
   a liter of ***** and two
paracetamols,
    or one naproxen (if i'm lucky),
or two paracetamols
  and one amitriptyline (25mg)...

sorry, what? sound of mind?
sound of mind to the point
where i'm mindful of grammar
and spelling?

            **** man...
  the content is transcendent
    of whatever the receiving end deems
it to be...

i might actually buy into
this... placebo marijuana -
given that i am a tobacco smoker...
  ha ha! holy basil:
  like Basil Fawlty...

   as you see...
there are people, and there are "people",
there are neighbors,
    and there are "neighbors",
i don't see how the natives
can dictate universal laws of
     private property ownership...
esp. over such... trivial...
meaningless...
          sitting down on a cactus
****-naked "problems"...

i hate being mean,
   i hate telling someone to *******...
i really do...
    i compromised -
i stopped smoking cigarettes
out of my window...
  but yesterday's confrontation?
over a ******* barbeque...
    oops... the compromise
has just been revoked...
  
   music blasting into my ears
through my earphones...
the next thing my cuntish neighbor
will "hear" is sign language...
  
oh yeah... that primary school
lesson:

(a) WHY     (b) DON'T  
        (c) YOU    (d) ****    (e) OFF

(a) index + middle fingers
    slapped on the left palm knuckles up

(b) index + middle fingers
    slapped on the left palm knuckles down

(c) scissor index + *******
   into the side of the left hand

(d) fist, vertical slam onto the left
  palm

(e) thumb's up moving away from
  the palm of the left hand...

because?
      i just can't be bothered trying
to reason with some people...
     they might as well be put in zoological
confinement, and put under observation...
but i'd feel sorry for the chimps
and other animals, have to share a close
proximity.
Michael Amery Sep 2014
You warmth slips past my eager lips as I take you in,
Your fall spice tickles my senses as I sigh, falling into the joy of our annual ceremony.

I am not alone in my adoration of you, but I do not grow jealous as others call your name,
Rather I find a sort of community in our shared appreciation,
Like a perfect song you were meant for the world, not one,
Yet each of us singular in the definition of our experience with you.

And so I wet my lips, again tasting the hint of a memory of your last kiss,  I prepare to brave that soft beacon hill of whipped cream topped with a seasoning so familiar yet unknown.
I really love PSL
Benson Sep 2017
this
sweet-eyed
breathtaking
catastrophe
of mine

hoarding
clutter to the
ceiling fan,
filling void
somewhat
while
trying to
understand

how involuntarily
she crumples
like paper
littered
on the sidewalk
of my brain,
riddled with
scribbles
and nonsense
words,
her ink
blotted
voice like
feathers
under pressure
being
pressed against
whatever

white knuckles
her neck
and
hot talk
from
cold chests.
ingenious
security

boarded up doors
and
one-way glass
windows
to
watch
from inside.

for a moment
she calls
out to me from the
woodwork.
she almost
reaches
for the lock,

she almost becomes more than just paper
for you.
Purvi Gadia Oct 2014
Pizza
spicy, cheesy
slipping off our fingers
topped with happiness, joy and love
Delight !

©2014 Purvi Gadia
My very first and exciting attempt in writing a cinquain..... For a challenge
shadows deepening
snow topped indigo mountains
flamingo pink skies
camped by a glacial lake
watching the end of the day
a single ****** swims past
its wake a thin silver line
then a loon calls from far off
and my heart disentangles
as the universe floods in
and washes away my pain
in a deep ocean of stars
bliss incandescent
Choka
Tabitha Sep 2013
Oh Coffee Machine! My Coffee Machine! You've finally finished my drink!
For every morning you brew me one -I place my mug in the kitchen sink,
Every drop of your goodness; topped with whip cream; finished just in time,
The things you make, lattes, coffee, are absolutely divine,
Just as I was about to fill and pour the once empty mug,
almost as empty as i'm feeling; there's still that leftover bit of hope,
But wait, Can it be? My old trustee machine?
It mustn't be the end of my coffee machine peering near,
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.

My Coffee Machine! Dear Coffee Machine,
The hiss of steamed milk, cream and roasted coffee beans,
The wisps of steam lingering in the air as you make my coffee,
Dripping ever so slowly in my cup -Coffee that's dark, bitter and black as night,
Early in the morning before breakfast; before I take a bite,
This half-full cup of coffee won't do me good for the day,
Without you I think that the morning skies themselves will be grey,
But wait, My dear coffee machine!
I keep pressing the button clear
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.

Waking up with no cup of coffee, ask not what the future may bring,
Without the energy, I don't know whether sorrow shall reign or happiness ring,
Everyday I now wake to breathe deeply the aroma of life's bel-fry,
For if I ever smell the subtle hint of coffee in the air, I let out a sigh.
Oh Coffee Machine! Dear Coffee Machine,
You've been here for so many years,
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.
I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me
Died Adonais; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!”

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.

O, weep for Adonais—he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania!—He died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country’s pride,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,
Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light.

Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Not all to that bright station dared to climb;
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode.

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished—
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,
And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;
Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;
The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.

To that high Capital, where kingly Death
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
A grave among the eternal.—Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of change, shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.

O, weep for Adonais!—The quick Dreams,
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,—
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,
They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.

And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,
“Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.”
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!
She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.

One from a lucid urn of starry dew
Washed his light limbs as if embalming them;
Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw
The wreath upon him, like an anadem,
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;
Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem
A greater loss with one which was more weak;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.

Another Splendour on his mouth alit,
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,
And pass into the panting heart beneath
With lightning and with music: the damp death
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips;
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,
It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.

And others came… Desires and Adorations,
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp might seem
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.

All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,
Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pined away
Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,
For whom should she have waked the sullen year?
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere
Amid the faint companions of their youth,
With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.

Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,
As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
But grief returns with the revolving year;
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season’s bier;
The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
And build their mossy homes in field and brere;
And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.

Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean
A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst
As it has ever done, with change and motion,
From the great morning of the world when first
God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed,
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;
All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst;
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s delight
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender,
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;
Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be,
But for our grief, as if it had not been,
And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!
Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene
The actors or spectators? Great and mean
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!
“Wake thou,” cried Misery, “childless Mother, rise
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core,
A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs.”
And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes,
And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song
Had held in holy silence, cried: “Arise!”
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs
Our of the East, and follows wild and drear
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania;
So saddened round her like an atmosphere
Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.

Our of her secret Paradise she sped,
Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,
And human hearts, which to her aery tread
Yielding not, wounded the invisible
Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell:
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,
Rent the soft Form they never could repel,
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.

In the death-chamber for a moment Death,
Shamed by the presence of that living Might,
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath
Revisited those lips, and Life’s pale light
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight.
“Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,
As silent lightning leaves the starless night!
Leave me not!” cried Urania: her distress
Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress.

“‘Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;
And in my heartless breast and burning brain
That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,
With food of saddest memory kept alive,
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part
Of thee, my Adonais! I would give
All that I am to be as thou now art!
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!

“O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,
The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.

“The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;
The vultures to the conqueror’s banner true
Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
And whose wings rain contagion;—how they fled,
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled!—The spoilers tempt no second blow,
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.

“The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then
Is gathered into death without a dawn,
And the immortal stars awake again;
So is it in the world of living men:
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s awful night.”

Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came,
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow; from her wilds Irene sent
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,
And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.

Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
A phantom among men; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—
A Love in desolation masked;—a Power
Girt round with weakness;—it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow;—even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

His head was bound with pansies overblown,
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew
Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew,
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart
Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew
He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter’s dart.

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band
Who in another’s fate now wept his own,
As in the accents of an unknown land
He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned
The Stranger’s mien, and murmured: “Who art thou?”
He answered not, but with a sudden hand
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—oh! that it should be so!

What softer voice is hushed over the dead?
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
In mockery of monumental stone,
The heavy heart heaving without a moan?
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,
Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one,
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.

Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!
Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name!
But be thyself, and know thyself to be!
And ever at thy season be thou free
To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erflow:
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled
Far from these carrion kites that scream below;
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now—
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
Back to the burning fountain whence it came,
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow
Through time and change, unquenchably the same,
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
He hath awakened from the dream of life—
’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife
Invulnerable nothings.—We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;
Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn,
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air
Which like a mourning veil
Josie Patterson Jan 2014
Honey I shrunk the women
I shrunk the confidence
I shrunk the spirit
I shrunk the waist size
I slink away with my gains
Things I gained from the physical and spiritual loss of our women
with each plate a terror
each bite a struggle
And each drink a small respite from the hell that is consumption
More than 50% of our society feeling afraid at the table
Do not dare to eat anything bigger than your fist
Your stomach will not hold it
You’ve trained it to hate food as much as you do
As we enter the throws of adolescence
And our ******* grow
and our thighs swell
Filling the space around us with anatomical care
It appears as though our body is trying to hide parts of itself
Covering up the sharp edges
So we don’t cut ourselves
But that doesn’t stop us
We struggle for decades, Years
Because though a minute on the lips
Is forever on the hips
These negative body images we teach girls to strive for
Last longer than forever
and are much worse than a bite of food
abstaining from the simple sensory joy
that comes with a piece of chocolate
Or a plate of fettuccini
simply because if you did
“No one would want to see me”
But when I look at a plate of food
I do not see a challenge
I am lucky
I see potatoes stuffed with a healthy body image
Noodles topped with good self esteem
And broccoli steamed in my confidence
I am a minority
Because when most girls look at a plate of food
Even subconsciously they see
Salad with a dressing made of clothes that don’t fit
chicken with ******* that are much too large
And Macaroni n’ oh please Let my stretch marks disappear
Before I have to go to the pool
I feel an ache in my chest
But my pain derived from empathy
Is nothing
Nothing
Compared to the aching stomachs, sunken eyes
and sharp cheekbones
Of the victims of our worlds view of women
We are taught to be
Curvy, But not fat
Skinny, But not anorexic
Entertaining, but not over-emotional
unattainably perfect, but not fake
and our whole world is becoming one big contradiction
One plate of food
One advertisement
one beauty product
One girl
At a time
And we can try to place blame
We do try to place blame
We try to blame men
Or the government
Or the media
Because in the end they all had a part to play
But this took centuries of existing in our society
Millennia of festering patriarchy
Largely male dominated history
The dehumanization of the female
Springing from the hyper-sexualization of her body
The largely stigmatized natural functions of the menstrual cycle
The somehow simultaneously glorified and yet also disgusting ******
The lack of female leaders in our world because they will either be painted as a *****
Over emotional
Hormonal
Distractingly attractive
Or not **** enough to be in the public eye
And the process of women shrinking to allow men more room to grow
Don Moore Feb 2016
Part one – The Hedgerow watcher.

He is almost obscured by the Elder branch, which laden with fragrant summer flower heads, casts a shadow on his cloudy features. Nearby, small birds chatter in a hawthorn bush, completely unaware of the figure sitting in quiet deliberation; only his eyes move beneath his darken brows, as he ponders the small animal traffic in the verdant river valley below.

And were you to be hurried, or impatient, and not look too carefully, you would never perceive him at all, so well hidden is he. You would have more chance, if you caught a glimpse of him sideways through the corner of your eye, and even then there is the possibility, you would not believe what you had seen...

His eyes light with golden flecks, as the late evening summer sun, ensnares sparkles off the languid river surface and directs them upwards into the unhurriedly darkening duck egg blue sky. He watches intently as a young female Fern bear snouts her way through and across the lush emerald green grasses just inches away from the river bank, where water voles play, creating tiny V shaped furrows across the shallow stream surface as they cruise the nearly mirror like silver face.

He notices’ that he can see the smoothly pebbled bottom and the rainbow spotted  coloured sides of the almost motionless trout as they hang fins fluttering awaiting the last daytime midges to perhaps drop down and furnish them with one last gulp of dinner.

Native birds flit from branch to branch on the overhanging trees o’er softly trickling water, their tiny songs much muted by the distance, and up above a Buzzard floats on browned wing his eyes trained downwards to impale a darting field vole, which seeks his own dinner of scurrying iridescent Beetle.

A flurry, as a black and red Moorhen jumps onto a small sandy beach at the corner of a turn, long wide toes and even longer legs, carry it up under the curve of bank, as it returns to its night time roost in haste.
A flash of instant Kingfisher cobalt blue and a small fisherwoman arrives upon a twig, her anxious beady eyes blackly spearing the dashing minnows, which with silver sides, play amongst the reeds and gently waving flags.

Part Two - Reynard the sly.

A ripple runs across his hairy back, as upon the delicious breeze, he catches hint of reddish skulking, sulking trickster near, and then from edge of pupil gold, catches merest glimpse of tail held low, as Reynard makes his courtly bow. Neither twitch nor tremor, the watcher makes as deviously this prince appears, his fetid stench announcing him to creatures far and near.

Then slowly as he cowers, the Fox glides by and down the steepest sides, to hope of careless rodent or of bird on nest, that might bring him windfall of instant feast that he may carry for his cubs that play at home beneath the staunchest tree, a woodland Oak of stout and height. They chase their tails in this perfect evening light, but learn of fear and flight, as horn does play upon a Sunday Morn, and colours bright which chase and catch them with some baying dog, not far removed from their much scary plight.

And all along the bottom of the wall, as laid by hand, a hedge pig snuffles for a slug or snail, his attention close upon the leafy mould, and then a surprising squeak as rippling back with reddish fur and chest of white, a family of the weasel exit stone built home and hurry for their evening hunt of beetle, vole or mouse. They disappear amongst the tallest grasses as a damp mound of freshly risen earth ejects the black velvet mole, which sniffs the air before he enters home and tracks the juicy worm back to his lair.

Little by little, so slow in fact, that you would not suspect, the watcher turns his face and looks with wonder to wooded river far, where branches bent create a vault, for shining, winding river run, and there in this, the darkest greenest place he spies a glint of hope as Dragonfly darts its wings a blur, and Mayfly dances beneath its many cathedral branches.
And further still above the trees a line of deepest blue meets lighter blue as sea and sky become no more than one, and smell of salt in distant climes come hither across this idyllic vista...

Part Three – Watcher revealed.

Dog Rose crawls its way across the bushes of the hedge, mixed with twinning convolvulus of purple hue, light green stalked, white capped cow parsley, groups in fading sun, with ragged Robin and dark pink Campion standing proud along with other flowers. Behind the silent Watcher lies a different guise of manmade meadow topped with crop of corn, which yellow in the fading sun, has bread like smell, significant of fresh warm loaves, and Man the farmer, is carrying all his toil, for the harvest of his many labours.

And in amongst this very yield, wild life is binding shoot and ear, as weeds are flourishing with the golden head, but make a pretty sight instead, for walking couple, who do not fear to tread, where woman glides as though a cloud, and pulled along upon her path, a little man who wishes he, was all alone, but must follow in his mother’s stately wake.

Towards the hedge she makes her way, and life goes still and much less vivid, but Watcher never makes his move, whilst beyond the wall the light is dropping further still, he rests his hand on object dear, but still refrains from moving forth.

And just before the barrier itself, she turns her stride and looking north, then moves away along a path, which chosen now will pass all sight, of secret ancient valley. The little man he cannot see what lies beyond his ken, and worries if he misses this, which might be very grand and maybe just beyond this very land. He tugs and pulls his Mother’s calloused palm, and as she continues on her elected special way, for she is old and cannot see, this wonder all around.

The lady now cuts back towards the way she came, and like a ship with boat in tow, she cuts a swathe through sea of golden grasses, and when perchance the little man would look behind to see, if there were aught that he had missed, of life beyond the that wall.

And then, as if on cue, the watcher stands, for he is proud with legs astride upon that hedge, no longer still but raising up, as he does stretch towards the sky, and then with no delay but still with yearning, he lifts up to his lips his instrument of all his learning.

The boy’s eyes are all of shock, for he has seen the Watcher well, half man, half goat, with shortest curling horns upon his almost woolly head, and listens in near rapture as Pan the woodland God, plays a merry breathy tune upon his pipes of river ****. The song is fierce and strong and as the boy pulls hard to stop his mother's walk; he looks away, in hope that he may, in attracting her closer assessment of the apparition, which he has spied in gay abandon, will be more than just a fancy of his dream.
But when he turns his head to take a further glimpse of this sudden ghost, who would be dancing, playing away along a valleys edge, he catches nothing, but the song of bird but which whilst trilling strong, is nowhere near as long as tune in moment gone.

Then in the middle distance church bells as the practice for the Sunday first begins, with peeling clap and stinging ring, and then as if he fears, that he shall never ever see again this horned guise of natural thing. He peers more closely yet again, but all is gone, and though he will return on summer nights, when man not boy he seeks a God, he never ever meets again, the edge to freedom and a God glorious not but never ever vain.
judy smith Jun 2015
4 harmful foods that benefit us too
Maintaining a healthy diet isn't easy as one has to be careful of every morsel of food or sip of drink that they consume. So when research reveals a positive angle to some harmful dietary habits, what should one do?

A recent study in London showed that those who increased their coffee intake by more than a cup a day were less prone to have Type 2 Diabetes. On the other hand, caffeine is known to increase blood pressure and isn't good for the body in the long run. Here is a list of food items that are considered harmful, but benefit us in some ways as well...

WHITE BREAD

Why it's bad: For a while now, white bread has been pushed to the back seat due to the growing notion that it leads to increased blood sugar and can ultimately cause obesity. The grains are processed in such a way that it strips the bread off all nutrients. Scientists at Tufts University in Boston also found that eating white bread increases your waistline, when compared to brown bread. Fitness expert Wanitha Ashok adds, "Eating white bread makes you hungry in an hour or so. When it comes to nutrition, it doesn't get the top slot."

