The Smile of the Unvanquished

PANORAMA --- golden slopes flow in sinuous grace into a chalice where liquid pearls are conceived with the imprint of the solemn horizon and the implacable ocean. stature, firm and proud, yields to no torment forged by mankind. this voice cleans the air from ripe and fusty emissions festering in the boroughs of spleen. twilight sinks, the moon gallops; cavernous drumbeats settle for no less than the fugue outreaching the furthest canopy. --- WOMAN

unreined, a smiles kisses the fleeting horizon, raptured by the promise to perch on the coasts of infinity. a thunderous roar fills the prairie as an influx of bisons drift in blind delusion for power and survival from threshold to threshold. the heart takes wings, soars from the dust cloud and led by a keen look, takes course over the rugged terrain. and finally lands in an oasis of lush verdure, overlooking the ocean, waiting for rolling white waves of mares to carry him to that veiled island of the blessed.

At the witching hour and while a keen cold breeze draws open the night sky to envelop the scene in the silver beatific light of heavenly origin, the elders and their novices walk in procession to the loch, shed their robes and immerse themselves into the silent miasma of waters covered under the oily drapery of the celestial vault's reflection. They swim towards the middle, devotion seals their mouth, their hearts beat strong. There they create a wide circle, treading water. Eyes shut, the soul sinks deep to the outer regions of its bedding to walk over vulnerable spot in the fabric of space-time that their pale bodies in relentless motions have confined and aroused as towards the center rhythmic dykes of rolling waves ringed with white horses frothing in effervescent display of joy and glory. Mental capabilities little understood sweep over the breach between one world to the other realm. Labouring, exciting, moulding and honing and finally conjuring a creature seemingly

Mares are articles of beauty, saddled for the wild ride; they lash through thorny undergrowth, where pain is braised in unctuous hot blood. In screaming wounds the sun pours her golden hairs -- these threads rich in venomous preserve. My bleached corpse fades into a cloud of scaly parchment and wavers soon as a fluttering swarm into the heavens to hail their seething lust.

Cre´ance (krē´ans) n. 1. Faith; belief; creed. 2. (Falconry) A fine, small line, fastened to a hawk's leash, when it is first lured. I have, as you may know well at the present, a penchant for obscure words as well for the archaic usage or definition of a noun, therefore deviating from the more habitual act of employment. :)

My first attempt to create a motivational poster. :)

the wind swirls fields of grain, golden and burgeon. the skyline melts into the thalassic velvet, your eyes the doorway to preternatural desmesnes. humble-born, the stature of your soul crowns the thunderous monoliths of untamed Sutherland and spins radiance of life where the glare of mourningfulness puts vigour to slumber.

We walk by in the ghetto of our continuance uprooted and burned from the inside; first like sharp twinges, annoying pokes, which accrue to a fugue of convulsions, the mind shouts out in an empty opera house, tongue ripped, a shattering silence courts the faithful officer summoning a last dint of pedigree, while his troops turn into drunken vociferous brigands. The threshold betwixt resignation and negation is our socle, hapless we scour the hinterlands of moody shores; none of their fields and cities amount to a pleasant idyl, the heart sobs tears of blood as our desire without a name whirls away behind the rustling curtains of astral symphonies. Still, we canoe through rapids and boggy waters in an open casket that contains the flexion of laughing dread;yonder greets our pendant, an unwieldy bungling tree exercising a pathetic balancing act to rest afloat in these milling bodies on the tips of its roots. We are in distinguished fellowship.

In prismatic corners ditched, shuffled among people, who are too excited in raping trouser pockets till the last stitch, so damn happy in beguiling oneself for the splendour of tinsel trinkets, animated in cheerful hugging company, hyena chuckles cracking in the February air overriding the washy caked eyes of goosestepping clocked wage-slavery. They enter a mirkly brown-shaded tavern, beverages and snacks stuffing the gaping mouths of their innards; vulgar roars of laughter fill the atmosphere of the room, nest warmth stabs you in the eye like the caress of a damp, briny smutch ejaculated unto your feverish stern face, like the blood you spat when your stomach was scraped, and a burst trombosis flooding your pants, while you shared loneliness with the company of your decomposing corpse. Walking by and fully realizing, never shall you rank among them, so broken in their limited scopes and bland achievements; failed initiations reduced you to a lumbering rusty inmate o

Life teaches us lessons we never asked for; people stumble in our days and nights but once they touch a chord in our heart, when we're ready for them to be part in our mission on earth, they soar up while we run upon them with open arms, and leave behind a recoiling bluish grey smoke, a toxic inhalation for fleeting moments of redemption and bliss. We solicit, but we appeal to none than the damned, the rotten and the inexorable pains and desolation into which we make an abode... Caressed by the shadows, fed by the immolations for lost causes, steeled by walkabouts along the margins of somnolent riverbanks, there's no other course, no healthier direction to go.

