By Stephen E. Yocum

In 1974, from out of Kabul,
The bouncing open back of
An old flat bed truck,
Eating dust and Diesel fumes,
Two alone we journeyed.

A round the world exploration
Of adventure and discovery.
Of lands and cultures,
people never before encountered.
Naive Ecotourists, before there
Was such a thing, called by a silly name.

The land there about, dry and dusty,
Sparse vegetations, Inhospitable to all,
Featureless and drab beyond comprehension.
Harsh lands breed harsh unforgiving people,
Matching their dire extreme surroundings.
This being one of those places.

I was on an adventure,
More so than she with me,
A rocky marriage at best,
Stressed further by months of travel.
I seeking the raw, the real,
She wanting first class comforts,
Like the “Good Life as seen on TV”.
A rough open flatbed truck, eating dust,
Not even close to fitting that description.

We were going to a small distant town,
Where I might see a game as old,
As that culture, of those Afghan plains,
A game, no truly more of a passion,
A long held national obsession,
Not so much played,
As combated, a war on horseback,
Brutal, ****** and thrilling.

Under noonday sun, yet chill of weather,
An hour out, four mounted horsemen
Appeared over a low hillock horizon,
Their horses in gallop, snorting, prancing,
High stepping, bounding, on a mission,
Kicking up a cloud of yellow/red dust,
The riders making straight for us.

These were the days before the AK-47,
Before the Russian invasion of ‘97.
The tribal Afghan men back then toted old,
Long Barreled, flint lock looking weapons
Often adorned with ribbon or paint,
Looking at first glance merely ornamental,
Not quite dismissing their lethal intent.

I had seen a sheep shot by one of
These old rifles, the entry spot was
The size of an American Half Dollar,
The exit hole the size of a tennis ball exploded.

As they approached, at my direction,
She withdrew further back towards the
Cab of the truck, beside a wooden crate.
I still sat, legs dangling over the tailgate,
One hand holding onto the wood slatted
Vertical, side rail of the bed.
The other hand on the hilt of my 8 inch Buck Knife.
That given the impending situation, would have
Done me as much good as my ******* into the face,
Of a very strong hurricane wind,
Doing me and us more harm than good.
All the while, still watching the horsemen,
As they rapidly approached ever closer.

Ignoring our dust, they reined in less than
Fifteen feet from our rear bumper,
(If there had indeed been a bumper.)
Horses wild eyes rolling, saliva snorting
From their mouths and nostrils,
Lather of sweat coating sleek bodies.
Looking more akin to fierce Dragons than Equines.

Their dusty riders looked like mounted warriors,
Escaped from out of a Hollywood movie,
Full bearded, hard men, with Scars on their faces,
Their serious dust laden red eyes burning like fire.
Jaws firm set, faces otherwise devoid of expression.
Dressed in traditional head to toe garb,
A style unchanged in hundreds of years,
Large curved Knives in wide leather belts,
Two, sporting hefty British holstered revolvers.
All four with long rifles in one hand,
Horse reins in the other.

Just like that, there we all were face to face,
I could not avoid their eyes, locking mine on
The bigger man near the center,
Hiding as best I could, my concern, no my fear,
With a neutral expression, neither smile nor sneer,
That might give me away. Yet the hair on the back
Of my neck did tingle, throat too dry and constricted
To speak should it even be required.  

The bigger man into whose eyes I stared,
As if I had issued some challenged invitation,
With but a single practiced move of his,
Right arm and hand,
(Horse reins held in the other),
Quickly shouldered his menacing weapon,
And sighted down its long barrel, right at my head.

Perhaps it was only a few seconds,
Yet it seemed an eternity,
That gun’s bore looked immense,
Like the gapping open mouth,
Of some great ballistic cannon.
For a moment I ceased breathing.
It felt as if my heart stopped beating.
I could not but sit there waiting,
There was no escaping.

That throw back to a fiftieth century man,
Held the power, of Life or sudden death,
In his hand, my life on the tip of his trigger finger,
He and I both instantly understood this.

It was clear in that one moment,
That to him, this was nothing new,
Or even of the slightest importance.
A thing to which he was plainly indifferent.

