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Keith W Fletcher Apr 2018
Irony often oozes the blood stain
That history will use to paint
An honest portrait of erstwhile deeds
Or to turn some altered soul to saint
Few are those that exist within the mist
Who loom larger than the shadow portrays
And seldom does a shadow exist undiminished
By the dreariest of all darkest days
So when seeking blood in passionate resolve
There comes a mordant aberration of unheralded stature
Rising to fly above mortal attributes into unremitted immortality
By assiduous conviction born of monstrous evil of unparalleled scale

Born among the Carpathian mountains
From the ancient and mysterious Transylvanian forests
One who seeks blood for righteous alliterations
Not for glory but for the saving grace
A quest to alleviate all alien allagory   alligned along the meandering memories of non-mordant minded men

No imagery conjured by Bram Stoker thru Van Helsing
Encompasses the unmitigated reality seen
The lifelong - still beating strong - near century long shadow of the denizen of our brightest outlook

The creation of circumstance as much as man ( unkind ) made

Maybe unheralded by too many
For such a knave am I so sorely cursed now...
With shame
I ...who have always strived
to drape myself
in the raiment of the eternal optimist
Now pay overdue homage to the true and absolute optimist
     BEN FERENCZ.... Is his name
Seek out his story now ..
.while he still lives
Reach back ..
Into those dark, dreary days
To share what history gives
and you will see what he means
    when he say's     
" I'm Right. "
     For I truly know that he is!  
     
 Keith w. Fletcher
      Humbled by the humanity exhibited.
SG Holter May 2014
A friend of mine from Vașcău
Lovingly brings me homemade wine.
It doesn't have that touch of
Beautiful berserker my father's
Wine whispers of; it forms a warm
Woman's hand around your
Innerhead, while you draw slow
Swigs of sweet silk
Into the astral
Bloodstream of
Your soul.

It scares me.
Edna Sweetlove Jan 2015
Number 7 in the ORLOK series and one of the best*

O how I relish the taste of blood
****** out from the devastated jugular
But there is more, much more
When the victim is a nubile ****
From a Transylvanian village
Where ****** morality
Is quite ******* thin on the ground;
And that is how I met my fate.

'Twas on an October eve
When I met plump Esmeralda
And (having fed my fill from her neck
as she slept in her hut
under filthy rags stinking of stale *****),
I sank my fangs into her naked belly
Ripping into her bloated guts
With my accustomed gusto;
My tongue slurping its way
Over her twitching ****;
And finally I descended joyously
To her odorous *****-encrusted *****
For the last rites,
Before the final curtain
To her worthless life of peasantry.

But then, as my excitement mounted,
And just as I was on the verge
Of pumping out my vampiric *******,
I felt an agonising, mind-blasting pain
As a major stroke swept through me,
Wrecking my synapses big time,
Turning my brain into guacamole.
And now I am a crippled ******,
Just a spasticated old vampire
In my second-hand rusting wheelchair,
Courtesy of Romanian Social Services,
Drooling helplessly
Into my swollen pissy crotch,
Waiting for another enema,
My sole remaining pleasure
And a stimulus to my jaded prostate.

But, hurrah! hurrah! new hope arrives:
A miracle occurs as I read of
The new wonder pill from SuperDrug
Available only in private practise
And guaranteed to rejuvenate the jaded
Or your money back, no worries.
Orlok will fly again to pursue
The pleasures of the flesh
And especially the botty-zone.
Mike T Minehan Oct 2012
The reason there aren't so many vampyres
around these days is they don't like TV hype
and the intrusions of TV news crews. It transpires
that vampyres prefer late hours and like low light levels
because they're egregarious and don't like to be seen inebrious
in the middle of their heinous, intravenous revels.
Also, unfavorable reviews about transfusions
and the confusion caused by AIDS, at this juncture,
has definitely reduced the appeal of being seduced
by some crazed and gurgling Transylvanian
bloodsucker lusting to puncture the jugular,
or any other available vein again,
especially when you don't know if they've disinfected their fangs
or only licked them after draining their last victim.

After all, vampyres were brought up in castles
when there weren't antiseptics for gargles
and they haven't been taught prophylactic criteria
against such apocalyptic viral bacteria.
And if you've ever seen vampyres with condoms
on their teeth, you'll know what I mean.  
It's a scream. Everyone finds them hilarious. It'd be easier
to die laughing than to go down with anemia.
Also, like everyone else, vampyres hate ridicule.
No-one likes being seen as the fool.
  
And the other reason vampyres are scarce now
is that there are so many genuine muggers, hoods, crims,
druggies, financial leeches, homicidal maniacs,
psychopathic liars and genocidal tendencies to conjure up real fears
out there, that there's not much room left for quaint old-fashioned vampyres, poor dears.  

But do you know something? Even though they were naughty,
I miss their occasional ****. I know it was gory,
but those kisses, oh boy. We got into the femoral artery inside the thigh. It was *****. But when AIDs came along,
that was it.  Definitely bye-bye. Nobody wanted to die.  
These are the facts.  
So these vampyres were starving and they reverted to bats.  
Did a midnight flit,
and that's the end of my story.
Henryk Krzyrz Sep 2012
Constant understanding that
holds my mouth ajar.
reminiscent stars tangle with words like
"How" and "are"
tangled, mangled, strangled with that
Transylvanian tongue.

