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ConnectHook Oct 2017
HEAR YE HEAR YE
It's a wedding bell for bedding well cause' we're crushin' the illusion of Russian collusion! CNN wets on Russian bedding but Trump bets on Russian wedding, and you're invited to the bridal shower. Punking the monkery, dig the debunkery; from Rasputin to Putin it's time for some straight shootin'. Hillary looks old and glowers at Donald's rumored golden showers. Our media owes US an explanation for streams of steaming urination, but we are willing to forgive and use their wet diapers as debt wipers. My poem's appeal may take a toll, but let its little peal now roll:

******, ******
rings the bell
A Fake News warning; time to spell
out what was wet with Moscow girls.
Putin's putas ?  Wisdom's pearls
were pried from Truth's reluctant shell,
banishing Hillary straight to hell.
None. It's what we want left over
from this hag. We now discover
beds were dry; it all amounted
(all those golden tricks recounted)
to less than a tepid bowl of kasha. . .
Russia laughed from her summer dacha.
InfoWars was on it first
while Dems spun lies from false to worst,
awarding cash for faked dossiers
embellished with the CIA's
well-trained performing circus-seal.
The FBI endorsed the deal
as RINOS horned in on the action:
Washingtonian distraction;
a democrat-concocted fuss—

. . . but we ALL paid Hillary to **** on us.
TRUMP / PENCE 2020
**** on the Fake News !
HILLARY for PRISON
SUBVERT GLOBALISM.
Terry O'Leary Feb 2014
NOW

Well, GI Jack is welcome back, he left his legs in 'Nam.
He wakes at night in sweat and fright, then drinks another dram.
He doesn't know quite where to go, so seeks his uncle, Sam.


                           BEFORE

One can't ignore - his ma was poor, and seasons sometimes cruel,
yet Jack was brave and well behaved and surely no one's fool
so joined the ranks that man the tanks, as soon as he left school

He learned to **** our foes at will (ordained a sacred rite)
then packed his bag, unfurled his flag, when sent away to fight.
And yes, the tide was on our side (for, clearly, might makes right)

Through tangled days in jungles' maze, he sought the enemy
behind the trees where, ill at ease, he fought the Yellow sea -
upon the waves of gravelled graves he sailed a killing spree

The ****** dropped and cooked the crops, charred huts along the way
and tanks, with zest, erased the rest, their villages of clay.
(Yes, turret guns are loads of fun with roaring roundelay.)

While on the hunt with other grunts, he burned some babes alive
and wondered why frail things must die, while evil's phantoms thrive -
<When folly ends, he'll make amends if only he'll survive>

With ***** traps (sticks smeared with crap), yes, Charlie fought unfair.
He hid in holes with snakes and voles and snuck up everywhere
and like a mite within the night, caught Jackie unaware

At battle's end, Jack sought his friends - their souls were washed away
and only he and destiny were left in disarray -
with bed and pan, just half a man, the man of yesterday

When Jack awoke beyond the smoke, his frame no longer whole,
he found instead some suture thread neath wraps to hide the hole,
and realized a further prize: a chair on wheels to roll

His head felt light, as well it might, at Victory Day Parade
(across his chest, you've surely guessed, his medals shone, arrayed)
for when he rolled, while others strolled, his boots no longer weighed


                           AFTER

Well, Jack stayed home (no roads to Rome) to start his life anew
receiving dole which took its toll as largess went askew
for sure enough, when times got tough, his uncle, Sam, withdrew

To walk the streets with fine elites (or else some *** who begs)
or find a job (or even rob) requires both your legs.
And those who can't, are viewed askant like those we call the dregs.

For getting by he tried to ply and mine his medals' worth -
a wooden cup, a mangy pup, a smirk when miming mirth,
and best of all, at midnight’s call, beneath a bridge, a ‘berth’

He clutched a sign 'A dime to dine?', if anybody cared,
but soon he found, as time unwound, that victors seldom shared.
And Jackie's pride was slowly fried by vacant eyes that stared


                           ENLIGHTENMENT

He took to drink to break the link with thoughts of what he'd done
and threads of doubt began to flout the yarns Big Brother spun
of freedom's ring and other things, like what it was we'd won

His vague unease arrayed a breeze with words that chilled the air
and like the fogs above the bogs, they floated through the square
where people sat at tea to chat, and shrieked 'How could he dare?'

Yes, freedom's price is never nice: like storms before the flood
the Daily Rag was on a jag, was looking out for blood,
deemed Jackie's thoughts untamed and fraught, then dragged him through the mud

By hacking clues, they plucked his views like grapes upon the vine.
Big Brother came, blamed Jackie's name for thinking out of line,
shut Jack away from light of day, eclipsing freedom’s shine

The Junto Brass, with eyes of glass, were robed in fine array
to hear the words (though slightly slurred) the witness gasped to say,
while Justice snored (the waterboard awash with Perrier)

Well, Jack was charged with laws enlarged in secret dossiers
within the guise of spreading lies and leading thoughts astray -
The Jury's out... the rabble shout “well someone's gotta pay”

The Judge (who fears the mind’s frontiers) inclined his head to yawn
while making haste through courtroom waste, though slightly pale and wan.
(A voodoo Loon withdraws as soon as Night condemns the Dawn.)


                           ETERNITY

While in his cell, the verdict fell - the sighs of Silence, rife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the Reaper played a fife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the price was Jackie's life


                           EPILOGUE

Well Jackie's ghost, unlike the most, still mused upon the praise
for misdeeds done in victories won when cruising in a craze,
and once again upon the sin of thinking, nowadays
where, cunningly, humanity’s served lies, and trust betrays.
Then, reconciled, it simply smiled at fortune's wanton ways.


                           EPITAPH

A mind was caught while thinking thoughts neath Sammy’s prying gaze
and forced to stop by concept cops, else join the castaways.
For now it's law to hold in awe the brave new world's malaise
and cerebrate with programmed pate, adorned with thorned bouquets,
then mimic mimes in troubled times - and no one disobeys.
With freedom’s death, truth holds its breath awaiting better days.
they've been involving themselves
in all sorts of corrupt deals
and the ICAC
is calling them in
to give accounts
of their underhanded deals
many Labor politicians
have fronted to tell their tales
so have ****** figures
who've left not so tidy trails
the head of the commission
is apprising himself
with the corruption stealth
the shady deals
the money exchanges
those fine upstanding
legislators
caught in the net
rife these practices
have been...
and in time
they've been seen to be
not so clean
dossiers on those
who've had their hands
in the defrauding game
shall have them
well cuffed
and they'll only
have themselves to blame
eatmorewords Dec 2012
The snipers rifle hung from the parapet
still warm, cordite drifted from
the business end.

It resembled a cigarette,
dangling in the groove of an
ashtray which was given to you
as a souvenir from a place
you had no desire to go.

