Repression is everywhere .  Repression is so common it is almost impossible to avoid .  Repression can be found in natural laws ; gravity is a repressive force .  I experience a desire for repression when I consider the possibility of extra-terrestrial life .  Propaganda is a form of repression when it eliminates unwanted truth ; militaristic logistics require repression of the extraneous.  Social hierarchy is only as good as it is expedient ; credibility is the key .  Psychological repression can be a functional personal tool .  Repression is a frictional force that can either eliminate unwanted forces or alter their courses .
Repression is most often thought of as a governmental tool .  There are many reasons a government might want to repress it’s subjects .  In a truly free government no one can practice repression on others of no consent unless they have infringed on their rights .  Fascist and socialist governments can force their people at will .  Their children are trained both  directly and subliminally in order that they may better fulfill their social positions .  In free countries laws repress repressors : people who might want to tamper with your rights .  Monopolies get repressed because they tamper with the people’s right to a free market competition
  system .  The individual reigns and the majority decides what is best for everyone .
The elimination of all unwanted repressions is the natural goal of all individuals yet repression is common the world over .  Social hierarchies necessitate repressions ; expedience in teamwork becomes more credible than individuality .  Many sociological forces create their own realms of repression ; the normalcy demanded by tyrannical governments and puritanical religions are obvious examples .  
Any retrospective examination of human history that is depthfully complete will probably bring to mind a vast quandary of opposing forces beyond social integration .    
           Personally  I find people to have a vast amount of basic similarities .  We become alienated from each other in the application of our abilities .  In fact each and every one of us live in a realm that is totally real only to ourselves .  I find this and similar states of social fragmentation to be one of the most pervasive observations one could make about the state of the human race .  
The tabula rasa state of man is an evolutional being ; a conscious realm that became out of dirt , water , sunlight , time ; an essence that has an innate quality , a cosmic continuum .  The historical development of world religions paints a vivid picture of man’s desire to relate to this tactile awareness .
There are many forces in the universe that we as humans need to repress .  Unwarranted or unwanted forces encounter natural resistance .  Humans learn to control their conscious state as they acquire maturity .  Natural repressions grow out of an understanding of the need for them .  But humans are not satiated with pragmatic self orientation .  They are easily misled by the perceived nature of their unconscious state .  The perfection orientation of Adolf ****** gives a stark example of an institutionalization of one of these warped images .
World religions also are often abortive of individual aspiration . Of course more often than not their impetus factors seem at least partially acceptable .
Practicality dictates that humans be self orientated in order to achieve their optimum state , but what is self orientation ?  Humans exist in both a conscious and unconscious state .  Individually we all perform many subconscious activities on an inadvertent level .  Although many of them are autonomic defenses we can exercise control and attempt psychic clarity .  
Actually repression is something that each and every individual must put down for themselves .  Although social expedience creates an environment that is conducive to itself , individuals have an innate need to repress certain of their psychic phenomena whether they are created by their environment or well from within .

In a distant land, far beyond the time we know now, there lived an ancient people who knew in their bones of a past outside memory. Things happened over and over; as day became night night became day, spring followed winter, summer followed spring, autumn followed summer and then, and then as autumn came, at least the well-known ordered days passed full of preparation for the transhumance, that great movement of flocks and herds from the summer mountains to the winter pastures. But in the great oak woods of this region the leaves seemed reluctant to fall. Even after the first frosts when the trees glimmered with rime as the sun rose. Even when winter’s cousin, the great wind from the west, ravaged the conical roofs of the shepherds’ huts. The leaves did not fall.

For Lucila, searching for leaves as she climbed each day higher and higher through the parched undergrowth under the most ancient oaks, there were only acorns, slews of acorns at her feet. There were no leaves, or rather no leaves that might be gathered as newly fallen. Only the faint husks of leaves of the previous autumn, leaves of provenance already gathered before she left the mountains last year for the winter plains, leaves she had placed into her deep sleeves, into her voluminous apron, into the large pockets of her vlaterz, the ornate felt jacket of the married woman.

Since her childhood she had picked and pocketed these oaken leaves, felt their thin, veined, patterned forms, felt, followed, caressed them between her finger tips. It was as though her pockets were full of the hands of children, seven-fingered hands, stroking her fingers with their pointed tips when her fingers were pocketed.

She would find private places to lay out her gathered leaves. She wanted none to know or touch or speak of these her children of the oak forest. She had waited all summer, as she had done since a child, watching them bud and grow on the branch, and then, with the frosts and winds of autumn, fall, fall, fall to the ground, but best of all fall into her small hands, every leaf there to be caught, fallen into the bowl of her cupped hands. And for every leaf caught, a wish.

Her autumn days became full of wishes. She would lie awake on her straw mattress after Mikas had risen for the night milking, that time when the rustling bells of the goats had no accompaniment from the birds. She would assemble her lists of wishes, wishes ready for leaves not yet fallen into the bowl of her cupped hands. May the toes of my baby be perfectly formed? May his hair fall straight without a single curl? May I know only the pain I can bear when he comes? May the mother of Mikas love this child?

As the fine autumn days moved towards the feast day of St Anolysius, the traditional day of departure of the winter transhumance, there was, this season, an unspoken tension present in the still, dry air. Already preparations were being made for the long journey to the winter plains. There was soon to be a wedding now three days away, of the Phatos boy to the Tamosel girl. The boy was from an adjoining summer pasture and had travelled during the summer months with an itinerant uncle, a pedlar of sorts and beggar of repute. So he had seen something of the world beyond those of the herds and flocks can expect to see. He was rightly-made and fit to marry, although, of course, the girl was to be well-kept secret until the day itself.

Lucila remembered those wedding days, her wedding days, those anxious days of waiting when encased in her finery, in her seemingly impenetrable and voluminous wedding clothes she had remained all but hidden from view. While around her the revelling came and went, the drunkenness, the feasting, the riotous eruptions of noise and movement, the sudden visitations of relatives she did not know, the fierce instructions of women who spoke to her now as a woman no longer a young girl or a dear child, women she knew as silent, shy and respectful who were now loud and lewd, who told her things she could hardly believe, what a man might do, what a man might be, what a woman had to suffer - all these things happening at the same time. And then her soon-to-be husband’s drunk-beyond-reason friends had carried off the basket with her trousseau and dressed themselves riotously in her finest embroidered blouses, her intricate layered skirts, her petticoats, even the nightdress deemed the one to be worn when eventually, after three days revelry, she would be visited by a man, now more goat than man, sodden with drink, insensible to what little she understood as human passion beyond the coupling of goats. Of course Semisar had prepared the bright blood for the bridesbed sheet, the necessary evidence, and as Mikas lay sprawled unconscious at the foot of the marriage bed she had allowed herself to be dishevelled, to feign the aftermath of the act he was supposed to have committed upon her. That would, she knew, come later . . .

It was then, in those terrible days and after, she took comfort from her silent, private stitching into leaves, the darning of acorns, the spinning of skeins of goats’ wool she would walnut-dye and weave around stones and pieces of glass. She would bring together leaves bound into tiny books, volumes containing for her a language of leaves, the signs and symbols of nature she had named, that only she knew. She could not read the words of the priest’s book but was fluent in the script of veins and ribs and patterning that every leaf owned. When autumn came she could hardly move a step for picking up a fallen leaf, reading its story, learning of its history. But this autumn now, at the time of leaf fall, the fall of the leaf did not happen and those leaves of last year at her feet were ready to disintegrate at her touch. She was filled with dread. She knew she could not leave the mountains without a collection of leaves to stitch and weave through the shorter days and long, long winter nights. She had imagined sharing with her infant child this language she had learnt, had stitched into her daily life.

It was Semisar of course, who voiced it first. Semisar, the self-appointed weather ears and horizon eyes of the community, who followed her into the woods, who had forced Lucila against a tree holding one broad arm and her body’s weight like a bar from which Lucila could not escape, and with the other arm and hand rifled the broad pockets of Lucila’s apron. Semisar tossed the delicate chicken bone needles to the ground, unravelled the bobbins of walnut-stained yarn, crumpled the delicately folded and stitched, but yet to be finished, constructions of leaves . . . And spewed forth a torrent of terrible words. Already the men knew that the lack of leaf fall was peculiar only to the woods above and around their village. Over the other side of the mountain Telgatho had said this was not so. Was Lucila a Magnelz? Perhaps a Cutvlael? This baby she carried, a girl of course, was already making evil. Semisar placed her hand over and around the ripe hard form of the unborn child, feeling for its shape, its elbows and knees, the spine. And from there, with a vicelike grip on the wrist, Semisar dragged Lucila up and far into the woods to where the mountain with its caves and rocks touched the last trees, and from there to the cave where she seemed to know Lucila’s treasures lay, her treasures from childhood. Semisar would destroy everything, then the leaves would surely fall.

When Lucila did not return to prepare the evening meal Mikas was to learn all. Should he leave her be? He had been told women had these times of strange behaviour before childbirth. The wedding of the Phatos boy was almost upon them and the young men were already behaving like goats before the rut. The festive candles and tinselled wedding crowns had been fetched from the nearest town two days ride distant, the decoration of the tiny mountain basilica and the accommodation for the priest was in hand. The women were busy with the making of sweets and treats to be thrown at the wedding pair by guests and well-wishers. Later, the same women would prepare the dough for the millstones of bread that would be baked in the stone ovens. The men had already chosen the finest lambs to spit-roast for the feast.

She will return, Semisar had said after waiting by the fold where Mikas flocks, now gathered from the heights, awaited their journey south. All will be well, Mikas, never fear. The infant, a girl, may not last its birth, Semisar warned, but seeing the shocked face of Mikas, explained a still-birth might be providential for all. Know this time will pass, she said, and you can still be blessed with many sons. We are forever in the hands of the spirit, she said, leaving without the customary salutation of farewell.
                                               
However different the lives of man and woman may by tradition and circumstance become, those who share the ways and rites of marriage are inextricably linked by fate’s own hand and purpose. Mikas has come to know his once-bride, the child become woman in his clumsy embrace, the girl of perhaps fifteen summers fulfilling now his mother’s previous role, who speaks little but watches and listens, is unfailingly attentive to his needs and demands, and who now carries his child ( it can only be a boy), carries this boy high in her womb and with a confidence his family has already remarked upon.

After their wedding he had often returned home to Lucila at the time of the sun’s zenith when it is customary for the village women to seek the shade of their huts and sleep. It was an unwritten rite due to a newly-wed husband to feign the sudden need for a forgotten tool or seek to examine a sick animal in the home fold. After several fruitless visits when he found their hut empty he timed his visit earlier to see her black-scarfed figure disappear into the oak woods.  He followed her secretively, and had observed her seated beneath an ancient warrior of a tree, had watched over her intricate making. Furthermore and later he came to know where she hid the results of this often fevered stitching of things from nature’s store and stash, though an supernatural fear forbade him to enter the cleft between rocks into which she would disappear. He began to know how times and turns of the days affected her actions, but had left her be. She would usually return bright-eyed and with a quiet wonder, of what he did not know, but she carried something back within her that gave her a peculiar peace and beauty. It seemed akin to the well-being Mikas knew from handling a fine ewe from his flock . . .

And she would sometimes allow herself to be handled thus. She let him place his hands over her in that joyful ownership and command of a man whose life is wholly bound up with flocks and herds and the well-being of the female species. He would come from the evening watch with the ever-constant count of his flock still on his lips, and by a mixture of accident and stealth touch her wholly-clothed body, sometimes needing his fingers into the thick wool of her stockings, stroking the chestnut silken hairs that he found above her bare wrists, marvelling at her small hands with their perfect nails. He knew from the ribaldry of men that women were trained from childhood to display to men as little as possible of their intimate selves. But alone and apart all day on a remote hillside, alone save for several hundred sheep, brought to Mikas in his solitary state wild and conjured thoughts of feminine spirits, unencumbered by clothes, brighter and more various than any night-time dream. And he had succumbed to the pleasure of such thoughts times beyond reason, finding himself imagining Lucila as he knew she was unlikely ever to allow herself to be. But even in the single winter and summer of their life together there had been moments of surprise and revelation, and accompanied by these precious thoughts he went in search of her in the darkness of a three-quarter moon, into the stillness of the night-time wood.