Down that bore, was a place in which lurked,
A lethal bullet with my name written upon it,
I felt trapped, like screaming, but remained silent,
Eyes open, and then why I will never know,
Still looking at him I narrowed my eyes and smiled.

As perhaps a reply on the man’s harsh face,
There appeared an ever so slightest grin.
Then he hefted his weapon back down under,
His arm and silently smiled and laughed,
In my direction.

I could not help but notice that one of his
Upper front teeth was of bright gold, while the
One next to the gold, was completely missing.

He nodded just once his head, to me a message,
All said with no words actually spoken,
“Today traveler,
I could have killed you,
Taken your woman.
Out here no one would know,
No one would have cared,
Not even the truck driver.
You are in my homeland,
I control it and you,
Today I choose not to **** you,
Tomorrow I might feel different.”

Then he and his unsmiling companions,
****** their straining unyielding horses,
to their left, galloping away in an obscuring
cloud, of yellow and reddish dust billowing.

While adrenaline turned my arms and
Legs to jelly, and shortly thereafter,
My stomach to sudden fits of
Wrenching regurgitation.

When in a few years I first heard,
That the Russians had invaded
That harsh unforgiving land,
I told a friend,
“Those fool Russians,
Have grabbed a fearsome,
Tiger by the tail, and that beast
Might just devourer them,
And not the other way around.”
It came to pass, I was not far off,
In my knowledgeable easy prediction.

The lesson I learned that day?
No matter who you think you are,
Or where you might come from,
What Nations impressive seal,
That your Passport reveals,
When you travel far and wide,
Trespass in another man’s back yard,
You best beware, of all the possibilities.

Upon our return trip the next day,
We took a bus of public conveyance,
Imagining perhaps there would be,
More safety in a convergence of numbers.

Footnote:

Over the centuries many invaders
Have attempted to subdue the wild
Land of the Afghans’ and nearly all failed.
A land and a people offering absolutely,
No forgiveness, not even to themselves.

Rudyard Kipling wrote of the British Empires brief
Excursions into that land, offering some sage advice;
“When you’re wounded and left on the Afghanistan’s
Plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to
Your God like a soldier.”

All present and would be conquers take note,
This remains Wise advice.  No one truly conquers there,
They just visit and bleed and then eventually go away,
Tails tucked between their knees. If indeed they still
Have one.

so it begins when it begins
    blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
  of the day's toil;

the countryman stilts through
   mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******* clad women
    and women who are (really ******* clad) ready for bathing work,
    collections of red days and even
    tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —

  the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
    up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
   kennels and makeshift asylums

   there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
            that only rises when bellows
  of festivities harangue the many streets
             bending in them, the curve)
  men moving from neck to neck
    of bottles — (in the north there
      is only four corners of bottle: gin,
   pristine brook; in the Visayas is
      the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
   potency) plucked out of the vermilion
   and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
     gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
     upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
    out of this?
    
      carabaos, equines, hens line up
   the slaughterhouse behind the
      TODA; you know a fine day when
         it happens — breaking eggs
  against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
    archaic sensurround, barrage of
      simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
          our mothers, faster than repose
  of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
      to silent radios, leaving windows
   open revisited by the eve of cold.

a friend told me of a good cure for nightmares
she said to take a bail of hay to bed
to feed the poor famish equines

I saw cringe.
You showed honesty.
Hold ideals too fast and
watch the truth get ugly.

Thought I knew
all that I needed,
but with your gentle kindness
something was seeded.

Pony show,
take me home,
to the world,
I belong.
Equestria,
Lunar mama,
guide me home,
Pony show.

Almost perfect,
land of Equines.
From the Crystal Mountains
down into the Badlands.
I feel young there,
younger than my bones,
endless fields of wonder,
tinged with the unknown.

Pony show,
it's my home,
the finest world,
I belong.
Equestria,
Solar mama,
bring me home,
Pony show.

Should I misstep in the dark,
I know they'll catch me,
the loyalist of friends that I could ask for any day.
And when I'm down they all lend me a hoof,
and bring me back again, up smiling, smiling!