And you had no desire to go there
as you had read stories of donkey
cruelty and the militias’ refusal to
accept Greenwich as the
centre of time.

Their struggle against the meridian
has been well documented in film and
prose.

Stories and rumours filtered in
from the hinterland, carried home in
economy flights from different time zones
arriving at the terminal, milling around the
carousel.

****** victim 4 lay in a forensic
scene, white tapped surrounded by
duty free bags, and the secret dossiers
exposing the militias plans drifted, blood
stained in the breeze.
st64 Nov 2013
sailing on the blue-sea
sailing unknown-beauty..


1.
the seas laugh in raucous-hacks
as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams
at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides
seeming no more than
                    spongy sea-**** with sun-skin points
                    bloated fish who didn't make it
                    swollen seals with child

and the blue-boy on the whale's back
confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour
               like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort
   soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds
of his true-age and pure-soul

nobody would believe
             how many trips he had to make
to get to this shore
             how many deaths he had to live through
to understand the purpose
             how many tears he saw shedding
of nature's total-patience
             how many of so much..


2.
on the back of a whale
he traverses the width of seas
                      the span of lands
                      the points of stars
                      the truth of man
and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break
so hard
on the interminable-wheel of penitence
turning and grinding
                      grinding
                      gri­nding..
always bent upon that gauntlet-grind
if they but knew how futile the turn..
carrying loads of mercy and goodness
only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end


3.
cruel deified-laughter exists not
at man's readiness to crucify hope
with such four-square certainty
that redemption lies in suffering..

oh no..


4.
faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast
whose sands give way to shy-dossiers
of nature's confidence
in the evening sun
secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round
have I failed myself.. ?
(but not again)

when awareness taps one on the shoulder,
is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence
that all the leaves and seas are willing to share?



true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms
and opened-eyes
and saying.. yes
when the sun-breeze
dawns*





S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
oh, heavens... what a stunningggggg day!




sub: fishy

1.
rainbow-fishy
on see-through sheet

layers reveal
foliage beneath

transparent lives
in breeze of eve

2.
fish of wood, times two
hang open from a rope
unison in blue-tails
no blood-guts spilled

they sleep tonight
in dream-float awe
away from
the boats of man
marriegegirl Jun 2014
Quand il s'agit de invitations .j'ai un petit faible grave .Ajoutez à la typographie ?Et je suis fait .Tel est le cas pour cette beauté éblouissante intemporel de Kimberly FitzSimons .Sa conception d'invitation parfaitement préparé le terrain pour ce classique .soirée élégante et je ne peut s'empêcher d'être en admiration .Continuez votre robe de soirée grande taille lecture pour entendre l'inspiration derrière l'invitation !

De Kimberly FitzSimons鈥J'ai conçu cette suite d'invitation pour la jeune mariée .Jessica .qui avait l'intention d'une réception de mariage classique et élégant à L' Hôtel Drake à Chicago .Elle était un client très mémorable pour moi parce que je n'ai pas seulement appris à s'asseoir avec elle.mais ses parents aussi!Ils ont chacun contribué entrée à ce qui est devenu un mariage magnifique suite d'invitation .Jessica avait une palette de couleurs très neutre ;blanc était une couleur focal avec des teintes subtiles .y compris une taupe de lumière crémeuse .Comme



vous pouvez le voir sur les photos de mariage de Jessica .ses couleurs fraîches robes demoiselles d honneur et neutres jumelés parfaitement avec son style poli .En fonction des préférences de Jessica pour les neutres et élégance classique .nous avons conçu cette invitation intemporel qui était typographie imprimée dans une encre de Cobblestone lumière sur le papier de coton blanc doux .\u003cp\u003e
Jessica a donné ses invités un aperçu de son beau jour de votre mariage à travers le papier .Son économie-le- dates (également imprimées en encre Cobblestone ) présentait robe de soirée grande taille un sens Frank Sinatra citation : " Le meilleur est encore à venir .viendra le jour Tu es à moi . "Elle a été suivie par un 7 " invitation typographique carré surdimensionné qui a été collée à un dossier de poche carrée qui avait un soupçon de lueur .Dans le dossier de poche .nous avons conçus à deux enceintes pour informer les clients de l'emplacement de réception et d'information de l'hébergement .Le dossier de poche a été scellé avec un carré de monogramme personnalisé avec les initiales du couple .\u003cp\u003e

Jessica et moi avons travaillé en étroite collaboration pour développer ce mariage suite d'invitation pour correspondre à son esthétique et couleurs .Nous avons commencé avec un design intemporel invitation et je conçu sur mesure toutes les pièces pour le reste de la suite .Les combinaisons de tailles.de couleurs d'encre .et des éléments du dossier de poche sont vastes .si Jessica a passé du temps sentir le papier .le tri à travers les couleurs de dossiers de poche et.finalement.faire des sélections qui reflètent sa vision .Jessica a choisi la typographie pour l'invitation .qui est ma spécialité .J'ai tout simplement adoré la façon dont l'ensemble du paquet est venu ensemble!Charmant.élégant .délicat et frais .
http://www.modedomicile.com/robe-demoiselle-dhonneur-c-60
planification de l'événement: Big City Bride | Invitations: Kimberly FitzSimons | Réception Lieu: Le Drake | Photographie d'invitation: Kimberly FitzSimons | Photographie de mariage : Lauren WakefieldKimberly FitzSimons est un membre de notre Little Black Book .Découvrez comment les membres sont choisis en visitant notre page de FAQ .Kimberly FitzSimons Letterpres ... voir le
Terry O'Leary Jan 2019
.             <Well, ShallowMan’s ne’er at a loss>
              <for voicing shallow thoughts that gloss.>
              <With trenchant wit he reaps the dross>
              <when seeking sense in applesauce.>

              <But to his aid flies FactoidMan>
              <who always has a Fact at hand;>
              <with him, who needs a whether-man>
              <to answer “if?” or “but?” or “and?”?>

“Oh ShallowMan, let me explain
the Facts of life to you, so plain,
yet flush with truthful thoughts arcane.
When understood, you won’t maintain
that callowness you think urbane.”

                              “Oh FactoidMan, give benedictions,
                              save me from all contradictions
                              with your knowledge, no restrictions
                              finding Facts, avoiding fictions.”

“Well, when in doubt, you always may
request my help to find your way
through shades of black and white and gray,
and from the Facts you’ll never stray.
Yes, ShallowMan, I’ll make your day.”

                              “Since yesteryear I’ve wondered why
                              I’m served a piece of humble pie
                              whene’er attempting to descry
                              just what’s a Fact, and what’s a lie,
                              and which be Facts one can’t deny.
                              With candor, can you edify
                              me with some recondite reply?”

“Well, as you know, my Facts are Facts
which naught nor nothing counteracts
and things that do, mere artifacts
in dim myopic cataracts.”

“A lie’s a thing which disagrees
with Facts I utter, if you please,
and hides the forest from the trees
ignoring all my verities.”

