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Burning the Boats to Hesperion

No reason and No rhyme

Burning the Boats to Hesperion


Ode to the Black Light


I ran into the heart of winter,


Deep into the naked trees,

into the blistering wind.

In search of the cleansing rain I went.


I rushed into the snow.

Into the snow icy core I plunged.


Inside the frozen plain.

Into the throbbing Soul I moved...


The Ice respired death all around…

Stopping the world,

The winter,

The cold,



Even me.


And, here,

In the shivering cold,

I sit down and,

For the first time I,


close my eyes

to never open them again


And, then...

As expected.

As wanted;

as needed.


Came the ominous heat

I’ve known for so long.


The warm nothingness that was here from the start.

In the beginning of days;

My days.


A life-time of blind love to a hidden God...

Only seen through the dim glass of the Black Light


Shining in me and through me...

Like an unspeakable silence that can not be understood.

Only embraced.


And, as I sat here,

To never rise again.

I wait most atently.

Not waiting for anything…


being wait in itself.


Available for all;


Frozen to the world and burning for the hand of God.


And the inky waters of Being start to move...


Very slowly,



down there...





Like a tectonic revolution.


Rumbling upwards,

crushing everything in its path.





as I wait,

as I stop,

to never move again.


I pray to the God I don’t believe anymore.


To give me the strength,

and the fortitude.

to see the all consuming beauty,


Of the Black Light.



Nosferatu's Night Out


Stained clouds by the oily sludge of the night

mar the skyline who looms over the alley and dinner,

Twitching, squirming,

Bloody and delicious.


I watched as it moved one last time.


The moon cowered beneath the smog,

Neon sprayed light trough the dark recesses of the city…

Low, dwindling stars, illuminate a mankind that deserves no other light.


I lean against the wall, breathless and sated,

Casting my eyes to on high,

Searching for a God that has forsaken me.

 Leaving me alone with the billboards of banks and travel agencies,

Sneakers and massage parlours,

Shoe stores and chemists…

Brightly coloured hues of dreaming, irradiating over the street.

Full of the night lights and city sounds…

Resting and digesting,

as if the corpse before me was not my doing.


As if no one would,


Come here

As if I could rest …

for awhile.


The food stopped moving long ago.

An empty dish for a vacant meal.

The thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of the kill,


All so quick, so good and so sudden.


I get up and get ready to leave,

Button up my coat and leave this happy place of feeding.

Strangely nostalgic for this now that is ended.



The cold wind sharpens my pace as I look for the train station.

Hungry to be elsewhere.

Away from this geometric unwelcoming town.

Eager, so eager,

To get home.


Away from all the animals that roam these streets.




No Sun as come undone


No sun has come undone,

As no moon was found unclean.

Under the watchful eye of Being.


No God was found wanting,

No Spirits questioned…

Nor was the sea too shallow,

Nor the desert too dry.

No deed of beast was too base,

No will of rock too hard,

Compared to the inexorability of  the judgement passed to Man.


For, the scrape of Light ,

(that will let him live a little longer, so he can die a little later),

is hard and elusive to get…

as if it was a prize,

as if it was good…

A bounty for the worthy!

Not the least of our expectations.


It’s to this sad feast that we gather in the millions;

Like mongrels too stupid to see the difference between the carrot and the stick…

Biting everything and each other,

beneath the discouraging soul-gluttony of the Lord.



For this, and more I ask you…


His not Man’s lot

A cast lot?

Is not is his destiny an answerable riddle?


Were we not singled forth?


Is not our being darker than death?

Is not our dying clearer than living?


Are not these the voices of reason?



And to answer these questions…

Only blind hate against the living,

And a strong mistrust towards the dead.




This self righteous anger,

Speaks in the ever expanding riddles of science,





the rest.

Drowning in the flood of the senses,

broken and confused…

cumbersome before the incumbent task.


Sense and Knowledge one,

before the ever thinning twine of unknowing.



Trying to remember the Word before Self came in.






Hoje Começa Devagar


Hoje começa devagar.

Tímido da noite de ontem e tropeçando nos amanhas que não cantam...



Tristes e silentes.

Mudos com o sal das lágrimas que não correram.


Falam dos amanheceres atros e vagos do futuro,

Dos acordares ignotos e perigosos.

Do dia de amanhã que não conheço.


E portanto estou,

Como sempre...

Entre há bocado e agora,

Neste quase nada a que chamam presente,

Onde eu devia estar e sentir-me e precisar-me


onde não me encontro no presente dos outros.


porque a unica verdade de mim,

É um ponto questionante.


Song of the Midday




“Seek and ye shall find.”

Says the Good Book.

Many were lost for heeding these words.

For if there are plenty of books,

Not one,

is Good.


But still they manage to get written,

engraving themselves in the hearts of men who bask by the fire of Words,




look for their reflection in the World.


These are the starry eyed dreamers,

The heroes,

The revolutionaries…

drowning in contemplation of the Palace of Reason that exists only in the soul…

not the ever decaying chaos of becoming.


They’re blinded by truth,

drunk on certainty,

choking on Reality,

and gagging in Light…


They look to the world in hope..

waiting for it to turn out as they know it should.


Seeing it carrying on indifferent and unaware of their plans.

They take on themselves the burden of change.


And so they walk;


The path of the good man,

The path of the righteous and the pious…

Of the northern man,

cowering under dreams of land and bloodlines…

The path of the Cow.

Oblivious to everything but of the small pasture his herd calls home,

Wanting for nothing and thinking about less.

And as they gather to celebrate their bovine ethos of exclusion, we hear their rambling ruminations on family,



Celebrating closeness and sameness,

Making of their hearth their world.



As we avert our eyes from this cozy landlocked scene,

and turn to the vast sea that faces us, each an every day,

We cannot help but think that,


Not for us the clear trek,

Not for us the known path…


We’re of the Midday,

We’re made of hard truths and harder lies…



baking beneath the inflexible sun,

lingers a race of dark men,

Who live under the terrible burden of the naked truth.


No wolf gods, no mists no trees, no rivers, no fountains no nothing!

But the unavoidable burden of living alone before the Great Power.


Distant, cold and aloof,


A God not for the man who needs prayers, sacrifices, dances, parties, feasts, drugs…

All the paraphernalia that lesser man use to cloud the unknowing.



Beneath the high blue skies and the rampant violence of the sun,

Loiter those for whom God is so present that it hurts.


A belief so deep that is not a belief anymore,


But life devoid of pleasure and contentment.

Empty of everything but His intrusive existence.


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