She sent it to me as a text message, that is an image of a quote in situ, a piece of interpretation in a gallery. Saturday morning and I was driving home from a week in a remote cottage on a mountain. I had stopped to take one last look at the sea, where I usually take one last look, and the phone bleeped. A text message, but no text.  Just a photo of some words. It made me smile, the impossibility of it. Epic poems and tapestry weaving. Of course there are connections, in that for centuries the epic subject has so often been the stuff of the tapestry weaver’s art. I say this glibly, but cannot name a particular tapestry where this might be so. Those vast Arthurian pieces by William Morris to pictures by Burne-Jones have an epic quality both in scale and in subject, but, to my shame, I can’t put a name to one.

These days the tapestry can be epic once more - in size and intention - thanks to the successful, moneyed contemporary artist and those communities of weavers at West Dean and at Edinburgh’s Dovecot. Think of Grayson Perry’s The Walthamstowe Tapestry, a vast 3 x 15 metres executed by Ghentian weavers, a veritable apocalyptic vision where ‘Everyman, spat out at birth in a pool of blood, is doomed and predestined to spend his life navigating a chaotic yet banal landscape of brands and consumerism’.  Gosh! Doesn’t that sound epic!

I was at the Dovecot a little while ago, but the public gallery was closed. The weavers were too busy finishing Victoria Crowe’s Large Tree Group to cope with visitors. You see, I do know a little about this world even though my tapestry weaving is the sum total of three weekends tuition, even though I have a very large loom once owned by Marta Rogoyska. It languishes next door in the room that was going to be where I was to weave, where I was going to become someone other than I am. This is what I feel - just sometimes - when I’m at my floor loom, if only for those brief spells when life languishes sufficiently for me be slow and calm enough to pick up the shuttles and find the right coloured yarns. But I digress. In fact putting together tapestry and epic poetry is a digression from the intention of the quote on the image from that text - (it was from a letter to Janey written in Iceland). Her husband, William Morris, reckoned one could (indeed should) be able to compose an epic poem and weave a tapestry.  

This notion, this idea that such a thing as being actively poetic and throwing a pick or two should go hand in hand, and, in Morris’ words, be a required skill (or ‘he’d better shut up’), seemed (and still does a day later) an absurdity. Would such a man (must be a man I suppose) ‘never do any good at all’ because he can’t weave and compose epic poetry simultaneously?  Clearly so.  But then Morris wove his tapestries very early in the morning - often on a loom in his bedroom. Janey, I imagine, as with ladies of her day - she wasn’t one, being a stableman’s daughter, but she became one reading fluently in French and Italian and playing Beethoven on the piano- she had her own bedroom.

Do you know there are nights when I wish for my own room, even when sleeping with the one I love, as so often I wake in the night, and I lie there afraid (because I love her dearly and care for her precious rest) to disturb her sleep with reading or making notes, both of which I do when I’m alone.
Yet how very seductive is the idea of joining my loved one in her own space, amongst her fallen clothes, her books and treasures, her archives and precious things, those many letters folded into her bedside bookcase, and the little black books full of tender poems and attempts at sketches her admirer has bequeathed her when distant and apart. Equally seductive is the possibility of the knock on the bedroom / workroom door, and there she’ll be there like the woman in Michael Donaghy’s poem, a poem I find every time I search for it in his Collected Works one of the most arousing and ravishing pieces of verse I know: it makes me smile and imagine.  . .  Her personal vanishing point, she said, came when she leant against his study door all warm and wet and whispered 'Paolo’. Only she’ll say something in a barely audible voice like ‘Can I disturb you?’ and with her sparkling smile come in, and bring with her two cats and the hint of a naked breast nestling in the gap of the fold of her yellow Chinese gown she holds close to herself - so when she kneels on my single bed this gown opens and her beauty falls before her, and I am wholly, utterly lost that such loveliness is and can be so . . .