Pony show,
it's our home,
it's the world,
we belong.
Equestria,
Twiligh' mama,
we are home,
Pony show.

Equines
One really ought to start with the beginning only it goes so long back
That it is impossible to remember.
I remember being born but that was just an interlude, cold and
Unpleasant and being kissed by strangers.
I like horses though, but that has nothing to do with my inception.
But then was anyone ever born, we are just a part of a bigger
Broader picture where we but an unconscious number
But I do like horses and would have loved galloping across some
Grassland and jumping over brooks.
And now we have emboli fever which is either over-hyped,
Ten thousand dead by September or it is the new plague coming
To reduce our number ...and yet, and yet I would like to be a horse.
As I wonder if USA will ever be able to live for a whole year
Without starting a war somewhere

A Patriarch in Faraway land
Had sons who were at odds.
Both wanted father's favor
So this king would laud
They both raced for fortune,
So he wanted them to PLOD.
He wanted them HUMBLE
So he asked of God...

The Prophet he petitioned
Spake, "Give each a horse.
Of great heart and lineage,
Which can stay the course.

Equines brave and stalwart,
When they first begin,
But they must not finish!
The slowest horse will win!

And so the father did this.
He gave each a steed.
Each a Highborn thoroughbred
Dam Triple Crown seed!
He told his sons the riddle,
They were perplexed indeed!

But for his land and all his gold
They set out on their "race"
But soon it was quite obvious
The end would not take place!

They both stood in water
A river coursed its way
They were going to stop there.
No Brave Horse held sway!
Neither lad knew what to do!
Neither black nor dappled Grey
Would cross that cursed Finish Line!
So they began to pray...

The Prophet came up right away
And told them what to do.
As they both heard the simple answer
They knew it to be true!
They rode off as chased by fire!
A HELLBENT race ensued!!

WHAT HAPPENED??

Sometimes it seems my world is so small
My POV - a bland wall
Studded with scant moments:
Digital whispers of my legacy
A young man's smile effervescent
Facing his future in cap and gown
My heart skips with that mix of ache and pride
Another man
Temples gray and that impish grin
The last birthday cake he ever shared with me
My hand reaches up but I cannot touch you, Dad
"Do you remember,
when it was like September?"
Pinned up equines splashing through surf
as I tick off the days

A frosted claret vase, left by some young thing
Silk flowers sunny yellow, cool blue and lavendar
Clay sculpted toothy worm monster poised to eat a boy
Look closer - he's peed in the pastel dirt
Random shots of blue eyed boys rest on my blonde wood desk
80's music drifting from my radio
Jungle green growth dances lightly
Draped on black steel file cabinets
My back to the window
Cars passing by
And the late summer sky
yes
My world sometimes so small
Lose myself in the crave of an electronic universe
Colors and light and words
So much warmer than the stale coffee in my cup
Strike a match and let it burn
away...
TL Boehm
091609

Beyond the prairie,
grew the grade.
As we trekked
the mountain's shade,
Earth grew stony underfoot,
the wind blew unallayed.
Two of the horses
were made lame
before a quarter trip was made,
so we divided up their burden,
and made camp for the day.
Two more night's march,
boulders growing along the way,
brought us 'round to skirt the giant,
the landscape: disarray.
A man was thrown from mount,
and he died, to our dismay,
in a state of so much pain
it was a frightening display.
The ground was much too vile
for the horses on this foray.
Two men left, for the castle,
with the equines, at my say.

We left the mountain's shadow
for the heat of a new day.

The warmth was welcomed
by the men and I,
after our climb
on the mountainside.
Quickly, though, we realized:
The sun was wolf,
in sheep's disguise.
We shed the wools,
and all the hides,
carried a minimum
of supplies,
and still we found,
to our surprise,
a heat that cooked us all alive.
It scorched our skin,
and burned our eyes
with pain that grew
throughout the night.

We then travelled in the darkness
for what seemed an endless flight.
We tried to sleep during the day,
but the sun yet brought us plight.
We travelled two days under moon,
and one day through the light.
On the fourth day in the desert,
our objective lay in sight.