"Every gesture is a gesture from the blood, every expression a symbolic utterance... Everything is of the blood, of the senses." - Henry Williamson Stained in blood, the child is born. No kin nor enemy should eschew in fervid disdain its heritage and destiny but in the asperity of a honest fight. In the orgy of death, the nameless fallen underlie the Myth, the Hero befalls the succession of their craft of pilotage for generations to come.

My first encounter with this pulp SF series of German origin PERRY RHODAN dates from the mid eighties. Had to be on a Wednesday afternoon when school is off for half a day, somewhere between half past three and five, riding my bicycle, aimless, hoping to find something extraordinary, something from the school routine washing over me the next day, and Friday til finally the weekend starts. Bright but cloudy day, nebulous and so appears the sun, if not hidden, dispersed in its own blur, and always hoping for the dimming, the reduction of light intensity stabbing your eye nerves and profiling you sharply against the backdrop and the loneliness in and around you, longing for the drowsy pastel and some dark tints. Even a drizzle would be hailed with open arms and a victorious smile. Nothing beats a drizzle in Spring, once it ends leaves soil and foliage to release it sweet spice aromas waxing your body and soul. Relieving them from an anxious fever that has no name, no purpose. I went u

Endless sky, vast rolling sand dunes, in the shade of a dreamy gaze, a dancing and tasting cold flame that dissipates as any mirage into a perennial tall tale... The moon cowls, thousands of salt grains flick up from the velvet sea undulating on bodies perched in endurance after the eagerness of the day... A dark ominous cloud, rolling low and heavy over a terse and reticent landmare ; fog roused from an emphysemic loch crawling upland, a scattered fleet of erring thunderous clouds dropping in its wake; the two fronts collide, cracking and rumbling for supremacy, but keeping their feral ammunition in check... And the few of the latter days, dwelling under the pale frozen sun, witnessed the oceans solidify to marble plains and the land turned into a pathetic scab from which their husks rose as reverse impalements. Their bodies grew algid and forsook all motion. Their eyes now extinguished by the same canker that sentenced Time to its everlasting demise, stared inured towards the

The slender-waisted youth strut to lay its claims upon the world, they tumensce their axis in a chomping manner, hollow egos seated in a throne made of tarp, inflated to balloons sailing by on irreverent suspirations. While the matures collect padding round waist and heart, their world shrivels, their circles crumble, souls pierced and pounced by a meteor storm of pangs. Pilots leave their sagging balloons, their breath raise jubilant chortles,and pleeping tears streak their cheeks, knock at Mother Earth's door. Each tear emulates the crystal tune of redemption. A wren flies off to herald the tiding to the world. And a Kingdom bows for the returned Prince, by enforcement.

Time is no verdict nor punishment, a hill in my way didn't prevent me on purpose to walk in a straight direction. A time piece tells a strictly linear chronology, it doesn't record time into an archive to harass you with guilt, the horror of what was done and what could have been done. The movement of arms indicate and that indication flits, lost, no way to tweak into a playback. Each moment is now, eternal to your liking, and insubstantial, but in the difference between each passing moment, how trivial and marginal ever so, lies their rich and virtuous flavour as each shore contains the promise of virgin soil to till and therein the testimony of an admirable property of the soul. The past is wrapped in a closed envelop, no one is entitled to break the wax seal. Therein a draft that won't ever be edited and amended. Til someone finds a rabbit hole, unsheaths time from our common quotidian preconceptions and discovers we all move on a mind-boggling Moebius Strip, and drop

my mind is a blank - a dry riverbed with its staple of gangrened phantom limbs. growth has gone obsolete in the proximity of that frigid and ungainly behemoth. deep in the smithy of my impatient and bristling heart, my still-born sword will arouse again from the flames of life, but not today ... today belongs to oblivion.