When I see a beautiful house, as I did last Thursday, far in the distance by an estuary-side, sheltering beneath wooded hills, and moor and rock-coloured mountains, with its long veranda, painted white, I imagine. I imagine our imaginary home where, when our many children are not staying in the summer months and work is impossible, we will live our ‘together yet apart’ lives. And there will be the joy of work. I will be like Ben Nicholson in that Italian villa his father-in-law bought, and have my workroom / bedroom facing a stark hillside with nothing but a carpenter’s table to lay out my scores. Whilst she, like Winifred, will work at a tidy table in her bedroom, a vase of spring flowers against the window with the estuary and the mountains beyond. Yes, her bedroom, not his, though their bed, their wonderful wooden 19C Swiss bed of oak, occupies this room and yes, in his room there is just a single affair, but robust, that he would sleep on when lunch had been late and friends had called, or they had been out calling and he wanted to give her the premise of having to go back to work – to be alone - when in fact he was going to sleep and dream, but she? She would work into the warm afternoons with the barest breeze tickling her bare feet, her body moving with the remembrance of his caresses as she woke him that morning from his deep, dark slumber. ‘Your brown eyes’, he would whisper, ‘your dear brown eyes the colour of an autumn leaf damp with dew’. And she would surround him with kisses and touch of her firm, long body and (before she cut her plaits) let her course long hair flow back and forward across his chest. And she did this because she knew he would later need the loneliness of his own space, need to put her aside, whereas she loved the scent of him in the room in which she worked, with his discarded clothes, the neck-tie on the door hanger he only reluctantly wore.

Back to epic poetry and its possibility. Even on its own, as a single, focused activity it seems to me, unadventurous poet that I am, an impossibility. But then, had I lived in the 1860s, it would probably not have seemed so difficult. There was no Radio 4 blathering on, no bleeb of arriving texts on the mobile. There were servants to see to supper, a nanny to keep the children at bay. At Kelmscott there was glorious Gloucestershire silence - only the roll and squeak of the wagon in the road and the rooks roosting. So, in the early mornings Morris could kneel at his vertical loom and, with a Burne-Jones cartoon to follow set behind the warp. With his yarns ready to hand, it would be like a modern child’s painting by numbers, his mind would be free to explore the fairy domain, the Icelandic sagas, the Welsh Mabinogion, the Kalevara from Finland, and write (in his head) an epic poem. These were often elaborations and retellings in his epic verse style of Norse and Icelandic sagas with titles like Sigurd the Volsung. Paul Thompson once said of Morris  ‘his method was to think out a poem in his head while he was busy at some other work.  He would sit at an easel, charcoal or brush in hand, working away at a design while he muttered to himself, 'bumble-beeing' as his family called it; then, when he thought he had got the lines, he would get up from the easel, prowl round the room still muttering, returning occasionally to add a touch to the design; then suddenly he would dash to the table and write out twenty or so lines.  As his pen slowed down, he would be looking around, and in a moment would be at work on another design.  Later, Morris would look at what he had written, and if he did not like it he would put it aside and try again.  But this way of working meant that he never submitted a draft to the painful evaluation which poetry requires’.

Let’s try a little of Sigurd

There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old;
Dukes were the door-wards there, and the roofs were thatched with gold;
Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed its doors;
Earls' wives were the weaving-women, queens' daughters strewed its floors,

And the masters of its song-craft were the mightiest men that cast
The sails of the storm of battle down the bickering blast.
There dwelt men merry-hearted, and in hope exceeding great
Met the good days and the evil as they went the way of fate:
There the Gods were unforgotten, yea whiles they walked with men,

Though e'en in that world's beginning rose a murmur now and again
Of the midward time and the fading and the last of the latter days,
And the entering in of the terror, and the death of the People's Praise.

Oh dear. And to think he sustained such poetry for another 340 lines, and that’s just book 1 of 4. So what dear reader, dear sender of that text image encouraging me to weave and write, just what would epic poetry be now? Where must one go for inspiration? Somewhere in the realms of sci-fi, something after Star-Wars or Ninja Warriors. It could be post-apocalyptic, a tale of mutants and a world damaged by chemicals or economic melt-down. Maybe a rich adventure of travel on a distant planet (with Sigourney Weaver of course), featuring brave deeds and the selfless heroism of saving companions from deadly encounters with amazing animals, monsters even. Or is ‘epic’ something else, something altogether beyond the Pixar Studios or James Cameron’s imagination? Is the  ‘epic’ now the province of AI boldly generating the computer game in 4D?  

And the epic poem? People once bought and read such published romances as they now buy and engage with on-line games. This is where the epic now belongs. On the tablet, PlayStation3, the X-Box. But, but . . . Poetry is so alive and well as a performance phenomenon, and with that oh so vigorous and relentless beat. Hell, look who won the T.S.Eliot prize this year! Story-telling lives and there are tales to be told, even if they are set in housing estates and not the ice caves of the frozen planet Golp. Just think of children’s literature, so rich and often so wild. This is word invention that revisits unashamedly those myths and sagas Morris loved, but in a different guise, with different names, in worlds that still bring together the incredible geographies of mountains and deserts and wilderness places, with fortresses and walled cities, and the startling, still unknown, yet to be discovered ocean depths.

                                    And so let my tale begin . . . My epic poem.

