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Posted by pprochnow on January 22, 19102 at 02:43:01:
In Reply to: O go to hell Satan! posted by Hyacinth Kwatashin on April 27, 19101 at 20:16:51:
You mean this satan or some other satan?
What satan do you like>
The Excruciating Evolution
19 Sept 2001
......the vigil of a saint........
No one will sit and glory in the thought of
their casket, 'cepting voodoo pilled dope
dogs lapping the wondrous putridity of the
gutter seeking redemption. Jacobins roll
on the scene and claim rolled heads
purge it all, but if the reflection is taken up
the most messianic fit in the box.
Even Eli Casque,
Eli Casque, whose great grand son lives
In a refrigerator carton under the bridge,
Had a better send off in his mind funneling
Profits into the underground
to purge his soul for the packaging
of his clients before his trade
boomed in the Civil War.
Casque’s fathers followed the commanding
standard of the plague to make a nice fat purse,
Lincoln made him a place, Eli feeling deeply the meat
he sported about as his coffin, in an oriental sense,
waited to slough it off to birth.
Now these Western Climes seen as a tomb,
we maggots lost sight of the terms
Of the sarcophagus.
Following the plague many a box-crafter
surfed the wave of death in austere times
swooping often past sunset should a prospect
elude his sentence, and when the pine was
all milled the lucky ones who did not outlive
the craftsman often were interred in cedar.
We plant a many in a war,
In a hurry, but as war looms
On the horizon only the most cirspect
Build their own eternal home,
Facing the reaper most foot drag.
---------------------
If America wears this shoe,
We maggots then must feast
Sumptuously, dance with a
Giddy reaper.
Perfidious lesson?
Legions of our ghosts can bear proof,
As you work to secure your position.
Feel the arctic breath of this spent simile
As already in the hall of settled history.
As Caesar lead his gods from the heavens
We lead all this to past images in the stars.
To old Hades and beyond with
Lamia pronunciamentos,
cry the newly fletched,
We fly on as once you flew,
Aping your custodian farces since
Last the celestial train left the station,
Feeling weighted by the hip pocket
So the alignment of those bodies shall
Not crack our planet’s crust.
Front and center proscenium, the boards
Pliant like a diving board,
his face is kohled with this war and tantric tantrums,
Winging over the land mines if enraged,
Tornadic, sickly, near unconquerable with
The plucky sureness of youth.
Countless nights his capital crimes grimed
The walls of your room while you flipped
about on balled up
sheets scratching
Phantom fleas, the mind’s rich soil unploughed,
imagined fantasies of his death merely his distance.
A full midnight
To dawn of these wishes never comes
close to one pull of a trigger,
plunge of a blade.
The escape from his spectre was the only contrition,
the frail red wind of dawn puzzling, alluring,
faint as solar wind
on the most errant asteroid,
or ideal mathematic solid you can not hold
in your hand.
The futile kind acts of the noble
Are the only true acts,
We are changed with songs of steel,
Hymns to , and neglect.
Let’s leave these truths sober
And find the revolving disco festive lit
Revolving on a spire, no grave pleasure
In mocking the fruitless ruling sports
Of all buried kings, or refit their blameless
Positions and perfumed swine.
We pull the banner back to a glade
And pad the gr near the pond
In a Cretan new year’s bucolic eve,
Breathing a moist clean sea air,
We put on coat after coat of visages
Of failed ontogeny, as the soil grew thick from
The cedar falls, olive falls,
this night’s raggy foliage,
a glow of all our efforts.
We dream past bra Viega somehow
Lurking, yet nourishing trees like these
above the leaf fall, jagged Pico
Branches jitter the moonlight like
Beethoven drove on past the rococo
Flourishes to a new dream,
...over to the
Lit ways where windows frame the
jig and froth of dizzied animals bogged
in their moments still momentum fearing
jettison from the rutted plays,
An alien sense and thought enters
Like trace poisons from the water system,
The ill once thought to be the humdrum of
The housekeeping grates the bone,
The once new song now a prison.