Why it's good: Eating white bread isn't necessarily a bad thing as long as you eat the enriched variety that contains nutrients, especially those that are topped with oats and nuts. Research done by the Irish University Nutrition Alliance showed that white bread contributed as much iron and fibre to an Irish diet as meat or fish. Nutritionist Ryan Fernando says, "The only time we recommend white bread to anyone is after a good workout. Sports athletes, especially, eat white bread as it helps replenish glucose faster and it's beneficial for the muscles."

FROZEN VEGETABLES

Why they're bad: It is believed that fresh vegetables are better than frozen ones because of all the processing that takes place to freeze them and keep them fresh. A study done by the Department of Nutrition and Dietetics in Turkey concluded that thawing frozen veggies before cooking them led to the loss of Vitamin C. "This is just convenience food. Anything you store for a long time begins to lose nutritional value. Also, in India, there are so many electricity fluctuations, so it's better to keep fresh vegetables," says Wanitha Ashok.

Why they're good: Lately, a lot of reports say that frozen veggies are better than the fresh variety because they are picked when they are most ripe and frozen so none of the vitamins are lost.Also,a study done at the University of Chester shows that there was a decline in the nutritional value of fresh veggies when refrigerated com - pared to frozen ones.

EGG YOLK

Why it's bad: It's known to increase cholesterol, which is why people with heart conditions avoid egg yolk. It also contains a lot of fat,which isn't good for people who gain weight easily. A Canadian study says that regularly consuming egg yolks can lead to plaque build-up in blood vessels. Why it's good: "Egg yolk has essential nutrients and vitamins, especially when compared to egg whites, which don't have as much. One or two eggs yolk a day are recommended for children, whereas adults should have one to get their intake of necessary nutrients," says Ryan Fernando. The cholesterol in the yolk is needed for elders and children who have adrenal issues.

CHOCOLATE

Why it's bad: Not only does consumption of chocolate gradually increase one's weight,but people tend to cut down on it because of its caffeine and fat content. "Children get addicted to chocolate when their consumption is not moderated. It's harmful for diabetic people and the sweeteners in it are bad for the teeth," says Nainatara S, a consultant nutritionist. The high oxalates in chocolate are known to cause kidney stones. A study by the American Society of Clinical Nutrition showed that the higher the consumption of chocolate by elders, the more likely they were to be affected by bone disease.

Why it's good: Nutritionist Murali Subramanian says one benefit of eating chocolate is its antioxidant content. A study in the University of Illinois showed that consuming dark chocolate helped lower cholesterol and blood pressure. The antioxidants in the chocolate also help reduce chances of obesity and Type 2 Diabetes.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015 | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Tonight
I want to make love with you
With chocolate and cream
I want to rub
I want to eat my fill
Until my goddess feels
She has been worshiped
fully
Tongue whirling
turning your ripe *****
into the temple of
sweet sensual fragrance
topped with cream
#tonight #chocolate #fill #goddess #worshiped #tongue #whirling #***** #temple #sensual #fragrance #topped #cream
david badgerow Jan 2017
when we found him barefoot in mid-july
he was standing on a four-day drunk
tap-dancing in shoe-horn colored chinos
rolled up to his cyclist's calves on the
sun-punched hood of an '04 nissan altima
with shot-out windows salt
in his skin hair & eyelashes
silver bubbling spittle clung
at the corners of his mouth
sparkling dry in the sun-heat

he laughed & said she had a mouth
like a grizzly bear or cheese grater
she was thin-shouldered dressed
in a curtain-and-couch-cushion ensemble
had yellow button callouses on her palms
& lacked the instinctive manipulative prowess
other girls her age possessed
the whole performance only lasted
7 minutes huddled in a bedroom closet
in a blathering forest of unkind giggles
he still has acid flashbacks watching
cutthroat kitchen because she had
alton brown's teeth & tonsils like spun glass

that night he was a heathen
on a mountian made of mandolin
stiff yearbook spines & shoeboxes
full of faded polaroid mementos
he was tank-topped but still sweating
as he stumbled & stood
on black stilettos & soiled blue
cork-soled wedges like
sharp rocks dancing underfoot
dodging the mothball heat-trap
of cotton blend blouses
& corduroy coats overhead

joy division warbled slimy through
the white wooden slats of the closet's pocket door
as she knelt demurely &
took it between her thumb & finger
brought it up to thin lips pursed
above cleft chin & ****** it in
like a big thick j-bird
but she never exhaled the expectant
white plume of smoke he said
when she grabbed ***** as they
swung like pendula below his navel
he almost pulled out a swath
of her honeynut hair
his injured impatient breath
cracked like thunder
in the cashmere sky
above her undulating head

when the mighty chasm fountain exploded
she said he was the flavor of a blue sky burning
her throat sounded shallow & grunty
as she spat him out into a pair
of her favorite aunt's imitation
jimmy choo pumps &
enjoyed a brief nosebleed

when it was over finally he forced a sympathetic
fistful of tramadol down his saharan throat
& tried to stay hidden under the tarpaulin
in the moving blackness wandering alone
through the waning moon's ceaseless maze
behind the perfumed aphasia that kept him high
biting the brittle tassel of a graduation cap
like an adolescent ocelot
feeling like fleeing

& when i asked him
i said well these experiences probably
helped you build some character right

he laughed & assured me of the
isolated nature of this watercolor
snapshot event & said
one day david

he said maybe one day you'll
learn to not measure your self worth
against the traumatic mouth mistakes
your pants have made
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.

The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;

But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.

They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.

The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.

Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
Randi B Feb 2012
the urban ecosystem
breeds the urban beast;
the two-legged feral brute

they board their clockwork motorcages
the young ones in predatious packs
the old, too weathered to care
animal autonomy
born from sweatshop routines

i imagine myself
as a metropolitan jane goodall
observing and assimilating
taking note of the cacophony of
hoots and and hollers
the city-born mating calls
the high-topped courtship dances
******* civility born from enslaved mindsets

a young, dark-skinned boy
let's rhyme flow freeformed
to the rhythm of a young girls dancing feet
stomps and claps excite the celebration
of abandoned social etiquette
and of my foreign presence

i resemble some exotic missing link
a mix of this, that and the other
my skin, a rare quilt
and this draws more attention
than a gold-dusted african queen

i place myself in the back
peering through the windows of this transit jungle
feeling my heart skip beats
boom...boom...shhhh...
i must've left my rhythm in my other heritage
because i can't catch the ancient flow
but my neck leads my head in bobs

my brain rattles with old soul memories
and i see these young folks on the train
held back by centuries of black struggle
but forever rejoicing in african pulse
forever embodying our ancestoral pride

and i think, how peculiar
on the outside looking in like a fishbowl
exiled from my own brown-skinned tribe
with my oppression fitted like a glove
my blackness a mere disguise
my blackness camouflage
my blackness
not quite
black
enough
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
What is so important to address
something to react to the illumine
fruity to their balance sips like
a goldmine
He sways passed you and trips
Rose Poumedeur right near your* lips

Both stumbling and boasting over her
imported wine dress

The swinging parasol his cork topped
delights
Those imported by his number nights
Cabernet Sauvignon
Hooked to there eyes
Million stars to lift
Her petite waistline
Like heartline of Valentine
wine felt dresses

Outnumbered you by four words
The strenuous tiresome love-wine
Be mine the stargaze* dazing inside the sunsets
So bottled inside her mission
His love how it aged in her
in  a good retrospect like
Deep cherry confessions

The import from a trade surplus
She got overlooked got flown in place
like a sticker
The smart star- reservation 
 high-demand book
To seek her

What a chemistry  love- hands creation
She's the many vintage dresses A plus
The pouring of wine of many fusions
The cloudy dress is a minus illusion

She learned her entire lesson
How many times she was moved
around like musical  I tunes of wine
CD collection of Rennaisance
Battling like the fort chair
But someone was moved by her Jazz
type of hair
My lesson my wish was on hold
the mission cruise of the impossible dress
Getting weaved inside someone's
powerful suite but the best suite
and stay
The Fort William Henry until this day
The Fort William Henry Hotel like no
other sorts and what sports

Japan imports 77.8 billion exports
more than imports
Lackadaisical called the
breath of sunshine
The daisy sundress sitting on the
veranda with Fort Williams and the
Henry the eight I am children

I've been sunbathing looking at the boat
The Minne Haha thinking of MaMa
Someone was singing like Lady GAGA

The matter of great expression of words
Hummingbirds at Lake George
Picking the best birth of seeds
Imported wine what our heart needs
Rising demands of the meat
like the paradise of lovebirds
Her dress was to heal the world
Those wildflowers were the
sort of thing silence is the  best thing
Somehow not the hype of the bling
or diamond ring
Sometimes the Goddess
sun shines more

Making her feel loved to sing
Her dress had the gimmick to move
What a rural fun tree orange grove
Like the referee wine shopping spree
Everyday people were moved by her
gift of imported wines
Her gravity of smiles he's mine
Her face steams like the highest
light beam very well bred and fine
The long winding trail her
corset gown
Started to make head waves to the
higher forces
So enlightening the lakes
such cascades
Those wine deep waves romantic
To prelude to a kiss the Cosmic
The Islander-border lace her face
To love and honor her more