                                                 THE SEAGASP OF ENNLI.
       A TALE IN VERSE OF EARTHQUAKE, ISLAND FASTNESS, MALEVOLENT SPIRITS,
                                                AND REDEMPTIVE LOVE.

As a child, I used to cut
apart maps of America,
separate the states and
put them back together
in strange geographies:
Kansas against Maine,
fling the Dakotas as far
away from each other
as they could go, press
New Mexico against the
breast of South Carolina.
I tucked tiny Rhode Island
into the palm of Michigan,
gave Nebraska a seaside.

I realize now the folly
in these stately migrations:
I never thought I’d wish
I could drive across the
border of Alabama into
Oregon’s deep woods.

W.H.O has poisoned the vaccine
against fertility of African girl
African boy mother and father
it his now hovering around
the third world geographies
using its satellite mouths and arms,
ringing alarms over the coming tetanus
only to trap the ignorant one
into its infernal of injections
for nothing but permanent sterility,

WHO has no sympathy
for the folks in the poor world,
Nicaragua, Mexico and Kenya
being already depopulated
by ills in history
it still goes ahead
to inject sterility
into their bodies
while pretending
to be in war on tetanus,

wars, slavery and deliberate castration
of the captured slaves
for fitness to royal gladiator
has already made Latin America
and her sister Africa
to suffer fate of the times
in the curse of underpopulation
then still WHO is insidious
in her racist moves
to depopulate the poor world
through her imperial arsenals
in the name of vaccinations
against imagined tetanus
is a sly ploy in single,

W.H.O is sterilizing daughters
of Africa and the poor world
in the age width of 15 to 50
a sure bracket for fecundity
for no other reason
but global Afro-phobia
or universal racism,
or who knows the whole deal
other than the orchestrator
of the anti-human orchestra,

Ebola is already foot loose
on its deadly mission
to wipe out the Negroes
as the imperial powers that be
are armed to the teeth
to confine it in Africa
the way they have already done
to confine cancer and impish ***
in poor Africa,

W.H.O leave Africa alone
to sire and sire,
to fill their land
for a half of Africa
is under dearth of emptiness,
five million square miles of Mauritania
has less than ten million people
a thousand square miles of Turkana
has a hundred thousand turkanas,
Sahara desert is sparsely populated
Namibia and Botswana are cursed
with the spell of humanilessness,

the ***** has no other work
but to plant the human seed
the womb has no other work
but receive the human seed
while the ******
has a royal duty
to germinate the human seed
and these are Godly duties
as the breast of a woman
feeds the seedling
at no cost,

W.H.O leave us alone
to be lame and crippled
late us be wounded
with gangrenous wounds
Like the ****** ulcers
that opportune on ***,
for Tetanus you are fearing
is not terrible as ***,
we better have wounds
and children
other than being barren
in danger of foreign reign,

W.H.O you are in arms
with your fellow bigots
to legalize and empower
Homosexuality in Africa
this being a strategy enough
to jab the ribs of African humanity
a deadly sucker punch
off the right pedastle
of tyranny of numbers,

W.H.O have you ever seen
an African burial of the barren?
listen I tell you, I am aware
you know not,
burying of the barren and the sterile
is the most black ritual
most pale in the world,

give birth Africa! give birth
give birth to twins
in the prime of your childhood
before you go to cities
give birth, and give birth,
children and only children
are the glory of our poverty,
children pulled China out of poverty
they are pulling India out of poverty
as France is stranded on which way out
as it gambles and gambols in stupidity
with free money for the second child,

W.H.O! I know you are foolish as a stone
but I will leave you with pearls of wisdom
from the Bukusu people of Kenya,
that; even if you are foolish
Foolish and stubborn like a stone
but I am as hungry as a hyena
i am sure you have heard.

In Bolivia’s capital city La Paz, indigenous women known as cholas have long been stigmatized for wearing their traditional clothes: bowler hats, handmade macramé shawls, tailored blouses, layered pollera skirts, and lots of elaborate jewelry.

But for the past 11 years, fashion designer Eliana Paco Paredes has been chipping away at that stigma with her line of chola clothing—which she debuted at New York City’s Fashion Week last week. That’s a big deal for a type of clothing that has historically been disparaged in Bolivia because it was worn by poor, indigenous women. For a long time, many indigenous women couldn’t wear chola clothing in certain professions.

Bringing indigenous designs to New York is a huge step for Paco Paredes, though not the first time her clothing has received international recognition. In 2012, she designed a shawl for Spain’s Queen Sofia.