Ah Lucilla. We might think that after the scourge of Semisar, the physical outrage of her baby’s forced examination, and finally the destruction of her treasures, this child-wife herself with child would be desolate with grief at what had come about. She had not been forced to follow Semisar into the small cave where wrapped in woven blankets her treasures lay between the thinnest sheets of impure and rejected parchment gleaned surreptitiously after shearing, but holding each and every treasure distinct and detached. There was enough light for Semisar to pause in wonder at the intricate constructions, bright with the aura of extreme fragility owned by many of the smaller makings. And not just the leaves of the oak were here, but of the mastic, the walnut, the flaky-barked strawberry and its smoothed barked cousin. There were leaves and sheaves of bark from lowland trees of the winter sojourn, there were dried fruits mysteriously arranged, constructions of acorns threaded with the dark madder-red yarn, even acorns cracked and damaged from their tree fall had been ‘mended’ with thread.

Semisar was to open some of the tiny books of leaved pages where she witnessed a form of writing she did not recognise (she could not read but had seen the priest’s writing and the print of the holy books). This she wondered at, as surely Lucila had only the education of the home? Such symbols must belong to the spirit world. Another sign that Lucila had infringed order and disturbed custom. It would take but a matter of minutes to turn such makings into little more than a layer of dust on the floor.

With her bare hands Semisar ground together these elaborate confections, these lovingly-made conjunctions of needle’s art with nature’s purpose and accidental beauty. She ground them together until they were dust.

When Semisar returned into the pale afternoon light it seemed Lucila had remained as she had been left: motionless, and without expression. If Semisar had known the phenomenon of shock, Lucila was in that condition. But, in the manner of a woman preparing to grieve for the dead she had removed her black scarf and unwound the long dark chestnut plaits that flowed down her back. But there were no tears. only a dumb silence but for the heavy exhalation of breath. It seemed that she looked beyond Semisar into the world of spirits invoking perhaps their aid, their comfort.

What happened had neither invoked sadness nor grief. It was as if it had been ordained in the elusive pattern of things. It felt like the clearing of the summer hut before the final departure for the long journey to the winter world. The hut, Lucila had been taught, was to be left spotless, every item put in its rightful place ready to be taken up again on the return to the summer life, exactly as if it had been undisturbed by absence . Not a crumb would remain before the rugs and coverings were rolled and removed, summer clothes hard washed and tightly mended, to be folded then wrapped between sprigs of aromatic herbs.

Lucila would go now and collect her precious but scattered needles from beneath the ancient oak. She would begin again - only to make and embroider garments for her daughter. It was as though, despite this ‘loss’, she had retained within her physical self the memory of every stitch driven into nature’s fabric.

Suddenly Lucila remembered that saints’ day which had sanctioned a winter’s walk with her mother, a day when her eyes had been drawn to a world of patterns and objects at her feet: the damaged acorn, the fractured leaf, the broken berried branch, the wisp of wool left impaled upon a stub of thorns. She had been five, maybe six summers old. She had already known the comforting action of the needle’s press again the felted cloth, but then, as if impelled by some force quite outside herself, had ‘borrowed’ one of her mother’s needles and begun her odyssey of darning, mending, stitching, enduring her mother’s censure - a waste of good thread, little one - until her skill became obvious and one of delight, but a private delight her mother hid from all and sundry, and then pressed upon her ‘proper’ work with needle and thread. But the damage had been done, the dye cast. She became nature’s needle slave and quartered those personal but often invisible

By: Cedric McClester

It’s a shame
And the disgrace is
A neon shirt
And pink shoelaces
Resulted in an act
So tasteless
That the victim wound up
With stitches in some places

A neon shirt and pink shoelaces
Or acting effeminate
If that’s what the case is
Physically attacking him
Was entirely baseless
And sooner or later
We all need to face this

Why you ask
Was he under attack
Homophobia
And as a matter of fact
Though it’s not a case
Of white or black
The bottom line is
It was a hateful act

A neon shirt and pink shoelaces
Or acting effeminate
If that’s what the case is
Physically attacking him
Was entirely baseless
And sooner or later
We all need to face this

What people do
In my point of view
Is a matter of personal choice
Not up for review
Unless it’s hurting others
Or causes their rights to
Be infringed upon
Then ya might wanna sue

A neon shirt and pink shoelaces
Or acting effeminate
If that’s what the case is
Physically attacking him
Was entirely baseless
And sooner or later
We all need to face this

And here’s the thing
That I don’t get
How is what he does
Considered a threat
To anybody else
Albeit
Even those who object
Shouldn’t become upset – cos

A neon shirt and pink shoelaces
Or acting effeminate
If that’s what the case is
Physically attacking him
Was entirely baseless
And sooner or later
We all need to face this


(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung
By one man’s disobedience lost, now sing
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,
By one man’s firm obedience fully tried
Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled
In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,
And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness.
  Thou Spirit, who led’st this glorious Eremite
Into the desert, his victorious field
Against the spiritual foe, and brought’st him thence        
By proof the undoubted Son of God, inspire,
As thou art wont, my prompted song, else mute,
And bear through highth or depth of Nature’s bounds,
With prosperous wing full summed, to tell of deeds
Above heroic, though in secret done,
And unrecorded left through many an age:
Worthy to have not remained so long unsung.
  Now had the great Proclaimer, with a voice
More awful than the sound of trumpet, cried
Repentance, and Heaven’s kingdom nigh at hand              
To all baptized.  To his great baptism flocked
With awe the regions round, and with them came
From Nazareth the son of Joseph deemed
To the flood Jordan—came as then obscure,
Unmarked, unknown.  But him the Baptist soon
Descried, divinely warned, and witness bore
As to his worthier, and would have resigned
To him his heavenly office.  Nor was long
His witness unconfirmed: on him baptized
Heaven opened, and in likeness of a Dove                    
The Spirit descended, while the Father’s voice
From Heaven pronounced him his beloved Son.
That heard the Adversary, who, roving still
About the world, at that assembly famed
Would not be last, and, with the voice divine
Nigh thunder-struck, the exalted man to whom
Such high attest was given a while surveyed
With wonder; then, with envy fraught and rage,
Flies to his place, nor rests, but in mid air
To council summons all his mighty Peers,                    
Within thick clouds and dark tenfold involved,
A gloomy consistory; and them amidst,
With looks aghast and sad, he thus bespake:—
  “O ancient Powers of Air and this wide World
(For much more willingly I mention Air,
This our old conquest, than remember Hell,
Our hated habitation), well ye know
How many ages, as the years of men,
This Universe we have possessed, and ruled
In manner at our will the affairs of Earth,                
Since Adam and his facile consort Eve
Lost Paradise, deceived by me, though since
With dread attending when that fatal wound
Shall be inflicted by the seed of Eve
Upon my head.  Long the decrees of Heaven
Delay, for longest time to Him is short;
And now, too soon for us, the circling hours
This dreaded time have compassed, wherein we
Must bide the stroke of that long-threatened wound
(At least, if so we can, and by the head                    
Broken be not intended all our power
To be infringed, our freedom and our being
In this fair empire won of Earth and Air)—
For this ill news I bring: The Woman’s Seed,
Destined to this, is late of woman born.
His birth to our just fear gave no small cause;
But his growth now to youth’s full flower, displaying
All virtue, grace and wisdom to achieve
Things highest, greatest, multiplies my fear.
Before him a great Prophet, to proclaim                    
His coming, is sent harbinger, who all
Invites, and in the consecrated stream
Pretends to wash off sin, and fit them so
Purified to receive him pure, or rather
To do him honour as their King.  All come,
And he himself among them was baptized—
Not thence to be more pure, but to receive
The testimony of Heaven, that who he is
Thenceforth the nations may not doubt.  I saw
The Prophet do him reverence; on him, rising                
Out of the water, Heaven above the clouds
Unfold her crystal doors; thence on his head
A perfet Dove descend (whate’er it meant);
And out of Heaven the sovraign voice I heard,
‘This is my Son beloved,—in him am pleased.’
His mother, than, is mortal, but his Sire
He who obtains the monarchy of Heaven;
And what will He not do to advance his Son?
His first-begot we know, and sore have felt,
When his fierce thunder drove us to the Deep;              
Who this is we must learn, for Man he seems
In all his lineaments, though in his face
The glimpses of his Father’s glory shine.
Ye see our danger on the utmost edge
Of hazard, which admits no long debate,
But must with something sudden be opposed
(Not force, but well-couched fraud, well-woven snares),
Ere in the head of nations he appear,
Their king, their leader, and supreme on Earth.
I, when no other durst, sole undertook                      
The dismal expedition to find out
And ruin Adam, and the exploit performed
Successfully: a calmer voyage now
Will waft me; and the way found prosperous once
Induces best to hope of like success.”
  He ended, and his words impression left
Of much amazement to the infernal crew,
Distracted and surprised with deep dismay
At these sad tidings.  But no time was then
For long indulgence to their fears or grief:                
Unanimous they all commit the care
And management of this man enterprise
To him, their great Dictator, whose attempt
At first against mankind so well had thrived
In Adam’s overthrow, and led their march
From Hell’s deep-vaulted den to dwell in light,
Regents, and potentates, and kings, yea gods,
Of many a pleasant realm and province wide.
So to the coast of Jordan he directs
His easy steps, girded with snaky wiles,                    
Where he might likeliest find this new-declared,
This man of men, attested Son of God,
Temptation and all guile on him to try—
So to subvert whom he suspected raised
To end his reign on Earth so long enjoyed:
But, contrary, unweeting he fulfilled
The purposed counsel, pre-ordained and fixed,
Of the Most High, who, in full frequence bright
Of Angels, thus to Gabriel smiling spake:—
  “Gabriel, this day, by proof, thou shalt behold,          
Thou and all Angels conversant on Earth
With Man or men’s affairs, how I begin
To verify that solemn message late,
On which I sent thee to the ****** pure
In Galilee, that she should bear a son,
Great in renown, and called the Son of God.
Then told’st her, doubting how these things could be
To her a ******, that on her should come
The Holy Ghost, and the power of the Highest
O’ershadow her.  This Man, born and now upgrown,            
To shew him worthy of his birth divine
And high prediction, henceforth I expose
To Satan; let him tempt, and now assay
His utmost subtlety, because he boasts
And vaunts of his great cunning to the throng
Of his Apostasy.  He might have learnt
Less overweening, since he failed in Job,
Whose constant perseverance overcame
Whate’er his cruel malice could invent.
He now shall know I can produce a man,                      
Of female seed, far abler to resist
All his solicitations, and at length
All his vast force, and drive him back to Hell—
Winning by conquest what the first man lost
By fallacy surprised.  But first I mean
To exercise him in the Wilderness;
There he shall first lay down the rudiments
Of his great warfare, ere I send him forth
To conquer Sin and Death, the two grand foes.
By humiliation and strong sufferance                        
His weakness shall o’ercome Satanic strength,
And all the world, and mass of sinful flesh;
That all the Angels and aethereal Powers—
They now, and men hereafter—may discern
From what consummate virtue I have chose
This perfet man, by merit called my Son,
To earn salvation for the sons of men.”
  So spake the Eternal Father, and all Heaven
Admiring stood a space; then into hymns
Burst forth, and in celestial measures moved,              
Circling the throne and singing, while the hand
Sung with the voice, and this the argument:—
  “Victory and triumph to the Son of God,
Now entering his great duel, not of arms,
But to vanquish by wisdom hellish wiles!
The Father knows the Son; therefore secure
Ventures his filial virtue, though untried,
Against whate’er may tempt, whate’er ******,
Allure, or terrify, or undermine.
Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell,                    
And, devilish machinations, come to nought!”
  So they in Heaven their odes and vigils tuned.
Meanwhile the Son of God, who yet some days
Lodged in Bethabara, where John baptized,
Musing and much revolving in his breast
How best the mighty work he might begin
Of Saviour to mankind, and which way first
Publish his godlike office now mature,
One day forth walked alone, the Spirit leading
And his deep thoughts, the better to converse              
With solitude, till, far from track of men,
Thought following thought, and step by step led on,
He entered now the bordering Desert wild,
And, with dark shades and rocks environed round,
His holy meditations thus pursued:—
  “O what a multitude of thoughts at once
Awakened in me swarm, while I consider
What from within I feel myself, and hear
What from without comes often to my ears,
Ill sorting with my present state compared!                
When I was yet a child, no childish play
To me was pleasing; all my mind was set
Serious to learn and know, and thence to do,
What might be public good; myself I thought
Born to that end, born to promote all truth,
All righteous things.  Therefore, above my years,
The Law of God I read, and found it sweet;
Made it my whole delight, and in it grew
To such perfection that, ere yet my age
Had measured twice six years, at our great Feast            
I went into the Temple, there to hear
The teachers of our Law, and to propose
What might improve my knowledge or their own,
And was admired by all.  Yet this not all
To which my spirit aspired.  Victorious deeds
Flamed in my heart, heroic acts—one while
To rescue Israel from the Roman yoke;
Then to subdue and quell, o’er all the earth,
Brute violence and proud tyrannic power,
Till truth were freed, and equity restored:                
Yet held it more humane, more heavenly, first
By winning words to conquer willing hearts,
And make persuasion do the work of fear;
At least to try, and teach the erring soul,
Not wilfully misdoing, but unware
Misled; the stubborn only to subdue.
These growing thoughts my mother soon perceiving,
By words at times cast forth, inly rejoiced,
And said to me apart, ‘High are thy thoughts,
O Son! but nourish them, and let them soar                  
To what highth sacred virtue and true worth
Can raise them, though above example high;
By matchless deeds express thy matchless Sire.
For know, thou art no son of mortal man;
Though men esteem thee low of parentage,
Thy Father is the Eternal King who rules
All Heaven and Earth, Angels and sons of men.
A messenger from God foretold thy birth
Conceived in me a ******; he foretold
Thou shouldst be great, and sit on David’s throne,          
And of thy kingdom there should be no end.
At thy nativity a glorious quire
Of Angels, in the fields of Bethlehem, sung
To shepherds, watching at their folds by night,
And told them the Messiah now was born,
Where they might see him; and to thee they came,
Directed to the manger where thou lay’st;
For in the inn was left no better room.
A Star, not seen before, in heaven appearing,
Guided the Wise Men thither from the East,                  
To honour thee with incense, myrrh, and gold;
By whose bright course led on they found the place,
Affirming it thy star, new-graven in heaven,
By which they knew thee King of Israel born.
Just Simeon and prophetic Anna, warned
By vision, found thee in the Temple, and spake,
Before the altar and the vested priest,
Like things of thee to all that present stood.’
This having heart, straight I again revolved
The Law and Prophets, searching what was writ              
Concerning the Messiah, to our scribes
Known partly, and soon found of whom they spake
I am—this chiefly, that my way must lie
Through many a hard assay, even to the death,
Ere I the promised kingdom can attain,
Or work redemption for mankind, whose sins’
Full weight must be transferred upon my head.
Yet, neither thus disheartened or dismayed,
The time prefixed I waited; when behold
The Baptist (of whose birth I oft had heard,                
Not knew by sight) now come, who was to come
Before Messiah, and his way prepare!
I, as all others, to his baptism came,
Which I believed was from above; but he
Straight knew me, and with loudest voice proclaimed
Me him (for it was shewn him so from Heaven)—
Me him whose harbinger he was; and first
Refused on me his baptism to confer,
As much his greater, and was hardly won.
But, as I rose out of the laving stream,                    
Heaven opened her eternal doors, from whence
The Spirit descended on me like a Dove;
And last, the sum of all, my Father’s voice,
Audibly heard from Heaven, pronounced me his,
Me his beloved Son, in whom alone
He was well pleased: by which I knew the time
Now full, that I no more should live obscure,
But openly begin, as best becomes
The authority which I derived from Heaven.
And now by some strong motion I am led                      
Into this wilderness; to what intent
I learn not yet.  Perhaps I need not know;
For what concerns my knowledge God reveals.”
  So spake our Morning Star, then in his rise,
And, looking round, on every side beheld
A pathless desert, dusk with horrid shades.
The way he came, not having marked return,
Was difficult, by human steps untrod;
And he still on was led, but with such thoughts
Accompanied of things past and to come                      
Lodged in his breast as well might recommend
Such solitude before choicest society.
  Full forty days he passed—whether on hill
Sometimes, anon in shady vale, each night
Under the covert of some ancient oak
Or cedar to defend him from the dew,
Or harboured