Sporting midday on the river’s bluff,
Picnicking while the busy wonder
how they are half spent,
inhaling a newly concocted oxide
in the breeze,
lost serpentine dits,
and a belief in the
solidity of the sine.
Myopically the haze is golden, yet below
And through it jaggedly pokes the trestle
Of the childhood now rust furred, curled
Steel orange grates fallen through,
Teetering between two major national
Imperatives, destinies etched like
an old boxers face is etched by the glove.
The new span that goes to this land
Painted and busy receives the monition
Like the half-life of a continuous dream,
Similar to a song parody on a new media
Begging amnesiac bliss for the grossest errors.
The first bridge will be washed down
the flow and gone before we once again
Mount this bluff with the same vision,
A new virtue of redone moral never
opening the parental tomes, abjuring
The guiding sanctions of the fathers,
Chaining fate to the grub in the tree stump.
Note the petrol trucks flying over the
Concrete piers sliming the lane middles
With their tears, n tires and hitchhike
Girls.
Old Apollo run his race now and
the lunar silver irredesces still stratus
drowning out The Day’s tune.
That musical air thumps dull though music
Accepts a magic in a second then dies,
The day run out like a drink from a watercan;
Dwell on the thought of Sisyphus
Dithering an escape plan during toil,
Recall the eve when you first accepted
Sin.
Oximoronically an unhearable past
thunders co-conspirator with you in the
Eighteen-wheeler crime, wheel on wheel,
Heat seeping from the terra-cotta way
works a faint mirage with the moon,
Too submissively, acceptingly, to ever
Rouge our cheeks with it all.
Over that horizon, Hoover!
Over that Horizon, Jim Falls?
Over that horizon, Grand Coulee.
.........Interludium.............
All the acre feet of potential
firmly felt in the mind,
acre feet, kilowatt, leagues deep,
electric,
...........a soft dream fell into.....
Your freedom is preserved
descending each pearly tread in total balance
from within
with no chalcedony embrochettes to
deceive the eye on the chalcedony descent,
mother of pearl of aqua cast almost
misty recedes at your puffs of breath
eyes large wet searching their
outermost corners,
nostrils delight in the highest temple smell
incense spell,
and seeing all solid illumined
within externalities
feeling celestial and less angels appear,
but they are females of your species
they float to the embarcadaro standing
on the slightest of crafts in diaphanous robes -
You want to join them all but alight in one
diaphragm bark to quest for the waiting
demigod, or sought for illusory Goddess these
seaworthy maiden nymphs promise
just off shore, where the liquid luminescence
lights itself
with no umbra or chiaschuro penumbra
in a wakeless instant of distance
they take you and
....She rises dripping of the aqualuminesence
dripping the aqualuminesence from her
like water, you are already wet expectant
drinking a deeper shade
of beauty, loins effulgent expectantly
along with the al guides of the craft,
and they and you nearly reach immortality
at Her sight - -and you faint into the 's arms.
They lay you on the shore,
on a marble floor
polished columns supporting only
the most diaphanous silky milk blue
wisps of fabric,
The sun seems a vague possibility as you
open your eyes to them
and the dawn....
Stroking the cropped Caesarian locks
tugging so softly the scalp.
Through their light robes
light as the wisps of the fabric on the columns
above, the small maidenly snowy s work
in a close unison with arm and shoulder.
You had a ride, you saw Aphrodite
arise and fall
and fell into their care in the temple,
and lived this day at their bidding...
Celestial odors of female - her annointed
spouse and,
their small weak and urging white hands
work you back to life,
They want you badly
and hum imperceptibly to a man
who has seen Love unmasked,
who must make the work
of Love for them so immortality in the human mind
perishes not
for them, or for you, as well, so
Love lives on - - and to conquer again the
imperishable bliss
the enrapturing longings
of the human soul,
so love can glow on
for us all
and fill us with awe filled
peace.
........the sweet dream ends as they often do
with a frightful confused panic as you wake.......