Wonthelimar
Casus Infernalis  
Volumen I



Ultramundis Altior Caelum


Índex


Page      3 / Episode I…………………..Wonthelimar / Styx

Page    15 / Episode II………………….900 Hundred of Darkness

Page    29 / Episode III…………………Casus Infernalis / Lete

Page    35 / Episode IV……………….....Marielle meus Spiritus

Page    40 / Episode V…………………..Ultramundis / Acheron

Page    72 / Episode VI………………….Ibics Ring / Phlegethon

Page    85 / Episode VII………………....Wonthelimar / Cocytus



“Ultramundis Casus Infernalis”


Episode I
Wonthelimar / Styx

Wonthelimar, holding Persephone's hand, crosses the abyss of the Styx, the vast shore where he will find Persephone's sacred groves; he will discern towering poplars and willows bearing prophesied, dying fruits. There he will dock his boat on the shore of the most hidden ocean, heading for the drenched oikos of Hades; there in the Acheron the river of Hamas and the river of lamentations meet, gushing forth in the Styx, which gather me at the foot of a rock and its roaring waters, there My Marielle rests, bound with willow branches, tied to her brushwood with Beelzebub's twigs.

When the ship arrived from the confines of the abysmal ocean, in the city of the Cimmerians, where the sun never rises and is shrouded in darkness, I will cautiously follow one of the tributaries that lead me to the Underworld that Circe had indicated to me.

From Erebus at that time will emerge the souls deprived of life, betrothed, young men, long-lived with a thousand sorrows, tender Muses gone there with their first condemnation; many Hoplite soldiers wounded by bronze spears, warriors who gave their lives in battle with their bleeding Xiphos. They approached in a great multitude, each from one side with a horrifying clamor. I, Wonthelimar, seized by the livid fear of the Infernalis, ordered my steed to follow the points of the dark sunset that are gathering the cattle that are slaughtered by cruel bronze, resting in the world, without letting them reach the torrid blood until speaking with Tiresias, towards the blind canons of my prophet of Thebes.

It would preexist the Ultramundis and the contingency that teleported it from thousands of years stored in its ******* Godmothership; such a Dryad that, asleep in the gravitational graphics that it held out to them from the annals of the 5,000s, of cultured ruggedness and nefarious slumber that transported them in shreds of the figurative tributary, coveting to awaken its Celestine part of an extreme, strenuous suffering from the dormant, potentially expectant Paleolithic. They flow back from an arid awakening of their doomed and inert constituent in sniffed-out, univocal belligerent virginal materials, which, spirited, were jealous from the steep decanted cliffs, climbing into Celestial Paradises that were opening, sad-faced, gurgling in imbalances of lushness and pertinent shyness. Brilliant columns and balustrades will glide through such saturated imbalances and river strata, linking to contracted biological messages… not yet incited! Totally far from the fleeting tremor of gravity and its lifeless trance its lucid revival choked, dozing in juxtaposition against the lap that converged between the blinded flanks of the eyelid of stone azure and earthy silicon, a tangle of lost silences and seas of the braided talented ellipse of the stunned darkness.

Wonthelimar awakens from a thunderous dawn and from the poisonous cessation of its frightened period, just as the favorite Ibex had been in its line of disoriented role. Thunders in poorly delayed have illuminated sufferings that are born from his shoulders barely able to go intuiting to harass him and go conceiving of reuniting him from gestated pastures, and forces to meet with the sustainable humanity of the Canonized Petrified Mammoth or of huge colonies of Vampires that will fight on the bed of a dim Jurassic light decimated by ruined Corinthian dynasties.

Never will there be left behind more sackcloth or midwives who will go to mourn him, nor caustic reasons from the anti-specimen that cautiously devolves from the fleeting Sauter like a skilled Vampire who appears ankylosed from his biomechanics. Lightning flashes radiated between swollen pilasters and ideologies from a stuttering with nuances of a compromising Being struck down, incontinent to deprecate, drinking from the scented threshold between the stench and hieratic anabaptized waters of blunt skilled hands and uncrossed consecrations that visited him, falling from an animal profile, like a divergent ruler in his frivolous, cloying grotto of a defective past, aspiring to issue a new law to sustain him.