the rugged light stumbles like a foal
the juxtaposition of choice plays
between right and wrong
I recall the cup of forthrightness
infringed inherently
with the sad lady,
for what was said
was not even fair yesterday.
Watch my shoreline sand prints ebb
and decide on forgiveness if you wish.

We’re the lunatics in this world full of normalcy. The honest liars , unaffected by the universal hypocrisy.

Hand in hand , we’ll take a stand. For better or worse; ash to ash , dust to dust. Keeping in mind , the world has its haters , its got the just. But the right to love is infringed by this superficial bunch.

Their judgmental eyes, prying noses. Sticking in places they shouldn’t be; Judging people who stick it in places they shouldn’t be.

In god we trust , this godforsaken nation. I don’t think god cares if you’re gay or lesbian. Never was it written that it makes you less of a being.

But woe to the one who dreams of equality. Support what I say or you’re just spreading misogyny. Racism and sexism don’t exist for the majority. All of this **** spread by zealotry.

Spreading your legs is oppressing my feminity. Misandry is a lie says she, speech full of obscenities.

Forgotten are those who suffer in silence, The lies of brats masking the violence.

Where is my privilege? I’m straight, white, and male. You sip on your pumpkin spice, Telling me to rot in hell, For the basic transgression of begging for help.

i was fifteen; disoriented; drunk on shame and a little *****
violated; infringed upon me like a school yard bully
waiting to pounce upon his young victim
i was dressed in white, a pure vacancy
with every drink i was unknowingly inviting the lion
making a bitter den for his carnal disposition-resentment
a secret-i never promised to keep it
we share blood! a casualty, unforgivably forgotten

i wasn't able to bear the weight of his words any longer
needed to relieve the tension building up in my somber, fragile, bones
my apprentice was a slender, silver blade
and i unlocked the beasts' crate-allowed him to flow through the wound
like rain-underneath the bright streetlight on a december evening
looking for anything to help me forget

but the beast i set free, the beast was me!
with that final laceration i desperately looked for the thread
the thread that could stitch my hand back onto wrist
but time became syrup-slowing and sticky
and the moon shone on my left limb, wrongful display
i reach for my pulse. drowning in the cold

in my note-i should have apologized to the maid
for having to clean up
all my pain

Trail of trials and tribulations,
woe is we
woe is we
and alla what's amattah, real or un,
who but we imagines
either one
or the other, is it real? What we think?
The meaning
centering being with science used
con-science, with knowing, so-vest, in vest
in finding the undeclared variable,
what is woke, in 2021?
Sense of some old known new named,
in a since from then to now, knowing
uses of knowing, knowing needless knowns,
- skei-sharper seps, see useless knowns,
- hard bought lessons you never lived without

"the double minded man ever falls forward,
into the forest" formed
from all the gardens
gone wild when the gardeners died,
it was sudden
nobody's fault, just - happened- as just does\

inside jobs, chrons and tension twisters,
springs of inspiration,
gears of cogitation
wheels in wheels in wheels in swirls
of fore gone conclusions,
we know
secrets, some how, now. We know
there never was a hell,
but the pearling process is valid,
the gate grows wider and the way
more twisted and iridescent than
ever, in all directions, at a turn
to bend the reflection you had
recognized as me, in your
hall of mirrors, right,
uber nur hier auf recht, re
thinking creative critical thinking,
but any re-applicant replies, pearl-wise --
lay it on me,
app-lie the essence of the
shining thing glimpsed scene,
-with wishery and fastest fasting
yet, this kind comes forth, to wink,
and lead on, a totally made up
way, a shone way where none is
as a golden street with no traveling
save messages encoded on reflections
of what the mind in peace has to say to
gloss the truth in eggwhite, wonder baked
in riddles,
as in the left brain's hall of mirrors…
the old fool stumbles in to the knots
all the thread infringed upon, and entagled
your requests to know what imitation lovers love,
sink this deep down. Imitation anointing,
have you never witnessed the super,
superior power of wind over sun,
did you never witness a wizard
with a power of presence like unto
PanaVision, to a pre-lingual toddler male.

Ritual passage,  - far subtler than any beasty
under tilled tale, telling all the trees,
keep growing, expand the life,
expand the knowing, once
known, this is it, this is where,
the forgiven sense appears a force
urging each o each little piggie, we we we
all the way home, pigs can swim, remember.

find the inner child, hall of dark glass walls…
expand to our mutual horizon,
see me see you past the stood unders,
look up,

this is joy being as beauty is,
it may not be devoid of good, nor useless
if I choose to enjoy, invest my will to happiness,
engaging joy receptors cast aside,
by the inner child, so sure the reflections
are others,
come to keep the joy I form re forming
more than one may think or ask,

a worst so good, we accept it as the best.
See.
Today is the only day you read this first.
What you imagine next, line
after line, as we,

no, me, hall of mirrors, I hear me
recall
"You are the most self-centered man
I have ever encountered."

Encounters of the pointy sort,
soul piercing insights, into who
and what
we are, if words are all I make them out to be.

There is nothing left to say. You declared with audacity how I was an impediment. I recollected how pitiable I was, desperate for nothing, because it wouldn't, it didn't alter anything. So enamored was I with you, I relinquished half of myself to appease you. The superior parts of me I surrendered willingly to you, as I permitted myself to become illicitly compliant in the scheme of deceiving myself. I believed the half-truths, the falsehoods, and the empty promises. You made a wreck of me, exposing me to such debasingly immoral things. I thought I could trust you after everything we shared. I never knew such passions; I never felt such care. How was I to know none of it was genuine?

Time has elapsed, and I have healed. I have moved on, not as swiftly as you, and it didn't take another to get me here. So, the emails, the texts, the contacting my family needs to cease. It doesn't matter if I'm single. What mattered was that I had so much fight in me to save us I was a willing participant, my own collateral damage when it came to you. I allowed so much and pleaded for so long for you to see me, to love me as I did you. Like you once used to. The fool I played, for it wasn't love at all. It wasn't even lust; it was mere 'usage.' I contorted myself to fit into your world. I reinvented myself to a lower self in place of the worldly woman I once was. I infringed on my intellect and played dumb, forever the fool, all for you. And it still wasn't enough. You told me I was too strong, too independent, and so I diminished myself. My integrity be ******, I lowered my standards and discarded my boundaries to please you. All for what? For you to do exactly what I implored you not to do: to toy with me, to lie and deceive, to harm and torture, to manipulate and abuse. And even then, it wasn't enough. I was never enough.

No matter now. I have healed myself, and I have moved on. How wonderful it is to see I am nowhere near where I used to be, and the me I am today you'll never get close to. So, for all the attempts at contacting me and wanting to talk, I must let it be known I have nothing left to say!

Worded arrowheads
are fastened to shafts.
They rain down on
our Love-fed ears.

Bowstring at ready
pulled back high-sky,
They strike down all
who lived this earth.

My soul, infringed,
asked, "How can this be,
with heart shut tight
from melancholy?"

Closed cold, a shield,
I thought could withstand
the force of a blow
guided not by your hand.

The force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
In time the sands
will salt our land.

Your words will crop
my sagging skin
and feed the ground
with hollow chest.

Death for the young
never-held as best,
but for this earth
a heart at rest.

But for this earth,
put Death to rest.
The price of youth,
pays for the best.