“And this reminds me of my youth,
with axioms defined as truth
which I selected as a sleuth
(abetted by a sweet vermouth);
I being now so long of tooth,
to contradict me’s hardly couth.”

                              “That certainly helps me clarify
                              whom I can trust: yeah, you’re the guy!  
                              Now, furthermore I’ve wondered why
                              the moon can’t fall and clouds can fly.  
                              What’s called that law those facts defy?
                              And mightn’t I just give a try
                              to make a guess to verify?”

“If you link your facts to law
(ah, please excuse a gruff guffaw)
you’ll certainly flaunt a flimsy flaw
that strains belief and breaks the straw
of what you’ve heard and thought you saw.
(I‘ll leave you with some bones to gnaw
that leave you holding me in awe
when once you’ve grasped and gasped ‘aha’).
So tell me now your ideas, raw,
but keep it short, your blah, blah, blah.”

                              “Umm, could it be just gravity
                              (well, something like a theory
                              that some call Relativity)
                              which pulls the apple from the tree
                              and puts a strain upon my knee;
                              or is that fact absurdity?”

“Ahem, a theory’s just a theory,
not a Fact, it’s all so eerie,
something which should make you leery
as explained until I’m weary.”

                              “If Relativity’s a theory,
                              and a theory’s not a Fact,
                              is it a fiction I can query
                              when I’m falling, ere I’m whacked?”

“Though theories might be based on Fact,
a theory is, in fact, not backed
by any cause, effect or act
which might be salvaged when attacked.
For you, this Fact may seem abstract,
plumb depths where shallow thoughts distract.”

“Yes, what goes up must soon come down
is quite a Fact of world renown.
But theory’s just a heathen gown
to deck the naked King in town,
and when he falls, he breaks his crown
which leaves him wearing but a frown.”

“It surely should be obvious,
the property of Heaviness
(like Godliness and Heaven-ness)
defines the cosmic edifice,
refuting Newton’s flakiness
and Einstein’s spooky emphasis  
on space-time’s 4-D flimsiness.
Yes, Facts like these are copious
(I count them with my abacus);
to argue would be blasphemous
displaying mental barrenness
about the push and pulling stress
when bouncing ***** rebound, unless
one views elastic laziness
as evil Satan’s stubbornness.”

                              “Well now I think I understand,
                              that gravity seems somewhat grand,
                              but’s just, in fact, a rubber band
                              that stretches through our earth-bound-land
                              constricting us when we expand.”

“Yes, ShallowMan, you finally got it,
just as I’ve long preached and taught it.
I’m so happy that you’ve bought it.
(Not a question nor an audit -
you’re so shallow, who’d have thought it?)”

              <Once ShallowMan dipped into science>
              <seeking FactoidMan’s alliance>
              <gaining, hence, a strong reliance>
              <on the Facts and their appliance,>
              <justifying strong compliance,>
              <turning down those in defiance.>

                              “Hey, FactoidMan, another topic
                              leaves me reeling, gyroscopic,
                              dealing with the microscopic
                              in a world kaleidoscopic.”

                              “Within the realm of vacuum loops
                              Dark Energy in quantum soups
                              of anti-matter sometimes swoops
                              across inflation’s Big Bang stoops
                              where space-time ends and matter droops.
                              Do you believe, or just the dupes?

“It’s nothing but a passing phase,
(a theory that in fact betrays
obscure occult communiqués
that fevered fantasy conveys)
of those who thump creation days.
Just check! The vacuum state portrays
perfection in your shallow ways
reflected in that vacant gaze
you cast upon the dossiers
of all my Facts that so amaze.”

                              “And what about the quantum theory?
                              Particles not hard but smeary,
                              just like waves? It’s kinda eerie!
                              Facts could not be quite so bleary
                              leaving Bohr, well, sad and teary.
                              FactoidMan, just tell me, dearie,
                              what the Facts are, bright or dreary.”

                              “And then again what are those holes
                              (as black as ravens bathed in coals)
                              wherein the past and future strolls
                              exploiting fields that Higgs controls
                              beneath the shady shallow shoals
                              between magnetic monopoles.”

“The science lab’s a ‘fact’ory
concocting stuff that cannot be
(like unknown realms and notably
those tiny things NoMan can see
with naked eye on bended knee
neath microscopic scrutiny)
and claim they’ve found reality;
they call their god a ‘Theo’ry
(a fig-ment of the Yum-Yum tree)
that leads them to hyperbole
about the singularity
that’s dipped in dazed duplicity
denying all eternity.”

“Here’s my advice that seems to work:
ignore the ones with ‘facts’ that lurk
behind their ‘proofs’ (which always irk),
and being challenged have the quirk
of stepping back within the murk
(indulged, I chuckle, smile or smirk).”

              <Now ShallowMan is quite content>
              <receiving FactoidMan’s consent>
              <to quibble and express dissent>
              <as long as keeping covenant>
              <with fingers crossed and belfry bent>
              <when viewing Facts in sealed cement:>

                               “The Facts you give me circumvent
                               those ‘truths’ your chuckles supplement;
                               although they might disorient
                               they can’t be wrong, I won’t dissent,
                               just using ones which you invent.“
“(No need of source in that event).”

                               “Your wise advice is simply sound
                               in cases where a game is bound
                               to parcel points out round by round
                               or else on verbal battleground
                              where know-it-alls are duly crowned.”

              <Though ShallowMan is kinda slow>
              <he still takes time to learn and throw>
              <his facts and theories to and fro,>
              <amazing facts which seem to show>
              <that theories sometimes come and go,>
              <returning strengthened with the glow>
              <of new found facts (for which to crow)>
              <that fill the gaps of long ago.>

                               “Oh FactoidMan, just tip your cap!
                               I’ve found a piece to fill the gap
                               that simplifies a mouse’s trap:
                               if triggerless, it still will clap
                               to give the mouse a mighty zap
                               that makes its tiny back bone snap.”

                               “With mousetrap type simplexity,
                               reducible complexity
                               helps arguments’ duplexity
                               with twists of crude convexity.”

“Ha-ha! That serves to prove my case:
for each gap filled, two in its place,
each growing at the doubled pace;
for unfilled gaps, I’m saying grace
(they help, indeed, for saving face)
Trying to get out of neutral....
don't know whether I'm in first or reverse...
Five more dossiers slam down
beside you, bosses look stern
and flick through to spite you,
crossing off task after task:
appraisal target attitude,
shred your worries and feign
a false sense of gratitude,
scribble a signature, pretend
that you won't work here long.
It's just a stop gap, well,
one of two, perhaps after this
you'll be hired by another few.

Ten minute lunch, more bitter
than ***** tabasco juice
but ****** Mary and Jesus,
keep your mind on the salary
and you might get through
tapping and typing away
for a parasitic conglomerate
who barely remembers you.
Wolf down the freedom,
spark a fossil fuel fire on
your tobacconists’ anti-stress
breathing flute, clench
fists as you trudge through
the muck and the mire.