Some days were prophesied, seeming never
to come, then that day comes... dreaming
upon rising up from the bed
the waking dream of the unsuccessful,
the dream of those denied by the
exchequer, dreaming that recurrent
wakeful dream briefing with a vain
hope of a sunbeam.
Breaking from,
the slumber,
Breaking from the
Slumber to
advocate,
Vouchsafe you as the ape,
Vouchsafe you the ape and child both
singing in the
Ear of the pleasures of now, and long gone
kin
learned to swim the sea,
Lose hair and grow
fins
Feel the ribs now free from the depths’
pressure, but silent in knowing.
Vouchsafe this feeling, knowing.
Deos half-past voiced silver sanctious,
Mercuric charcoal liquid speaks unworded,
Canting the medium where dogfish alert in
Prophetic monition to Toms and Hucks,
Bucolically rapt 'tween soaring banks,
Float the water seemingly barkless,
Wend with the flow stupefied, sighting the
Generator vents, rooks with no seeming
End tailing gas, their watery ribbon bearing
Earth to burn far from the spies on the video
Spectrum dreaming successful ignorance.
Your minds lost syllables revolving
midnight
Cursives of worth each calm hour
streamlined
Like cetacean motion just below the moons
Silver intrusion in the shallows of your
flight,
Ears ring from your dialogue, self justifiying
Babble, a moving newness of idleness,
Communication taboo, no dispatching you
your devil friends to Olympify the hierarchy,
mere aping the kingly quiet of it’s creator.
.
Behold the quietus, quit vibrating the
Quartz in the timepiece,
strike a Diminished note, a grouping of aged vistas
And clumbsy troughs in the waves of
Established cognition, hold a scepter and rise.
Toasted beans and stunted corn dot
sun done
fields as in a bizarre mirage,
the townsfolk
stray glance past their images in the smoked
shop windows, by god,
they are still alive.
Bar-stools enthrone slouch back lushes
each their own encanted tone mixing
in the curls of navy blue smoke around
the warden's altar, epitomizing a parliament
like the swallows bag packed in autumn
circling a gleaned field, some pecked up
sunflowers seedless below, their own aviary
of whisky and foamy.
*****************************
Wait..now..now awake!
ured this is familiar earth, a sameness of soil.
I can see them from the field drain lip
above the lens convex where it cropped
as if a mounted sculpture above the hearth
. where the clock is expected.
.
A pewter silverglow sceptre breaks a pane
to a land daylit to a tone of straw gold, strewn
with red maple falls, the fairer there
mimics a tongue of waterfalls and pools
where water was just caught, edenic.
By this season they have rethatched their
homes above in the baring branches
in the lower spreading of giant oak,
the skyey surround at their feet
strangely a too full navy on the marges,
protected by the height,
excepting a fatal misstep.
Even as a total stranger they know you,
they greet you with coy titters, young voiced.
.
Here there are only women and they
great all genders with an embrace as a custom,
customarily rubbing the floating ribs, unlocking
their hugs you faintly reek redolent of clove
and frankincense and drink the water they
captured from the barrel they keep from your
cupped hands as do they, the excess wetting
their s under their robes, wetting
your neck and chest. All their eyes are the same
almond black diamond sparkle around you
their eyes all sparkling the same height
above the deck all stand upon in the branches.
.
The welcome is that reserved a messiah,
and a kinship is seen through your
round violet eyes at the incipient moment
of vision....you have embraced, but are they
the emblage of women plucked from the
spectrum of the past?
... Their skin color waxes from gold
to alabaster faintly and continuously lit, as you can
now see, from that horizon of navy not the glowing
overhead bright skyey where the helio once
was the focus, oddly a knowledge they never
feel the obsidian blink of cerebus enters
your consciousness.
.