Straightened teeth bore with smile.
Oh, how the world has waited for such.
Lovely questions of impaling rulers
drinking blood
and vernacular across Carpathian
Hungarian
store owners.

Polski #1 says beautiful,
Polski #2 asks for no answer,
Orthodox Orthodontia
and Ignorance taint this experience
however lovely it may seem.

Cold is the only embrace
shaking hands struggle to write
every letter of every word presents one
good fight.
Tooth and Nail.

Glances glance eyes,
golden demise of any sort of
inside.

A perfect scowl.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the mystery of lawlessness is bound to the "transcendence" of phonetic application of phonetic encoding... some call it the whirlwind of confusion, but somes also call it E-près and then write Ypres... well, the confusion is all but apparent... i left that in "     " to stress the ambiguity... yes, the -s is optional... it's neither possessive or plural... that, i could have learned in prison, had i ever been a Becontree purple (bishop)... dictionary moment: cranium, crimson, cradle... cardinal... but all these positions of power are on their knees (there's me trying in vain to underline that), they gobble-quote what they quack... which ends up being a circumflex and a wanking hand, embedded with "touching" Adam. oh sure they bypassed the contemporary-of-contemporaries... it was never a grey-matter affair... it was always a gangster's drill-to-the-bone moment... wait till he squeems! i don't mind ******, given the person is dead, i just hate half-asked half-baked half-bollocked Dr. Dre attempts and then failing and then, like a whining dog with its tail between its legs going back to the mantra of mother fiction... i ******* hate it... i start looking like a ******* ******! i hate it... mutter fiktion... all i'll say of a Jew: don't ******* bring an argument against the Palatine Schting right now... i have as much abhorrence against all things Egyptian as i do about English tea, which i deemed liquidated Werther's Original... and then there's this Russian ***** i'd like to the village bicycle... she's had more spare parts done unto her than the working limbs ever gave her the tilt... feminism and the sacredness of all women... name that movie quiz show... charlize theron... aileen wuornos! woo-or-nose? never mind...
   a 1K spectacle at Hastings... that's invoking quid...
and you'll feel more tonguing mollusks than
                          touching a frightened ****** quill-thread's
worth of deer with that lingo, had you ever had one...
              MONSTER!      yes, they all dream of a breakfast
at tiffany's... and i'm john paul the 2nd, and
     henry viii was a joke nursery rhyme
  when charlie bid farewell to diana...
there was no:
         divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived...
there was only a car-crash... you can't make
    a king out of swine... well... you can... Sweyn...
                  but **** me... and i thought i was naive...
guess the ***** didn't kick in when it was supposed
to; once true journalism became the ****** of what
was once the ****** of the people...
             religion... journalism these days is rotten,
it's an Aristophanes to what's really happening
defined by Socrates... it's a schoolyard...
  journalism these days is best defined by Aristophanes;
and who's the globe-trotting-gobbler of all misfits
is not the would-be diarist of returning back to
the local, the usual, the sanctimonious mundaneness
of it all; you **** only once in your life,
you end up having a **** the rest of the time,
either with your hand, or with another body.