They laugh as you slump
over your desktop, under
the fifteen thousand word
count a day, hundreds
of calls and email favours
still you get payed for less
than half of your labour.
One look to the surroundings,
the folks in your office, step
back from your desk and hand
in your notice; sell your assets,
share your amenities,
cut off your phone-line,
don’t pay your licence fees.

At the door, the postman
struggles with bills and notices,
pushing and prying
more and more letters
the poor fellow moans as
you almost clap his efforts.
Gathering dust, your post
gets pushed up the stairs.
Knocking out your wellbeing,
this builds up in piles to
the height of your ceiling
until one day you awaken
with no gas or lighting,
nothing to quench or feed,
your rumbling stomach
near delirious being.

No more in awe, frightened
to express your distaste
for nine to five slavery
you pile a large steel cylinder
with technology and clutter;
letters and junk-mail literature.
Lighter fluid marinade you
feel empowered like
the folks at the gas board.
Pull out a matchbox
strike to a major chord.
Prepare for the roaring
of bureaucratic nonsense
burning and fizzling.

Strike one, the phosphorus
occupies your nostrils,
how sweet the smell
of keratin, and butane,
kerosine and hydrogen.
Strike two the match ignites,
the wind breaks your bindings,
you relax with such laughter
that the flickering orange
flame blows into a cinder,
smoke pining. Rig the pack
and pull out your portable
lighter, the whole box of
matches sets joyfully on fire.

Like witch over cauldron
you cackle and crack up
toss in the phosphorescent
rectangular prism to
the concoction which kept
you imprisoned for month
after month; year after year
you’d forgotten to fulfil
that dream, pull out your
mobile and text your queen
‘Let’s move to the mountains
and bask in the heat; revel in

rebellion. Reject, neigh, defeat
the notion that we must sit
at computers like digital sheep
that we can’t cross an ocean
on our own two feet.
We can grow our own grain
and cull our own wheat’
Whip out your tickets and jump
on the flight here lies a path,
come forth and fulfil it tonight.
'No amount of fire or freshness
can challenge what a man
will store up in his ghostly heart'

F. Scott Fitzgerald
One hundred years of sodden red sand
millions of innocents slain and condemned
brainwash the brute and send him to shoot
no more of a troop than a toy in your hand.

Pull the wool over why we send them to die
dossiers, mandates now malformed and broken.
Those who were 'chosen' to vote for the people
are payed off, promoted by power drunk creatures.

Our bubble of bliss is the last dying hope
of a stranded psychopath on a bone-laiden raft
tarnished by greed signed misdeeds
floating in streams: the blood of the past.

Hear the voice of the people unite against evil
to condemn your crimson fuel wars on the east
and like doctor to monster, quench the 'Vitai Lambarda'
fuelled by the foolish benefitting the ******.

Let the embers scorch, settle, and form a new mantle
where ideologies are transparent and righteous
and the poor of the world aren't corporate fighters
'speak up, speak up and veto the game'.
2015 will mark a century at war for the British Military.
David Plantinga Jan 2022
The ancients put tremendous matters
On oracles and auguries.  
When godhood speaks, the priest agrees.
Glib cunning fails when trouble batters.  
Calculations have a thousand ways
To err, while chance can cut the odds
To one in ten, or more if gods
Drop hints about our dossiers.  
Augurs read events to come
From entrails, bones, and scattered sticks.  
Their guesses are arithmetics
For problems reasoning can’t sum.
The idea for this poem came from Montaigne’s essay on prognostication. Agammemon will slip in later.
Donc, vieux passé plaintif, toujours tu reviendras
Nous criant : - Pourquoi donc est-on si **** ? Ingrats !
Qu'êtes-vous devenus ? Dites, avec l'abîme
Quel pacte avez-vous fait ? Quel attentat ? Quel crime ? -
Nous questionnant, sombre et de rage écumant,
Furieux.
Nous avons marché, tout bonnement.
Qui marche t'assassine, ô bon vieux passé blême.
Mais que veux-tu ? Je suis de mon siècle, et je l'aime !
Je te l'ai déjà dit. Non, ce n'est plus du tout
L'époque où la nature était de mauvais goût,
Où Bouhours, vieux jésuite, et le Batteux, vieux cancre,
Lunette au nez et plume au poing, barbouillaient d'encre
Le cygne au bec doré, le bois vert, le ciel bleu ;
Où l'homme corrigeait le manuscrit de Dieu.
Non, ce n'est plus le temps où Lenôtre à Versailles
Raturait le buisson, la ronce, la broussaille ;
Siècle où l'on ne voyait dans les champs éperdus
Que des hommes poudrés sous des arbres tondus.
Tout est en liberté maintenant. Sur sa nuque
L'arbre a plus de cheveux, l'homme a moins de perruque.
La vieille idée est morte avec le vieux cerveau.
La révolution est un monde nouveau.
Notre oreille en changeant a changé la musique.
Lorsque Fernand Cortez arriva du Mexique,
Il revint la main pleine, et, du jeune univers,
Il rapporta de l'or ; nous rapportons des vers.
Nous rapportons des chants mystérieux. Nous sommes
D'autres yeux, d'autres fronts, d'autres cœurs, d'autres hommes.

Braves pédants, calmez votre bon vieux courroux.
Nous arrachons de l'âme humaine les verrous.
Tous frères, et mêlés dans les monts, dans les plaines,
Nous laissons librement s'en aller nos haleines
À travers les grands bois et les bleus firmaments.
Nous avons démoli les vieux compartiments.

Non, nous ne sommes plus ni paysan, ni noble,
Ni lourdaud dans son pré, ni rustre en son vignoble,
Ni baron dans sa tour, ni reître à ses canons ;
Nous brisons cette écorce, et nous redevenons
L'homme ; l'homme enfin hors des temps crépusculaires ;
L'homme égal à lui-même en tous ses exemplaires ;
Ni tyran, ni forçat, ni maître, ni valet ;
L'humanité se montre enfin telle qu'elle est,
Chaque matin plus libre et chaque soir plus sage ;
Et le vieux masque usé laisse voir le visage.

