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Burning the Boats to Hesperion

No reason and No rhyme

Burning the Boats to Hesperion


Absent Friends


Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?

Will time leave us alone?

Will sloth and neglect, estrange us from the ones we love the most?


Will the mill of days grind away the ties that bound us?


No time like now,

No words but these words

No persons but these persons...

The ones here.

Not the chosen,

But the remaining.



I ask myself...

Will we forgive ourselves for our forgetfulness?


All people



The enormous throng of people we knew and loved...

Taken by time and sacrificed in the altar of now.

Distant shadows of a past made unnecessary.


Not by you.

Not by the others.

But by now,

By the movement.

This place in this time, and this place in this



Love trampled under the wheels of necessity

and the stupid fascism of need.


And to all this I ask:


Will we miss our friends forgotten?

Will we need their love and warmth?

Will we be lonely?

Afraid of being adrift with ourselves?



Time passes like a glacier trough a valley,

Slowly but surely, all will collapse under the weight of the frost.

Like the valley,

We’ll be striped of everything,

Naked and alone.


And here, in presence of our own structure,

Before the great truth...

We cowardly long for time we spent with others and the truths we shared...

Longing for all the things we left behind...



Knowing this...

Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?



Lazy Afternoons



Lazy afternoons,



all made of sunshine and permanence,

light and duration;

could they last forever...


Listless Sun soaked hours,

filled to the brim with nothing

and hollowed of any promise but its own shiny pointlessness.

These are the times that are,





This is our allotted time,

all else is purposeful living.

Years, months and days dedicated to the pursuits that we esteem as worthy:



the respect of our peers,

more money



the masses,


the whales.

All these and more

much more,

occupies us inside and out,


as we dedicate large chunks of our lives to their conquest.


Noble and important as they may be,

(they’re not)

they are not truly ours.



Their place is the no man's land that separates what they want from you,

from what you want from them.

Its in this field of glory that you’ll forget yourself, to win them,

and where they’ll accommodate you, for no greater good.

Everybody gives a little,

nobody wins.

This is the base of the new social contract,

a fierce and equalitarian force preventing anyone from getting what they want.


Social justice making sure that everyone gets fucked the same

and in the same way.

A socialization of misery,

if you will.

But not today.

at least not this afternoon.


Today there’s nothing to do but be,



and with nowhere to go.



Old Women


Hordes of old women storm the esplanade…

An archaeology of lipstick, rouge, and regret.

Hardcore harpies smeared with the crimson colours of days gone by.

Hordes of old women,

faces aghast with the ravages of gravity,

put together by the steely will of looking like the night before morning.

A carved romantic ruin to time blundering by.

Faces who want to be Venetian palazzos,

and look like empty spaces behind buildings.


Times Arrow

In front.
Always in front. Ahead.
In your face.
Always in your face. Before you.

Hours await.

The long procession of minutes (armed to the teeth with seconds).
They wait at the corner of now
To become the ever expanding procession of days.

An infinite throng of instants peruses menacingly,
as I finish a cigarette and look trough the café window.

When you’re not expecting,

The Hordes of time storm the tower, to enforce the grim yoke of Boredom.

You light another cigarette, and hope it’ll pass.

But it won’t.

You were conquered by the army most ferocious.

Thunderous cavalcades of infinity,
Roaring armies of permanence
Ready and waiting to rip you to shreds and serve you to
Uncountable multitudes of moments,
followed by more ravenous moments…

Pulling in…
Pulling to….

Immeasurable quantities of instants,
Armed and belligerent...
Screaming for the bloody murder of you.

Time’s arrow is taut and awaits release.
Its vicious murderous desire for oblivion will not be abated.

Time’s arrow is taut and you are the target.

There’s nothing left to do …

All your efforts … all for naught.

Nothing to do …
But grit your teeth,
And brace for impact.

music by

Youthful Indiscretions

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The first of a (hopefully) series of poems on Emperor Constantine

My name is Constantine,
I’m a man blessed with destiny.