oh i'm not bothered about the "perverts"
(funny how only men are concerned with
being named that) -
                               that are watching you,
those third party incisors of
             the bony-**** (hey, you
could be yodeling **** by now) -
                          what i'm
worried about are the perverts that provide
the "perverts" with material,
it's all very much a Turning test...
               that robotics testing ground
of: i can't keep eye contact...
   the lesser privy of psychiatry?
eye contact and biting your nails...
if that can be engaged with and subsequently
avoided:
you're as chirp as chips! honey b.
          can anyone white
feel glamorous using language in order
to tell a joke?
   that's not the question, the question is:
why call it witty comedy...
     but still employ canned laughter?
it's discouraging, i don't know when the joke comes,
all i know is that the editor finds it funny
as that particular time,
                    and that's when he inserts canned
laughter... you can get it with the most
"witty" comedies there are...
  a bit like black girls trying to be white without
the frizz of afro curbing the afro with vaseline...
i've seen catfights over this "third limb"
scenario... afro is no go in catholic schools...
you have to... yum... cow lick that ****
into place... use vaseline...
      and that's an advert-and-a-half.
but you know what really ****** me off?
philosophers... they attacked poetry because
they couldn't care two-****'s worth about
whether language could be musical
or simply communicative... they're the ones
that wrote books without using
grammatical words such as verb, or noun,
because they made them excuses to
their muddles when hoarding from poetry
words of equivalent categorical weight
such as metaphor... so attacking the practice
of poetry, but then encouraging
the categorisation of the spoke
with poetic categories rather than grammatical
categories? can i see Hegel use a noun?
no... but i can see Heidegger using
  the metaphor with two labourers utilising
a hammer... that's the thing concerning
a building site: you either pass the time
tellings jokes... or you don't work
on a building site and hold a hammer
  and question whether someone else might need it...
philosophy is not about the existential dittoing
of the i...
    it's a book, but there's a new category of pronoun
due to universal bewilderment once childhood
finishes... ? opened the door, in stepped !
and said:
     shouldn't we make the stillness of the lake
into a mirror to banish but at the same time
          domesticate narcissus -
yes, replied ?, i'm glad you thought of it...
               domesticating demigods...
                    narcissus was a stillness of a lake,
sisyphus was a stone,
    hercules was bicep,
              achilles was a tendon...
                                       our current affairs are far
from democratic, but at least our history is,
  you get ******... you get protractor...
you get mona lisa... you get 'let 'em eat croissant!',
       too many points of divergence
  in a democracy to craft a convergent "democracy",
what the politics says is that we are all
slaves to what's called a *status quo
,
  i hate the fact that western "democracies" are
no longer tagged as merely status quo...
abuse of nouns... or how philosophy attacked poetry
and never spoke a theory concerned with
language per se being evidently categorised...
     how status quo is actually a -nomer without a mis-
of democracy...
  funny, the spanish... i have no idea
why can i have some ice-cream?
      has to become ?can i have some ice-cream¿
           i guess it's like the english " and '...
  who said what, and who said what for whom?
    is there a narrator?
      is that " + 1 people speaking, or quoting a quote?
or is that direct convo... '   ',
later retelling the tale "     ",
and after that it's all but an urban myth
akin to the kentucky fried mouse...
                the French that blè blé blé blé....
and somewhere in between was the Transylvanian comma...
hmm...
                             i mean... the perverts...
   thanks for the invitation, r.s.v.p.; of sure, great mixtape...
funny thing is... i never filmed myself jerking off...
        i do a 3-in-1... take a ****, take a ****... and
clean the ****-talk ducts of banal sprechen while
      watching a monkey strutting down memory lane
of when i had a girlfriend... and had to juggle,
and go for lunch, and this that and the other,
and a dalmation... or the reflection: but i had a mother...
huh?     i never felt this much ingratitude
for occupying the premises of the oval chamber
as i did creating a signature or inserting
  myself into the least convenient space to have
later come out off using only one digit's worth of
accountability... but hey... that's life.
          are you feeling the guilt trip drug pushed
by your mother from Syria, or Somalia?
     you owe her! you parasite... makes easier argument
for the billion Blue Indians and Chinese to get on
with it and eradicate the over-sensitive ivory dodo;
or at least in Siberia with the mongols...
              so i'm guessing eskimo is the new
                        squint to what's butchery ethics in Kosovo
as: look away... nothing to see.
               still... why call it a witty comedy when
you nonetheless have to utilise canned laughter?
             and that's a novel in itself...
? went up the stairs and ? met ! questioning <
whether ? should be questioning <... instead ! suggested
that ? should be questioned by >, since ? was already
on the 1st floor, having ascended the stairs from
the ground floor...         can you write me
     a novel... replacing all the correct pronoun usage
with mathematical ambivalence structured toward
a mostly unread existential dogmatism using
  mathematical punctuation?
no one will read it...but hey... either you do something
like that... or own a dog or a cat...
           and yes, they call them diacritical marks
when they're within letters... but in between letters?
they call them punctuation marks within words...
or the microcosm of punctuation: syllabification...
          the French just gobble down a lot of
  deviation... mon fhhhhhhhhhhhhré!
don't ask me how they do it... ask Nápŏlyon,
yes, the half-wit from Li-ą... oh no... not
                                               Monsieur Dynamite.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
i think she still appreciates the fact that i'm visiting her in
the brothel after a "gruelling" shift...
that i still have the energy to come to her for:
i figured it out! finally! a way to avoid any erectile dysfunction
without a quick-and-easy fix...
******* for four days prior to actual interacoure:
without climaxing: that's called channeling the ******...
unlike the medieval medicinal practices of draining
blood via leeches...
tiredness also helps to stimulate the member...
and? no hard alcohol... glory-laps around the park
at Goodmayes... and via Huxley Drive...
drink 75cl of 7.2% cider...
when take three glorious sips of whiskey
drowned in Pepsi chaser...
right... the nerves aside... now i can focus on slapping
that glorious fat *** of hers...
oh... so that's why i climaxed so early last time?
i almost forgot... she most certainly forgot...
she was groaning more when performing oral *** today...
why? i noticed she forgot that: even as an uncircumcised
male... i built up a tactic of folding back the *******
exposing an imitation circumcision phallus...
it makes me last longer...
see... that's why i don't see the point of circumcision...
and all that circumcision dictates in the realm
of monotheistic religions...
a man gets circumcised: he starts waving his hands
about like a mad seagull!
a man circumcised ergo: a woman needs
to don a niqab... a man has do don a kippah...
a man has to grow a long beard...
a man needs tonsure curls...
there's need to Halal... there's need for Kosher salt...
me? nice and easy... i just peel the ******* back
and hey presto! i can peform for much longer:
mind you... for a woman's mouth? aesthetically?
an imitation of a circumcised ***** is...
well... let's just say that the first time i had *** with
Michaela i forgot that she had an orange in her hand...
an orange she ate with the zest... hence my "premature" /
too quick a "performance"...