Not necessarily less that
divine moment
We should never miss
Lake George rippling waves
On her outskirts

Princess Kelly cheese Italian wine
Naples deserts
The evergreen  long dress
Shined your Highness the
Roman pillars
How he grabbed her waist dancing
like the Gatsby
Gave her such splendor everlasting sip
But the imported wine was deeper

To Set up the date
To Make- the wine up
In the cellar aged hours to perfect
What a stir over her dress-up deep ruby
wine start to pour end
of a new beginning
subject
To book the trip Lake George New York
All you had to do

Go to the Fort William Henry
Hotel like a home with family
So many friendly faces with smiles
All you have to do is show up
This is about imports but I love the Fort William Henry in Lake George is a great place to stay on vacation I sort of tied it in ribbon-like gifts of imported wines tell me what you think
Ju Clear Feb 2017
Joy
My battery of joy is topped up
Weekends away spent with family
My Joy battery is topped up too max
Am ready for the rubble and trouble
Got to know your lows to feel the highs
My joy is on max
family dinners are happiness winners
Sisters brothers cousins nephews grandpa and Ma's
Am ready for the woe's and lows
My joy battery is topped up high
Smokes and drinks and catch up hi's
Children playing beaches waves
Am loaded to the max with love
My joy on high
I can ride these  stormy sky's
my joy battery is on max
Great family weekend spent at the sea 11 grandchildren 7 adults
Geno Cattouse Oct 2012
I cant write tonite  cause my head is out on leave. This is sooooo not like me.
But guess what this is a launch pad for me.Numbles I call it. My ***** it place where lazy minded magic happens. unfocused to absurdity. Oozy woozy just say what you wanna say. My mother hates that part of me but at my age what will change. No harm ,no foul.

My mother is eighty nine and still molding me. Man if she only knew the holes I have crawled in and out of Like the March Hare always running late. A day late and a dollar short.  *******. Back in the day. Pre crack but just barely. Saw the beginnings of the demise of dignity. kneeling down in dark alleys and between parked cars in blazing sun. Was not about to try that one. My nose was  an Oreck. That was fly enough for me.

Bright lites big city going through my head. I don't care cause you don't care.
I built myself a edge by hanging round Poco Locos, mind you round not with. Playing Russian roulette mad ******* mad dogs. Clowning With hard heads with nothing to lose. Those guys taught me not to blink by osmosis.

I didn't think I was tough just committed. Riding that diesel till the wheels came off.
Something behind my eyes I think or maybe something missing from them . More than a few Ride or die types just didn't trust what they saw. Man was I stupid.

To this day I cant say what it is . Pound for pound big guys would turn around. The exquisite buzz of hard liquor came trundling out of my mouth in seething cold poetry and they became less than nothing in the moment. Spontaneous malevolence. It was gonna happen for good or ill. Cats would look at me and do Chinese algebra. I could hear the abacus click. Maybe I wasn't worth the hassle. Maybe.

Dude I am five foot six never topped 200 lbs.
Dad never showed. I still love him. I look in the glass and he looks right back at me.
Only heard he was an oddity. Guess I garner it honestly.

Lucky in cards. Unlucky in love. I cant play cards it never interested me.
Love on the other hand. Nothing but sevens. I would not insult myself by claiming to have game. I think women liked my honesty. Honestly .If I cant say it without looking up and to the left then it aint worth the air. Besides I would rather you get your cookies off first and last. Just save me a nibble or two.

Mine eyes have seen the gory .
Wrong place. wrong time.Like moth to flame.
Oratory and pure abandon have kept me upright.
Lotta dumb luck too. Lots.

A small number of women are standing still where I left them.stricken in amber.
In my youthful irreverence . In my minds eye a tear.In my minds eye.
What would have been. I was to blame. Of that I have no doubt.

See. this is where the Numbles crumbles.
I scoop from the bottom and bring up the dregs.
Pretty soon the tale sprouts legs.
See Ya.
Diana Zuhlsdorf Jun 2014
Deep brown color, messy as it’s eaten.
Like something that failed to crunch.
Brittle yet soft, rough and delicate.
It can be fudgy, chewy or cake-like, topped with walnuts or apricot glaze.
A heavy horse failing to hike the high mountain of crisp.
******* the outside, but not as taut as chocolate-chip cookies, or M&M;’s,
A fragile strength that breaks with subtle touch.
Smooth and moist inside, melted chocolate held together.

Created solely for a royal’s mouth to taste,
Slowly dissolving, sea foam ****** by the damp sand,
A guilty pleasure I cannot live without.
The brownie becoming a beautiful bouquet blossoming
In my chocolate tinted mouth.
It cures whatever ails you,
The flavor empowering any mist of dullness or bitterness.
Forgetting about everything, as he mixed the batter
Creating the perfect combination of smoothness, sweetness,
And the creamy after-taste.
Our favorite thing to bake together.

Friday evening we scurried to the kitchen, creating our own baking contest.
His hazel eyes, swirling with the batter poured in circles,
His lips, whistling to the beautiful sight of brownies, plumping as they bake.

Days later, we would come back to that kitchen,
With the scent of freshly baked brownies still lingering in the air.
We would look at each other’s deep brown eyes
Like the brownies we baked and enjoyed together.
His lips, a wallop of sweetness.
Actually, this poem was an accident. The only thing I was thinking of were literal brownies. I am only 14 years old, please don't sue me.
They're
doing it again.

They're gonna stuff
the corpse of
Hugo Chavez and
put it on display
in a glass case.

Why?

They did it to Lenin.

For 80 years he lay
on a bed of flowers
in a glass topped coffin
lazin away the days
in the Kremlin Wall
before they locked
him away behind
closed glasnost doors.

For those eighty years
Lenin's comrades
paraded his
corpse around
like an extended
Weekend at Bernie's;
raising old Ilyich
to mouth every
dictatorial diatribe
uttered by the
deathly stale
bread breath
of Stalin and all
the petty knockoffs
that followed him.

V.I. did a lot of
talking for a
dead man, serving
the dictatorship
of the proletariat
with valor and
distinction.

They did it
to Mao,
reminding all
happy Chinese Proles
that great peoples
revolutions must
dutifully mind
the unerring
instruction of
the secular deity;
resting assured
that progress is an
historical
dialectical
inevitability
proceeding apace
until classlessness
is realized in every
Hunan rice paddy,
Shanghai noodle
factory, Mongol
Steppe Village
and Buddhist
Tibetan Temple
in the glorious
workers paradise.

As of this writing Mao
hasn't been heard from
since the
Gang of Four
walked the last
Capitalist Roader plank.

Lady Mao
indignant to the end,
coolly quipping final zingers
from the Third Edition
of the Little Red Book as
last death sentence breaths
escaped her charcoal stained
great leaping forward
lungs.  
  
As always
Deng Xiaoping
got the final
laugh, counting
heavenly
Renmibis;

his yuan
piling up faster
then the number
of displaced
peasants
clogging the
streets of
The People's
Republic
new and improved
discount cities
beggin for jobs
at a toxic
iPod
factory.

Crafty
Deng  bought
the copy rights to
Mao's Quotations
his profit driven
start-up
fills
fortune cookies
with the
Chairman's
wise maxims
eagerly consumed
by the country's
burgeoning
class of
happy
lunch time
capitalists.

By the
waters of the Nile
they stuffed dead
pharaohs with
with onions,
spices and
frankincense
and buried em
in billion dollar
pyramids.

When a pharaoh  
crossed the River
Styx the expense
was justified
because of his
station in life.

The undertaking
also served as a
shovel ready
infrastructure
improvement
initiative for
idling slaves.

The humongous
public works project
didn't do much
for the economy back then
because the wages of
slaves don't go too far;
but through the
expanse of
expired millennia
the strange fruit of
chattel workers
is a proven boon
for the tourist trade in the
Valley of the Kings.

Its a bit unfortunate
that enterprising
grave robbers daring
the risk of the mummies curse
and imperialist archaeological
pillagers wouldn't let the
league of buried
Pharaoh's -like
young King Tut-
just
RIP.

..and then
there's the case of
Sweet Jesus...

Half of America
believes him to be
Chairman Emeritus
of the GOP,
authoring a gospel
of righteousness
in the party platform,
sprinkling holy water
on the hardest edges of
free market capitalism.

Though
his body was
lifted to heaven
on Ascension Day
Jesus
remains
the main course
at the festive Eucharist
every Sunday morning.  

Pious padres
transubstantiate
sacrosanct wafers
say its the Lords Table
but they act more
like its their own.  

Wrapped
in riddles
within sacred
paradoxes
exclusionary
catholic churches
refuse spiritually
starved pilgrim's
slices of happy meals
if they ain't down
with their
righteous
creed.