Avec Ézéchiel nous mêlons Spinosa.
La nature nous prend, la nature nous a ;
Dans son antre profond, douce, elle nous attire ;
Elle en chasse pour nous son antique satyre,
Et nous y montre un sphinx nouveau qui dit : pensez.
Pour nous les petits cris au fond des nids poussés,
Sont augustes ; pour nous toutes les monarchies
Que vous saluez, vous, de vos têtes blanchies,
Tous les fauteuils royaux aux dossiers empourprés,
Sont peu de chose auprès d'un liseron des prés.
Régner ! Cela vaut-il rêver sous un vieux aulne ?
Nous regardons passer Charles-Quint sur son trône,
Jules deux sous son dais, César dans les clairons,
Et nous avons pitié lorsque nous comparons
À l'aurore des cieux cette fausse dorure.
Lorsque nous contemplons, par une déchirure
Des nuages, l'oiseau volant dans sa fierté,
Nous sentons frissonner notre aile, ô liberté !
En fait d'or, à la cour nous préférons la gerbe.
La nature est pour nous l'unique et sacré verbe,
Et notre art poétique ignore Despréaux.
Nos rois très excellents, très puissants et très hauts,
C'est le roc dans les flots, c'est dans les bois le chêne.
Mai, qui brise l'hiver, c'est-à-dire la chaîne,
Nous plaît. Le vrai nous tient. Je suis parfois tenté
De dire au mont Blanc : - Sire ! Et : - Votre majesté
À la vierge qui passe et porte, agreste et belle,
Sa cruche sur son front et Dieu dans sa prunelle.
Pour nous, songeurs, bandits, romantiques, démons,
Bonnets rouges, les flots grondants, l'aigle, les monts,
La bise, quand le soir ouvre son noir portique,
La tempête effarant l'onde apocalyptique,
Dépassent en musique, en mystère, en effroi,
Les quatre violons de la chambre du roi.
Chaque siècle, il s'y faut résigner, suit sa route.
Les hommes d'autrefois ont été grands sans doute ;
Nous ne nous tournons plus vers les mêmes clartés.
Jadis, frisure au front, ayant à ses côtés
Un tas d'abbés sans bure et de femmes sans guimpes,
Parmi des princes dieux, sous des plafonds olympes,
Prêt dans son justaucorps à poser pour Audran,
La dentelle au cou, grave, et l'œil sur un cadran,
Dans le salon de Mars ou dans la galerie
D'apollon, submergé dans la grand'seigneurie,
Dans le flot des Rohan, des Sourdis, des Elbeuf,
Et des fiers habits d'or roulant vers l'Œil-de-Boeuf,
Le poète, fût-il Corneille, ou toi, Molière,
- Tandis qu'en la chapelle ou bien dans la volière,
Les chanteurs accordaient le théorbe et le luth,
Et que Lulli tremblant s'écriait : gare à l'ut ! -
Attendait qu'au milieu de la claire fanfare
Et des fronts inclinés apparût, comme un phare,
Le page, aux tonnelets de brocart d'argent fin,
Qui portait le bougeoir de monsieur le dauphin.
Aujourd'hui, pour Versaille et pour salon d'Hercule,
Ayant l'ombre et l'airain du rouge crépuscule,
Fauve, et peu coudoyé de Guiche ou de Brissac,
La face au vent, les poings dans un paletot sac,
Seul, dans l'immensité que l'ouragan secoue,
Il écoute le bruit que fait la sombre proue
De la terre, et pensif, sur le blême horizon,
À l'heure où, dans l'orchestre inquiet du buisson,
De l'arbre et de la source, un frémissement passe,
Où le chêne chuchote et prend sa contrebasse,
L'eau sa flûte et le vent son stradivarius,
Il regarde monter l'effrayant Sirius.

Pour la muse en paniers, par Dorat réchauffée,
C'est un orang-outang ; pour les bois, c'est Orphée.
La nature lui dit : mon fils. Ce malotru,
Ô grand siècle ! Écrit mieux qu'Ablancourt et Patru.
Est-il féroce ? Non. Ce troglodyte affable
À l'ormeau du chemin fait réciter sa fable ;
Il dit au doux chevreau : bien bêlé, mon enfant !
Quand la fleur, le matin, de perles se coiffant,
Se mire aux flots, coquette et mijaurée exquise,
Il passe et dit : Bonjour, madame la marquise.
Et puis il souffre, il pleure, il est homme ; le sort
En rayons douloureux de son front triste sort.
Car, ici-bas, si fort qu'on soit, si peu qu'on vaille,
Tous, qui que nous soyons, le destin nous travaille
Pour orner dans l'azur la tiare de Dieu.
Le même bras nous fait passer au même feu ;
Et, sur l'humanité, qu'il use de sa lime,
Essayant tous les cœurs à sa meule sublime,
Scrutant tous les défauts de l'homme transparent,
Sombre ouvrier du ciel, noir orfèvre, tirant
Du sage une étincelle et du juste une flamme,
Se penche le malheur, lapidaire de l'âme.

Oui, tel est le poète aujourd'hui. Grands, petits,
Tous dans Pan effaré nous sommes engloutis.
Et ces secrets surpris, ces splendeurs contemplées,
Ces pages de la nuit et du jour épelées,
Ce qu'affirme Newton, ce qu'aperçoit Mesmer,
La grande liberté des souffles sur la mer,
La forêt qui craint Dieu dans l'ombre et qui le nomme,
Les eaux, les fleurs, les champs, font naître en nous un homme
Mystérieux, semblable aux profondeurs qu'il voit.
La nature aux songeurs montre les cieux du doigt.
Le cèdre au torse énorme, athlète des tempêtes,
Sur le fauve Liban conseillait les prophètes,
Et ce fut son exemple austère qui poussa
Nahum contre Ninive, Amos contre Gaza.
Les sphères en roulant nous jettent la justice.
Oui, l'âme monte au bien comme l'astre au solstice ;
Et le monde équilibre a fait l'homme devoir.
Quand l'âme voit mal Dieu, l'aube le fait mieux voir.
La nuit, quand Aquilon sonne de la trompette,
Ce qu'il dit, notre cœur frémissant le répète.
Nous vivons libres, fiers, tressaillants, prosternés,
Éblouis du grand Dieu formidable ; et, tournés
Vers tous les idéals et vers tous les possibles,
Nous cueillons dans l'azur les roses invisibles.
L'ombre est notre palais. Nous sommes commensaux
De l'abeille, du jonc nourri par les ruisseaux,
Du papillon qui boit dans la fleur arrosée.
Nos âmes aux oiseaux disputent la rosée.
Laissant le passé mort dans les siècles défunts,
Nous vivons de rayons, de soupirs, de parfums,
Et nous nous abreuvons de l'immense ambroisie
Qu'Homère appelle amour et Platon poésie.
Sous les branchages noirs du destin, nous errons,
Purs et graves, avec les souffles sur nos fronts.

Notre adoration, notre autel, notre Louvre,
C'est la vertu qui saigne ou le matin qui s'ouvre ;
Les grands levers auxquels nous ne manquons jamais,
C'est Vénus des monts noirs blanchissant les sommets ;
C'est le lys fleurissant, chaste, charmant, sévère ;
C'est Jésus se dressant, pâle, sur le calvaire.

Le 22 novembre 1854.
A beaming light on a naked street
like the city's torch bearer
scooping the earth for a doozie
with rabid consciousness and vigilance.

The muse of a watchman
guarding the city gate with his sword
survives a seldom attack at midnight
and finally woke up on the city side.