Elegy I

“Behold, I tell you my prince Meton, that my Steed is coming bringing Zeus, I truly tell you that the shadows move on the plasma of the Duoverse and that the lunisolar cycles pose what could never arrive and where it has to go... that It awaits you if I say..., if from the threshold of 331 bC. What will be my own...? If tertians experience without pain that can resemble everyone else that it is!

Etréstles; My debt comes from the Kronia of Saturnalia and Aries, lifting him up from Gea... he is noble in the laws of his geometrical prose calling him from Attica and trying to know if I can take the corner of Stratonx, without a lesser degree of hierarchy and whatever, more than finding Theseus...! If it is of his necessity to hear us through the labyrinths that will approach him of the birth of a new Vernarth, who alone fears for some icy sting that afflicts Alikantus, coming as an Athenian steed on Zeus and on the protectorates of Polia that are plausibly bringing nights of fever in the cold solitude by not possessing them.

Whatever my lord, behold, a polis will have great merit when it occurs in the misgivings, hallucinations, and lightness that are abstracted after twenty-eight days without knowing which will be the next one that will contain it like the kindling of the fire that does not stop burning... nor the magnitude of everything that stops me from being the spoil of a new sprout, but that does not stop me from being superior to the flames that possess their hell. The official acts make me a trophy of hostile anxieties with their dying fire, however, Zeus makes the Duoverse move mounted on my steed that takes him on snows that fight in the contest, and in contests of my Elegy with his equestrian reverie. I tell you that for this they can still loot the feminine beauties that besiege me between ruinous eyes that only see from the attic towards his disjointed daily Odeon.

The sensitive attachment of my Cretan horse neighs resounding from the Odeon, carrying the waters that will be his visionary flowers on female beauties that acclaim him with a womanly voice, which lashes out at him as the bearer of a God, entering into sentences manly beauties that come off the blood Hellenic of Alikantus by Evandria; full and provided with manly arcana resembling a steed made an Adonis. For everything that seems ruinous to you, a head that wishes to be wounded is offered, for everything that seems diaphanous to you like a People in the female physiognomy, a figure consigned in his virginity, who opens doors in which they are semi-open... Seeming that nothing hurts as it runs through the corner of my yearning, with honey and milky emulsion in its porticoes and in the evasion of the Diplon bringing my guests from the Opistódomos, with menus that will be superior to all the vessels where it will take them their delicacies, incontinent. Of the Hydor, that flows from the mancebía and the damp staircase of the Nimbus. Unknown values of insecurity made me attached to the Acropolis, rather knowing that Zeus was on his way to his amnesty and was floating in prose of gaseous clay, and iridium that reopened the double door of the Diplon as it closed abruptly from the canopy tops. Where is it that so much warm wind runs in the colors of the gods who rule the Exile...? So he will continue to be all that he is and will be in what I observe him..., if he stops to look at himself, and not at me who no longer consumes him...!

I tell you with its illustrious shadow that it hides in its untamed ephebos, wanting to make precocious its illustrated cavities that serve an eternal heart, which pours out what pulses and reverses what it repels from the flesh that is distributed convex of the divine soul, making succulent darkness of the apotheosis of the Symposium… burning where they always are, I tell you they are lit in the saddles of time!

How much phobic rogue can tell you what my imperialism binds to say if my beloved were here, seeing her close by like any glow that syndicates her odd sacrifices, with excessive raised and scheduled glasses that speak of a restless being, who cannot tell you that the Christic continues to observe ride from Alikantus, on embers of the Khristúgenna, observing him in pageantry, attempts, and lands of Patmos with a loaf of unleavened brimming with pietism and a new millennium that ends in the pyx of her memories...

Currently, doors are slapped through which my steed will pass with Zeus..., and I will not hear them, because only I have to open their double door Dipylon weeks later... from the agon that has to carry me against Zeus as his relief comrade, clinging to anger in agons that fight each other for ferocious tendons, and herculean verbal incarnations, immersed in irrepressible loquacity... conceiving his heroic chance and submitological feats that are located at the precipice of the heel, and in the breathlessness of his steps that take place in those that are not! "

Elegy II

By what dark decline of Smyrna will my rib complain, and have to move its hanging from here of Selçuk that will consist in its protocols that guarded my lost head, and of corny demigods that surrounds soothing feats that do not hurt, instantly that we all offer the same incarnations of the cult and his victory with Saint John the Evangelist... I tell you that I know about this and I say that I preside and founded the condition of his sacred agonal, from his divine glory in Arbela according to how common it seems to them... if they are to get lost in its decline...! That they do not fight with what is not dexterity and nothing that is not brooding if nothing knocks on the arched door?

The purse that will remain beyond Alsancak in that residence is moth-eaten, I always hoped, I always had to say..., as I have told you that my tongue tells truths that you are tempted to see in the darkness of a dissolute courtyard in Helleniká, but between portages of Smyrna and rubrics that wave in streets that are bordering the extraverted Dipylon... in which instance I peek into the interior wine presses..., seeing its esplanades because if I have to tell you... it will be something that can satisfy you and that takes me to Eleusis...!

So many times I sighed for the stinging hinge and its memento, opening itself up like this, and if it must be wherever it compresses its resonance, here it is what I was going to condescend with dump trucks that transpose to the stage with their marbled misgivings, I beg you with my hands convulsive that I am not fortified, the tribal rain and the Xiphos phosphorus from the southwest, seeming to surpass with their longitudinal footage as if they were laws of the horizontal with twisted millennia that bring according to what should be...? For a long time, it takes the form of an imperfect and vile being by the inverted "V" from Ephesus, towards the intersection of the edge of Pergamum approaching Laodicea.

Guess where the deposit of the Sun of Smyrna derives with its long time-lapse, and with various stony that are attached to masonry typical of the diamond plinth, showing off the docile sacramental of its high shoulders and crowned partitions like those that hurt if my eye everything! Assesses, closing angles of the sovereign challenge, here my sovereign Meton presents me the sacramental infer to the Nymphaeum or a rhomboid arcade lost in his Domus!

Where do paradises shrink from, if all this was being hidden with so many truths between tributaries and conifers that have to be disposed of in their turrets? Its precarious sinister face only restrains the Eminences of the Lycabeto, daring to adorn themselves with Lykavittós, rising among longings that are lost in my Elegy from heights that howl for peaks that have not been besieged, only resided by those songs that shelter themselves obstructed with wide domains, with trainers that guide you, not coexisting lights, that scrutinize your shelter to become your owner!

What makes you of tribulation if my consort is made eternal, now that he shields between his worries for causes and lexical testimonies with my Eggelos, who do not hear the galloping of Alikantus but if the hieratic rocky snorts descending for what their prior does not know... only my chaste unit has to be with its talented polygonal patchwork, unlocking only what it contains in its earthly litanies, softening the sclerosis of a raging carat, being or not defensive of a judicious Eggelos in rocks of fortune...! Only if you have to restrain yourself before they exceed the rate, and of everything that stops you and greases the cranks of what is not worthy of rest without a deponent cheer!

I urge you, oh confreres that your streets and stones expand like runners and cobblestones that have never been able and never will be able to pass through colonnaded atriums surrounded by those who live in Smyrna! And from there I exhort you to serve your faithful hoarseness whose rest adheres to his unconscious reality... Where then only laughs the annoyance and its ominous deities that carve defenses that are arranged for him to house in Skelos or of the legs that are born and die on his heels...? And from where does it only lead him to the vault of the mystery that lies in his opportune vow?

I will mention to you when no one ascribes or praises you with compliments that tempt the supine harassment of whose silhouette it is not, and that it is only the Selçuk catafalque, where the chapel of its neighbors and rye burns that divide the age of the Duoverse, leaving him desolate if my verses disgust those who have secreted and listened to my unheard reflections... Yes, you have to hide in burial mounds that descend from heights that are unknown to you..., you will only have to unravel from your baseness and fading scratches of the factions, with ties and dizzying failures from which Olympians survive and without crowned laurels!

Everything is already commemoration and mischievous funerary daring with portable fluorophores mourners, dressed in crowded slags elongations, and slants where nothing can grasp it of prosapies and past or subsequent lives, where its spits will be of the advantageous parallel that is noticed of a Mycenaean mob. What decorum above all in that setback, that only sees imploring, that they stop behind everything that protects them by the force of the black aura, that hurts and that devastates their vibrations in the triggering footsteps of Alikantus, “He who has hearing and not words that he hears what a stained glass window is in all that he knows and reflects it ”.

What was devouring you by the ardor and his horse countenance with his swift piercing in all that this crusade means... Loading Aerse finesse with herons to tie and perpetuate only those who must not be lacking..., before the supreme preference of a man who errs more than a god, and who was the gift of a PanHellenic fiddling with thirteen shady places, lacerating everything that inferred him, and everything that was an intruder from the earrings of happiness hanging him like an azure earring..., all harassment coming from Smyrna Towards the iridescent Nimbus of Patmos for the puzzles of Pergamum!


Elegy III

I can call all twilight nights princesses in Croesus's scolding, between floods where pseudo warriors who expedition before me, and undivided in Alexander the Great where everything comes from him hiccupping with the Chrysanthemum of Cyrus and Darius. I can make you Persians again if all your history bustled between comfortable Zeroes! And if this besieged crossbow circulates faster than the treasures of Pergamum... thus it would flee with legions and Talents that surpass the treasures of Heaven and its contingent consort.

Third episodes to my teacher Saint John the Apostle placed him a few hours from the Aegean in the lower parts of Pergamum, whose Trojan sons I tell you that I follow the course of his dynasty, perpetuating and touching the scaphoid and serving him with the Lutrophorus! Oh, azure comes with the team of oxen from Thrace that guaranteed the Theologian, and the treasury of his holy angels for this entire mandate and go walking your tired feet carrying the ghosts of Lysimachus? Of your own veracity naming them kings who will truly serve his laudable reign!

I tell you that I have really learned about this and about my own custody that speaks when seeing the victors and the vanquished pass by in the fragment of Ephesus overflowing with despicable arteries of Pergamum, and buskin that was not worthy of a scene of tragedy; between jocular that captivate Jezebel and syllogisms that slice the servants and their harvests. Oh, what a bag it can tackle if they are the dreams of a demigoddess of Sambate, believing to ruin the journeys of the Apostle Saint John by a Vee that unites my own oppression just being in Pergamum very prone to the fourth letter of the Apokálypsis... if these hermits they are confused with my discredit!

In the Symposium Journey, I saw the bewilderment only in the fiftieth fight after 331 BC, since the retreats of my brother and Lord Alexander the Great, dividing belligerents between Lysimachus and Seleucus lying in 280 BC! Behold, I tell you that no novel has to say it... that daring and ****** sleeplessness will be understood with parapsychologies, Magnus battered in blood and having to condone in life the thirtieth cosmopolitan station that will wander without string or staff, only in realms of horror!

“Protervas works repeat from Balaam, perhaps in perjury of those who are not devoted to the ancient expertise of Elijah and idolatrous pagans on Mount Carmel. Days of full consent have decided me to be the observer of an inferior garden no greater than Pergamum, with finery and gibberish of a roasted Faith, and of embellished offshoots that are of the miserable Asmodeus. I tell you that I know of these vicissitudes of tremolos and tarsi that are exuberant of the supra Hellenic Maximus of the west and the east, defeating victorious incredulous who believe they see my retreat from someplace in the west of the Aftó and the east of the Dyticá... all from here henceforth that is not sullied by troops of the Phalanges, they will supply the desecrated foreign troops...! With Roman tropes, levies that will liberate the tetrarchies, the libatum, and their free uncontested successors, repaying Augustus' fratricides and Caesares in the insectary quagmire!

The ill-fated awaits the exquisite court that casts fateful offspring, none attend the charred Symposium and the burning broth, being insubordinate to Parchmentians and aristocracies that get tangled up in the rune of Leviathan, far from a so-called Lord Abraham gifted in the circles! of the power of Yahveh assigned by the Father, and the sleepless sleeplessness of a son, who does not expropriate in wanting songs or children to sleep awake! That makes them consular! I have been caulked in the excuses of Ephesus and Smyrna, where the Hellenic and Roman are lost in the lavish gnosis of a doctor, rub considered among thrushes and blackbirds lacerated from the other infinite... in the absence of Crows and Sisellas dying in their enormous sides and the hemicycle of the Mashiach!  