hmm... i always thought of myself as some archetypical
closure for what a werewolf ought to behave like...
i had a decent affinity toward dogs... foxes... cats...
i come across a clever little satan-black rooftop mongrel
crossing my math: i chance a little petting of the little critter...
but it turns out i'm more vampiric in nature...
**** me: who am i *******? Transylvanian girls...
goddesses with raven hair...
in whatever shape and sizes... perhaps i'm both...
depends on which part of me feels like being
more eloquent than brute on a given day...

she's going away to Romania for a month...
i promised her that i'd see her before she left on the 28th...
i came today... i have another shift on the 18th...
West Ham... much closer...
i think i'll have to give her a little parting present...
that ****** little book of poetry i published on my own...
sign it: farewell! i've already given on to a Turkish girl...
time for Romania...

kisses... more kisses... now the tongues met...
from her opening of oral to sitting on top of me...
to the missionary...
        my god... it's not like i wasted my 20s on having
too much ***: it's like i actually did go mad
with god and now, that i'm in my masculine prime
of the age of 36... i'm finally earning enough money
to spend it on the only worth spending money on...
*** with women: no... not dates with women...
*** with women: women who enjoy having ***...
i enjoy having ***... like i enjoy petting dogs
and petting cats... the same chemicals are released into
my body... these three creatures lie side by side
in my psyche...
i enjoy a woman enjoy herself...
i like seeing her do a little dance... smile... giggle...
it's just a beautiful "thing" to watch...
esp. if her body-type has been undermined:
while you wonder at all her imperfections...
a bit of fat here... a bit of fat there...
you know you're "in" when she likes it when you slap
and pinch her *** and other places...

**** it: this is clarifying for me: it's a remedy for me...
this is therapy-scribbling at its finest...
when i was a colt... night-clubs... drinking...
always the same story...
i'd finish the night off with screaming into the night
because i was alone: i didn't manage to land a "chick"...
now? with the aid of earning money...
i finish a glorious shift at work...
i lost count with regards to how many palms
and hands and wrists of women i touched today...
i got to the brothel...
obviously i first have my walkabout with a bottle
of cider and three glugs of whiskey to relax...
i go... mind you: i figured something even better:
why? why spend money for an hour...
when you can be done in 30 minutes?
on top of that... you can have more 30 minutes
sessions than wasting your money on an hour's
worth of bollocking:
like i told Michaela today...
you'd prefer me to stay an hour? yes...
but i want to see you more often...
how about... more 30 minute sessions than
me wasting my time, your time, within the confines
of an hour?
she agreed...

reading Ovid certainly helped...
            
now: i find this comparison slightly funny...
coming back from work this Asian colt started saying:
ooh man... now all i want to do it sleep...
tall guy, by my standards handsome...
all i want to do now it sleep...
obviously i kept me mouth shut and exploded
in a giggle only the gods could have heard...
me? oh sure, sure... sleep...
me? now all i want to do is ****...

that's the difference between me in my early 20s
and me in my mid 30s...
i want my brains left on a pavement
in a scrabble-puzzle...
      at least in the ******* you can kiss...
lips... wriggle one nose against the other...
kiss the forehead...
and as she licks her lips in ecstasy you dive back
in with our lips and tongue...
and are met with the right amount of teasing
reciprocation...
oh: if it weren't for my zenith-prime...
i look at old age with such disgust: or rather:
fear... old age stands before scarier than death
itself... it's so decrepit... when modern allowances
meet up with ancient standards...
i don't want to grow old...
there's no concept of old age when it comes
to the seasons...
a winter is never old...
an autumn is never old...
turtles are perhaps unnaturally old...
but i don't want to live a life of summaries...
without any philosophical endeavours started in youth!

i thank my momentary lapse into insanity
for my chance to peer into the mouth and ****
of Sophia... and learn a thing or two...
but i don't want to drag this life
to some rancid realisation that i could have done more...
loved more...
thanked more...

carpe ******* diem...
          the parting was the worst... we just couldn't
stop kissing each other, me and Michaela...
that's how it should be: that's how relations between
women and men ought to be like:
antithetically political...
i must want to kiss her... even thought:
she might have slept with 10 other men during
the night... it doesn't: matter...
what matters is that she slept with me...

me? i wash myself prior to *******...
she looks on...
the coldest of waters to relieve my mind from
a hot fungus "tumour" sitting in place
of my ego... i almost slip out of the bath...
she dries me up with a towel...
at least she knew to dry my forehead during my
missionary stampede so i wouldn't sweat all over her...
giggling... tender... a woman turned girly:
a beautiful sight to watch:
the tower of Pisa has done enough leaning...
i'm done with already too much learning...

it's beautiful to watch...
i can go and see any variation of beauty in an opera house...
or an art gallery...
but? a woman in a brothel is like for like
with these exponents of culture...
and? if, like her, she's Romanian...
and i'm not English... and we're ******* about in England?
all the better... all the best...
it's like we have created our very own Vatican city
out of nothing except out of tenderness for each other...

change of pace...
more kisses... i'm sorry to say: i'm not sorry
that even the bodyguard ensuring the girls of the brothel
are protected looks at me with eyes and a smile
that suggests i might be his younger brother...
hey presto! no problem here...
one lover-boy is making progress...
but man: i used to get so so angry about being 21 and going
to nightclubs and not getting laid...