Your hostesses have shucked and ground the
acorn to a flour in a perpetual faint breeze and
mixed it with a wheat from their field and ergot
from the ditch, all ground consistent for
this native bread of life all break, they
sing in moderation a tune from a new erato,
perhaps exiled from some bordello as the voices
are full of allure and a feeling of the lessening
of the bodies pain yet without it's total absence,
the sound impossibly borne not in the air
but a spirit in your mind. The pain of existence
merely tempered withal and the spine revolts
nearly spasmodic like that of a child's held,
enforced penitentially by the parent, with
a epiphany, a revelation of comforting restraint.
A tiled maze of escape hatches, some laddered
some stepped, lead for the atrium to the maze,
tiles bear mahjong tile pictograms and figures, first
impressing the beautiful anemone or dahlia mostly
on the eye, but each is distinctly different ......
two pharoah moths p in a straight line the
way you mean to go up the staircase, they are most
definitely seen, but the eye cannot fix on them like
a meandering bumble bee, feeling you climbed
a flight of stairs, you look back for the women and
see an infinity of tile staircase in faded persimmon
and lime custard, crooking the neck back up
you see they are not ahead either and the ascent
goes on, the moths long gone, memory gone
you stand on a deckplate of tiles with no way
down.
Your eyes remain wet and liquid, focused, admiring
the structure neither blinking or staring bathed in
yet apart from the tiles where there are places for
holy icons that are vacant, the pharaoh moths
appear again in a glint in the corner of your eye,
flying out of a gold trimmed porthole down the way
and following
you look out at the bearing branches around, above,
and below gnarly barked onyx.
.
Looking out the navy horizon continues the
ubiquitous illumination in it's palpable way
from all about and the light is now known
as the light at your back on the tiles, with
your shadow unfound you find the reception
committee is gone.
Filled with a fresh and never before experienced
physical endurance, more rested than before
the climb, you can remember everything
and the time you were a child and chased the
fleeing squidgin from the bush and chased it with
little inky Frisky your pup,
you and the pup after that
fluttering mirage of a bird from hedge to hedge,
hallooing your baby-sitting uncle, Frisky
barking the way in the afternoon
October fog far from the port's
foghorn klaxon. The squidgen was up bared elm
while the red mist drove you on as a silent
foxhorn, free from pain and worry in the chase
as your movement from the sun buried your
own shadow. You remember the sound of
your breathe in your ear and the story book reading
before the chase, the frog on the lily pads,
each karoak rippling the story book pond to
the egrets legs and around the trunk of the
downed tree on the shore. Other than hearing your
own breath the intellect is vacant but not bored.
.
This reminds, clarifies, defines the paradox
of the Elysian day, how is the pleasure scaled
against the sound of your painless thought less
breath in your ear?
The business that you had, if it was really
any business before, if it had a mission that was
worthy, seems to be a liberty to return to, a place
somewhere beneath the highly studied breath,
a freedom to return to regardless of the pangs
and twitches and shadows, it is a womb
or reality, a Pre-Diluvian sea, a zero-point
blip in space most dense in answer, all pangs
bites and twitches concentrated to the point,
you long to return to the motivational ague.
Turning back, peering across the platform's tiles
another porthole is spied trimmed chrome
luminous to the point of being muddy bright
squashy feeling like a mouldering apple under the
the tree, it's light smoke curled cloud churn yet
usable for you to see a crooked shed roofed porch
with a chewing tobacco lit sign in the front
window, half pints and cans decorate the
gravel parking. for the cars, the ground hard
enough to bear the motorcycle stand, propping
them upright, leaning them as if making a turn
at speed.
The bar's paint peels, one beams bends under the
porch roof defying a later crash of the dominoes,
silver cone speakers thump disc generated sonic
tease at the roof.
People come and go as if hunting
Michealangelo's ghost for a scent of good
in the music's sound never heard in a cathedral,
unshorn workmen shake hands or drop
an openhanded pound to the shoulder,
feeling their last day had come sisters full
habited wayfare to the tavern, a most unheard of
evangelizing as they know they will be
excommunicated for acting out of place.
The sisters stare in icy eyes and promise
paradise. The odd pairings cast thick ink
shadows the light exhales on them.