“Everything that is promoted after the beginning and that was never started has already begun… where the corrections have diluted what the river conforms to the edges of the Silinus, with silverware and Gobelins that are made holly in the refined hands of a maiden. How will I not manage your anxieties proportionate to their sets, if the feelings are greater than the last floor of Babel... and if I had to descend one more, it would never resemble the graceful hands of a maiden talking to me about the next prop? What says more than the plot and its new, different breeze in ****'s indissoluble totality; subsisting with his carpals and with those random scraps of cloaks in the hydromel freshness that the Lord has entrusted him to pour!

What neat heights and challenges I have given you with light half-locutions... that flatter in the acrobatic gazebos of Demeter! With the following high-pitched white dots that are probed from the sunset and the desire of Athena Nikéforos, with travertine arsenals that are the tingling of an Elegy that flees from Pergamum with her feet incinerated and prostrate! What lack of ornament speaks to the adjoining trepanned ear, devoid of ornaments longer than vast, and wider than long when reaching the limit of Thyatira where Attalid kings and ants await me who will carry on their backs the rubble desolations of Pergamum!

Elegy IV

As you have offered what stops me to think about all the horizons that are guarded by agons and Kerveros, what virtues will they make of those who are dispossessed of the rescue and vicissitudes of the underworld of Thyatira! What has to intimidate the senses if the doors are for those who have never possessed a Soul... What has to dispossess us if the soul matter is Thyatira under Akhisar!

You complain of being moaning inks of arid lands where rivers are tributed that have to wade through octogenarian routes, holding on to the necks of the obfuscated Kerveros, and of the henchmen who trembled by the vicinity of the extreme of Mysia, whose urges released elements that mixed with river shelters of the Lycus and the navigable ones of the Marmara! I must point out that the elements are cliffs of Hydor that sink into the seas of Mysia.

That I must tell you of a formidable strait that tried to possess Heles, and that I went to the lower point of its flow to rescue him! That the formidable flash of Pluto infringed what was flashing in pro-Kerveros, not allowing Hades to enter Heles..., that formidable daring would be done if Heracles had twisted such a destiny by allowing it to enter, Or what death throes of the earth did not take him through this darkness where I mostly saw Venus in crimson eyes, rather than borders where the speed of light of their gazes welcomed them with their beings called Mysios?

I am Vernarth and I have arranged that Thyatira and her shallow wayward Nymphs shall rule me in your rod and go with their swifts, hoarding fine silverware that will shine from the heavens, and offer the worthy brotherhood by statutes that are controversial in the friendship of Arganthone and his I wonder if by some hiding place I have to see the black string of Jezebel and supposed regions contrary to Bethany. What a brave ****** has to dominate in full preservative principles, called from where they were punished by the dogs, thus allowing me to purge and follow advances that cleared the way to Mysia and Thyatira. Be clear that the insurgents in this region were chasing my Lord Alexander the Great, and he made the floors of Mysia tremble by crossing the Hellespont where my Heles almost had to get lost in the sea of his senses..., make me be the Ionian blaze that never it has not ceased and will not cease to burn on the Seleucid headboards!

"That you can see if the Lycus and Hellespont are from the same tributary, which hardens its waters to make a firm footing to the steeds and Hoplites venerating their gods and horsemen, seeing my teacher Saint John piously riding on the pagan temples stoning on stony tombstones with the interstices of the New Testament that offers the sacrifice of the Areté, Or of the most excellent eloquent alleys and sacrileges challenging what must never be glossed in the functionality of the file that it is urgent to define if I have died or never Die "

What capital letters are to be taped from the others that are from the Areté, and from its prominent fertility that rehearses the postulates of my Purgation? In everything that is prophesied in the ruggedness of those who boast that they can wander forty millennia with guilds that gather their litters..., all of them doubtful and giving rituals that owe to paganisms that were colonizing Hellenistic nuclei and my help..., closing my Hetairoi's pectoral tail, and then forge more confreres than they ever were.

The regrets of my teacher are scarred in the science of the Lycus valley, as Christians who grow with their sons separated from their daughters, and from the debtor parents of the metropolis of Thyatira, what fortune to be spared if the damages are greater than the reparations, And of the various secrets of the staining of the sky with its purple oblations and antiquities that refused to the progress of time, being discolored by the Adom and the Red blood cells. Here is where they flow through my arteries circling the hills of Messolonghi's Koumeterium, with natural basilicas that smoothly whitewash the candor and licenses.

I tell you that I know this is what constitutes the forge of the being that is capable of leaving Hades alive, do penance together with me Yes...! At twelve o'clock of the full moon where we become fierce Eleusines, since Battles more than hundreds of all, and we will know if we will be children of the Kerveros or Kerberos canes custodians of the inframundis who discover us like fish and cormorants on lagoons that run through us mutilated... which are decreed in the ecliptic, and in the stratum where Thyatira sleeps under the meters of Hades and Tevel, several meters from the underworld passing through its lost Shemesh beyond the western… under the hulous ecliptic of Akhisar!

You should not fear the suspicion or the courage associated with the three heads of the Keveros, because the three of them brood with me in the same way, for when I run away from them and they feel my loneliness...!, Each of their heads think by themselves, but the gentle Levantine sea is arranging them were groups of stars that are rubbing and washing their ******, prone to marine monsters that dress the mane of the humpbacked Hindhead of the Cerberus. Knockdown what nothing is born of damage and that is born of its permanent movement if the beasts are men with strings of impious men that make their portholes enter more light than beings with phalanxes and armies that come and go... being portals of one eternity from where Etréstles comes with his weary stride.  

How can you tolerate that the hands stained with some Tintoretos splash my Himation? And what is still chromatic with a caged torpor, is the Himation of Theseus that revolts the constellations of history that began from the abject sinkhole, fading the virtue since my sacrifice is offered in the religious and its offertory. You know that I have been able to walk through waters that are solid if I put my heels distillates in classic sounds where they are written with the latent prawns of the Aegean! That you nurture a past that hangs from the immediate future with sacrosanct pilgrimages inaugurating hybrids lapses, and classic smithies that distance themselves from Hephaestus and humanoid persecutions that could be undertaken from a section of the new period, mixing darned meat that is released from the principles of the Energeia, and that they sway in the millennial dizziness of the Olive Tree Bern or of any fistula that would not cease of prosaic oracular ones!

Everything makes oracular sense since my prior agon and his lingual accent deny what I will not reach in its sacred connotation, but if its secular insertion to create the deserved and victorious dew that falls and will fall from the bilge of the iridescent nimbus. I have deposited from their marshes where nothing already contains them..., only a pure divine light that is confused with opposite festivals of lights of an unknown victory that was not always mine, but it took light-years with its traveling mass to reach my thunderstorms with treacherous gods who did not allow theological musculations and derivatives of being refined to emerge from their extreme internal and external beauty who prayed for me, entering their Seventh Heaven and then with the Merkaba doing its venerable kalokagathia; or prototype that does not fade every day to take hold of the inner and outer beauty of it, the fruit of the Olive Tree Bern and the countless algorithmic winds that could be counted since I had joined its Falangist ranks!

I know that four Seraphim will have to take me and that your Charioteer will medicate with thrifty speed from where the day dares to attend me with real locations in the Andromeda wagon. It all to dig into the dark and bizarre hollow of my wound knew that it could have been the Holy Spear of Longinus...! What could happen if my chest did not stop bleeding from the indigo and crimson of my Dorus?

Elegy V

You must feel satisfied with the erected statues that were made bearable on the basis of cults and curative powers, but not of precognitions that were the object of Sardes since she was nearing the penultimate station of the inverted "V". The satyr's stratagems of 476 BC were congenial. And the pilgrimages to it would destroy the entire sacred precinct that it once presumed to be!! Theagenes of Thasos resorted with all his strength to move the stars and his impassive silences, seeing that Sardes was becoming a courtier of a network of unarmed victories that were never for him, but for pilgrims who roamed the roads surrounding Sardes. Oh that more crowns of him exceed fourteen hundred, if only one more will suffice to access the investiture of the Himation of my departure!

Continue along the Pactolo River and you will get entangled with vegetal lines on the northern ***** of the Tmolo. Know that Proserpina runs through the flower coffins of the autumn dead, that Persephone makes her shudder in the Ionian polis, and that it will be if she decided to do so, if Aphrodite captured the Cimmerians who would plunder Sardis, more than any voluptuous! And despite everything, it would continue to be a satrapy that does not lead to Patmos through Xerxes who still burns in Hades in the haze and canine of a Kerveros!  

"Follow those worms who claim mesnades with more blood on their fingers, and there is no doubt that they swirl in Pergamum with more blood than their creeds." And that of those who survive in earthquakes and typhoons that stand for generations of the Conventus and an agora that only relapses in Pergamum and in desolate legions that only devastate, and are built on ruins that they praise, just like Thyatira suffocated in Akhisar. Do you imply that the battles of Alikantus strike the silica plundering tyrannical idolatries and sacrileges, ravaging only hapless evils to come and unrecovered pious revelations from Byzantium? I know very well that Alikantus is coming, I could even dare to say that he is coming very close to the fortnightly reclusive citadel of Sparda..., being able to hear that Alikantus is riding from the ready insolent time and I even think I see that he is coming alone... and that Zeus he went ahead for necessities in the barcarole of Charon! I know that matters of the underworld are palatial stews and prostitutes that flank in kettles that announce tinsel falling from the apocryphal clouds and the adjacent Iridescent...!

Like a helical serpent, everything that my dimension swallows is retro-translational with turns about my own age that is not the deed of another than the axial one that vomits imperceptible years that are not memorized and that deal with each other with the ruins of the dogma of Sardis. Come Oh granaries and settlements that squander synagogues and compendiums of ****** ruins, whose altar is exploded in liquid gold on Artemis's hair in Hellenic theaters, where nothing remains, only traces of olive roots that kindly allow them to enter through its cracks. But what did scare the enclaves, if seven churches fell scattered from the corollary of seven manes that only resided among themselves, differing primitives and incisors, nailing their rapiers into the dead Sardes before becoming an Apokálypsis! In its seventh season… I Vernarth revive her and ennoble her from the secret day of her curse, as she says of herself to survive on her ruins, not as akin to Thyatira lying asleep under Akhisar's holocaust!

The images will be there to bring you in my arms, believing to be myself who brought myself spacing and surviving from a fifth posthumous church..., to save my fifth life in Sardis, but far from the Barcarolle del Charon, eating roots that were attached to the keel in case they poisoned my soul..., at the same time as a failed levitate that would solidify like the crest of Thasos, throwing draconian and grotesque seas that within me asked for a license to revive. Everything was whipping on me wanting to be Theagenes with lugubrious ostracisms that from now on should be cut and sliced into parts of my coexistence, leaving only the pre-existing erectness of me..., except the head that impelled me to take the extrinsic path of Hades with distinctions of a cult that only worked in the hands of a Patmian victor, all by counting one by one those fragments of the victorious minute hand of 476 bC!

The city woke up and tried to ***** obligations that were imposed on them, to remove like polis around a sacred precinct that was proud as a bond of centuries that are of the androgen of centuries that are forbidden from millennia found in double eyes, ears, and nostrils. Which was scared away from inscriptions dating back to the 1st century BC thus I continue to establish a superficial status that did not replace any similar or equal future, which is governed by forty-four victorious miracles and all parallels that establish what surrounds my mortal outer clothes..., as well as perpetual belongings and internal endearing to be created from its probity..., even at the end of the factual powers that succinctly stipulated a Zeus, who would be trying to imbibe himself in the possession of a great competitor who will sacrosanctly raise the arena of agon, allowing me to overcome by not ringing the chime of the Paidotribo or the tutors of impulsive eternal effects, and children divos like Raeder challenging the maximum of the stars of God and his contenders! I tell you that I know of these assertions and that the keys are not left hanging, nor will they be prepared to their verbal agility so that they can be taken off the hook and startled to open the Homeric heaven!