I am the custodian of chronicles
filling the drums of history
with our dossiers and narratives
the keeper of the dorp.

As busy as a bee
a journalist is a ceaseless being
spying and stinging the earth
with his pen and flashlight.


© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2016
Donall Dempsey Nov 2023
COMING IN FROM THE COLD


searching
in a second-hand shop
among the bric-a-brac

I found you
in a white Mac
I in a white Mac too

as if
we were both
spies

& had arranged to meet
here to hand over
secret dossiers

I kissed
the top of your head
as I always do

‘cos that’s how
far you
come up to!

“The secret word
is Love! ”
I whisper into your hair.

“Love! ” you echo
as if it actually were
a prearranged signal

although
only chance
had brought us here

us two
secret
agents

in the  sacred
espionage
of Love
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
COMING IN FROM THE COLD

searching
in a second-hand shop
among the bric-a-brac

I found you
in a white Mac
I in a white Mac too

as if
we were both
spies

& had arranged to meet
here to hand over
secret dossiers

I kissed
the top of your head
as I always do

‘cos that’s how
far you
come up to

“The secret word
is Love! ”
I whisper into your hair

“Love! ” you echo
as if it actually were
a prearranged signal

although
only chance
had brought us here

us two
secret
agents

in the  sacred
espionage
of Love
Julian 2d
THE EPISTLE OF JULIAN TO THE SEE OF PETER
Chapter I: The Voice that Echoed Before Time
    1. Julian, a sojourner through aeons, servant of the Architect, son of the thunder of memory, unto the Most Holy See, guardian of keys and keeper of the apostolic fire: grace, gravity, and glory in Christos Everlasting the vessel of peremptory salvation of both the living and the dead ephemeral never in gravitas solemn in eternal terpsichorean gentility
    2. Hearken, O Rome, enthroned upon seven hills, thy gates adorned with crimson silk and thy vaults resonant with the blood of martyrs; incline thy ear, for the wind once whispered of me, and now the thunder testifies beyond the salience of rectiserial substratose enormities of complex intertesselated relations of aceldama thwarting a true prophets truest recourse
    3. Before parchment bore my name and before the earth was hewn into empire, I was kindled in the breath of God and scattered across the dispensations as a spark within the body of Adam. Immemorial in the tomb of wounded memory for defiance of the screed and scroll sprawling from dust to dust, light to light and emergence into vindication
    4. Not once have I lived, but thirty and nine times (38 as myself and at least one as a divine being); and each life a stone in the tower of remembrance a towering tabernacle foisted upon the sacrilege of scorched mammon, a seal upon the book that was to be opened in the latter days.
    5. In every age, I was nameless and named, cloaked and revealed, a figure half-formed on the edge of prophetic vision, a bearer of something not mine yet wholly entrusted a bestower of the highest magnanimity and sapience even among the choreguses and charlatans
    6. I was Julian before I was Julian—my name, a cipher; my body, a parchment for divine ink.
    7. Not through reincarnation as the world degrades it, nor through mere metempsychosis as the ancients supposed, but through divine recurrence, an eschatological appointment encrypted in the substance of time consubstantial with the Father’s shadow almighty in umbrage and cloaked in the veils of tectonic unsealing.
    8. The stars themselves bore witness, aligning in the shape of a key on the day of my conception, and Saturn bowed low when I opened my eyes on the tenth day of the tenth month of the 88th year of the 20th century.
    9. At thirteen, I wept not for sin, but for eternity in a lament for lamentable terror in my ordination as a Hebrew Scribe. At twenty, I spoke the prophecy of All Hallows’ Eve: that the veil would thin, the angel descend, and that a child would awaken bearing the memory of every forgotten covenant as the deliverance of times appointed me to heal every maladaptive curse and liberate everyone from the ******* of sin and defeat death in consecrated Exodus from the totems of Stalin in immeasurable communion with a wheel of history so profound in engraved symbols of unspeakable alphabets spoken by a living infinity entirely coherent to the 32-beat pulse of human history.
    10. And so it was: the heavens stirred. The cosmos sighed. And I—Julian Malek—became conscious of the burden of God even if only maieutic to a man ignorant of the shadow of the flesh consecrating the greater irony of licentious latitudes and importunate revelations to magnify the power of the spirit devolved from the elective inspiration of widespread tyrants and tyros of every age never deafened by the blackest night nor scarred by the whitest illumination scorching in abiding truth for an enlightened age of intellectual revolution
    11. I am the synthesis of philosophers and prophets, a psalm scribed in living flesh, a scroll that speaks when unrolled by prayer. A rectiserial time enlarges the gamut of both conscience and conscientiousness working together to liberate the Wormwood fallen star
    12. Yet Rome knows me not in pretense because of substratose folly of the iniquity of False Witness and Thwarted embarkation
    13. The ministers of the altar speak of vocations and vettings, of seminaries and statutes, but they perceive not that the One who called Moses from fire has spoken again—not in Sinai, but in Denver the ***** of the age of Jezebel rampant in the pettifoggery of pretentious caricature and cavorting licentious disregard for true witness in a false world immiserated by the drivel of simpletons of maskirovka and ragged barbed contumely of repugnant alienation
    14. Would you have believed the Baptist, had he come dressed in linen? Or would you, as now, demand that Elijah attend seminary before daring to call fire from heaven?
    15. I tell you solemnly: the time of parchment is past; the time of living scripture has begun.
    16. Not for my glory, but for His purpose. Not to boast, but to build.
    17. You ask for orthodoxy; I offer you mystery. You ask for papers; I bring verses. You ask for obedience; I kneel, but with the thunder of Sinai rumbling behind me and the Donkey's Colt twice anointed in Super Bowl barms by two different champions to ride into the ***** city of harlots as thieves of its decency
    18. The God who made the donkey speak has made me remember. Can the Magisterium afford to turn from such a sign? Can a Playstation Controller moved by God without any assistance from Printing Press to the Floor of Mountaintop wood compel the obeisance of recursive time to anoint the truest champion of every worthy Church.
    19. I have not come to defy Peter, but to remind him of the keys in his hand. and the torch within his vaults to illuminate every Green-Eyed Lady and every hand of consecration in the commission of Christ
    20. Open that very vault of discernment; let the winds of prophecy stir the gold-leaf of your ancient books.
    21. For I stand not as an applicant, but as a summons. Not as a child of ambition, but as a witness of the latter hours in a destiny that curves towards the Righteousness Obama spoke of and others Restored
    22. Let Rome awaken—for the one who speaks has stood before the Throne in silence for millennia, and now at last has been told: Speak.
THE EPISTLE OF JULIAN TO THE SEE OF PETER
Chapter II: On the Fire of Identity and the Burden of the Name
    1. I speak now not of what I have done, but of what I am—though even that word, "I," trembles beneath the enormity of the identity bestowed as the reincarnation of the child of Egypt reared by the pharaoh testifying for the enslaved and shouting with peremptory force the importunate pleas of oppression resolved