I recall
Jesus feeding 5,000
soul staved people with
seven loaves and five fishes
and had enough left overs
to feed every famished
woman and child
in Biafra;

don't remember Jesus
checking membership cards
before filling their bellies
with wholesomeness;

but the
pietistic pastors
parsing out
the holy loaves
remain quick to draw
heinous crucifixes
believing in the
holy justice of  
their crossianity
to ecstatically
bludgeon a
fallen heathen...

some Muslim
fundamentalists
do the same thing

a Hidden Imam
been walking
the earth since
the death of
The Prophet
Muhammad
(PBUH)

the ubiquitous
Mahdi is around
somewhere
and when he shows
his face he'll team
with Isa
enabling the Shia's
to tell the Sunni's
I told you so
and demand
that they
stop
murdering
fellow
Muslims

I just want to
tell my brothers
and sisters in
Venezuela
that they are the body
and soul, the heart, hands
and mind of the nation

the body is theirs
the body can't be
without them.
el corpus es usted

what ever happened
from dust you have come
to dust you shall return?

and now as a
Caracas glazier
cuts a glass box
for Chavez

i say
i think its a bad idea.
it never goes well for the dead ones

and as for the living
when myth becomes history
the potentates of politics
and the priests of power
become ghoulish tyrants
that devour the lives of
the living


ERRATUM
+++

As Marx observed in the  
18th Bremaire of Louis Bonaparte

"The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living...
he goes on to say, "history repeats itself, first as tragedy then as farce"...

I hope my Venezuelan brothers and sisters avoid the tragedy and don't fall victim to farce...

Final thoughts from Jesus:

"Wherever there is a carcass,
there the vultures will gather.
Let the dead bury the dead"

Smash the icons!
Hugo deserves his heavenly rest
he wouldn't want it any other way.

Hugo Chavez
(28 July 1954 – 5 March 2013)
Godspeed Beloved


Joan Baez & Mercedes Sosa "Gracias A La Vida"

jbm
Oakland
3/8/13
Steve Page Sep 2018
The forest of legs swayed in the moving shadows beneath the chatter over head, each threatening to block our path and crush our attempt to get to the first fallen crisps of the party season, which as yet laid undisturbed.

We weaved and advanced as fast as their legs allowed, eager to scavenge the waiting bounty before they were trampled underfoot by the oblivious adults who were intent on a seasonal ritual of their own that went on high over our heads.

We emerged unscathed at the edge of the forest and raced across the open parquet to the cover of the drapped, white topped trestle tables catching our breaths and crunching our snatched crisps planning our next move toward the plateau above.

Our scout had reported rich pickings, but when we looked around, seeking signs of our brave advance party, we could find no trace beyond a half eaten volovant and what might have been regurgitated mushroom. We shook our heads in despair at their folly. Every kid knows to stick to crisps and to processed meats, avoiding anything that might contain vegetables. We saw an open French window just beyond the trestles and heard plaintive heaves that had a distinct 6 year old strain.

We checked each other's resolve and saw on each other's faces that we believed our mission was more important than any one stomach. With a maturity that would have surprised our parents, we pushed the plight of our friend to the back of our minds and focused on the task at hand.

We each reached up with practiced stealth, taking only a second to check the food on offer and with a speed bred into us by the curse of older siblings, we each grabbed our prize.

Acknowledging the hazards of the return journey we devoured the meat at hand and with hyena grins savoured our just rewards. While our fallen friend heaved once more, we saluted one another: the season had started better than any of us could have hoped.
With thanks to Poetry Journal for the inspiration. And, yes, I acknowledge it's not poetic.  But it was fun to write.
Emily Watkins Dec 2012
His home is an orphanage
in downtown Belize.
Triple-decker bunk beds
topped with ***** stained mattresses
fill each room.
An abandoned 10 year old
lies paralyzed on the floor;
"Don't touch him. Nobody ever touches him."
A small child covered in sores
sleeps in a puddle of his own *****.

I offer a container of pink Play-dough to a boy
who proceeds to sculpt me
changing the pink to brown
with his ***** hands.
When he is done,
it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
"What is your name?"
"I'm Allen"
He tells me about his dreams of leaving Belize
and becoming a U.S. soldier.
He tells me of how his mother,
a **** addict,
dropped him off at the doorstep when he was 8 years old
and how he remembers
the look of fear and disappointment in her eyes
every time she looked at him
and saw his father.
His favorite color is blue.
Together, we make bracelets with colorful beads,
and as I stand to leave
he hands me a pinkish-brown heart
warm and sweaty
from his ***** hands.
And in return
I hand Allen,
and every child like him,
my own heart
red and ******,
dedicated and passionate,
foolishly and hopefully attempting
to change the world.
Another poem inspired by my trip to Belize.
From whence we tip to toast the Cocktail new
Too pricey for a Sip, if you ask me
Still, those Pubbers demand your Freshest Brew
Either for Show or Truest Cheers that be
Now who composed the Price which I complain
May rob my Wages on half-month's budget?
You have Defense, though: Is that my Domain
To liver that Sign out of my Pocket?
I suppose either way Purchased or not
Those Senses concerned will take no Notice
With Baskets fare, Bread and Butter forgot
Mix the Lager still Best Friends acquiesce.
The Currant still topped, which to Celebrate
Ignore the Side-Bugs; Light the Good Debate.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
SassyJ Jul 2018
He topped coffee with melanin
as if there wasn’t even blackness
set in rigid processes and routines
days in and out of smoking
numbed his brain to senseless cells
and he dreamt of dreams I never hold
poetry was just pretentious to him
a narration of my soul and heart
every word I wrote to him was a spell
the curse of his native Englishness
every adjective was a clocked tense
and he never understood my words
nor heard my melodies and rhythms
and as he rode, sure it was like a dog
lost in sense, an escapism of reality
the puffs turned to paranoid tales
those sudden withdrawal and panics
drove me away to the deepest forest  
and my very bones felt his distaste
collapsed in manipulation and new age
his push always became my push
and the pulls up became my polar
Such a little boy with no ultimate direction
Locked in the abyss of the faded memories
Martin Narrod Jul 2018
250 Surf

And into the driveway it takes it for a ride, come on take on this lifeline, and feel it from below, moving up and moving jag, one more for free when I buy nine won’t you put it in the bag- the people are freezing, the zig is at the zag, all the people are screaming, won’t you let them in the back? Come on won’t you feed them, and tease them with a zap, catastrophe seething, relaxing in the bath, suffering or maybe ******* squeezing, pick me up from the airport we’ll go driving in the Jag, you’re already mostly in the bag, I light up a square and light a second for you man, light one up for the girl whose sitting in the back. Her hands are freezing, her lips are turning black, a lamp standing on a suitcase, Earl Grey and Lavender, she’s got ***** packs and sunglasses, she’s gotten ready for morning class, it’s a gas, a blast, from the past, trash and she’s ******* reeling for a squeeze, she just wants a taste of the past, I laugh, I laugh, I laugh. Put a stamp on her legs, touch them and turn up the volume on the amp. She’s got it, she’s not it, she’s winning playing tag-

Come on won’t you feed them, and tease them with a zap, catastrophe seething, relaxing in the bath, suffering or maybe ******* squeezing, pick me up from the airport we’ll go driving in the Jag, you’re already mostly in the bag, I light up a square and light a second for you man, light one up for the girl whose sitting in the back.

We’ve arrived wearing new things, they think we’re in the band. We order tater tots and martinis, and get our gear so we can get ourselves together in the van. It’s a plan, let’s advance Peter Pan, lift off, touch-down, get a spotlight, and then let’s have a dance. I’ll hop out of the pram, catch a lamb, with just one single hand, greet the grand, then do three somersaults, before we go on tour from 250 Surf Street and perform our second jam, we’re the coolest of the new acts streaming from Japan.

Come on won’t you feed them, and tease them with a zap, catastrophe seething, relaxing in the bath, suffering or maybe ******* squeezing, pick me up from the airport we’ll go driving in the Jag, you’re already mostly in the bag, I light up a square and light a second for you friend, light one up for the girl whose sitting in the back.

In the movies, monsters chase the heroes down. Is there a series of numbers that will release our hunter so she can catch those monsters by the horns. It’s a storm moving forwards, a disaster itching to come back, it’s the sound of a nightmare kicking dirt and bounding down the path. They’re alone but I hear her, the dangers coming fast. This olfactory mainstay, of juggernauts searching for something of a snack, even just a pack of peanuts in their sacks. A sample coming quickly, a set of kissing wizards sniffing cotton candy from a bag. The ache of a Tuesday, where seduction leads our pack. This is merely an act, this is merely an act, it’s just merely an act. Tombs enacted, coffins still they can’t resist, feeding sorceries and eating whims.

But then this is nothing, their stories quickly held in suspense. Their fingers numb with the words, they continue to forget. The strangers are wanting for this alphabet, the laws of the marshal that summer soon upsets.