Disappear shady Kefalonias or those heads that are empty crypts in me...! And that the children are greater spirits than those who are not without heads who will spend the night on the east coast, where all the burning days are seen as snowy scarves moving from afar..., together with my Falangist militias who do not stop I have to move their hands and his siege with four encirclements of princes. Behold and hear... what I declare to those leaders who raised the lost darkness in a fortunate Kefalonia that tried to adopt seven churches, but not in Sardis!

As you have noticed… the edges of the "V" of Lacedaemonia are already being touched that come out through the stephanite competitions of the interior and exterior of the Kosmous, and everything dies metallic and with stale stenches granted by the polis and the winners! That specializes in the divine gifts of each submithological deity. You realize that the education of appreciation is in the arena of those who propose you wise tyrants and ignorant democrats, who bind the diet and pantry of those who promote great value at the expense of models that, are impossible to fulfill. Oh, that underlies the organic unity with the appearance of a soul that is vicious meat of bait, and of agonistic parts in the fringes and primal that fall from Ephesus and from the tip of Thyatira hanging like vines from where the true god of sin is born. unconfessed!  

Oh, what a diatribe for those who triumph in the land subjugated to the departure of a triumphant of life over it, and that their high dignity will extend beyond life and lash the decadent values improper of piety before the Mashiach that will be there! to rule us! The cults and the first ones that do not reach their contemplation with a soul that lies of useless pleasure in the suburbs of Euripides. What do I say to you that I know about these struggles, and it satisfies you more to drink with Elpenor falling from the staircase that was not on dry rubble, nor of harlequins who avoided the string of their zithers on and under the formula that makes contain the ethyl with the mean to say...; "That one day he was in The tetraconter Eurídice, and that the swordfish was his desire to beat bites and pots of wine that we have drunk for millennia together...!

Who could or will refute it, I tell you that I know about this, because I narrate what I write and sing his first fall near Circe, but falling on my arms... and from here I take him through the strings of Sardis when his buoyant hologram enters for its main stained glass window, taking us from Aorion very close to Barnard's Loop. Hear that I still fall hard next to him getting drunk together in Eleusinian mourning, free from buskin and funerals that are not the best friend that appears to him, and unless they combine us both with haggard browns before leaving the island of Eea.

The torrent of the Pactolo crosses our heads with its trunks like a sophistic beast... also penetrating my harangues from the Aegean when the pale shadows of Sardis are drizzled with third-degree liquor by the ancient pinch of the Hermo, a tributary that sadly hopes to wash the impious feet from Elpenor and mine. "I do not mention what I never tire of defining, that nothing and no one will hear what a voice would sing to a drunken ear, when its abstinent drops of mead are incubated in aristocratic and Hellenic ethics of my youth that stand out in the lips of Apollo and with telling you Hoplite angels who are more decidedly than learned Greek-ignorant, who do not know what it is to die from being drunk, even beyond the Elysees "

Elegy VI

The youthfulness of the Kosmous was defragmented in the inevitable..., leaving important men to take care of the darkness that was only spoils of themselves, on top of the fierce flames that still continued in the competitive souls with their glorify, where another tradition began to break out of the subtle approach that was attributed to Vernarth's homage, as an inter-Patmian genre praising all that is whole to conform the individuality of the holistic whole, which is not yet consumed by the flamboyant and immeasurable images that expanded in times more than what a Colosso from Apsila is, or a thought that forges ophthalmic trifles. I must tell you that denial is a factual point or hindrance in the denial of skepticism and the subtle embargo… if it is not moderate in the face of crowds!

I believe that summers will trigger the passing of Kairos in all the points and means that make the Sun's degree retroaction insightful, and less than what makes a divergent moral behavior, only endowed with the finesse of applicability, If you declare yourselves visionary **** like Critias! If you are in remixes of the Hellenic universal global warming! I want you to know that the warming began from the Kassotides when it was closed and from there d the abrogations abstracted by the Pythias... If from their ocular cranial and the Kosmous that became opaque, and deviated into the tetrarchy or leadership of the four Cardinal points! Oh, what kindness must pass from their semicircular flying buttresses of the world when nothing falls under their orbits... not even a segment of Patristic light the inevitable will be to ignore what falls under the sphere of the world and what rises to his own, from where Ha-Shatan does not pronounce himself in the nubile flowers of Eden!

The Apokálypsis groans, rolling up its sleeves in Leviathan's pouches, reviling the bends of Philadelphia and its Delphic oceans! With requisitions of verses that do not have and will not scribble on the trailing lines of the serpent that wears jewels that are not of this world, but seek whether to fit them in appendages and on the necks of future martyrs. Or bags under the hocks of the serpent, you will see that its optics are in the wrong and that it blows in the goodness of its victimized ones!

Brotherly love was announced as a final omen, Philadelphia was praised in the Ecclesiastical, where everything mellifluous was civil property and each eye would be the same as it will observe it, it would be before the later and the inferior of the superior of the grace of the Lord, in ethical outrages and tribulation spells that sweat in open fields far from the Dypilon, closing the opposite gates of the darkness of Sardis and Thyatira! I tell you that I know in this icy way of seeing how nothing was nothing more than the revival of free will left by the cobbler's caulking and the keys that will open and close storm doors, that only the golden hand will know if one will be a carrier or not. of new hardwoods.

Hagio is real... and what closes and opens his hand will be a guideline for what does not open and does not close! The key of the Angel of David comes from Patmos with a hatbox that proves who is capable of warning for all those who are capable of sustaining the aura of the Mashiach…! That through narrow mountainous areas they will sow the temple of God with hosts from Jerusalem.

Leading them to the valley of Cógamo and soon to the simile valley of *** Bei Himnom and Hermus himself, where everything happens and everything is nihilism in the mainline of the passion of a loved one in its secant line and of the great inverted "V", and its Monarch Attalo's constrained ties and his deliberate missions that collate the penultimate station of my Elegy. “I am Vernarth; My fraternal passion makes these seven churches only one, each one in my Opistódomos... where perhaps I will have to ignore their lustful language of Lydia and Phrygia ”all are my rivals if I do not follow the honorable mention of my Mashiach and all his subjects, who are mine and I theirs... I must confer that the letters are conspicuous literature that escaped from Smyrna, and what vanishes from the lay verb that becomes all the bearer hands with their punches, which are keys to the openings of what rises parsimoniously and falls equivalently..., and what becomes absolute of error and its restrained evil "

My attributes are the Sun that separates from another section, which is the Venerable deliberator of one who is still attached to the sacred. You must stay away from dies that are typical of scalding nightingales that have steel legs, and that if they were from a Hellene, they would be the copy of "Alezinós, which is True and unconventional", everything is manifested in the best arrangement from where I can install my head on the best flank where everything is well accommodated, and what is symbolic in the authority that is finally of our Mashiach, supplying with King David every twenty-one kilometers lamenting, and spilling what he loves and cannot contain in the caverns…, if I know that they still remain closed for prophetic fulfillments, but if all those that the universe will dare to open soon in the paradises that are pertinent will open, which are from the bias of Isaiah sprouting from himself!  

You must understand that Sybilla's electorates will be kidnapped from the anguish of a famous attack, and every prophecy that makes us live in the transparency of the entire material world and its monochord sense that unites the earth with the Kosmous! Oh, what space between everything that is unspaciable will be able to reverse what is arranged in the upper fraction of the rope… and in the omega that everything makes her feel the last sob…!

I know that you know it..., I know that you will miss it..., and that the last day of our Kosmous will come when the Mashiach makes us wake up with the gift of the hexameter, that everything will come along long correct paths, whose streams of the paradisiac Hydor will come from the trance of the last cycle, the last second-born and the last interval where everything will be the same fractional time. The advent of this period of great apogee will give us the intrinsic poetics that seems close to the Dies Irae if Tomás de Celano tells you like this:  

“It will be a day of wrath, that day when the world is reduced to ashes, as predicted by David and Sibyl! How much terror there will be in the future when the judge will come to make strict accounts! The trumpet will sound terrifying throughout the realm of the dead, to gather all to the throne. Death and Nature will be amazed when all that is created rises to answer before its judgment.

The written book will open that contains everything by which the world will be judged. Then the judge will take a seat, everything hidden will be revealed and nothing will go unpunished. What will I allege then, poor me? From what protector will I invoke help, if not even the righteous will feel safe? King of tremendous majesty, you who save only by your grace, save me the source of mercy. Remember, pious Jesus that I am the cause of your Calvary; don't miss me that day. Looking for me, you sat down exhausted; for redeeming me, you suffered on the cross, may not so much effort be in vain! Just judge of punishments, grant me the gift of forgiveness before judgment day.

I sob because I am guilty; guilt flushes my face; forgive, oh God, this supplicant. You, who absolved Magdalena and listened to the thief's plea, that gives me hope too. My prayers are not worthy, but you, who act with kindness, do not allow me to burn in the eternal fire. Place me among your flock and separate me from the wicked by placing me on your right.  

The ****** confused, thrown into the bitter flames, call me among the blessed. I beg you, contrite and on my knees, with a contrite heart, almost to ashes, to take care of me in the end. It will be tears that day, when the guilty man rises from the dust, to be judged. Forgive him then, O God, Lord of mercy, Jesus, and grant him rest Amen"  

I Vernarth, call on you to tear your hearts beyond the last door of the Elysees, the apologies will divide what is like the last syllable of salvation, tomorrow we will be primal feelings of how or which selfless person has to tell you that we are all children of parents that they will always live beyond you, and that the ****** will fall into the bitter flames, if everything is the end in the contrite, make tragedy the daily bread... whose brands taste like the spews of the first registered individuality as bread and healing body angelic, which allows to protect it..., but it remedies the entities of the Garden!

“Among the red mists of Philadelphia, Ha-Shatan's gall lies lost, believing that he has to be a cape of rest and prostration so that the empyrean will grant him rennet and singing honey in his shattered hole..., the typhoons will ignite with his ruse and what expires from the seizure of an unhappy particle emptied by the idolatrous hand. Make the adversary time the habitation of the world that will impiously be infected with the cream that is made the opposite fraction of a vermilion mist, that walks with pride among hostiles when ferocious satiety of God occurs. I tell you that I know what I am saying and that there will come an end with a non-existent verse, or rather held in the arms of an Eggelos asleep in my arms, with Justin's milk teeth from the disturbed circuit breaker of the catalectic verse, which is rolling on Patmia swing doors. Oh, flints of Alexandria, you will know how to illuminate my scrolls and the Canaanite palenques, you will know that Heylel is like a morning star marinating milk with gunpowder and harvests that plague Ithobaal of Tire. Oh, culminate Zoroastrian who sneaks through giant camels and hers King David, very close to Bethlehem, very close from where every angel-like Heylel moves with cloying feet trying their traces from a crushed Latin voice. Both tanned by the rennet that strikes their stomachs... with the vigor of blood, and falsetto between muscles attached to the back of both, I tell you that they are "Ha-Shatan and Heylel"

Elegy VII

“I propose to you a Vulgate and mutilating calamus in the blood of the Mashiach, that would be born here in the metaphorical festivals of the Himathion in my own geodesy, and of all that has been thrown on Gaia and hers Titans of her. You will see that I have learned to walk with lacerated feet and mutilated arms, headless and no apostille that says that my brooding no longer exists in her indolence about Me… the darkness is Laodicea; where it rains the shepherds who by unknown wisdom capsize before the Gods that are to come, all of them from the crippled sky through passages of time, rickety of their colonnades and acroteria that all alluvial splices, where the needy will provide to eat sap that they will recover from their powers, with black wool from the cops and nests of Heylel, and from the under-reigns of Pergamum with annals and diasporas in less wealthy hamlets, without hindrance from the Spolia Opima as rich spolies or trophies I will be reborn, referring to my Aspís Koilé, with blazons and other effects that a general of ancient Rome kept as Apollo's laurel, now I will dispossess them after defeating them with my hulous hand of eternity, incontinent to defeat them with my legion in the Battle of Patmia, and the Triplos Kosmous  Lymphoma "

The Zoroastrian radicality will have to carry out wanderings and limits when nothing was ever to begin... and what becomes noisy in the face of evil ingenuities will make dualisms that polarize the influence of making the day only darkness, and for the faithful the light of day when they were summoned by Ezekiel, and that he must know better than fragments of the day that will contain the night and the portions of the night, the light of day and the resurrection, which is based on eternity carrying the Mashiach above all the infinities of homage twilight that was expiated in chiaroscuro..., thus enslaving the stunning afternoon, which departed from trances in earthly conjunctions, where the usufruct by the Kosmous exorcised the ages that are subjected to its heritage of commemoration You must know that the power of the night about the day as a possession that bills rows of apprehensions that narrow your transit without repatriation...!