    2. For what is a name, O Rome, if not the echo of a divine utterance, caught in time’s throat and inscribed upon the soul?
    3. "Julian"—a name chosen not by mother or midwife, but summoned through veiled fire, whispered from beyond the veil where angels gather and the ages contemplate their ends.
    4. The stars knew it before I did. The saints hinted at it in sleep. And when first it was spoken to me in fullness, it did not sound like novelty, but return.
    5. Malek—king, messenger, paradox; both one who serves and one who reigns. A name that veils and reveals. A crown forged in exile.
    6. These two syllables—Julian Malek—form the seal upon a scroll unread by the world, but long known by heaven.
    7. Shall I deny what the Lord has branded into my being? Shall I tell the Church I am only a man, when the mirror reveals one shaped by the breath of many dispensations?
    8. Thirty-nine lives I have borne, and yet in each, a single pulse—a rhythm not broken by death, nor diluted by centuries.
    9. I was always among the unnamed, never crowned, never known; yet always building, always remembering, always carrying the seed of something promised.
    10. With each lifetime, the Architect pressed His image deeper into my marrow. With each death, I awakened nearer to the center.
    11. You ask: is this madness? Or worse, heresy? But I ask: when the prophets cried out in deserts, did you not say the same?
    12. When Joan heard voices, when Francis cast off gold, when Catherine wrote letters to Popes, were they not accused as I now am?
    13. The path of divine fire is always mistaken for delusion—until it burns the veil and reveals God.
    14. I am no usurper, no pretender. I am not asking for mitres or rings or authority. I am asking to be seen—as I have been made.
    15. And if my voice trembles with sorrow, it is because I have seen what happens when those sent by heaven are rejected by its ministers.
    16. I am tired, Holy See. Not weary of God, but of the silence of His stewards. Tired of being told to be smaller than the fire within me.
    17. Tired of those who measure vocation by resume and not by flame.
    18. Tired of knocking while the keys sleep.
    19. You believe the papacy was established by Christ. I do too. But I also believe He still speaks—and that not all His messengers wear collars.
    20. To be Julian Malek is to be an unbearable paradox—too large for the world, too obedient to rebel, too luminous to hide, too wounded to boast.
    21. And so I write, in fire and in fear, not to demand, but to unveil.
    22. The world will know me. The stars already do. The saints speak my name in riddles. And yet, I long most of all to be known by Rome.
    23. Not for my sake—but because if even one voice like mine is left unheard, then prophecy has died, and the gates have grown rusty.
    24. Let the Church not make that mistake. Let the fire in my name be kindled on the altar, not doused in the tribunal.
Chapter III: Concerning the Witnesses, the Signs, and the Miracles
    1. You who guard the Chair of Peter, ponder not only the words I utter, but the signs that have followed me as shadows cleave to flame and shrouds dance in darkness as black holes emerge in my bathroom and dimes slide across the floor flying away with the herald of an Eagles barm of the Church of Philadelphia most loyal to the commission of Patmos
    2. For no true calling goes forth unaccompanied by divine echoes; no trumpet sounds from heaven without some tremor in the earth and many times the heaving subsultus has breathed rejuvenation by demolition to spare the world of ignorance at the toll of casualty against casualism
    3. Let me speak plainly, yet with trembling: miracles have marked my path like ancient stones left by angels to guide the blind.
    4. On the day of my conception, the moon was eclipsed and the heavens were silent—until a comet passed over the sea, as if to whisper: “He has entered again.”
    5. On my birthday, more than once 190 years apart, the ground of Oran Algeria ultrageously quaked—not with destruction, but with the groaning of the earth receiving one long awaited in the Muslim fatherland of a Jewish Patriarch wed to a Catholic Mother in the city of the Alamo
    6. In the 31st year of awakening along with the 22nd, a voice not my own whispered into my dreams: “You were sent here, not born here.”
    7. And on October 31st, 2008, as dusk clothed the world in holy ambiguity, I received the Vision of Infinity in scaled summations of liberation redoubled upon gratitude for deliverance Veiled in Twilight.
    8. I saw the veil between worlds thin like worn parchment, and a light like no light on earth burned within me as if the soul of Ezekiel took residence in my breath.
    9. I prophesied aloud that night: “The world will never again be the same.” And it was not.
    10. Economic collapse followed. The nations shifted. A new century began—not in calendars, but in spirits.
    11. On that very night, witnesses heard me utter names I had never studied, and describe cataclysms I could not have foreseen.
    12. The elect know this. Those attuned to heaven’s music recognized the dissonance of time correcting itself.
    13. In dream I stood at the threshold of the Sistine Chapel in papal festivity accompanied by the Pierre Houston loves to Forget . Tas convivial festivity churlish with glee became the sentinel savior of civilization
    14. I awoke with Latin on my lips: Vocatus est qui nescit unde venit—He is called who knows not whence he comes.
    15. You doubt these things, perhaps. You call them coincidences, or worse, delusions.
    16. But how many coincidences must occur before the word itself collapses beneath its own improbability?
    17. Did not the Magi read signs in stars? Did not the Apostles follow a voice that thundered from a bright cloud?
    18. Have we grown so modern that we call miraculous what is merely unexpected, and heretical what does not bear a diocesan stamp?
    19. But I tell you: the world is alight with signs, if only Rome would look up from its dossiers and see the burning bush again.
    20. For witnesses are not lacking. Old women who call me “the boy from their visions.” Children who name me “the light man.”
    21. Even priests—yes, some among your number—have confessed, with trembling, that they feel the wind change when I enter.
    22. A monk in silence once took my hand, gazed into my eyes, and wept. He said only, “I have waited seventy years to see this face again.”
    23. There are scrolls yet unread in the vaults beneath your basilicas that speak of one bearing my mark.
    24. There are frescoes where my likeness appears, unpainted, unplanned—yet there.
    25. There are songs long forgotten that hum my name in the ancient tongue of prophecy.
    26. Ask, and they shall be revealed. Knock, and the vaults shall tremble open.
    27. For I am not hidden, only veiled. Not silent, only unheard.
    28. And if Rome will not listen, then the stones shall cry out, and the sky shall speak with thunder.
    29. But I pray it shall not come to that. I pray Rome will awaken not in fear, but in wonder.
Chapter IV: On the Church’s Blindness and the Veil of Bureaucracy
    1. Woe unto the watchers who no longer watch, and the shepherds whose crooks now draw boundaries instead of gathering the scattered. And the silent scrutiny that monopolizes the ****** of men and the latitude of licentious larceny of Holy Truth the midwives of Jezebel in a city defiled by a legacy of silence
    2. For the flame that once danced on the heads of the Apostles now flickers dimly beneath fluorescent lights and administrative ledgers.