An alert for the clouds,  across the sky to the stains on their affair, her man ******* pleading, love please put back on your underwear. The girl is screaming, in the governments’ undertow, and the ache of her sexuality can bring her skirt back down. Then there’s this season sweeping, there’s this garden you remember from back home.  the flowers topped upon the stem, thorns dipped in poisons, they keep our heart rate in suspense. Into the river  a surge of disbelief, where the cranberry serums overtake those 15th Century reliefs.

Then there’s the neighbors of evil, they’ve brought up the bags, pairing off with a 40oz and a joint of sticky hash. They carry their guns, and they carry with numbers. The master of art dying on a chariot or gurney. A satyr boost by easy flow, dances for tips at a Go-Go. Drinking up with idle stars, smoking cigarettes at outdoor but covered bars. Drinks for her friends. Drinks to get rid of the bends. Something to carry them through, something to carry after them too. Pleased and pleasing.

This is just the story of easy. This is just the state of disbelief. This is just the nuisance of riding a cable car, and performing with a chisel some religious affiliates relief. Then it’s the garden, 64-bit software coming down. He passes the lighter back to the girl sitting quietly observing, while the minister’s teeth are quickly falling out. So please me please me. Please me appease me and send me out. If the bagel is 99 cents and a drink is a dollar ten, we should have enough to sit on the bench before we start to go. Just *** and please me, just scream and shut the doors up top. I spin in circles riding Brooklyn rooftops, while the neighbors try to stop us from jumping down. I guess somebody died last week from jumping down, I guess somebody died from jumping down. I think he died from being alone. You and I wont die from falling down, we’ll never die from being alone.

Come on won’t you feed them, and tease them with a zap, catastrophe seething, relaxing in the bath, suffering or maybe ******* squeezing, pick me up from the airport we’ll go driving in the Jag, you’re already mostly in the bag, I light up a square and light a second for you man, light one up for the girl whose sitting in the back. She asked me if I was gay, I touched her leg, and put my lips to her mouth. We sat in the car past morning, whispering and never coming down.
Brian Oarr Mar 2012
Summer struck with the fist of Chicxulub,
incinerated spring in a blinding flash.
Abruptly the pond on Chehalis Trail
was topped with water lilies,
where famished families of water fowl had
festooned the serenity of the surface;
now vanished for cool Canadian climes.
Racoon eyes peered in night shade green,
Foxglove and California Poppy brushed
through blades of overgrown grasses.
Crow song battled with Stellar's Jay,
the morning's true American Idols.
I stirred from slumber to impatient cawing,
chiding --- The best of day's awaiting.

I was off to savor summer's sugar,
lest autumn slip in unannounced
on the coats of Quetzalcoatl.
judy smith Dec 2015
Leave it to 2015 to transform the slip dress into, well, something other than a slip dress. No longer was the slinky, curve-skimming frock the evening-only pinnacle of sensuality; instead, it found its footing as a functional layering piece. It was worn on top of T-shirts, under sweatshirts, and over pants. And it wasn’t just the runway that inspired the nouveau way of wearing the piece: Everyone from Orthodox Jewish women to Rihanna put their spin on it. Here, see the best ways the slip dress was worn in 2015—and the cues to take when you sport it post–New Year.

Try an Orthodox Line of Thought

Turns out it was a Brooklyn enclave who managed to make the sexiest trend of the year—the slip dress—the chicest. And no, it wasn’t Williamsburg hipsters. So how to master modest layering like the Orthodox? Try a men’s blazer over the silk number, adding sleeves, or extending the neckline.

When in Doubt: What Would Kate Moss Do?

Feeling cold this winter? Make like Moss and combine the best of two worlds: The cozy turtleneck and the body-clinging slip dress. The simple pairing is the peak of insouciance—while keeping you warm.

Grunge Goddesses Still Rock

With the addition of a stoner-style hoodie, the slip dress got a major dose of grunge-forward flair. On the Vetements Spring 2016 runway, a hunter green hoodie thrown over a lavender slip dress gave an instant too-cool-for-school effect, while Ursina Gysi turned heads in an orange lace–trimmed swath of silk and a blue oversize pullover on the street during Fashion Week.

Rihanna Put a Bad Gal Spin on Hers

First, she took the hoodie and slip dress trend and gave it a go on the street. Next, she threw on a pair of sky-high cuissardes to pair with a short, baby-pink number. Then Ri-Ri topped a shimmering bronze slip with a baseball hat! Whatever the move, the singer deserves major credit for giving the ’90s throwback a modern bite.

And About the ’90s . . .

The revamp of the ’90s on the runway also brought back memories of a very throwback way to wear the slip dress: Seen on Spring 2016 runways fromCourrèges to Emilio Pucci, the boudoir staple was layered over a long-sleeved shirt or a simple tee to counter the sexiness of the slip and cut the sweetness.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney
The phone rang in Red Lodge.  The sun had already faded behind the mountain, and the street outside where the bike was parked was covered in darkness. Only the glow from the quarter moon allowed the bike to be visible from my vantage point inside the Pollard’s Lobby.  The hotel manager told me I had a call coming in and it was from Cooke City.  By the time I got to the phone at the front desk, they had hung up. All that the manager had heard from the caller was that I was needed in Cooke City just before the line had gone dead.  Because of the weather, my cell phone reception was spotty, and the hotel’s phone had no caller I.D.

Cooke City was 69 miles to the West, a little more than an hour’s drive under normal circumstances.  The problem is that you can never apply the word normal to crossing Beartooth Pass even under the best of conditions, and certainly not this early in the season.  I wondered about the call and the caller, and what was summoning me to the other side.  There was 11,000 feet of mountain in between the towns of Red Lodge and Cooke City, and with a low front moving in from the West, all signals from the mountain were to stay put.

Beartooth Pass is the highest and most formidable mountain crossing in the lower 48 States.  It is a series of high switchback turns that crisscross the Montana and Wyoming borders, rising to an elevation of 10,947 ft.  If distance can normally be measured in time, this is one of nature’s timeless events.  This road is its own lord and master. It allows you across only with permission and demands your total respect as you travel its jagged heights either East or West.  Snow and rockslides are just two of the deadly hazards here, with the road itself trumping both of these dangers when traveled at night.

The Beartooth Highway, as gorgeous as it is during most summer days, is particularly treacherous in the dark.  Many times, and without warning, it will be totally covered in fog. Even worse, during the late spring and early fall, there is ice, and often black ice when you rise above 7000 feet. Black ice is hard enough to see during the daytime, but impossible to see at night and especially so when the mountain is covered in fog. At night, this road has gremlins and monsters hiding in its corners and along its periphery, ready to swallow you up with the first mistake or indiscretion that a momentary lack of attention can cause.

The word impossible is part of this mountains DNA.

: Impossible- Like the dreams I had been recently having.

: Impossible- Like all of the things I still had not done.

: Impossible- As the excuses ran like an electric current
                         through all that I hated.

: Impossible- Only in the failure of that yet to be conquered.

: Impossible- For only as long as I kept repeating the word.

Now it was my time to make a call.  I dialed the cell number of my friend Mitch who worked for the U.S. Forest Service in Cooke City. Mitch told me what I already knew and feared. There was snow on both sides of the road from Red Lodge to Cooke City, and with the dropping temperatures probably ice, and possibly black ice, at elevations above 7500 feet.

Mitch lived in Red Lodge and had just traveled the road two hours earlier on his way home.  He said there had been sporadic icy conditions on the Red Lodge side of the mountain, causing his Jeep Wagoneer to lose traction and his tires to spin when applying his brakes in the sharpest turns.  The sharpest corners were the most dangerous parts of this road, both going up and even more so when coming down. Mitch warned me against going at night and said: “Be sure to call me back if you decide to leave.”

The Red Lodge side of the mountain would be where I would begin my trip if I decided to go, with no telling how bad the Cooke City descent would be on the Western side.  This is assuming I was even able to make it over the top, before then starting the long downward spiral into Cooke City Montana.

The phone rang again!  This time I was able to get to the front desk before the caller got away.  In just ten seconds I was left with the words ringing in my ears — “Everything is ready, and we implore you to come, please come to Cooke City, and please come tonight.”  

Now, it was my time to choose.  I had to decide between staying where it was safe and dry, or answering the call and making the journey through the dark to where fate was now crying out to me. I put the phone down and walked out the front doors of the Pollard Hotel and into the dim moonlight that was shining through the clouds and onto the street.  The ‘Venture’ sat in its soft glow, parked horizontally to the sidewalk, with its back tire pressed up against the curb and its front tire pointed due North.  The bike was not showing any bias either East or West and was not going to help with this decision.  If I decided to go, this choice would have to be all mine.

The original plan had been to stay in Red Lodge for two more days, awaiting friends who still had not arrived from a trip to Mount Rushmore. Then together we had planned a short stopover in Cody, which was not more than ninety-minutes away. From there we planned to take the ‘Chief Joseph Highway’ to Cooke City, which is both a beautiful and safe way around Beartooth Pass. Safety drifted out of my consciousness like a distant mistress, and I looked North and heard the mountain call out to me again.

