Three Fingers


These three fingers were circling,
until they tear off all my shoulders, re-sent;
The herald came and tuned his instrument;
the Presbyterian of the church
embezzled on the schismatic Convocation
taking Communion

But be not silent
With no great voice praying, of no great compass
for your help, father
awake, sleepers, of the witch soil

Broadening at cloud were bigger than
the spirit who follows my fate
as if it were the fate of an avenger,
my head on a stump, the only given possibility.
Standing between you and the emptiness
boiling down a dense pitch
either the asylum or the sword remains

I was a shibboleth crying, I, frozen
in nails, I was a thorn whispering
on Christ’s head,
I was nail piercing my father’s bone
I was dirty and unworthy
I didn’t think a hundred Jordanians could
wash my dirt smarter of its ash crosses
And parchment  is written just so
to wickedness
for we’ve signed this deceit

I thought everyone else better nicer, more powerful
act as if lethal thieves in Noah’ submarine’s vicious lions tamed
should it matter who they are?
cut off their heads mid-flight and their heads
will be a beautiful flower bouquets
that will adorn my dying flowerpot

Do what devil touches and keep his secret
so vanquished  be, let it be – ugly evil and corrupt
withdraw thee from the nevermore abyss’ footprints
locked up Reaper, demons scream,
the slobbering spirits of darkness,

and I am sticking my tongue out
through the keyhole
and stick the tip of said tongue
through an old well-crafted jail lock,
so let the bastard lick it off, bite it.

But neither the bandits, nor the ever-present scum,
that crafty thief in the night, sleepwalker,
liar with a crippled child in his arms,
nor the killer tricked me, nor awaited for me,
but indeed the yurodivi, did it first, a
nd then the church flowers of evil.

Behold the god of intellect,
dolorous
confide in  this blind life among the askance
through all of their trickery, cheating of existence,
metamorphosis of directed betrayal, and even bloodshed.

oh how I hated myself god
oh how I  hated myself
my third asking of the forgiveness’  bans
and perceiving smiles around wept thereat.
these three fingers were circling, circling around
from bridge to bridge…. vain laments

these three fingers, Father!

ON REVENGE


Revenge is wonderful if the sound is good, if God and the sacred tin pot give tact for the show.
Oh, incorrect, inaccurate, revenge is suitable for others to take tempo, harmony, imposing themselves, saluting their heads, once torturers, they are just devoted victims.
They will ring instead of recognition, respect is expressed by duplicates, falsified children, the former children who ring, only adults or God has no more time to open them.
Like a leaf that has dropped out of the machine, so the avenger is preparing for a path that will bring it all in line.

Krakens, dedicated to my enemies


Krakens, dedicated to my enemies

I will wait for you in the locus between
the earth and the underworld
between iniatroty passages od childhood
to adulthood with its heroisation
and anti – initiation, in the cosmic river with
a liquor, Homeric, Hesiodic, Orphic rituals
in order to discover their respective significance,
but one must remain aware of the fundamental
differences in nature and evolution that exist us and them
It will take place in the dark,
in a burial place, an irrevocable
farewell to a voracious marine monster that scares
fish away, I will raid you, adorned with dedications and promises
I will… I will eat a magic plant
I’ll eat a fortuitous plant, I will devour dolphin’s terror that is transformed into a quail, doused with wine before your ashes and bones were gathered in a receptacle.

I’ll wear your urn neck.

I wish you well, to share a tomb side meal with the dead
wish you well, a terracotta relief in the Isola Sacra necropolis
a voyage south to Rome
where the dead will laugh at you
with outstretched arms welcoming his guests

SLEEPING MATHILDE, an excerpt from the fantasy novel, Leila Samarrai, The First Chapter


SLEEPING MATHILDE

http://casopiskult.com/kult/krik/uspavana-matilde/

The storm which will crush the fort of sven Orian will crush an existence, a world filled with fear, antagonism, selfishness. It will crush that which is not constant, all for that which is permanent and long-lasting.

Let us tear down castles! Let us stay with nothing to us, akin to Buddha or Jesus! Let us bravely trudge forth, with love for the self and the others, regardless of all the risks and perils that pop out at us, akin to Heracles or Odysseus!

deathridinghorse

„And God took а hаndful of south wind

 And from it formed а horse,

 Sаying, ‘I creаte thee, Oh Arаbiаn.

 To thy forelock I bind victory in bаttle.

 On thy bаck I set а rich spoil,

 аnd а treаsure in thy loins.

 I estаblish thee аs one of the glories of the eаrth.