now? i do a shift... i go and get laid...
i come back home... relaxed:
like a shadow without a body... about to escape into the night...
it's so pleasant seeing a woman be plesured:
it's like sitting beside  river...
contemplating a metaphor of serpents wriggling
though: they way...
or the obnoxious earth-worms...
or perhaps: watching a waterfall: demanding:
where's the sea! where's the sea!

very much in the vein of Milan Kundera's
the unbearable lightness of being...
Michaela? she likes to have her eyes closed
during *******...
me? i like to have me eyes: wide-open...
two, perfectly couple dynamics...
of *******...
it rarely works when both parties like to see...
it's teasing: necromancy...
with one one party wishing to have their eyes closed...
while the other party adamant on keeping
them open...

my god: i like having ***...
it's like petting a helpless animal
it's like the 1960s revolution reignited...
into its former splendour...
there's only one greater aspect of ***:
watching a woman get pleasured...
those little nuances: grimaces,
    irks... bothersome "somethings":
when you change pace on the summit of your own
piston... shoving...
and while you're kissing... beautiful to watch...

oh man: i felt like a man...
she kept adoring my beard: kept stroking it...
she adored my chest-hair...
kept running her hands... fingers... nails... through
the foilage...
i felt like such a man with this:
very much a woman...

to hell with English girls...
                  if they're supposedly this lucky-stab of
a Pakistani offensive:
so easily duped... no... no... i'm not going to chase
that... i'm not chasing after cheap-****!
after the easily quenched...
some ******* intelligence doesn't hurt...
i don't do automaton:
                            *****-extension robotic clad
*******... shy fake-shy types...
no!
                 nein! nein! niet!
some ******* ****-worth-of-brains... seriously...
*** is good... bad *** is: no *** at all...

       i'm not going to lament the fate of women
not of my ethnicity!
idiotic enough to not know any better:
why am i to be some *******: compensating
outlet of "compensation"?
               me? i like them primed...
readily agreeable...
***** 20 *****... but kisses one lips...
i like girls like that... in one night: mind you...

I'M NOT YOUR, *******, FATHER!
i've done my duties in what English girls have kept secret:
i'm not ******* pretend-nuns!
to hell with you if you think i'm into
******* Thespians! no!
ugh... i'm irritated from the get-go...
no! **** that... i like wholesome women...
authentic women! WOMEN! not feminised-girls...
i love women... girls don't interest me...
women? Romanian, Turkish, Russian...
Thai... that sort of brood...
these are still women... anything western is
girlish...
i liked the idea of being a woman's man
when she stroked my hairy chest and gave off a purr..
i loved how: when i told her to pull back my
******* she exclaimed with a sort of: hide & seek
exclamation of: aha! that's how it works?!

there were once men and women...
as there are now ideas of what men and women were...
i think i'm of the former category...
date? date my ***... i was fiddling my fingers:
trying to find a violin in her ***-crack and ****
while she was performing oral *** on me...
the inner-side of her thighs...
***-slapping a must...
                      
i'm sorry... what?!
                 i'll be seeing her on the 18th...
this plump plum of a body that requires kisses
on the lips and tongue on tongue and kisses on
the forehead... and all the adoration that her fat curves...
even she was surprised:
i already had a hard-on for her before she
started to suckle on it...
my god... i love the sexuality of women...
it's... so... it's... so... hybrid!
so unusual... it's so make-shift...
as much as i might:
   no... i like being a man long before any envy
concerning the sexuality arrives in me...
let women be women: and Plato, Plato...
             for the love that's readily leftover in me:
for the love of prostitutes...
all the love i could ever possibly give:
i give unto them!
Travis Frank Sep 2016
The wicked candle of cindered vacations
Invites in the aroma of specials shopping
For school stationery, short-sleeve shirts
And books with which to bury boyhood.

Once scattered now reassembled,
All were dressed like occupants of a warm, neat nest,
Not a plume lent to a rebellious rise.
Barbered and beautiful in balm,
All gleamed gorgeously, save for your humble, sprouting speaker.

Naturally averse to clipping claws
And vehemently opposed to malting manes,
I slipped through the scorching Serengeti to school,
Rugged and sharp in every stride,
Intent only on ******* on the porch of prissy pigeons.

Horrified, they weighed up my Transylvanian talons,
Convinced such manifestations hail from heretic or heathen heritage.
Looking at my lumped locks with gentrified gall,
They whispered low squawks, suspecting lice.

Two metallic hand-held instruments housed in pouches and boxes
Brought my feline rebellion to its guillotined end.
marley dogwater Feb 2015
I ****** an actor
On a leather chair
His mouth evidenced
Expensive sake
And the foreign touch
Of a Transylvanian stage performer
Was not what made me feel sick
But it was
The flowers growing from his skin
Chapter XIII
Ekadashi, Nix in the Dark

From all the districts they came to witness the material effects of Gaugmela. Three days before, the Falangists under Vernarth were hit by the Ekadashi. They fasted three days before and gave themselves over to the radiations of Zeus, imposing the radiosities of the lunar movements. It is the penultimate step, there were already hours to walk through the dust that shook the heels of the Falanges. All the accoutrements and animals given over to the devotion of his soul and to his disputable faithful.