There’s purpose and a direction to my existence,

unlike the hapless fortune of most men,
void of fate and reason,
pulled only by the motions of the Universe,
no direction,
no goal,
being all that the Universe wants them to be.
Childish debris in the torrent of being.

The sons of time have no time of their own,
only movement.
to Time.

But this story is not about those that make the flesh of Gods,
It’s about those who walk, head up high, among Them.

I move,
in my own life line,
Clear in the knowledge of myself.
pulled by the certainty of Fate.

There’s a reason for my existence.
and the reason is my own,
and the reason is me.

The Gods know my name,
as they know their own kin,

I’m alive since the beginning,

coexistent with Jove and Sol and the Ignoto Dei…
each of us a road in the map of Being,
where the rabble is but a moment of my path.

I exist, where everything around does not.
My trek is clear,
My spirit is sharp,
my will is keen.

Strong armed and quick.
I am now,
all the man that I was supposed to be.

My actions are weaved in the loom of Moira,
I have the certainty of rocks and the changing seasons,
I am,
the motor of history
and the reason for all becoming.

Constantine I’m called,
Known by name by the Gods,
and needing the love of none.


I’m talking to you from this place of silence.
From under the wreckage,
the debris
the soot and the stones and the iron ruins.

all of you.
have chased me into this place of violence.
gasping and cornered,
I look horrified to the Your gaping maw of wanting,

always sure,
eager for more.

all of you…
will be the death of me.

Scarring me with your love and attention


There can not be no greater indictment than being You.
And for this…
only this,
nothing is forgiven.

You’ve condemned me to my exile in this place of silence,
in the island of discourse,
the monastery of idle chat…
the graveyard of inane prattling about the heat…

This will not be forgotten,
I will excise upon you a vengeance most terrible!

Upon you will be unleashed questions about your health,
interrogations about the weather,
queries over your emotional well being,
and probings as to the exact nature of your dogs dreams.

No plattitude to empty,
no question to stupid.

I will be the spirit of family talk and courteous words in elevator,
and the ghost of Christmas past and future.

I will be uncomfortable silences!
long pauses and puzzled looks,
the tense hand that twitches as you look for the time,
the nervous laugh that assuages the unstoppable current of imbecility.

I will forever haunt your attempt to take me in conversation.




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Every time.
There are men who lament the present because it’s not the past they foreseen.

They shun its crass materialism,
its crippling individualism,
abhor its rotting equalitarianism,

fleeing the diseased cities of the servants,
sickened with the stench of their baseness.
Longing to be elsewhere…

cleaner skies,
broader horizons,
an invigorating solitude.

Every time.
There are men,
the best of them.
Who see History as an agonizingly long burial of the Spirit.
And as It drowns in Time they watch:
eyes wide with horror
the descent of Man into chaos,
and the following procession of foulness:

Lust and Chance as the new Love and the new Reason,
Man as the measure of all things,
Godlessness as Dogma,
Reason trapped alone in science,
Philosophy, a commentary on physics,
Religion as superstition,
Home as a place,
Nature as resources,
The how’s as the whys.

To all these Men.
Hiding in the mountains,
living in the darkness of the woods…
scorning humanity and keeping themselves pure,
I say this,
calling it “Waldgänger" wont make it less cowardly.

For today is the day!
The day before the great wheel stops,
for so long spinning only by inertia
and – finally! – time ends,
turning even our tainted being into a purer nothing…
as time runs out of time
and acceleration becomes history,
We should be remembered of this truth…

There is no protection from becoming.
There’s no truth higher than destruction.
as no Gods were ever higher than Fate.

For all this…
and for the reason of Pride,
We make this last call to you,
Hoping that your soul will do the Black Work that lies ahead…
and needs to get done.


Don’t sail the boats to Hesperyon,
Don’t long for the western shores where the Ancients wait.

Forget the first days,
forget the unity of the beginning,
before time,
before movement,
before being.

Forget the chants of the sirens,
although they speak nothing but the truth.
The golden age is dead,
The Gods powerless,
all eternal truths are present lies.