 I give thee flight without wings’.

 For а time the Arаbiаn rаn wild in the desert.

 Only the strongest аnd most intelligent,

 The swiftest аnd most disciplined survived.

 And then the story goes;

 To Ishmаel, son of Abrаhаm,

 God mаde а gift of the Arаbiаn Horse.

 And Ishmаel wаs the first to tаme аnd ride him.

 And from thаt time on the fаte of the Arаbiаn

 would be woven into the history of the Western

 World.”

 

„Arabian Horse Legend”

A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

“I was born in the old House of von Amerongen, as Orian Siegfried”, having committed this sentence on paper, Orian bit into the quill and, upset, shot a glance at the door. He had little time to spare.

“I was born in a wonderful castle on the slopes of the icy mountains of Norrbotten”, Orian sunk into the strange irritability of senses brought about by the sweet drowsiness of memory.

Leaning above the parchment, sensing that his time is running out under the increasingly faster swathes of distant steps, he gave himself up to the words of a cruel story while horror reigned over his body and senses. He wrote the following:

“I could not shake off the thought of Norrbotten’s conception. Dramatic imagery of clouds sucking up the rain, of blood dripping from the heavens, assailed my imagination.

“I would feel excitement observing the doleful side view of the land of Norrbotten out of whom I’ve strived to exclude my own castle, making it a creation of the most fantastic colors and images. With time, as the veil was falling over my eyes, I moved slower and slower, head hung low, until – and God knows what if anything I was thinking of – I had lost the boyish spirit and the gift of innocence, until I had lost the peace wherein any lord would enjoy himself selflessly. Until I’ve taken a bite of my mental wellbeing…

“’Let’s stop at the impossible’, I would say to father Larsen who piously ate his sausages in the chapel booth. Everything lasts in shades long buried. Enthusiasm does not easily let a poet go, quite the contrary, it anchors itself within him, galloping along the finest of nerves, inconsistently, vilely and hypocritically.

I felt that Norrbotten and the Hässe castle can in any other time period only induce revolt and anxiety, but also an unspeakable loneliness.

Then the Storm came and took it all. I, sven Orian, had been a guard, a cuirassier and many a thing more, upon whom this fiend descended upon, I am frightened. Memories come shrieking on this day of death when sven Olof rode to the castle and took Mathilde out of the shade.

From where did all the ailments of my life come? It is as if the Storm pounded them to the ground through the wind. You might be wondering whether a sober man thinks of his sins amid a storm. Oh, yes, exactly then, through the window, I observe the restless villagefolk and I take a listen of the revving of horses, for I am, if I must choose the object of my observation, a painter of nothingness.”

Orian stopped and gave the scar on his face a touch. Then he added:

“I touched myself on the crease in my face and felt it fork in tiny layers on my chin, out of which hardened, bloodied hairs stuck out. A wound from a duel. “

Orian swiftly turned to the door, but since he heard nothing, he continued, quill screeching, stating aloud what he wrote in order to ward off the ghoul.

unnamed-1

“As a vampire I feasted upon lives of others. I never dug graves too deep. I piled corpses like firewood. I was building a human alley.

“I had increased my army thusly, reigning by fear.

“Gazing upon my own reflection in the gold enameled mirror, I saw (what I wished others had seen), a rove of shaded flesh, tight muscle and a smile of a noble whose dignity had essentially intertwined with a false modesty.

“But, that which had disturbed me in the darkest of forebodings were the decisions I had taken as a man used to get what he wanted and, empowered by his irreason, destroy that which was beyond his reach and his mind. Those were the initial signs of my curse.

“I had been an oppressor. I had been jealous, especially of the birds, the damned vermin, the vultures and eagles, knowing that they bear within them a germ of eternity. I had been but a grain of sand under the howling wind. And what is wind other than the coursing of time, against whose power of sudden destruction or slow consumption of substance, even the most stable of dwellings falls. “

MY THOUGHTS ON REVENGE


Trying to get revenge is also giving the bastards a negative supply. I don’t bother with forgiveness or that concept with a few people, because it would be like forgiving a rock. A rock has no feelings. What works for me is looking at them in pity. At some point what kind of person could be so cruel to a good person or a person who had a good, kind heart? Some people are just cruel and I, we don’t need them. I am someone who is intelligent, capable and can have an amazing life. Why spend one more minute of my time focusing on someone who has abused me so toxicly and has actually caused me to come to the point that I want to take revenge on it. Not good.. Also, revenge is never free. It always has its cost. And I am a poor woman 🙂

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