.
That which is jealous rages in your soul and
inflames your inner perceptions, your sister will
not bring you the wanted salvation, light your
way with love, there is no lens to bring her
eye upon you.
We can ask who claims possession of that
unnamed behind your eyes, that same which
wafts the camphor from the firs on a zephyr.
How eagerly they claim their friends,
Oh saint, and bring forth their scorn.
Shall we invent these shadows and right
off the world's inheritance, broadcast nettles
on glowing fields of grain in one flight,
and when done feel a score is settled?
Yet find another than these two tasks,
and in death find which souls basks?
It lies in that monster pride I sense
which you chose to first cover with pretense,
torching your own house to forestall
a lesson from me which did no damage at all.
When it began I saw your end
in drunkenness of the red wine flow,
which way did my song make you tend,
to wisdom and peace, or sorrow?
You cannot answer neither
as you regard this weather.
.
Holy, propitious and procreative
she rise from the soil of the oldest Pantheon
in untold beauty and sweetness.
Made from frosty victory, the thin
lips curl with enchantingly mystery
as foreign as a vista yet to be seen.
Her skin fresher in the dawn
glows faint amber, loose curls rain
down adorned with buds of sun,
an entombed glory forgot, new won.
That endless train of courtiers
some bendy as snakes, scream to be dubbed.
I watched her birth as long as Sodom
watched the flood, and, unqualified hid
from her view that she would kill my pride
as the guilty villain might hide from
the night's revealing aurora.
Should she have a payable cost or worth
in any coin, she would be mine, and though
only a cyclone procured would be worth enduring
'til the love is blued to a cosmic froth.
As life is, it is a certain cruelty to suffer
beatification's perfections, winning a pleased
countenance momentarily. To know
the loss of that moment is coming
is utmost sanity. The wall's thickness
is counted in hours down a highway,
chasing the hart like a juvenile nimrod,
she runs to an unknown nook,
beating the finest snares.
Yet I find solace that I reek less ruin
than some men, that base deceiver there
would melt the arctic caps to have her.
"That's an angel," he says squinting arduously
he cannot see the rain.
"What will you try today?" he softly lisps
as he departs on pigeon wings, feeling his words
as remorsefully as the bird regards its droppings.
Each of the spoken concerns pounding the heart's
desire, and linger like a sin on a soul
in the pits of hell.
I tried her on the day of her birth,
more judge yet husband still, when
her beauty was the first sun disc on any mortal
eye, reflect-eating her rays, but he can scurry
wing singing more petty conquest, remorseful.
He will feel he can pray for the reunion somewhere,
someday, carrying a lost treasure 'til
his stars wink brown rays and the earth is drowned.
That's a lone wolf building a pack
of souls, that twisted ear hearing
doom in dawn's song, but to temper his
ire with a sugary blindness for his throng
positions his minions to find a fool to sport.
He will name their fool "not you", fluffing
that reuring dream pillow you rest your
head upon. It shall be believed that the goddess'
song is his song, and the throng will be pushed
though the revolving door worked like the
sculptor slices off the clay, they move on the
trade current far from the frame of the shore
tricked into stillness, shamed into inaction under
futility's flag. It is not perfidy if entempled logos
and all need agree.
The pipers sing of holiday destinations of
contentment for those of weighty purse.
"There is warm sand on the marge of continent's
crust and there the burden of necessity
blunts the lifting crust, there the memory is foolish
and details percolate through the beach. The
watery horizon is smooth and whole, not the
twisted noodles in the skull, and your vile hunt is
over, this release savored perpetually."
There is no need for lumpy ulus process
to be studied, the soul backwashes the mineral
catchings by gravity and tide brings in no
breakers to squeeze through the jagged rock.
This miracle performed the new nimrod accepts
a kinship with the prey, the plots unravel somehow
unstudied and seem less violent. Yet there is a
creak in the newly emptied head,
the lodestone nose, from the pull,
the pull that caused the rebirth, the pull
pulls on the sack of crud, truth on the palate.