Already in the immediate circle of Gaugamela's possessions. Darius then came to cross the Tigris, organizing his troops and his harem. The Macedonians arranged the army that numbered 7,000 horsemen and 40,000 infantry. Alexander's elite heavy cavalry were the Hetairoi (Companions) and were made up of the Macedonian nobility, who accompanied Alexander in this battle and were the deciding factor in the battle. Vernarth commands the more than 40,000 infants, keeping a close relationship with the Hetairoi, with his arms twinned with divine caste. And Greek Hoplites who intervened to cover the rear of the phalanx, which Vernarth sponsored in the farthest reaches of thought of this moving stain of thousands of Macedonians singing institutional war poetry.

From the Dodecanese, Kalidona and all the central Greek archipelagoes came to pay tribute to Vernarth, accompanied by Etréstles de Kalavrita, great hero and defender along with Markos Botsaris (Chapter 6, page 36 Koumeterium Messolonghi / Palibrio USA) in this great epic. Raeder also joined his Petrobus Pelicanos, Brisehal and Strigoi from the Transylvanian transverse valleys, soon arrived from the Reign of Horcondising, after boarding his Frigate in Valparaíso. Adding the nine elements of the Megatons reviving in case they are ratified of a new Era.

They all camped five kilometers from the Rio Bumodos, on the north ***** where the moon shadows favored them of a new lunar phase, movements, ebb and flow, the influence of energy. The devotees of the clan did not attach any particular importance to it, they attach importance to these days for one reason only because these days it can enhance their devotion, so they are engaged in service. They are waiting for these days to have the opportunity to further strengthen their devotion, in order to accept the procedures at their right hand with the astrological or cosmic interpretations of the Ekadashi that can be explained by the people of the material world.

Concept infringed upon the devotees is that Ekadashi is the day when the Lord strives for greater enjoyment, to challenge incessant pain from the imbalance of the collective emotions of the attendees. And the others as an ingredient of souls that are destined for their enjoyment should try to give more energy to Vernarth and his regression parapsychological. But we must also understand that we are in the margin of life, so we should not think that Zeus extremely needs our service. He is completely self-sufficient and is in the transcendental world. But he does not leave us alone with his vague glimpses of company.

Ekadashi is a Sanskrit word that means "the eleventh first." The holiday refers to the eleventh day of the fortnight belonging to the lunar month. The moon has two fortnights in a month - The waxing phase of the moon and the waning phase of the moon, so Ekadashi falls twice a month. If we count the contest it was the first of October 1, the ekadashi is biweekly. Is worth to say; that the lunar flows would scrub their triple lunar circles from September 20 331 a. C., which is cyclically corresponding to the eleventh day of self-generation of the phenomenon. That would be crucial in the moldy veil of consecration of the Macedonian Holiness and their immortal souls.

The Falangists' minds will tend to ask millions of circular questions one after another, but it is not their great task to be busy and deal with a lot of various questions in the cold of the night. Our task is to learn to chant the Holy Name without committing ineffective offenses. And in a certain state of mind this will appear in our hearts, rather than in the concentric circle of our Hoplite shield in the defensive Hellenic rear.

An eclipse before battle
Let's go back in time momentarily to October 1, 331 B.C. That day the battle of Gaugamela took place, one of the most important in antiquity. The setting was the banks of the Bumodos River, just over twenty kilometers from Mosul (Iraq). There the Macedonian troops of Alexander the Great (356 BC-323 BC) and the Persian army of Darius III (380 BC-330 BC) faced each other. Vernarth was close to the leader, and they were playing the Dorius with the hoofs of the Steeds and they were vibrating the Sarissas spears with the dark spots falling from the top of the tinted sky, more than the foot-tapping of the sandals of their Thessalonic infants filling their glasses with greater wine Cretense not to tarnish your upstairs fears cosmological.

Eleven days before the battle, under the gaze of thousands of Mesopotamian and Macedonian soldiers, the Moon hid. Not even her benevolent lady sphinx managed to express stunned, almost disheveled before the stars that looked at her. The camp was suddenly plunged into the deepest darkness. Far from marveling and enjoying this astronomical event, the undaunted human troops of both armies interpreted it as a sign of bad omen, sensing an imminent defeat. The panic was greater among the Macedonian ranks that at that time forded the Tigris River in search of Darius III's troops. The soldiery interpreted the Dark Moon as symbolizing the advent chaos against the celestial order, so there was a marked reluctance to continue. This gesture was about to destroy the empire of Alexander the Great.

Fortunately, the Greek strategist managed to change their minds by making a very different reading of the lunar phenomenon: the divine message had to be translated as that the sun, a Macedonian symbol, was going to eclipse the moon a symbol of the Persians.

Alexander Magnus says to them:
I know that your tracks will leave visible traces of the high sky for those who do not go unnoticed. I know that your bellies will empty all your viscera to the sheer Death that is decked out by scaring its docile and nascent hair, like seeds germinated without the freshness of the unruly Sun, yet atoned for in the bowels of the prophecies of the augur.