Even our disgust is but affected snobbery when we watch the carnage of the universe.

It’s time to bury the last remnants of the Logos under the crumbling towers of today.
Each second inside us lives the spirit,
it’s a second more this diseased universe lingers on…
regardless of Reason,
or Right.

Its our being that still gives movement to this corpse.
We’re the maggots in the dead flesh.
all this,
must have a stop.

It’s not the decadence of lesser men that is responsible for the grotesquerie of this living carcass.
It is us.
For clinging to the truth,
For not capitulating,
For remaining true…
For being men among ruins,
when we should be the harbingers of destruction,
raising to the ground every last vestige of Spirit.

So that, from that unknowable silence,
where all that is now, will be nothing,
will come something new.

For all this,
I urge you into this crusade against being,
against everything,
against each other.

To cleanse the world of the old truths,
and bring forth the time before time.

And hope,
not know, but hope,
for in the darkness of this cesspool there’s no place for knowledge, only faith.
That the cycle begins again,
and that the sacrifice of the Will is not in vain.

Making Sense

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Trying to eek out sense of all this …

Trying to shape the unruly indiscipline of existence
into an organized structure of ideas.
Making sense of everything by making it something…
Objects to be looked at and understood.

This is the first moment in the carnival of seeing.

They’ve polluted our eyes with beauty,
Soiled our ears with music,
Fouled our mouths with food,
And tainted our skin with love.

drunk with now,
infatuated with becoming
we become time’s obedient mistress..

Our senses now,
Pasture to the sickness of thinking.

Looking and then choosing,
Feeling and then reasoning,
And thus making of everything…


Knowledge if you will.

Questions who will fit the answers,
Answers who befriend easy questions,
taking us trough the bonds of empathy
that common men call logic.
Finding truth in similarity.
As if closeness was creation,
As if proximity was certainty.

Our intellectual journeys have taken us from the bedroom to the kitchen,
And we exult in the small steps taken … and called it Odyssey.

We’ve never left the cave.

And unable to know in any form but this sorrowful stumbling,
We’ve became trapped inside our answers,
And found closure in the cells of reason.

Monk-like eunuchs droning mantras of intelligence and discourse,

Keeping the devils of complexity and uncertainty safely at bay.

Howling alone in science.
Trying ceaselessly to break the bound that binds us to this dead knowledge.

The Glass

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“I’m done with drinking!”
said the glass.

“I’m done with the loud bars and the loud hearts,
with bragging souls and fighting spirits.

Done with the coming and the going of wayward travelers of the late hours…

I’m done with the night!”

Said the glass almost blushing…
awkwardly masquerading his unease with a smile.
He paused, gathering himself, and then he continued,
as if reading from a book,

“I’m done with the silky invitation of the dark and the smiling complacency of the moon.
I’m done with all this wanting and all this being and all this aimless meandering.
cruising blind and fast,
hither to thither,
from here to there,
from there to here again,
and then to nowhere.”

“I’m through with nights,
I’m through with days that are still nights,
and I’m through with days you wished were still nights!”

“I’m through.”
Pondered the glass…

“I’m through being half filled and half empty,
I’m through being drunk , spit upon, cried over, spilled and left on the ground…

“All the things I could be useful for…
all things that I can do for me and others,
all these things,
all good.
Are nothing to me.”

“all the things that I am,
all the things that make me, me…
are things where I see me no more.”

“There is no more of “me” that I can do.
I have become weary of existing.
I’ve grown unaccustomed to being,
I’m a stranger to living…
none of this is mine anymore.”

“All that I am is elsewhere,
in places unseen,
and probably,
in moments unwanted.”

“I am now,
an enormous longing for being someone else.”

“Today I’m the cessation of volition,
the end of habit
and the answer to the algorithm of my own demise.”

knowing this,
knowing only this.”

“I wait that the Great Tyrant Time pushes all my doubts backwards into the past.
So I can be whole,
With what I am…

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