I was a brother of Admiral Horatio Nelson's illegitimate son at the Battle of Trafalgar; Josiah Nisbeth was my cabin boy, and he was my confidant when I was able to speak to him once after Horatio Nelson was wounded at Santa Cruz, during a night landing. Josiah saved his life, since he was my friend. I witnessed strenuous efforts to stop his bleeding, which was usually understood to involve manipulating a tourniquet, but the endearing thing is that it was from a palisade that was lost in fiction, being floating timbers from the Trafalgar fleets that had been smashed to pieces. It could have been an act of anonymity, but as it could have been a son lost at sea picked up by Aphrodite giving him tasks to fulfill, being Deimos who intervened in personification of Nelson's terror towards the Franco-Spanish soldiers, not conceived by Josiah Nisbeth in Trafalgar by not participating in the battle, I was a classmate of Admiral Nimitz's son in Midway, Chester Jr Nimitz, of whom I had exclusive attention when he said goodbye to this world with his wife; I Wonthelimar received him in my arms in this way taking him safely to Chauvet, I was seconded by Vlad Tepes who keeps him honored with his episode of a heroic family trunk, just as he saved his son, Îngeraș from his own Wallachian vampire subjects, protecting him from the thirst of bloodthirsty that had been unleashed among them. I stood on the deck of Vlad Tepes's ship, able to see the oozing of a dissolute world oozing from its bilges; I was an animal in Tel Gomel that on its side behaved after morbid barks to the divergent screams of slaves on the Clippers through torn seas, denoting that the ocean lives in its frustrated springs with such morbid obsession... alluded to the shepherd Jethro in Madian; with such bravado of raising licentious shells for the nations that lived execrated and the expectations of the forearm of the libertarian Executioner. This is how rivalry arises in the Hundred Years' War, being able to resist stinging fearful wounds in my cervical-dorsal, clinging to another equal who was pierced by a ****** dagger through his ******-ventral canal in Poitier and Agincourt. Here is my dexterous pen or quill, writing with the meager light of my lapsed candle, unbridled by what it will see in the Grisels; perhaps in the Griselles of Orleans or from where I was able to shield myself from the struggles of Frederick I Barbarossa, appealing to a mechanism of the forearm that decides whether to dare to live or ****, residing in the aforementioned moral paradox, which does not pivot by destroying, but rather fluctuates in its counter order like the thousands who were massacred in the Crusades in the buttresses very close to Moriah.

I have lived desolate for millions of years in total darkness, or rather in the depths of the Cave of darkness where the lost glory of Salvation resides. I have millions of Bat Colonies that depend on me, all covered like species of Madian to cure them of their glaucoma, of buried Saracen mothers with their open wombs wanting to resonate in the salvific lights shrouds of their fallen sons in the Crusades between West and East for the three years from 1093 to 1096, or the Third Crusade three times being of Frederick Barbarossa. Perhaps they are electrographic war neurosciences that experiment from the brief field of the visual range of every Crusader soul that tries and tries again in the visual fields that have been eaten away by the Evil Hemispheres of the Seventh Station of Sorrows; jagged by their fragility at the Seventh Station of the octagonal Way of the Cross, where seated on the Throne, everything is finished in the Second Crusade, just as Jesus falls for the second time, showing his extreme weakness and the weight of the suffering he carries upon himself. At this station, we reflect on perseverance and God's help in rising from falls, both physical and spiritual, perhaps distant from the Menorah or Teshuvah, mostly rusted by Louis IX of France; at the Eighth Station of the Way of the Cross, Jesus comforts the women of Jerusalem. At this moment, while Jesus carries the cross, some women are weeping for him. Jesus tells them not to weep for him, but for themselves and their children, because if they treat the "green tree" (Jesus) like this, what will happen to the "dry tree"? Perhaps this eloquence speaks of the matriarchs, abandoned and resigned in their homes awaiting their beloved Templers, who ended up signing the Treaty of Tunis, granting trade rights to non-rebellious Christians. With such pretension, having revealing territorial permutations, the Crusaders returned to Europe after the arrogant death of Louis IX, presuming to place snowy ribbons on the heads of their condemned.