As much as I wanted to see my friends, the voice that was calling from inside was getting harder and harder to ignore.  With the second phone call, my time in Red Lodge grew short in its importance, and I knew in the next two minutes I would have to choose.

I also knew that if I stood in the clouded moonlight for more than two more minutes I would never decide.  Never deciding is the hallmark of all cowardly thought, and I hoped on this night that I would not be caught in its web as victim once again.  

                                         My Decision Was To Go

In ten short minutes, I emptied my room at the Pollard, checked out, and had the bike loaded and ready at the curb.  I put my warmest and most reflective riding gear on, all the while knowing that there was probably no one to see me. No one on that lonely road, except for the deer, coyote, or elk, that would undoubtedly question my sanity as they watched me ride by in the cold dark silence.  I stopped at the gas station at the end of town and topped off the tank --- just in case.  Just in case was something I hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with, as the ride would at most take less than a half a tank of gas. It made me feel better though, so I topped off, paid the attendant, and rode slowly out towards U.S. Highway # 212.  

As I headed West toward the pass, I noticed one thing conspicuous in its absence. In fifteen minutes of travel, I had not passed one other vehicle of any kind going in either direction.  I was really alone tonight and not only in my thoughts.  It was going to be a solitary ride as I tried to cross the mountain. I would be alone with only my trusted bike as my companion which in all honesty — I knew in my heart before leaving the hotel.  

Alone, meant there would be no help if I got into trouble and no one to find me until probably morning at the earliest.  Surviving exposed on the mountain for at least twelve hours is a gamble I hoped I wouldn’t have to take.

I kept moving West. As I arrived at the base of the pass I stopped, put the kickstand down and looked up.  What was visible of the mountain in the clouded moonlight was only the bottom third of the Beartooth Highway. The top two thirds disappeared into a clouded mist, not giving up what it might contain or what future it may have hidden inside of itself for me.  With the kickstand back up and my high beam on, I slowly started my ascent up Beartooth Pass.

For the first six or seven miles the road surface was clear with snow lining both sides of the highway.  The mountain above, and the ones off to my right and to the North were almost impossible to see.  What I could make out though, was that they were totally snow covered making this part of southern Montana look more like December or January, instead of early June.  The road had only opened a month ago and it was still closing at least three out of every seven days.  I remembered to myself how in years past this road never really opened permanently until almost the 4th of July.

When the road was closed, it made the trip from Red Lodge to Cooke City a long one for those who had to go around the mountain.  Many people who worked in Cooke City actually lived in Red Lodge.  They would ‘brave’ the pass every night when it was open, but usually only during the summer months. They would do this in trucks with 4-wheel drive and S.U.V.’s but never on a motorcycle with only two wheels.  Trying to cross this pass on a motorcycle with high performance tires, in the fog, and at night, was a horse of an entirely different color.  

At about the seven-mile mark in my ascent I again stopped the bike and looked behind me. I was about to enter the cloud barrier.  The sight below from where I had just come was breathtakingly beautiful.  If this was to be the last thing I would ever see before   entering the cloud, it would be a fitting photograph on my passport into eternity.

I looked East again, and it was as if the lights from Red Lodge were calling me back, saying “Not tonight Kurt, this trip is to be made another time and for a better reason.” I paused, but could think of no better reason, as I heard the voice on the phone say inside my mind, “Please come,” so I retracted the kickstand and entered the approaching fog.

There was nothing inviting as I entered the cloud.  The dampness and the moisture were immediate and all enveloping, as the visibility dropped to less than fifty feet.  It was so thick I could actually see rain droplets as it passed over my headlight.  The road was still clear though and although it was hard to see, its surface was still good.  The animals that would normally concern me at this time of night were a distant memory to me now. The road stayed like this for what seemed to be another two or three miles, while it trapped me in its continuing time warp of what I still had to overcome.

It then turned sharply right, and I heard a loud ‘wail’ from inside the bike’s motor.  My heart immediately started racing as I thought to myself, ‘What a place to have the engine break down.’  It only took a few more seconds though to see that what I thought was engine failure was actually the tachometer revving off the scale on the dash.  The rear tire had lost traction, and in an involuntary and automated response I had given it more throttle to maintain my speed. I now had the engine turning at over 5000 r.p.m.’s in an attempt to get the rear tire to again make contact with the road.  Slowing my speed helped a little, but I was now down to 10 MPH, and it was barely fast enough to allow me to continue my ascent without the rear tire spinning again.

                                  I Could Still Turn Around And Go Back    

I was now at an elevation above 8,000 ft, and it was here that I had to make my last decision.  I could still turn around and go back.

While the road surface was only semi-good, I could turn around and head back in the direction from which I had just come.  I could go back safely, but to what and to whom? I knew my spirit and my heart would not go with me, both choosing to stay on this hill tonight regardless of the cost.  “If I turn around and go back, my fear is that in my lack of commitment, I will lose both of them forever. The mountain will have then claimed what my soul cannot afford to lose.”  I looked away from Red Lodge for the last time, and once again my eyes were pointed toward the mountain’s top.

It was three more miles to the summit based on my best estimation.

From there it would be all down hill.  The fear grew deeper inside of me that the descent would be even more treacherous as I crested the top and pushed on to the mountain town of Cooke City below.  Cooke City and Red Lodge were both in Montana, but the crest of this mountain was in Wyoming, and it looked down on both towns as if to say … ‘All passage comes only through me.’      

This time I did not stop and look over my shoulder. Instead, I said a short prayer to the gods that protect and watch over this place and asked for only one dispensation — and just one pass through the dark.  My back wheel continued to spin but then somehow it would always regain traction, and I continued to pray as I slowly approached the top.  

As I arrived at the summit, the road flattened out, but the cloud cover grew even more dense with visibility now falling to less than ten feet.  I now couldn’t see past my front fender, as the light from my headlamp bounced off the water particles with most of its illumination reflected back onto me and not on the road ahead.

In conditions like this it is very hard to maintain equilibrium and balance. Balance is the most essential component of any two-wheeled form of travel. Without at least two fixed reference points, it’s hard to stay straight upright and vertical.  I’ve only experienced this once before when going through a mountain tunnel whose lights had been turned off. When you can’t see the road beneath you, your inner sense of stability becomes compromised, and it’s easier than you might think to get off track and crash.

This situation has caused many motorcyclists to fall over while seemingly doing nothing wrong. It creates a strange combination of panic and vertigo and is not something you would ever want to experience or deal with on even a dry road at sea level.  On an icy road at this elevation however, it could spell the end of everything!

My cure for this has always been to put both feet down and literally drag them on top of the road surface below. This allows my legs to act as two tripods, warning me of when the bike is leaning either too far to the left or to the right.  It’s also dangerous. If either leg comes in contact with something on the road or gets hung up, it could cause the very thing it’s trying to avoid. I’ve actually run over my own foot with the rear wheel and it’s not something you want to do twice.

                     Often Causing What It’s Trying To Avoid

At the top of the pass, the road is flat for at least a mile and gently twists and turns from left to right.  It is a giant plateau,10,000 feet above sea level. The mountain then starts to descend westward as it delivers its melting snow and rain to the Western States. Through mighty rivers, it carries its drainage to the Pacific Ocean far beyond.  As I got to the end of its level plain, a passing thought entered my consciousness.  With the temperature here at the top having risen a little, and only just below freezing, my Kevlar foul-weather gear would probably allow me to survive the night.  On this mountaintop, there is a lot of open space to get off the road, if I could then only find a place to get out of the wind.  

I let that thought exit my mind as quickly as it entered. The bike was easily handling the flat icy areas, and I knew that the both of us wanted to push on.  I tried to use my cell phone at the top to call Mitch at home.  I was sure that by now he would be sitting by the fire and drinking something warm.  This is something I should have done before I made the final decision to leave.  I didn’t, because I was sure he would have tried to talk me out of it, or worse, have forbidden me to go. This was well within his right and purview as the Superintendent of all who passed over this mountain.

My phone didn’t work!  This was strange because it had worked from the top last spring when I called my family and also sent cell-phone pictures from the great mountain’s summit.  I actually placed three calls from the top that day, two to Pennsylvania and one to suburban Boston.

                                         But Not Tonight!

As I started my descent down the western *****, I knew it would be in first gear only.  In first gear the engine would act as a brake or limiter affecting my speed, hopefully without causing my back tire to lose traction and break loose. With almost zero visibility, and both feet down and dragging in the wet snow and ice, I struggled to stay in the middle of the road.  It had been over an hour since leaving Red Lodge, and I still had seen no other travelers going either East or West. I had seen no animals either, and tonight I was at least thankful for that.

The drop off to my right (North) was several thousand feet straight down to the valley below and usually visible even at night when not covered in such cloud and mist.  To my left was the mountain’s face interspersed with open areas which also dropped several thousands of feet to the southern valley below.  Everything was uncertain as I left the summit, and any clear scenery had disappeared in the clouds. What was certain though was my death if I got too close to the edge and was unable to recover and get back on the road.