In spite of everything, the arrogant Macedonian must not have them all with him because he summoned Aristandro, his personal necromancer, in his tent, and asked him to make a sacrifice to the god Phobo, the god of fear and horror. The augur inspected the entrails of the slaughtered animals and assured Alexander that fortune was on his side and he would achieve victory. The prophecy had to reassure the bulk of the army, since the next day they set off, moving away from the bank of the Tigris River, looking for the confrontation against the Achaemenid hosts.
In the Battle of Gaugamela the Macedonian army showed its teeth and twitched the profiles of the Persian temples and their lodge. The cavalry enveloped the Persian troops on their right, penetrating to the heart of the army creating the devastating effluvium that frozen the impression of the eternity of an empire and its empty policy. Darius III intuited that his life was at risk in the face of this contingency, and he fled a horrifying flight, which created a greater confusion among his troops, definitively unbalancing the result of the fight against Alexander the Great. Vernarth, their main commander, before Darius was filled with the worst fear, stormed his own scythe carts and shot the troops head-on, many of the scattered victims being severed. He sprinkled first-degree alcohol on their heads to leave them out in the open and posterity would come the Goddess of the night Nix, spilling sour macerated petals on all of them to bury us in the imprecations of the God Erebus in the deep light devoid of the calm margin of redeeming them of chaos.

Over the sea of crushed earth, beneath the surface of Gaugamela, their floods of elusive phlegm ran through the catacombs, the hurried insectaries of the underworld of the god Tartarus fled. Nix is usually depicted as a winged woman dressed in a black cloak covered in stars. She drives a cart drawn by two horses and normally, her twin sons Hipnos and Thanatos accompany her, here they ran everywhere, to attest the regrets of the Hoplite Phalangists, after being invaded by mythological forces of the Achaemenides. His powers were believed to be superior to those of any other god (believed to even arouse the fear of Zeus) and his worship occurred throughout Ancient Greece. Normally, consecration rituals were performed with roosters and black sheep since it was believed that their singing disturbed the stillness of the nights. Its sacred animal was the owl and its symbolic plant, the ****** poppy. Greek myths believed that when Nix emerged from Tartarus to the surface of the earth, night took place while day suffered from shyness.

Saint Corinth night
The Acrocorintus was a citadel with a triple line of walls, which according to mythology would have corresponded to the sun god Helium, in the dispute it had with Poseidon (god of the seas), who was assigned the Corinth isthmus. of the referee of the contest, Briareo, who was a Hecatónquiro (giant that had fifty heads and a hundred arms) according to the story of the Greek historian Pausanias. The Acrorintus was located on the steep mountains in the south of the city, where the temple of the goddess Aphrodite and the fountain of Pyrene were, and which was larger than Corinth itself, so it could serve as a refuge for the inhabitants if were invaded. It was also the target of the destruction of the Roman consul Mumio, and later rebuilt.

Laus Iulia Corinthiensis, colony of that time in one night under the maroon influence of the blizzard of millions of Fireflies, invaded all the fields of Macedonia. Some of these super noctulizing species migrated from the poles fainting before the Dodona oracle in the twilight that espouses the night of the day in vicious reconciliation. They entered the oracle sworn by civilizations 650 B.C.

The night of Saint Corinth is the vision that a Chrysalis had when observing a Firefly in the center of the barley fields. The oracles at Dodona were performed by interpreting the sounds of the sacred oak and the flight of pigeons. In the middle of the 4th century BC., the athenian Demón mentions another tradition on the oracle of Dodona: he related that from the ceiling of the temple of Zeus hung a series of cauldrons or tripods closely together. Since the temple lacked walls, the wind beat the cauldrons and its sound was what had to be interpreted by the priests or priestesses who appropriated their non-transferable powers, creating a cosmogony of appropriation of illegitimate powers, aggressively changing the destiny of those who came closer to the oracle. Event that was marked in the last minute of the dogma, when everything leaned towards the omen of overcoming an entire almost subdued civilization of mythology turned into an imminent reality, which vividly demonstrated an environment of tangible and prosperity in Gaugamela having made a myth reality like the Dodona and its chrysalis.

It is interpreted by the priestesses, as a harbinger of the common preservation of the Egyptian and Greek theological bastions. But above all of the Dodona, who anticipated the facts, come to reappear according to the forces of nature in Guagamela, which he would risk in 331 BC. C. In all those faithful to Vernarth, presuming to be always loyal in the first and last line, when the oracle entered them by the temples and stole their entrails with doves, later it deposited panting to all equally in the tops of the oaks getting ready to enunciate to the same oracle what was going to happen one day, that year in Gaugamela. Chrysalis hotbeds bathed in a field humor of St. Corinth were always seen fluttering when the Oracle was invoked to the one who came in the name of Vernarth coming from Sudpichi.

To be continued… / under edition.
THIS IS THE LAST SECOND CHAPTER
A dream took shape, defined by the contours of the hole
you cut into the fog when you left that night.
You were walking on a dark cobbled street,
the drizzle coming down like sheets of silk,
the pale streetlight reflecting in the sheen
of the cobbles your gentle footfalls fell upon.
A man in a flatcap holding a skull-handled cane
smoking a cigarette with strong, yellow-tipped fingers,
watched as you ambled past his eyeline and down the hill.
He looked up to me, threw me a wink across the distance
and turned to follow you, his slippers sliding on the cobbles.