The hypotheses will be political, foretold of a cerebral, non-political act, rather a feudal believer-skeptic. Wonthelimar has been a witness to this, which later leads him backside, escaping from the Quentinnais family mausoleum, taking him missing from his beloved Marielle. A scientific expedition managed to declare that MRI scans have proven that the act signed by the Papacy before starting the Crusades, already displayed heavenly icons of the Green and Dry Tree, growing from the dry autumn tree that Pope Urban II instigated with the Crusades in 1095, during the Council of Clermont, called on the Christians of Europe to recover the Holy Land from Muslim hands, marking the beginning of the First Crusade with the phrase "Deus vult!" God wants it, but not from a dry tree or Vel Arbor Arida!

I have been captive to heartbreaking voices with enriched ****** fields, while I saw the great armies fleeing with weak aesthetics of a perception, whose plasticity was accentuated with the identification of wounded souls that came for its asylum, here in Chauvet where all its magnetism attracts us from the common brawl, carrying the material on their backs like Atlas, the titan whom Zeus, the supreme god of Olympus punished in a terrible way for rebelling against the gods and against the established order: condemned to hold the weight of the world for all eternity on his shoulders; Perhaps carrying the imprisoned souls they carry within their inner world, resisting him even with their deep and high-pitched shrieks, piously chirping at them and letting them fall upon Hydor and not the fiery roar of Hephaestus, like mournful stars swaying in the house of Fire of his forge, where he worked with metals and created objects for the gods, often located in the volcanic heart of the island of Lemnos.

My Germanic roots make me tremble, abandoned by wicked solitude with few populated doubts, by a heritage where prehistoric fetishes speak with their orientation of images that carry within me, like an Atlas-Ibex confined in exile, yearning to live millions with its archetypal falls, and ambitions like trivial years of lateral syntax of Casus Infernalis that bustle more than a trunk where the digital index goes to contact the dome of the Sistine Chapel and its apostolate. I feel neither cold nor hunger, but if I beg in predictions to heal the one who supplanted my prophetic nurse Amalthea, to see him face to face like the brilliant Sun of Lemnos, attractive where I could forge myself, as if it were the sagittal cut in the murals of Chauvet and the Sistine Chapel as the Last Judgment as divine intelligence that takes away and then grants with its golden chisel or brush of the Archangel Saint Michael amidst the hives of Cherubs, making a delay in the unrevealed Mysteries of Michelangelo Buonarroti aspiring to be a Seraph.

Horses emerged from their confinement, their crimson-colored adornments clinging to the Corpus, which was described as millions of years old, from the same externalized Corpus, since the noble first piece was fragmented from the flashing Genesis. Distrustful and subtle materialized bodies could be seen emerging from this Grotto, some were mounted on their horses, thirds represented from the total of thousands of animals that could not endure the light of Day, making Night another dimension of day that was not, for night sheltered animals that could not endure night as a frontal vision that made them heirs of the nights without having a single day passed. It was random, with the probability that it owed to fluctuations that could never harmonize night with day, leaving in its only sample empty caverns where those who could not grasp the horn of the primeval Aurochs of an indivisible Torah were distributed, leaving them with the penultimate luminescence that could barely be placed in the surprising mud-covered hooves, perhaps of the nubile rhinoceros that dared to cross the fortified walls of the great fortress of Castel Sant'Angelo, originally called the Mausoleum of Hadrian, a preeminent military stronghold in Rome. Originally built as a mausoleum, it was transformed into a defensive fortification during the middle Ages, playing a crucial role in protecting the city. Its original design, along with defensive modifications, was transformed into formidable structures symbolizing the power and preservation of the papacy. Here is the sign that reveals a careful examination, of this species among species, lifting the veils of a surprising episode.