There were guardrails along many of the turns and that helped, because it told me that the direction of the road was changing.  In the straight flat areas however it was open on both sides with nothing but a several thousand-foot fall into the oblivion below.

Twice I ran over onto the apron and felt my foot lose contact with the road surface meaning I was at the very edge and within two feet of my doom.  Twice, I was sure that my time on this earth had ended, and that I was headed for a different and hopefully better place. Twice, I counter steered the bike to the left and both feet regained contact with the road as the front tire weaved back and forth with only the back tire digging in and allowing me to stay straight up.

As I continued my descent, I noticed something strange and peculiar.  After a minute or two it felt like I was going faster than you could ever go in first gear.  It took only another instant to realize what was happening.  The traction to the rear tire was gone, and my bike and I were now sliding down the Western ***** of Beartooth pass.  The weight of the bike and myself, combined with the gravity of the mountain’s descent, was causing us to go faster than we could ever go by gearing alone.  Trying to go straight seemed like my only option as the bike felt like it had lost any ability to control where it was going.  This was the next to last thing I could have feared happening on this hill.

The thing I feared most was having to use either the front or rear brakes in a situation like this.  That would only ensure that the bike would go out of control totally, causing the rear wheel to come around broadside and result in the bike falling over on its opposite side. Not good!  Not good at all!

Thoughts of sliding off the side of the mountain and into the canyons below started running through my mind.  Either falling off the mountain or being trapped under the bike while waiting for the next semi-truck to run over me as it crossed the summit in the darkened fog was not something I welcomed. Like I said before, not good, not good at all!

My mind flashed back to when I was a kid and how fast it seemed we were going when sledding down the hill in front of the local hospital.  I also remembered my disappointment when one of the fathers told me that although it seemed fast, we were really only going about ten or fifteen miles an hour.  I wondered to myself how fast the bike was really going now, as it slid down this tallest of all Montana mountains? It seemed very, very fast.  I reminded myself over and over, to keep my feet down and my hand off the brakes.

If I was going to crash, I was going to try and do it in the middle of the road. Wherever that was now though, I couldn’t be sure.  It was finally the time to find out what I had really learned after riding a motorcycle for over forty years.  I hoped and prayed that what I had learned in those many years of riding would tonight be enough.

As we continued down, the road had many more sharp turns, swerving from right to left and then back right again.  Many times, I was right at the edge of my strength. My legs battled to keep the bike upright, as I fought it as it wanted to lean deeper into the turns.  I almost thought I had the knack of all this down, when I instantaneously came out of the cloud.  I couldn’t believe, and more accurately didn’t want to believe, what I was seeing less than a half mile ahead.

The road in front of me was totally covered in black ice.  Black ice look’s almost like cinders at night and can sometimes deceive you into thinking it holds traction when exactly the opposite is true. This trail of black ice led a half mile down the mountain to where it looked like it ended under a guardrail at the end.  What I thought was the end was actually a switchback turn of at least 120 degrees.

It turned sharply to the right before going completely out of my sight into the descending blackness up ahead.

My options now seemed pretty straightforward while bleak.  I could lay the bike down and hope the guard rail would stop us before cascading off the mountain, or I could try to ride it out with the chances of making it slim at best.  I tried digging my feet into the black ice as brakes, as a kid would do on a soapbox car, but it did no good.  The bike kept pummeling toward the guardrail, and I was sure I was now going faster than ever.  As my feet kept bouncing off the ice, it caused the bike to wobble in the middle of its slide. This was now the last thing I needed as I struggled not to fall.

As I got close to the guardrail, and where the road turned sharply to the right, I felt like I was going 100 miles an hour.  I was now out of the cloud and even in the diffused moonlight I could see clearly both sides of the road.  With some visibility I could now try and stay in the middle, as my bike and I headed towards the guardrail not more than 500 feet ahead.  The valley’s below to the North and South were still thousands of feet below me, and I knew when I tried to make the turn that there would be no guardrail to protect me from going off the opposite right, or Northern side.

                   Time Was Running Out, And A Choice Had To Be Made

The choices ran before my eyes one more time — to be trapped under a guardrail or to run off a mountain into a several thousand foot abyss.  But then all at once my soul screamed NO, and that I did have one more choice … I could decide to just make it. I would try by ‘force of will’ to make it around that blind turn.  I became reborn once again in the faith of my new decision not to go down, and I visually saw myself coming out the other side in my mind’s eye.

                                        I Will Make That Turn

I remembered during this moment of epiphany what a great motorcycle racer named **** Mann had said over forty years ago.  

**** said “When you find yourself in trouble, and in situations like this, the bike is normally smarter than you are.  Don’t try and muscle or overpower the motorcycle.  It’s basically a gyroscope and wants to stay upright.  Listen to what the bike is telling you and go with that. It’s your best chance of survival, and in more cases than not, you’ll come out OK.”  With ****’s words fresh and breathing inside of me, I entered the right-hand turn.

As I slowly leaned the bike over to the right, I could feel the rear tire break loose and start to come around.  As it did, I let the handlebars point the front tire in the same direction as the rear tire was coming.  We were now doing what flat track motorcycle racers do in a turn — a controlled slide! With the handlebars totally pressed against the left side of the tank, the bike was fully ‘locked up’ and sliding with no traction to the right.  The only control I had was the angle I would allow the bike to lean over,which was controlled by my upper body and my right leg sliding below me on the road.

Miraculously, the bike slid from the right side of the turn to the left.  It wasn’t until I was on the left apron that the back tire bit into the soft snow and regained enough traction to set me upright. I was not more than three feet from the now open edge leading to a certain drop thousands of feet below.  The traction in the soft snow ****** the bike back upright and had me now pointed in a straight line diagonally back across the road.  Fighting the tendency to grab the brakes, I sat upright again and counter steered to the left. Just before running off the right apron, I was able to get the bike turned and headed once again straight down the mountain.  It was at this time that I took my first deep breath.

In two hundred more yards the ice disappeared, and I could see the lights of Cooke City shining ten miles out in the distance. The road was partially dry when I saw the sign welcoming me to this most unique of all Montana towns.  To commemorate what had just happened, I was compelled to stop and look back just one more time.  I put the kickstand down and got off the bike.  For a long minute I looked back up at the mountain. It was still almost totally hidden in the cloud that I had just come through.  I wondered to myself if any other motorcyclists had done what I had just done tonight — and survived.  I knew the stories of the many that had run off the mountain and were now just statistics in the Forest Service’s logbook, but I still wondered about those others who may had made it and where their stories would rank with mine.

I looked up for the last time and said thank you, knowing that the mountain offered neither forgiveness nor blame, and what I had done tonight was of my own choosing. Luck and whatever riding ability I possessed were what had seen me through. But was it just that, or was it something else? Was it something beyond my power to choose, and something still beyond my power to understand?  If the answer is yes, I hope it stays that way.  Until on a night like tonight, some distant mountain high above some future valley, finally claims me as its own.

                     Was Crossing Tonight Beyond My Power To Choose?

After I parked the bike in front of the Super 8 in Cooke City, I walked into the lobby and the desk clerk greeted me. “Mr Behm,

it’s good to see you again, I’m glad we were able to reach you with that second phone call.  We received a cancellation just before nine, and the only room we had left became available for the night.”

I have heard the calling in many voices and in many forms.  Tonight, it told me that my place was to be in Cooke City and my time in Red Lodge had come to an end.  Some may need more or better reasons to cross their mountain in the dark, but for me, the only thing necessary was for it to call.

                                               …  Until It Calls Again





Gardiner Montana- May, 1996
In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes’ eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o’-clay,
Waiting for the time o’ day.

While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-o’-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-o’-clay.

My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind’s breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-o’-clay,
Watching for the time of day.
Kara Jean Jul 2016
Her long symbolic hair caressing her body
Her torn jeans representing her dignity
Sentimental to the teen rotted inside a lifetime ago
Tears making her smile
Her pink apple suit case was confiding
Hiding in a storm, where rocks were thrown
Bruises and scars across her knees
Killing the young girl
No longer innocent eyed
She's a a straggler
Structure tried
She runs away searching
Fresh start is an opportunity topped off with profanity
Odds pushing her down
A constant, as the sun raises its eyebrows
Her cards she never questioned there quality
As he touched her fingers
She has one chance
Contemplative perseverance
Old write fixed up a bit
AC Brooks Jul 2011
Who’s going to take your mind away

tonight

Brown eyed, blue eyed, green eyed devil,

angel

Loneliness has no bounds

Dreamt of you
a dance riddled land
Black silky this and lacey topped that

You smelled of dreams and tasted of desire
Untouched
Oz has no rules

The softest skin has no feeling
Your loveless being
Mannequin dream

music danced in the air between
you and I
This hearts song to your def hearts beat

Seems the suns set, seems my suns set
Seems we have no meaning
Whiskey washed, this hearts dream

A green eyed, blue eyed, brown eyed devils scheme
Your tongue sets me free
Your touch

I will never be free

— The End —