But Paco Paredes’s Fashion Week show is also an important moment for indigenous cholas. Until recently, these women “could be refused entry to certain restaurants, taxis and even some public buses,” writes Paula Dear for BBC News. Such an international spotlight on Paco Paredes’s designs will hopefully increase the acceptance of indigenous women and their culture in Bolivia.

La Paz’s mayor, Luis Revilla, wrote in an email that his city’s response to Paco Paredes’s Fashion Week debut has been a feeling of pride. He hopes that “her designs, which reflect the identity of local woman from La Paz, generate a trend in the global fashion industry,” he says.

“I also hope that in time, people from different geographies of the planet begin to use some of the elements that make the dress of chola,” he says.

Fresh off her Fashion Week debut, Paco Paredes spoke with National Geographic about her clothing and how opportunities for cholas are changing.

What is your approach to your designs?

What we want to show on this runway is the outfits’ sophistication. But the thing I don’t want to lose, that I always want to preserve, is the fundamental essence of our clothing. Because what we want, in some way, is to show the world that these outfits are beautiful, that they can be worn in La Paz by a chola, but they can also be worn by you, by someone from Spain, by a woman from Asia; that these women can fall in love with the pollera, the hat, the macramé shawl combined with an evening gown. These are the outfits we want to launch.

Do you think it's important that you, as a chola, came to Fashion Week in New York?

Of course! I think that it's very important because to have a runway of this international magnitude, with designers of this caliber, with international models, with a completely professional atmosphere, fills me with pride. And it's very important because of the fact that people can see my culture.

Who buys your clothing?

I have a store in La Paz, a national store. Here in La Paz, in Bolivia, this clothing is doing very well, because it's what many women wear day to day.

At a national level I can tell you we have the pleasure to work with many regions: Oruro, Potosí, Santa Cruz, Cochabamba. At an international level, we dress many people in Peru, Argentina, Chile, Brazil, and some products we make go to Spain, Italy. So through this we want to open an international market with sophisticated outfits that are Eliana Paco designs.

We're getting people to learn about what this clothing is at another level, and many women outside of Bolivia can and want to wear these outfits. They've fallen in love with these designs that they can say come from La Paz, Bolivia.

How are opportunities changing for cholas in La Paz?

It's definitely a revolution that's been going on for about 10 years, because the cholas paceñas [cholas from La Paz] have made their way into different areas—social, business, economic, political. And look at this fashion event, where nobody could've imagined that suddenly so many chola designs are on the runway with some of the most famous designers, like Ágatha Ruiz de la Prada, where they have lines of different types of designs at an international level.

The chola paceña has been growing in all of these aspects. And for us, this is very important because now being chola comes from a lot of pride—a lot of pride and security and satisfaction.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

They are silent and beautiful,
gorgeous in in the white halo,
cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
baring the names of fallen soldiers,
the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
second and first and the heinous silent wars,
i hope this  is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.

Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
in India , panama , Latin America and europe,
the active fronts in which the allies fought ******,
they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
in Matisi  when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman
in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.

I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
looking for the names of African soldiers ,
who died in thousands fighting for the queen
the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
the second duce Benito son of Mussolini,
fighting for ******,for Shintos in the European war,
i have seen no name of any African,
I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
who was conscripted into the first world war,
Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
Biket back after seven years in 1918,
carrying Wandabwa's Belt,
Wandabwa died in the field,
Where was he buried, he is nowhere
Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo,
who was conscripted in 1940,
to fight against ******,
he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
even before he had had the first ***,
with his new wife, he went  away crying,
he never came back, his name is  nowhere in the  graves
the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.

you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
you hear someone  is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
you meet a man  that is of the circumcision age group,
Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
Keya is  subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR
the African sound for  KAR is Keya,
in reference to mass conscription of Africans
into the  KAR, to fight ******,
A child born during that time is Keya,
A man circumcised during  the time
is in the age group of Keya,
A simple lesson in regard to our people,
taken away to fight the colonial power
and left to died and rot away in the bush
with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
that come along with the death of soldiers,
who passed away in the battle field.

I happen to live in Central Indian-
Forests, I collect wood and honey
And have no idea about English woods
And Manchester clothes, I belong
To the soil, I’m anti national?

I live on concessions, subsidies
And support, And You call me-
‘Dark skinned untouchable’; today
I don’t have bells over my neck
I’m proud of me, I’m anti national?

I always spoke of empowerment,
Marx and Che run my blood and
I’m a utopian reality to you
But you cannot ignore my voice
I’m not outdated, I’m anti national?

I believe in ‘being human’ above all-
Traits, I live beyond geographies
And I cannot stand war and bloodshed
You brand me as an activist, I’m
Just humane, I’m anti national?