Now having danced the piper's tune
it's back at a slothful pace, fallen arched,
like a boy dragging a book bag, hardly
a brave and noble warrior, or a king who
had rounded the mountain crag, it's back
to the office above the manufacturing floor
to observe the conveyor belts move the fabled
modern products, the sweet smelling aerosol
body sprays, the false eyelashes, the glossy
periodicals of fashion rumor and flash, the
balms of convenience and comfort all with
shyhigh markups, all the goods made to purify
ennoble and sanctify.
Let us not digress from our pleasing Caliban
jerked from paradise, not quash the muse
out from him, let's not make our servant ill, let's
fill him with our truly noble spells, the cut in
spiritual cycle already on the mend.
........need to rouse this to arms........
The vacation is over......
you have graduated from school
you have been run through boot
you have a part in a new theatre.
We all know he is quite lame, accepting in
a fashionable gymnasium, it is only there
that any fashionable tasks be put on display,
the only lessons taught those of the formalized dance.
How is this grand manager to be impressed,
plucked from the dream factory to learn a new trick?
Maybe the towel has to be thrown in
as an old theatre of action closes down.
Our play we were forced to watch even as we acted
it through hit the final squaking chord, awful beyond excuse.
Sweating in the patched costumes only replacing
the old pins scattered on the stage with the new,
the bleating in the pit urged us on from
emotional bailout to bailout,
the Caruso brothers bellowed hard,
the fields were gleaned iduously
by some with honest hunger.
We have not dreamt it yet a curtain falls.
A deal was not sealed and the heartfelt affections
were those of our kin watching us redfaced, yet clapping.
The great speckled bird was to have flown
with the patronising word, the joy was half-joy.
We have yet to view ourselves as we really are,
not hearth warmed and frisky, but looking
over a frozen windswept cliff before a dark chasm,
our minds are quieted to numbness by far off laughter.
This moment is the first that we hear,
as natural born great players not the tenor
of the device but a logos that pursues
like a red-eyed black hound.
There is no natural wisdom
only the wisdom I read from this ancient coin
and in the cry of the warty witch.
A pregnant nothing remains for all the reconstruction
done with the bombs and whippings
and snickering, yet only now it is
more felt than ever we seperated by our
essential gulfs and contrived chasms of the
proscenium window and looking gl,
awaiting a propitious sign that all our
meanings are not a black and white film negative
of the Judgement Throne’s visage of Mercy.
Among these bones and ruins it is where
we can rejoice in the perfected mission that is not ours.
The inevitable concurrences stand out from
the secular cloud as a righteous obligation,
the voice speaks through the flower laden altar
unflinchingly delivering a bone deep pardon.
The future welcomes us with the
grand old prospect of benevolence wide and far,
the working state the full bloom of charm,
the struck chord will be renewed harmony.
PaulieLand
: ey there Satan, you evil one
: When will you ever be done?
: When will it sink into your head
: That your power over me is dead.
: You tried to mess with my family
: But through Jesus I claimed victory.
: Now you try to steal my health and joy
: Using sickness as your ugly ploy
: But you forget I belong to the King
: His blood paid for my healing.
: Father of liars, Roaring lion, will you learn?
: That this child of God you can never overturn?
: I speak His words of Life loud and clear
: For He has not given me a spirit of fear.
: He is Jehovah Jirah , the Great I AM
: So out you go with your awful scam
: Jehovah Nissi - protects me from you
: His spirit is upon me through and through.
: He is my Good Shepherd, My Emmanuel
: I’m grafted in the True Vine, am in His will
: My Rock of Ages, the Beginning and the End
: My Heavenly Father, Counselor and Friend
: He created this world, died on Calvary
: By His spotless blood I am set free.
: He rose again so that I may abide
: In Him forever, his church his bride.
: So out you s-bag ...don't you understand
: You can't hurt me I’m held in His hand.
: You can huff and puff but my faith stands strong
: O Go to hell Satan, where you belong!