Tenure is an inclination during all premature periods, where the day is not ascribed to breadths of unconditional freedom of execration, cruelly leading to the zephyr of the Thuellai with granules mounted on the Malatia, and frolics that engender the life of a Pallid! Superstition in what appears as a multitude of fallen bodies, but without a contracted soul. "Make the even potential morbid that repels the horrendous and terrifying that persecutes the most praiseworthy and kind, who abjures that not everything is good, but rather it will be charitable and you must make efforts from the haze of Theosképasti, extending the relief of not to be classified as a non-living being when it comes to dialoguing with the shadows of Horror!  

The convital substance became too annoyed after counter-vitals that are nothing more than the apparent substance of my speculations, under all the powers that are faithful to it if they make me possess the cosmo-vice of everything hyper-ethyl and of its tempting. Since the cousin and puritanical elixir is disseminated throughout the air that is no more oxygen like a calender that does not bear the vileness of his captive servility, and of the feet that subdue him in the three claws of his shadowy darkness! Oh, what new light will it make of awakening with the preceding light that speaks of genealogies and native ceremonies where evangelical surveyors raise the leafy, that from the dark submission and the unethical fear make us weak martyrs of enslavement of the few frigid hordes and warm Laodicea!  

If my strength is to shelter myself from impudence and Hellenic-Hebraic transcendence, it does not express its ministry in all the children of Hashem, as captives carrying the constituent seed of the perched hands of the Calandria, which despite having wings she is the spokesperson of prophecies that do not have tangible historical records..., you must understand that the Calander has an autonomous and leading flight from Tuscany, but its flight radius is more than an eagle without stopping in those invisible spaces, where the legend can only transmit it..., although someday there will be no birds in the only begotten sky. You already know that I have carried chiaroscuro for their glorification that surround me..., like all that imperishable possession in cycles, they are coupled to cruel and fateful destinies, but always towards an end that for the most part becomes apprehensive of the intellectual aging verb, where their mysteries and they inhabit disembodied contents of the identical globular cycle, where the prostration of their weary skills and wrathful doors will appear from the last eagle that was seen flying free in the hands of Saint John the Apostle, and from other non-resident farewells by their claws of the Gerakis. Why not the Ceremonial Katapausis in the Profitis, or the metatarsal of the eagle that carries last discharges of discouragement in punitive inspiration, if only the calendars free man from captivity, and of unquestionable eagles in the fires of exaltation that will be able to bear it being seen as a figurative immune from Ophel, and from all the images of the supra existential world, containing volatile images of eagles for all purgative humanity forming heads that vigorously face Ha-Shatan and the Iblis, being more than an erroneous translucent figure of the angel ****** and of the perpetual fire of the incorruptible Calandria of Hashem.

“Without regret, I must tell you that the roots of the infinite began to be lost from the pieces of clay that were or are part of Yahannam's credulity, from here on from the dry and solid clay, making the genius of Laodicea one-sided with the hail of springs and of clouds that never stopped ceasing, thus in this way, I suffocate my burning hands that obeyed forces of more than ten newtons due to the miscalibration of their mass and the gravitational force that the Mashiach who converted from his incorporeal angel's geniuses. Make of fire and light your clay that is made homogeneous with liquid ozone, so ****** will come from paradise designated as solid ozone, replacing the negligent potions, which have not been able to free the divine light that for three years has been badly shaped, and have deteriorated only hundreds of the seven hundred pages of Vernarth's Lent, until today that his personal aptitude is questioned in the bleating of his sheep, who could move the fragile leaves of the disembodied forest with their nails, reciting regrets that would relieve the engraved feet on the limestone liquefied and muddy, where they can only emerge before all the dungeons that are collapsed by newton on his scapula, pouring out the expelled sighs of the eternity of the Ohr Hassadim "  

“Observe that cleaning is delighting in the grandiose erudition of what leads us from our null point of existence to the risky point where our objectives bring us closer to our sustenance; So what is Ohr Hassadim…? It is going towards a posthumous desire that thickens the light that emanates from our null point to the widest limit where every human race receives it from the great flow of Hassadim "or purification that is cyclically generated." My beloved readers who speak are the origin of all ignorance, and what is contained in the body purged of it is the unknown revival of a being that instructs itself as the Perdita Mundis or Lost Mundis! " The superabundance of medium prophetic and philosophical biodiversity creates paraphernalia and cavities where no head fits in the earth that have been honest to receive bodies in its mournful abode... makes of its benefits the great desire to receive the "Kli" so that Let us enjoy abundantly from the transparent cannulas of the wattle, which will make the Celestial Hydor fall, and the Manna that will sustain plexuses and eternal insurrectionary souls from the starvation of those who sob absolved of their soul, more than in its very spectrum that is filled with rootlets and clipping, which manifest the desire to play with drops that fall colliding on each leaf, and then fall into our mouths when they are satisfied manifested. Azure water, and nothing else if I want to live or not! Of that blue water that will fall on our mouths and will satisfy us with anxieties and fears that become imprinted when we are fed up…! And from the Manna, which will come with dissimilar entities, even feeding our soul that must also feed on the Iridescent Hydor in a swift vessel called Kli towards Samos…!

Elegy VIII

The eighth and posthumous baptistery will overwhelm all the mountains that became more exalted than all the peaks of the world, showing that the initial date combined the essences of the absolute with the "V" that began to turn one hundred and eighty degrees to the right. “I, Vernarth, have conceived the other being that will detach itself from myself, lying in the Kli or inverted vessel, on all the higher levels of the Ohr, even in those and all the Solstices where the face that makes its materialization is scarce, up to the Xiphos bronzes that would evoke tons from the Speleothemes that would gradually become implicit in my body, taking root more than the vital unfolding that is in my other sub-iridescent body. What is my soul united to the invisible creatures of this world? Take hold of the dizzy that contract in the wind tunnel of Profitis and your Codex Raeder, in what completely makes the ascent of its epitome by its golden steps, leading me to the occurrence and recreation of myself, but with plenipotentiaries who press in Gethsemane in the trepid angles of the Kli "V", beginning to ascend to Keter!  

“I must tell you that soon the Aurion particles will enter through my septum where they have to depart through the nasal pyramid… and that delegations of hoplites are already waiting for me and will return with me to Sparta and all of Greece. And with a Kli of endangered earthly and macerated light, they will be essenced from all the grasses that the calenders by descendants will make at the end a new sprout within me with my Golden Alikantus. The expansion of my light will expand from the radiance of my burnished steed, leaving within my identical hexagonal torch that will make the multi-spiritual thought of its same influx of light into the munificence of its newly created light, it will be from this constraint the Ecclesiastical stele from Ephesus to Laodicea accompanying me. ! If you watch carefully and take your hand out at this time and I peek through the rose window...! You will see that the magnanimous world is established and is going to receive you next to me, lavishing the herb that makes its clothing that shelters our body, and its own light reflected from Aurion itself… "The profound Light that looks from the candid domes of the Seven Churches to the vaults of the Ohr Hassadim, transferring to the sub-Iridescent Mashiach, but contrite of the total immanence of the detachment of its divine light to deposit it on me..."  

Therefore, when both are together, the greed to receive is canceled in the Radiance within, and it can determine its shape only after the luminosity has departed at least once. This is because after the departure of Light from the Kli, he begins to yearn for it and this greed determines and establishes the form of the desire to receive. Consequently, when the dawn is clothed within the Kli once again, the two are related as two separate notions: the vessel and the Light, or the body and the Life.

Observe this carefully, for it is indeed very profound. And soon I have managed to describe the aureole of Hyperborea with the radiation of the Eygues bringing Wonthelimar; Well, if you know how to pretend that you are certainly emanating from the double V or W, which make up your round trip from Ephesus to Laodicea, and vice versa! You have already managed to understand that the diploid round trip of Wonthelimar emanated from two consecutive Vs, making the spin of Wonthelimar carrying its quantum particles of it and carrying with itself the quantum number of the fifth courtyard of Helleniká which is 5, but represented by ε´ raised to fifty, that is; ν 'which is the value of fifty Hellenic. Thus the spinning spin of 5 to ten times its unit will be indicated, as you perceive many dreams will be discovered where those who wake up will never forget that it is this sub-atomic elementary particle in the episode of contrast and extensive change in molecular physics that will lead Vernarth with him in his heart or Kardiá, which becomes effusive in his multidimensional quantum.  

“I have managed to understand that the rotating spaces have been aligned with Wonthelimar, and what is divided in the angular will reflect the mental image throughout the aerial imaginary geodesy of all Hellenic, generating the sidereal coordinates, leaving the intrinsic nakedness of all embryonic forms that it is a sublime mirror of the nakedness of the sidereal chromosome of all humanity. As loci installed in the shank of the Pythagoras monochord, but making movement the tax of certain movements that are more than anything else links of kinetics and gravitational emotions, making the mechanics of the monochord the analogous value that generates the signs of Ohr or light. Pivot at the omega tip of the monochord, raising the re-transfigured ε´ Penta in the form of A, but then returning with Wonthelimar and his Spin of quantum from Ephesus until arriving at Patmos with the essence of the “W” that will bring by essence refounded the monochord in the figure ε´ or V that will represent the quantum experiential bond, or crossing of the particle transfer threshold through the superior axon of Keter to Malchut, equivalent to the tenth compendium of Vernarth's ε´ to ν´ which is the relativistic oscillation of its final unit of ν´; which is fifty "  

Your duties are yours and mine. Mine, I will be the one who will carry the labarum to bear and admit all the tributaries of the creation of my new world, inclined in the Duoverse, Codex Raeder and of everything distinguishable in the refraction of the light that becomes embodied in Ohr Jaiá, or Light of Life for all created things, all creation, and everything that comprises needs to be created in the candles that become receivable in the natures that multiply the remnants of energies, which hopes to be initiated from the new cosmos of the Zigzag Universe and the Zefian Arrows, being the main bastion of the link between the printed matter and decisive stimuli of mercy from where the Iridescent Hydor is born. In littleness, the rocking of the unbalance of the universe is attributed, and of all the wrong applications of amplifying the Bios of a universe that tired of behaving mournfully, being children of its immortal reply...! Understand that nothing will mean more than the awakening of everything that extends beyond the borders of the Mashiach, being cosmopolitan emanating and merciful bestowal and that nothing resides in the material already broken.  