I do not belong to the 80% of our
Country’s population, but I’m as
Much a patriot as you, My God
Is same as yours, How am I an
Alien? I’m anti national?

I don’t believe in the power and safety
You claim with a nuclear reaction.
I see only explosions and devastation
I want my children to be safe, I love
The world, I’m anti national?

I don’t like vegetables, I eat meat-
Since birth. I will not force-feed you,
I respect your choice and I expect you
To be tolerant to what I cook-
At my home, I’m anti national?

I’m not Pakistani but I love them
As much I love an American or an
European. After all, we share
Our borders. I want to settle all
Disputes, I’m anti national?  

I married a man outside my tribe,
Love didn’t notice his 'official tribe',
Our children are a mixed tribe
And we celebrate life as it is,
We’re human-tribe, I’m anti national?

I stand with them with rainbow flags,
They deserve justice as much as you
And me. Give me one valid reason to
Call them unnatural? I want S377
To be scrapped, I’m anti national?

I celebrate my country’s diversity,
I don’t need your certificate to prove
My patriotism! This is India, I stand
With my constitution and its democracy
And I give a **** about what you think!

Some of you make it look
So effortless.
Love, I mean
In all different geographies.

I had a dream once
Circular in reason
Teasing me
Bruised and beaten
Sleeping
I wandered angelic
Dorothy and Alice
Through nightmare geographies
Landscapes cruel, beautiful
And strange
Talking crows
Enveloped my eyes
A crown of pearlescent feathers
Obscuring my vision and yet
I saw
A waterfall of tears
A guru on a lotus
He whispered
Whiskey breath and sleepy eyed
A hep cat hipster in hemp cap
Gin and tonic gripped
Like a life preserver
“All you need is love”
And I wandered
Lost

I want you
to be
the only
one
I’ll
ever
fall in love with.
The only one
to know
my
latitudes
and longitudes.
To memorize
my degrees
and geographies.
To
bask near
my
equator.
To
mark
courses
and
journeys
across
my skin
like ships
with sails
made of
your hopes – my love – our dreams.
I want you to
be my North star.
My guiding
force
to see me
safely to
your shores.
I want you
to never
let go.
Like the moon
as the
sun rises
in the
East.
I want
to be
your
Compass Rose.
To be there
when
you loose
direction.
To be
your
anchor.
Your
starting point.
To be something
beautiful
when
the world
has gone
dark and ugly.
Because
you are
all
that
matters.
You are my
Earth.
My map of my world.
The sun I revolve around.
My moon and the stars my fingers trace in the night sky.
The one I love.
And will always love.

I own a library of thoughts in my eyes
     With your eyes alone.
There is no other way to know you,
But to compile and compress it deep
     Within my heart,
To flourish inwardly, to perish,
And to strive for
The academic excellence of greater love
And be the scholarly fool
     Of your divine complexities.

What can I say? I love your Astronomies,
Philosophies and Geographies. I love you
To the fact, to the fiction and back,
To the histories and the mysteries.
I can't unstudy your laughter.
     I am ignorant to your full allure.

Love, I only love you, your pretty eyes,
Because they close and reopen,
     Capture and imagine,
They wander and they wonder,
     And such is the way of life.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

autumn comes with drooping arms
promises of stripped branches
shapes confetti & a quilt
rests on a carpet of dewdrops

bubbles melt with the dawn
drifting on currents
air carries leaves
another renewal

rains decompose browns, yellows, reds
winter greens sprout
soil fed & energised
vegetable flowers form

subtler seasons
easier sleeping, slower awakenings
leaves raked & piled
hot gone days disposed.

frost arrives in certain geographies
red replaces white
the tank is full & burners cleaned
warming gas is very close

in this between-time
after the day-work
before a partying-night
outside in the city-street
I window-stand
people pass

a rich-day collecting
the determination of things
that future-spell so
I am replete with possibility
conclusions safely-stored
filed-finally I fill
with you-thoughts

board-pinned your photo
to turn to but I daren’t
eyes-shut instead . . .
and there you are
only more so as this portrait
- an august-glorious day
garden-full with butterflies
the sea-sound distant-sounding
only more so -
this portrait expands
to show all your sudden-self

a pause in twilight-termoil
I grapple – should I
let this brown-inked pen
flow inscribe tell and paper-paint
knowing full-well you favour words
that do not spell out what’s in store
when the bedroom door
closes-shut on poets’ licence?

so being careful not to press
passion’s path beyond the bounds
of touching-tender kissing-close
when once I would barely-break-step
to think of not exposing such
geographies of gracefulness
unclothed revealed to savour-so
the breath-shortening rise
the eye-closing slow-release:

please know to write so
brought you close
when you were not . . .