It would be the sixth day, just as in Genesis full of nascent beings of a living being in a morning that refused to be of the Day, but rather of the evening of black birds that upon raising from the sixth day the image perched on the backs of beasts. Wonthelimar was a witness to the declared tablets of Genesis that one day saw him born, being a fundamental piece of the poured out expression of the Shekinah (or Shejiná, שכינה in Hebrew) refers to the divine presence or the glory of God in Jewish theology. It is associated with the manifestation of God's presence in the world and, often, with his dwelling among people. They were the first rows of biomechanics that were compensated by the Equines that tried to revive them from the Crusades as an exceptional Universal rule. Casus Bellis proclaiming the liberation of Jerusalem, from the barony of Wonthelimar, that this lack of foresight in supplying the Crusaders was causing the arrival of such a large number of crusaders from the west, causing tremendous damage to the food and crops of Constantinople. The Emperor of Byzantium was transferred to the distant Bosphorus Strait, bordering, according to the testimonies of those hosted by Chauvet, located in Asia Minor, and to the field of Kibotos (called Civetot by the crusaders). For their part, the crusaders separated and began to plunder fields, wandering in the territory of the Seljuk Turks, around Nicaea. Wonthelimar greatly estimated how much affront could be estimated by having to argue having to move through so many sewer passages and disturbed geographies as the event of ghostly banners surpassing them in the Battle of Dorylaea, diluting the Turkish borders even before reaching Jerusalem. I was the deponent, here my jinxes commemorated the pacts in Avignon of incorruptible supplies that were generously diverted by Klaus Rittke; formerly patron of the Cathedral of the same place. A large number of civilians have circulated distributing the Bread and Wine of the year of our Lord 1099, God is ours said the Ghost of Adhémar next to me, declaring sacred wines to the deceased with the golden chalice and protective layer of poisonous fires of the pagans, running from the fractal of 1098 with the judicious ghost resorting to lighting the candles of sparks of the reduced pagan hell-lit, and plump emulators paralogizing their severed heads between slices of limp ardors of exsufflation of Raymond of Saint-Gilles who smiled suffocating from the chalice, going by supernatural emanations of the Adhémar confluence with the similar hemp of Raymond Bragasse; Dominican cleric who substantiated the coexistence of the Ibex Wonthelimar Ultramundis, this gifted and visionary Demiurge who emerged from his kneeling knees under the patronage of a vain mortal. Raymond Bragasse, after being expelled by Beelzebub, alluded to saying, believing himself to be Lucifer in the sackcloth of Atlas, ****** with the indecency of a despot, Zeus transformed into his iron plumage, tracing the cremations of those who were his deceased soldiers and honored by the forges of a soldier who emerged from the dissipated dreamscapes or dream worlds of Hephestos.

From the pillar with such a visionary spear…, as a Hellenic who fought at Gaugamela would say, I utter, saying that only from the most harmful and most kindly evil sieges do we become pious, that neither Akkadians nor Phoenicians will go searching the Dorus towards the encounter with the filial trunk of Noah, as a Semitic Akkadian people, at the free will of the nautical Phoenicians speaking with the underlying languages of the Semites also attached, who lavished crowning Canaanite visions currently prescribed to them by Wonthelimar of Bishop Adhemar, judging themselves to be children of all those who fell in Jerusalem.
My Casus Infernalis is the poise of a truly villainous revelry, I only have the droppings of my Chiroptera being supplied by Vlad Strigoi from Transylvania, who with Cave Faith and replenishment had their shelves decreeing Vespasian's survival tactics as emperor, using effects to govern and consolidate his power. Among them, highlighting his skill in his intendance and finances, his ability to end trances and his ability to promote the construction of great government works that colossally benefited Rome perhaps captivated by Apollo, to whom he erected a colossal statue that would later serve as messianic inspiration for his son Titus, destroying such catharsis in the firewalls of Jerusalem arranging tunics with their purple stripes that were invoking the esteemed Zeus, deifying the nine lunar days that would remain to have the visions of my advocated Demiurgy, authorizing the preexistence that was being formed with the channels of living Medieval Europe and Judah with its vibrational entity. Great influence of the Visions of the Bishop of Adhémar suggested walking barefoot around the perimeter of the walled city for three days and three nights, just like the prodigious mitzvah of Joshua in Jericho. Intrinsically, the memories of Greece and its ancient polis were being collected in the Chauvet Cave until July 15, 1099.