"All the modes of adaptation ended up differing in each form of adhesion within what it meant to emanate in all equivalences and from impels as fast as the buggy that carried Vernarth and Etréstles from Genoa to Piacenza since Etréstles deserted from the Eighth Cemetery of Messolonghi composing all the wishes of the awakening according to the Kabbalah of Vernarth being largely absorbed by the Apostle Saint John. Everything was going towards the kingdom and the surroundings of the Himation that awaited Vernarth himself, swallowing him with all its lights, which were even ecstatic by his epidermis, knowing that he was separated from the undivided light that awaited him in the Megaron, very close to the Opistodome in the Behina Alef, split from his expanded sub-iridescent body of the Ohr, which in turn was levitating next to him, for the vaporous reason of not knowing if his body was a conclusion or a new kingdom that was brewing before him "  

The final phase of this Elegy VIII gave the consent for the world that does not fit in the reason, nor in the thought that was already being installed in all the balusters and limestone stones that would make up its Tree of Life Sephiroth. Your soul is my soul and mine, and I know very well that everyone awaits me on the Profitis Ilias plain, distinguishing me as a whole in the sense of smell that is rooted in the gastronomic world of the Hellenes, and the absolute that my breathing with a few granules of nitrate, making them a divine cause with potassium that became despotic in living creatures that make their essence mine, like my Spirit that would eventually rescind capturing all the sodium from the iridescent nimbus in the intermittent rest and its multi-life like Nefesh!

Beloved confreres Khaire..., receive all the joy that removes the poisons that pierce tongues that become addicted to the drops as they generate more bodies from mine..., or You will be part of my Guf or body that no longer resists lacerations from swords and spears, which depart from my head and its undetectable body from the passage of Time, and from all the fallen heroes next to me…! I see how they fall into their exile diminishing what purifies the content of Advent, of its four candles, dried fruits, its circle between the hands of the Mashiach, and abundant coniferous branches taking my corporality in all the indifference that exists between cognition and loss of awareness of lucidity beyond the Advent Wreath and its four luminaries staying in the Fifth Candle, like the Fifth Chalice of Elijah, taking me very distant with all their desires to welcome and consider that under my initial "V", they will find the synchronization of the Fifth Candle and the Fifth Chalice, which is my "V" in the fifth dimension of the Fifth courtyard and in the shady Fifth of Helleniká!

As the creation, I have been imbued with the euphonic harmony of creation, from Bethany to Patmos, of all the balms that are more capable than physical receptacles within all the higher entities that are more than the unknown, and of the infinite and imperceptible! Of the essential number of the geophysical height of Delphi, close to the elevation that will occur with my departure at the elevation of 583 whose essential number will be 16 and six plus one is Seven, and the Profitis Elías is 565 adding sixteen, and its number essential is one plus six equals seven. All this makes it prevail that my soul will reverberate from the indigo lights of the Ohr, to be sent between two poles from the altitude of Delphi, making these two spaces the equanimous and providential emanation of climate change, due to the disparity between these two latitudes, But of equal essential numbers, creating the closeness of Vernarth and Apollo as they met in the Kassotides, before departing from their assumption to exalted Aurion.

This world seems to cruel
For there to be a god

I don't believe anything
That the old testament has to say

The words that once led me in life
Are nothing but rhetoric

Because religion is ambiguous
And everything it has to offer is twisted

My religion is the feeling of success
It's the music that never escapes my mind

It's Bob Dylan's songs
Allen Ginsberg's poems

My religion is your touch
The friends by my side

I refuse to have religion imposed on me
I will not have my first amendment rights infringed upon

I will not say candles are holy
Just because my deceased grandmother believed so

I am a person
I am not a religion

he lived with so many faces
so many marbled masks
trapped in listless perplexity
they spoke no sorrows
but bore them as jewelry
on perfectly sculpted fingers
they have eyes of stone revealing nothing

evaporated waters
as wraiths they danced
in ghostly apathy
they rapped on doors
and stared through
stained looking-glasses

concerto of passions
breathing soul into clay
divine flames infringed
as demons deep within
his grieving empty castle
where dying stars above
expells secret riddles
no thinking man may see

he sees her in dreams
her veiled porcelain visage
haunts him endlessly

Insanity watched by these eyes far away
Sees the tail wag the dog in a deathly, cruel way,
Sees the Gun Lobby wield such a formidable grip
Holding Nation to ransom and shoot from the hip,
Forcing public opinion to heel and rescind
Any right to renege on the madness infringed…
Orlando, Kileen Sandy Hook and Fort Hood
Killing randomly, callously….not understood!
Little children, students, shoppers and cops
Loud bark of the rimfire till emptied and stops!
A terrible silence, warm stench of the blood
Cold terror emanates out and above…
Madness accelerates, reaching a SCREAM….
While political acolytes adjust…to be seen.

M.
Auckland and the world watching a civilization burn.
13 June 2016

Brown leaves flux the pond
tadpoles elude the sunlight
an eerie fog infringed

Chapter XIII
Ekadashi, Nix in the Dark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued… / under edition.

The hope written on my heart
It belongs to me
And it's mine for keeps
I've got a legal right to it
For I've earned every scar and scratch
Printed upon that beating muscle
So it's legally mine
Has been fought for
In the battlefield of life
And has no right to be infringed upon
To be taken away from me

shattered dreams
and infringed vows
left alone
with a broken heart

swollen eyes
and tongue tied
all the tears I’ve cried
my tormented agony

Days are filled
with sorrow and pain
sleepless nights
and a distressed mind

will this be the end?
of a fragment herald
and if you are to love,
love me with a broken heart.

Thrills to pills to the body stills, we all will run dry. No dramatic end or cosmic bend, just a speck of dirt on Earth's shallow sigh.

Pencil to pen to stencil to end, carbon copies of an ideal. No man made normality or financial fatality, can mar what you feel.

Skin in linen so infringed in, does the future hold you so? Yes peers and stately fears can bring us to stow.

I know none of which I speak but a subtle weak week. A week far 60 years from now which you reflect how you lived your life without love to be found. And your hand will close and your muscles relax but with a stiffened heart and a metal back you'll whisper to the likes of me. And only drywall will see the cracks and only your logic or sore success will breathe.

at night

i dream of your abscence

in the dark of the night

i am forced to participate in a sequence

of mad scenes

of a life in wich we are seperate

and no longer one clashing unity

on the insane stage of my mind

i see faces in the laughing audience

familiars from my past life

my mortal life

the life that i used to live

the life without you in it

i scream at them

i plead them to help me

to help me find you

to help me remember something

but they spit and grin

and i am forced to wander this brave new world

alone

but with you engraved upon my heart



somehow i find you

or something that reminds me of you

a figure that represents you

but it is distorted and ugly

it is a shadow

i present to this darkling

my undying love for you

but it is not you

so it cannot fathom the depths of my passion

my passion for you

my passion for us

so i turn away

and venture broken, and alone

into the wastelands



the imperators of my mind

the ones who rule my personal darkness

who sits on the amorphous throne

of my tormenting imagination

creates a dread barrier

seperating me from you entirely

for you are the stars

my stars...

the heavens have been chained

with a dark and terrible force

i am trapped here on this mortal soil

trapped on earth

while you await in the sky

but my love is strong

it is undefeated

i strike up at the skies

tearing a rift in the very fabric of space

i soar up towards you

like a lightning bolt from hell

while the earth crumbles and dies beneath us

i am coming
---------------------------
and i awake

you are right next to me

you always were

i was searching in vain

despairing in vain

my exausted breaths

gently touching you precious nape



i love you to death

so i kiss you

i kiss your frail body

i trace my tongue everywhere

i all the divine places upon you

you tremble beneath my masterly touch

like an exquisite instrument

designed specificaly for my hands

you tremble

i swallow you whole

and your waves drown in my ocean

i devour all of you

nothing tastes sweeter to me



then all is silent

you are pleased and happy

i am infringed still

a demon inside

waiting for you to reach out to me

as i reach out to you

i will wait forever

i will come to you

if you wish it

but i need to know you truly wish it

and when i know...

Éktoras: “I come from a transposed departure that Achilles infringed on me, which in turn is based on the fearsome Acheans who will make my sorrow sensitive. My destiny was a scourge that dragged me through the outer walls very close to the upper chest where I was mortally wounded by Achilles! However, from the heroic vapors of Delphi, I was helped by Apollo. Thus it has been possible to specify that your Lymphoma is the clinical inquisition of all of us who have been assisted by Apollo in the field of Ares and that his physical examination vigorously continues with the blood tests that must be scattered in the vehement fields of the Aqueos. I know that bordering extra-lymphatic confines will no longer be protected by your Falangist comrades and that your diaphragm will lift the universe of all nations that lose and groan the pain of a hero. The painless pretenses will go through squares of distension in organs that lie on the infected tips of the Dorus. That the distances will be appeased by Apollo ..., antagonizing them as if it were the Omphalo turned into a disguised Lymphoma, which afflicts the defenses of the world and its relentless atmospheric destruction, just as it was in Santorini when Erebus moved like a spit to the core of the Kassotides in the presence of bad content in the Marmaria of Delphi, eternally in the pain of an infected world, and the bad stench of the Lymphoma that grew at colossal steps impossible to house them in their body, just as if they were a swallowed son of Zeus for the same well-accomplished sweating event. Vernarth on my back I carry your Lymphoma like a lost Universe of Pain that is constituted in its desertion, dissemination in extranodal ..., where everything deceives the revival of the physical, but always escorted by the vicinity of the Castalia of Apollo. Your shield has attached itself to the fat Ursido and the Taurus, forming the inaugural grooves of the Shield me, and of the bronze that protects the mediastinum of your body between the sternum and thorax. "My Beloved Vernarth, you have resisted the heat of 25,000 thousand degrees similar to the rays of Zeus in your entrails, making everything that invades rise in you where there is no more space than to reside with a sword that removes everything exceptional and fleshy, that It has degenerated because history has degenerated because of your Victory! Achilles has done in me what God came in me with his nations after the Mashiach did trace that region of my mesenteric artery, which is still alive in me ..., and where Achilles could not reach with the eagerness to cut my breath "Vernarth, I have come to your equanimous feet with mine and with their inaccessible bare feet, for your Kenosis that I do not doubt that it will not be deliberative when trying to drag you like me through the outside walls"

Éktora or Héctor addresses Vernarthl and applauds him at the initiation that was adjacent to the four sagites of Zefian and Wonthelimar, protocolizing the Ibics Rings of Nyons that Wonthelimar brought.

Ibico 1: "Wonthelimar brought purity, for all who needed him and out visiting in the dark, then he would find the light when he came out of the cave alive."

Ibico 2: ”Vlad Strigoi in the center of the ministry with the Chiroptera, and others of the mercurial ambrosia invoking the Cinnabar of Tsambika. Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of the Antiphon Benedictus ”.

Ibico 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron, as if they were surrounding a Castalia for such solemnity."

Ibico 4: "The antlers of Wonthelimar, here carried the Oikos or Golden threads of Orfí for the Himatión and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the air atmospheres of the Alps and the Ida as a complement to Mycenaean-Valdaine, thus they were inaugurating solemnity and its Honorability ”.

Ibico 5: “everything became the fold of the brass that spoke of the fifth plasmatic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to praise him of the neurological hyper brain and the Duoversal of Vernarth twinned to the Mashiach, remissively rising by the medrones that were caressed by the hands of Héctor ”.

Ibico 6: "The sixth piece of crowns from Kafersesuh brought the pollinations of Lepidoptera, to the central stage of investiture under the gloom of Helleniká and Theoskepasti, where everything was the Inheritor of the older Ibix called Wonthelimar."

Ibico 7: “The dense voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus joined the Lenten fast in all the ascribed hoarse voices, inquiring the true phoneme-photon of divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron of the Ibex de Wonthelimar, up to the millimeter shoulder of the assembly of the square meters that will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera, and the Iridescent Nimbus that percussed between the Áullos Kósmos and the Vas Auric "

to reach a conclusion, to reach an understanding of one man's prohibition
it's such an affront for the multiverse, made up by him, the curious man
so i sink under the illumination from the moon, bounced lights of curiosity
a glass, made of ice, however clefted, it swings around on the water

i call it an effort, the ice, a reflection of a pessimistic mind, sinking
underneath the moonlight's sonata slowly hums the inquisitive melodies
the ocean... is not made of salty water. those are tears for a concerto
in A flat, those icy reflections delusively broadcast your whole life

and to reach its own: any prohibition has been infringed, it's gone
everyone could reach for the understanding, even for the universal ones
the curious man, yet fallen down, he already knew how weak and fake he is
the melody is a cacophony of his past life, the life of the curious man