my dear-joy
I still my pen
hold thoughts in check
trance-like knowing now
(and conscious now)
of  other ways
to tell-out spell-out
characters desire-dense
ambiguity-rich
flavoured-full
beyond-beyondness

a    man with his
     heaviness    weighs the
masculine     waters

    be    like stone
its depth    of concentration
  
   wherefore     birds  lose
  sight of their    rapt flight
above    waters    stills a man
    whose mirror     is not of   a mirage
but       a    man   flat against    the seductive      rose
  
   to     hold  his     breath
and rain's      supreme bullet
       are    but simplistic    maze
again     the   stone cannot  reveal
the     man   in his  proud   geographies —

      such   trouble   of mortality
begins,   a wrest     of bones,   the volcano     defined    by  such earthenware
whose   metaphysics   unalphabeted
  like   fellows    going back to god's    arms
   sitting      well   with
          red    roses.

says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have

many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,

what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face

chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings

You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
  horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.

Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,

I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate

into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness.   Delicate essence

the    neon sign says, glaring through the
  glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
  separate had no omen of rain.

I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,

       feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
   this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.

It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.

You hold my hand
like a cartographer;
latitude and longitude,
coordinates of our life,
discrete geographies
mapped together—
discrete geographies,
coordinates of our life,
latitude and longitude:
like a cartographer
you hold my hand.

treading masterfully this  autumn-long  road  where
    at the  end of  first light so begins  your fragile  darkness.


i know  not where you  wait for  me as  birds in  all geographies
      land without further   recall; as though   by  saying  that the  Summer
  has   dealt   its   cards   and the serrated  grass   folds  when it thinks
   the  rain   to be everywhere   descending,  falling  as lithely   as a lover
     whose cockeyed    miracle  first has meted out   a singular  trapping  fate
         of hands that interlock    to    no   retreat.

i   know  not  the silence of  the Earth  when all is caliginously
    intact    without knowing. but  then should you  return, your  eyes
will   light all  the   lamps awaiting   your   shuddering step  and fruition
       us  both the  ineffable   rendering  me  forever  the life  of roses.

( i  do not  know which  gravitates me back  to   where we
      first   saw each other; only  something   in me  does not   think
   but is constantly   supremed   by   feelingfulness   when it   is not
    the wind   but your   breath not   in the garden   of   joys but  in the exuberance
     of    all that    is made  immense in me by  your    eyes,
         when    it is     not the   taut   clamp    of   the   sea    at   bay
but    the   island of your   hands   clutching   the penumbra  of my heart,
   shattering     the shadow   and letting   loose   a  sprightly   dove
        here     and   a  hummingbird    there)

Antiphon Benedictus II / Sybilla Herophile

The wide influence of history was automated in rituals; it would indicate a bibliographical time rather than secular. The antiphons will take us through the hallelujah of eternal times and along the path of the Spring of Castalia. In singularity will be Delphic Herófila, primordial of Delphi prophesying Trojan conflicts. By reinterpreting her priesthood, she leads us to the Templar Adyton, which can be reinterpreted in a Christian way in the classical antiquity of this antiphon. Being able to be captive, she looked serious and wise, visionary and with customary strange gestures, for an abnormal state of Young Sybilla woman who was later supplanted by older fortune tellers.

The Antiphon Benedictus says: “Herophila you were plagiarized and ridiculed by a heterodoxy that knows rituals and sacred cares, the Pneuma that emerged from the cracks upset your incongruities, which settled on the millennial pedestal in Macedonian territorial geographies, uniting with Alexander the Great, recirculating in Sibylline centers and dividing the doors of Sober Hell, towards epiphanies of the cult of light, and of the sacred pairs of wisdom.

The discussion took place in front of those who surrounded the perimeter of the Antiphon; there was Vernarth and Saint John the Theologian. For decades the twilights have not made the red blood cells of the Cassotis iridescent, which defied a hydrographic competition, for the purpose of desembalming the bodies of the Falangists that emerged from the Temenos of Patmos; secular space for the auditoriums of the antiphon. With ornamental fictitious oracles envisioning the inadvisable opening of opposing eyes towards a Mysta or Mystírio Eleusino, so that finally, given the toxicity of Mercury's sulfide, they would emancipate themselves by making objections to the hypothesis of ruddy post-mortem symbols, which the braves of Tel Gomel, when appearing outside the extinct topic, so that the Benedictus songs would button their navels, which was the only thing that united them to the Sybillas who came from the expropriated ethics, and from the Cinnabar outpatient clinics for long periods providing life in the quantum of Mercurial Ambrosia. Being this preferably housed in the skulls of the V (Fifth courtyard of Helleniká, but this time with eschatology of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi). Eurydice is associated with an exhumation in front of the alerted and emitted effluvia of the Herophile after the Zygastron, which shone from a canvas and that Borker preserved from the Laurel Woods, in a sycalyptic horizon of the equinoctial Aftó of the Kaitelka Cetacean, which nitrated oxides from the eastern vertical, on its back, spauto shredding with purple carbonates towards the Rubicunda del Tinctorium, and from the rhizome that hydrated the enervated and dispersed drops that remained from the convulsion of the Metelmi wind, and shaking the fin that came from this Balaenidae specimen Mysticete, in casuistry of a whale with Down syndrome, but with prodigious psychic powers.