He disappeared from view and soon I heard the shrill
call for help come from your hastily muffled mouth,
but I just stood there and waited for the cries to die,
becoming drowned out by the drizzle pitter-pattering
upon the old cobbles and the stone wall lining the street.
The man came back up the hill, breathing heavily,
a line of blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth,
and he stood back under his solitary streetlight,
lit another cigarette and threw me another wink,
licking his lips and giving me a secret freemasonlike nod.
I picked up the shovel resting against my thigh…

When I woke, I thought of vampyres from the near east,
Transylvanian midnight hunters longing for the blood of virgins
to soothe the burning pain flowing in their centuries-old veins.
Still wearing my overcoat, I stood up and looked out the window,
overlooking the gaslighted cobble street enshrouded in fog,
the cemetery across the street, the stone wall doused in drizzle,
and I swear I could see the hole you left behind your body
as it vacated by world to find a new life to forage from.
I tapped out the dottle in my pipe, stuffed in fresh tobacco,
and lit the pipe, creating a large plume of smoke that quickly filled the room,
indistinguishable from the world-weary fog crawling beyond my window.

And then I saw the man in the flatcap, the cigarette hanging from his lips,
bent down from the rain, surely much too hard to gain anything from it,
but the smoke did indeed snake its way up into the air from the end,
like snakes of blue that decided gravity was far too cumbersome to believe in,
ready to escape the atmosphere and find a better way of living.
I began to feel empathetic for the smoke when I noticed the focus of the man’s gaze;
the window I was now standing at, where I too was smoking and gazing,
and he threw me a wink across the distance followed by an almost imperceptible nod.
I dropped my pipe, the wood splitting upwards along the shank,
almost shearing the tenon, but none of this I noticed as I stepped away from the window
that allowed the figment of a dream to gaze upon me and for I to gaze upon him.

I sat on my bed for an indescribable length of time, planning to stand up,
find the courage to step towards the window again to lay me hallucination to rest,
but the smoke must have still been stirring in my eyes because tears flowed,
and all I could think of was that figure of you disappearing into the fog
and how I let you disappear without saying but a word, without so much as a fight,
to try to convince you that I could change and that I was ready to change for you.
I may as well have picked up a shovel and started digging your grave,
or would that hole in the ground have my name upon the headstone?
Whatever recourse led me to this situation, I was surely now stuck
with no mode of transport available to allow me to venture to other pastures,
to view upon other cobbles, ones not lined by a cemetery,
ones not housing an hallucination that smokes snakes and winks and nods.
But here I am, wearing an overcoat in my bedchambers, dreaming of you,
because that is all you are now, walking away into the fog of a memory.
Travis Frank Sep 2018
The wicked candle of cindered vacations
Invites in the aroma of specials shopping
For school stationary, short-sleeve shirts
And books with which to bury boyhood.

Once scattered now reassembled,
All were dressed like occupants of a warm, neat nest,
Not a plume lent to a rebellious rise.
Barbered and beautiful in balm,
All gleamed gorgeously, save for your humble, sprouting speaker.

Naturally averse to clipping claws
And vehemently opposed to malting manes,
I slipped through the scorching Serengeti to school,
Rugged and sharp in every stride,
Intent only on ******* on the porch of prissy pigeons.

Horrified, they weighed up my Transylvanian talons,
Convinced such manifestations hail from heretic or heathen heritage.
Looking at my lumped locks with gentrified gall,
They whispered low squawks, suspecting lice.

Two metallic hand-held instruments housed in pouches and boxes
Brought my feline rebellion to its guillotined end.
whose whorish sympathies stand sympathetically U.H.F.-**** loyal
under 9 uncut lines of serrated sheets wrapped in ultra-thin torn foil
that begets London turds with high-brow claims of being born royal
Saxon, impaled not in vampyrical Vlad's Transylvanian-forlorn soil
that has the gas to make Star Trek vaginal sluice Michael Dorn boil
tonylongo Apr 2020
If old Mister Morte comes a knock-knock-knockin’ at your door,
Or just won’t lay off the intercom buzzer,
You tell that old misery one or more of the following
And you’ll be just fine.

1. I died at the office.

2. (In Transylvanian accent) Sorry to disappoint you, but I got here first and she’s mine. MINE! BWAA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!

3. Hi! Have you got one minute to talk about the endangered Guatemalan vicuna?

4. Sure, just give me a second to slip out of this body into my true pandimensional form….ssssssssssss……

5. Can’t come right now, me and hubby are quarantined….oh, it’s for him….okay.
There's passion on your flabby backside like beans burnt in corn oil
******* on the flip side of your thorax like ****** with a horn coil
whose whorish sympathies stand sympathetically U.H.F.-**** loyal
under 9 uncut lines of serrated sheets wrapped in ultra-thin torn foil
that begets London turds with high-brow claims of being born royal
Saxon, impaled not in vampyrical Vlad's Transylvanian-forlorn soil
that has the gas to make Star Trek vaginal sluice Michael Dorn boil

— The End —