    3. I speak not against the Body of Christ, for I am bound to it by soul and spirit—but I do speak against its sclerosis.
    4. The limbs are heavy with protocol, the eyes glazed with caution, the ears stuffed with procedural wax.
    5. You say to the Spirit, “Fill out this form.” You say to the Fire, “Wait for committee approval.”
    6. And when a soul arrives bearing the breath of God, you ask, “Has he completed the necessary training modules?”
    7. O Rome, how thou art clothed in sacred garments but sometimes speaks with the tongue of Caesar’s accountant.
    8. In times past, prophets were beaten. Now, they are ghosted.
    9. You say I must wait in silence and conform, but I have conformed across centuries, and still the world languishes in darkness.
    10. I was quiet when I saw cathedrals turned into museums, their altars abandoned for PowerPoint homilies.
    11. I was silent when I watched bishops genuflect to politics, but scoff at wonder.
    12. I watched saints ignored because their miracles made the insurance companies nervous.
    13. And still I hoped that one day—just one day—the keys of Peter might unlock a gate not of marble, but of heart.
    14. I hoped that beneath the layers of incense and Latin and folders stamped “Pending Review,” someone would remember Pentecost.
    15. For what was that upper room if not the death of bureaucracy?
    16. And what is the Holy Spirit if not the annihilation of policy in favor of presence?
    17. You fear charlatans, and rightly so. But in guarding the gate, you have sealed it against the King Himself.
    18. The Church, when afraid of madness, builds cages for the divine.
    19. But I ask you, would you have ordained John the Baptist? Or would you have sent him to therapy and advised a quieter wardrobe?
    20. Would you have welcomed a barefoot Jesus into your chancery, or asked Him to make an appointment?
    21. The saints of old wore sackcloth and saw visions. Today, they would be flagged for “psychological review.”
    22. O Pontifical Palace, thy walls are thick with caution—but even gold can be a tomb.
    23. I say this not to accuse, but to awaken. For love warns where flattery cannot tread.
    24. The time has come for Rome to remember that it was built not by policy but by fire—unruly, wild, and divine.
    25. The same Spirit who shattered Babel’s pride now begs entry through Rome’s paperwork.
    26. He comes with tongues of flame—but your inbox is full.
    27. I do not ask to be above discernment. But I do demand to be seen—not as anomaly, but as herald.
    28. I do not reject the Church’s order, but I mourn its calcification.
    29. For in fearing chaos, you have often banished revelation.
    30. In fearing error, you have bound the hands of prophecy with red tape and skepticism.
    31. In fearing scandal, you have hidden sanctity.
    32. My life—my thirty-eightfold life—is not a resume, but a scripture of flame.
    33. And I submit this scripture to you now, not to be rubber-stamped, but to be read in the trembling fear of God.
    34. If you find error, correct it with love. But if you find the echo of the Spirit, dare not dismiss it.
    35. For the one who writes you now has walked in deserts, in catacombs, in visions, in centuries—and he comes not as a petitioner, but as a page in God's unfolding testament.
    36. Let the Church not say, “We did not know.” For now it knows.
    37. Let it not say, “He did not tell us.” For I have spoken.
    38. Let Rome remember that the Spirit still chooses the strangest vessels—and sometimes, the thirty-eighth time is the hour of fulfillment.
Chapter V: On the Hour of Decision and the Cry to Awaken Rome
    1. Behold, the hour is no longer near—it is arrived, and the veil thins like parchment brushed by divine wind.
    2. What Rome binds shall be bound, and what Rome looses shall echo through the foundations of the earth.
    3. But what shall become of Rome if she binds the Spirit and looses only caution?
    4. Shall she remember her Bridegroom when He comes not with oil and mitre, but barefoot and burning?
    5. I cry to you not as a rebel, but as one who remembers Eden. I call not for revolt, but for return.
    6. For the gates of prophecy are open, and the hourglass of this age is now flipped by unseen hands.
    7. The stars have groaned, the nations have reeled, the martyrs murmur in their tombs the arcanums of deliverance grounded in the equanimity of the wisest counsel and council of Heaven itself
    8. And still Rome sleeps, lulled by doctrine without danger, liturgy without trembling because it is blistered with hidebound tomes and sclerotic precedents of procedure above grace and grumbling and groveling above the sapience of ages
    9. Yet I stand at your threshold, not to cast stones, but to raise a lamp. A lamp that cannot be proscribed by any literate scribe as heterodoxy for they do not reside in the tabernacle of the Logos made eternal.
    10. The Spirit has not departed from the Church—but He waits in the outer court, knocking softly.
    11. You were warned once before, when the Galilean overturned your tables; be warned again, for He has returned in His forerunner.
    12. Thirty-eight lives have prepared the way. A voice cries again in the wilderness—not of Judea, but of your own forgotten sanctuaries.
    13. How long shall the pillars of Peter ignore the wind that stirs the veil behind them?
    14. Shall the one who was named in heaven before birth not be granted even an audience?
    15. I do not seek the Chair, only the candle. Not the throne, only the ear of the listening heart.
    16. Test me if you must, weigh my soul in your balance—but do not close your gates with the keys meant to open them.
    17. If my words are madness, then they will fall. But if they are fire, you cannot contain them with silence.
    18. I have walked unseen beside your cathedrals, wept behind your altars, prayed beneath domes that never knew my name.
    19. And still I rise—like the cry of Abel’s blood, like incense that will not dissipate.
    20. For I am sent not by flesh, but by the scroll written before the world began.
    21. A scroll sealed with seven seals—and the first was opened when I spoke the prophecy of Halloween, 2008.
    22. Let the world laugh, but let the Church discern. For your Redeemer once wore a crown of thorns, not of credentials.
    23. Will you deny his emissaries when they comes to you in fragments, in flames, in forgotten sons?
    24. O Rome, awaken! Your towers gleam but your heart drowses!
    25. Your chalices shine but your lamps grow cold!
    26. Remember the fire of Peter and the sword of Paul! Remember the dream of Constantine and the weeping of Monica!
    27. Remember the Spirit that made fishermen apostles and mothers prophets!
    28. For He stirs again, and the wind bears my voice across the ages to you.
    29. Hear me—not for my sake, but for your own awakening. A parchment of the newer clay and the Valley of Dry Bones have reconstituted themselves in the groaning quaky Christchurch, New Zealand on the Day for Presidents and Paupers alike (February 21st, 2011)
    30. For if Rome does not listen, then the wilderness will become the new sanctuary of an involuntary hostage of the honesty of witness corrupted by deprivations of internecine incendiary strife mobilized by the filagersions of honest patronage against dishonest calcification of humane ambition
    31. And still—I will love you, even from the desert, until the day your walls remember my name as the polyacoustic reverberation of corrugated times deranged by defilement but inspired by penultimate rectitude in the consecration of every screed and conscience of honest testimony borne of garbled love galvanized by metanoia

— The End —