The Cinnabar wandered through the clothes of Tel Gomel's disembalmed ones, who colored themselves with sulfur mercury and revived from the oracles of Herófila, who woke up early with Eurydice validated by her Orphic impetus like no one else. The specific parts were tints of vital signs and epidermis shoots that trembled through the epiphyses of the tibiae that decanted arthritic through the femurs, and that rose with timid muscular masses, until they reached the instep where the celestial holes of Vernarth appeared, that he struck each one of his faithful with his Xifos sword, to bleed a bronze chalice for their reduced movements, stacked on crossed legs with dejected cheekbones that fell on their feet.

Reddish spots on his jaws and on his forearm they were transposed with red salvific footprints of Eurydice that he brought from Charon, but that expressly limited them in the posterior scapula that came arriving from the fifth courtyard of Messolonghi completely stiff in black. The muscular insertion was made of pale ocher, and the Cinnabar was elemented to verticalize the involuntary bodies of the earthquake, before the controversy of the makeup of their resurrection, after an outfit that they had never used before, pigmented by an antiseptic oracle of Herófila, which already insisted to compensate with war shrouds the size of the Benedictus that self-shod the iron suns, and that buried fangs of light and life in their facials, moving in the nervous of the trigeminal towards the ethmoid, causing rales of stimuli feminoids, for the enthronement of the women present in the only atrium of the Mandragoron. Thus they remained in multi-partial stages of the psalm that revived them, to go to meet the Hegemon Alexander the Great, who emerged synchronously from Larnax, from an eruption that uttered the greatest insults of political clarity, in the fierce agonies of his perforated lung. Parasites were sprinkled like empathic germs of Hellenism, conferring Masken resurrection, beyond the curtain or canopy that separated them in Persepolis..., returning from the Indus, for the funeral that would pass through the departure of Hephaestus. Rigor-mortis buried a soul overheating in pulmonary contusion, after a feverish respite, and re sulphating in the rhetorics of Plato and Aristotle.

The Sybillas no longer menstruated on the tripod, the Pythoness in their prehistoric eagerness was conceived twice cyclical, which were reconverted into prehistoric female raptures that confirmed the exo-red blood cells of the menstrual torment, to become reconverted Christian goddesses who were doubly buried in one past joined to the other, and that they were about to precede the next past-present, on an oak that supported them, clinging to them to bear the pain that never existed.

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After the last cottage receded I pulled out from the green grasses
Nothing was bothering my coffee Only getting colder like my heart’s paces
The one sight pricking the back of my eyes
Was of the person waving byes
Who wasn’t a friend of mine but someone else’s

They destined me the business You bolstered me then
Said just regularly get mounted On the commissioned rails
We’ll always be your men
If only you were now to witness Me when I have ran insane
As the flanging and clanking Enough of it I've had
Is only commuting me  Into a division alien

And still looking out   Through a misty and blue shaded pane
About to lose the bout    I don’t like being alone in the journey, Ben.

Should we buy this book Ben?   Jack you should read diaries and biographies
Momentarily I was with my colleagues  Back in those cubic topographies
But Jack and Ben were just their namesakes Passengers as I crossed these depressive geographies
Only till pulling me where don’t know a four year old voiced Uncle will you please give me those toffees?

I candidly kept smiling as went back the kid
Of course kids don’t understand what I hid
They don’t see whether it’s December or May
They just see the tree in a different way

Anyway had to be at the corporation Couldn’t get offstage
Reaching the concerned documentation I saw the cover page
All true but my valid recognition It read I had chores of a big sage
It was beyond my cerebration Oh! Or my compatriots gave the proposition
And let me have the advantage!

You are letting me perform at a higher rank You set me sail to a farther bank
It seems I am not alone on this voyage You are with me as a special entourage
I was only being disjunctive
For I was looking with a different perspective
Knowing friends are with you in any of your tourney
I am certainly not alone in this journey

I.