Wonthelimar was part of this Crusade under the command of William of Embriaco, a prophecy that Vlad Tepes had announced to him in the cockpit of the Strigoi Frigate, from the moment he set sail with his ship from Hormuz, to later join the Genoese forces, marking the first contingencies with effective seafaring reactions to approach Egypt, Ashkelon, and from there, Judah. Throughout that same afternoon, the night, and the morning of the following day, the crusaders unleashed a terrible massacre of men, women, and children, Muslims, Jews, and even the few Christians from the east who had remained in the city. Two thousand Jews were locked in the main synagogue, which was then set on fire. Vlad Tepes levitated from ships, fighting over sulfur fumaroles, hovering over the palisades that were being dismantled to later build the turrets of the illustrious fortifications of Jerusalem. He did not participate directly in the Crusades, but he saw himself as a crusader in his fight against the Ottoman Empire.

Vlad Strigoi says: I was regent in the Principality of Wallachia, incredibly we boasted with Wonthelimar conversing in extended days of who would finally survive whom or how incorrupt we would be over the millennia. A resplendent Ottoman convert was revived in my chamber, which still remains intact as it was from the monastery of Snagov, where we both also resided in a great monastic millennium that made us confreres, Wonthelimar and I played Karniffel shuffling with the German, French, and Romanian symbols. We also went elbow to elbow around the lame one who escaped from the fox and the goose that wandered, breaking the board when we were cooking, and we emptied the glasses with goat's milk and blood from his internal jugular, covering two inches of his clavicle. The crypt, which was commonly referred to, remains intact until Wonthelimar set out to search for Marielle in Gaul, after escaping the inquisitorial armies of Frederick I Barbarossa. He was able to attest that Marielle's death in the Mausoleum of the Quentinnais would be revived in the blazon hanging from Barbarossa's banner or ancient Vexillum, which struggled to keep her cadaverous body intact, only to understand and observe that it wasn't so much her heart, torn out by Beelzebub, that it shone brightly, more in conformity with a tender heart before an execrable banished soul. I am from Wallachia, and I have little and short-sighted knowledge of the descendants of my 3rd lineage, in this attribution of Count and Prince Vladislaus Szekys. As precocious children, Wonthelimar and I played at being active monarchs, courting the good harvests and inheritances of my predecessors and successors, since they have not enjoyed the privilege of outliving me, but I have outlived those who were and will be. In 1456, I returned to Wallachia after assassinating John Hunyadi, thus beginning my reign, but never ceasing to be a Wallachian Prince. This is where Wonthelimar and I agreed to never separate from each other in the distance, making the decision to visit him every winter when Wallachia, in solidarity, would cooperate by bringing them provisions, and my faithful 23,000 soldiers who would take territory with their colony of Bats, where I would settle permanently after being assassinated by feudatories of the Turks, soon after I was betrayed in such an instant that Wonthelimar could receive me in his arms.

I have been enthroned in Chauvet, I have been a Wallachian in exile, seizing the Principality of those who belong to Chauvet, united to the Casus Infernalis of Wonthelimar; now I am the delirium of the most beautiful, acclaimed, and venerated by the Demiurges of the Etréstles of Kalavrita, of such a magnificent ethopoeia or detailed description of the soldiers, clean-faced, without crests or allegorical protections. Sometimes we sing in unison with the wind Pontias, believing I have returned to the Saxon and Transylvanian regions of my own Dracula; I have attended more than poorly to what should be the overcoming of such holistic deaths, reviving from isolation, from none of which I could soothe my pains. The Pontias of Nyons reminds me of the Austru blowing over the canopies of Orion, on warm summer nights, sponsoring plumes with eight-pointed stars and a ruby in the center, with seven horchata pearls and five crowned, like worthy apexes of defeating a Habsburg.

The blinded equines
kick flies into the soils
And give feed to life

The locks exist in testament
to the gates that weren’t kept
closed at times life escaped
like the horse of fabled writ

the temptations beyond four walls
outside the barrier that constrains
beckons those who desire
something more than life restrained

equines sadly run amok
leaving safety of the stall
when the safeguards failed to keep
hearts from straying to wilderness

where the barbs pierce the heart
drawing blood as consequence
now that locks are afterthoughts
life will ponder what's been lost.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190921.