I trace you against
the skull
with the old photograph of

age 8 and 7

aloft and angling down some stage, or performance

in
this perforated dome I call home

trace you against
the map impaled to the wall
and locate you amongst the
geographies and heed
its brash distance

shake out its potency
like how my grandfather murders
the brief matchlight

I trace the trajectory
will not pivot to return
or scope rescue

none like this force,
the insufficiency of maps,
the harsh terror of adoration when
like a fruit ripened

will fall to the hand waiting
underneath

II.

    Propel me to where it counts

into the masses transit-worn,

shorn out of the flyblown-dry in amazement
or immense performance of breaking

outside the window
when it rains forever

to Icarus in his blunder,

from the dilated pupil of my father while
   watching television

from point-break of time
  and sense when nothing made one kind word
as salvation

out of the tangle of clouds,
    the skytilt angle where heaven might topple
at one point to scatter my reckoning of a god

from your place of interval

III.

space – where you will it,
when the night shining in,

          far are the noctilucent skies
  place me in the soft ease of beds when
   burial is ideal

make me ****** than light at first glance
    or water upon initial drop

and then in space, where you will it,
    promise-tender, drunk in shy altitudes,

this most biddable machine will spread to make way
    for weight giving in

to assume so small a drop of the pin in the ocean
   or to cannonball – fitting  chamber of a gun,
  
swimming in a mess of no restrictions,
  prepared, contained to carve deep

in the night writhing in with him
  with no need of hands to break point.

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.

A poet's mind
is a whole different world
An ocean of myriad philosophies
A door to world's unseen geographies
This door is sometimes better left locked
For the things you might discover
are bound to leave you shocked.
But for the ones who dare
the key is the heart,
And mind you, they are rare,
For they understand;
To get the key
One must be as crazy as the poet,
If not more.

The majestic days of Czars and Sultans
with their immaculate royalty

and those of Barons and Khans
brimming with stainless primacy

have long since gone.

All their embellished repositories
of capital, jewelry and gallant armies
stand looted, ravaged and plundered.

The struggling proletariat of those times
with their humdrum lives, rife with strife
have also bitten the dust

      expired, forgotten, crumbled

since days beyond recall.

Now we, the successors and heirlooms
live on with kindred joys and glooms

as communities, creeds and nationalities

recklessly defending close-held foxy illusions
of defunct oneness or mythical deities.

The more tolerant among us even feel dignity
in misplaced, romantic nationalism(s)
and mostly off-the-mark, drifting democracies.

❋

But this time or that
summate a few more gimmicks or subtract,
all we have gifted ourselves
are some arbitrary lines on the map

slashing the earth to pieces
then claiming its wiggly, volcanic geographies
as slices of ever-dodging Elysium
enshrined in fragile master-bluffs
of precarious, cut-throat politics.

just as a painted landscape, dimension and depth disappear
before my eyes, and like the slide of turpentine,
movement slowly ceases 'till the fragrant bead dissolves
into the tightly woven weaves. visible no more,
the aroma remains profound, as though there shall be no end.

i can't seem to find the mark where preservation placed its hold,
a naive attempt at keeping age so young.
a barrier between the world of quickly passing glances
with ever changing tastes, and eyes of failing foresight
which cannot find their pace.

composed of sacred balance, aesthetics defined
by what we can not know, sable and squirrel,
or some other mammalian hair, delicately define the strokes
that hold impossibly stable forms. they remain nothing more
than the anticipation of change.

i hold dearly their ideals set before me.  
worlds not yet conceived, sonnets of they eye.
immaculate conception of material, geographies of a mind;
i know to kneel and weep. i know their end is near,
while framed and draped in hammered sheets of gold.

unfurling cracks appear, sounding cries for renewed youth.
howling dearly to hide their hidden truths.
i listen within earshot, the call of dying lies
and feel no remorse. no guilt. no sympathy. their backgrounds protrude abruptly, like mountains from the sea.

although, their time is not like mountains or
the falling and rising seas. they remain only for our pleasure
and contemplation, when money and interest build into cacophony. confusing onlookers to believe a misplaced value, not an artists intention, to become only what man makes their purpose.

The wind knows
the rustle of the oak boughs,
the susurrus of the prairie grass,
the fragrance of the wildflowers,
the stillness at the edge of the lagoon.

The wind knows
the trilling of the warblers flitting through the tallgrass,
this flat and endless expanse of verdant, sun-bathed flora,
this kingdom of wide-open spaces, the big empty,
these geographies that define us, within and without.