Mijn geest is blank, blank van ijs gedumpt in een droge rivierbedding. Niets gedijt onder die logge en frigide kolos. Van ergens diep in de smidse van dat ongeduldig en ziedend hart zal uit het vuur ooit weer een zwaard oprijzen, maar niet vandaag... vandaag behoort aan de vergetelheid.

beleaguered by a sumptuous exposition of goods and chattels, liable to abrasion of time and climate, drowsy in puny self-indulgence outstaring the stately vacuum of pomp; a stalemated afflicted "life" ripples to squander. and people you know best, knowing by heart the chapters of your open book, they will indeed never turn their back on you and suffer you gladly, an itchy scab. though, your expedience is franchised to a swap transaction, lite-version. a patient sighs relieved that he may still get hold of a consultation despite their hurdled succinct agendas. finally, no longer insanely dashing onto the centerpiece of tempests galore, neither carrying stubborn resistance nor bowing artful as taunt, bane reaches its conclusion. swindled into joining the calamities promoted to accomplice of this beast depraved and cruel; resigned like a leaf torn loose from the canopy, windswept readily to nowhere.

a sad soul listens to the rain pattering against the door. the litany of the shrieking wind carries a melody of hate and knock out any trail of thoughts, while wood works and walls protest with catatonic pertinence that match the mellow stillness of this loner whose eyes ache under the strain of warm hopes and brilliant mental exploits, sailing to perdition. open sea: the body of water cavorts with the seething lust of the gale, they turn and twist in vertiginous pitches, their heaving collapses in droning rumbles, excreting white horses running afoul towards the pristine shore of a land hunched in a frozen woe. in all its exaltation, the sea emerges as the deeply furrowed face of an elderly man, in pain and struggling to breath, smothered as he is in the foggy gray curtain of an unkempt beard, while hours or seconds pass by in an eerie limbo that is deafening in its all-encompassing silence. the individual opens the door, his cries bring no tears, his shouts

Morning: the sky looks docile and gently blue, almost of a pastel timidity...some mauvish-greyish clouds like celestial pendants to WWI wrecks littered around the temperamental waters of Orkney lay scattered as in a pose of self-introspection... silence governs the air, bushes wave erratically, like a girl possessed by a jolt of mad cheerfulness.... the sun pours a liquid gold veneer over the scenery, covering the world into an autumnal brass.... Ach, it moves on... From the window, draped over a bleak wall cemented unto the distancing horizon, a garguantuan beast of dour and ashen spur, scurried past, dissolving to a faint reminiscence of its former might. AND NOW... a blinding flash of sun light sweeps over the land; a fusion reaction of summerly jollity and horror reigning the isle for a instance till the clouds hold their severe dark gathering once again, and it chucks doon... violent, irresistible lashing rain, swept by the eternal, never abating wailing wind from arctic inspi

they walk in the morning with hunched bodies in thin supermarket cloths, barely in control of their shivers; their heads full of waning delirium. the frosty air makes them edgy, their movements are floundering, like a broken record idly wheeling past the production of any sound. their blunt eyes and sordid smiles hint on dead souls stamped with the rictus of idiocy. the glory of dawn ignites and shames the waste of consumerist barracks and temples of intoxication, while weeds between cracks, spilled leaves victim to seasonal tides and guardians of lanes revel in melancholic dignity before the bustling writhing traffic sinks them back in the clouded background. now they loiter in rank smut corners of subways, pentices and against lamp posts, at home in wafts of acrid urine, bakkeries of vomit and stacks of variegated dumping, their dialogues unfold in a series of grunts, monosyllables and shouts, interspersed with hoarse laughter. they glean the world with muted

We all live for the future, but sometimes death puts a stop to it. Perhaps and sometimes it is no different to someone walking along a flower bed but one single flower among that shiny crowd of he deems extraordinarily fascinating and beautiful. He cuts it off the stem and takes it home. There, he fills a glass, puts this flower in it, flower and glass goes on the kitchen window. There is more than a good chance that flower survives her natural life span. Or he puts it to dry between the pages of an old nature book, which is handed over from generation to generation ... Maybe there's an analogy for man and woman, this homecoming in spite of being stripped from its roots of life, and we call that special reserved place beyond the horizon, Eternity . Thus, whom to mourn if true, the living or the deceased?

They met one another in some indescriptive place soaked wet by torrential rains and blinded by a dense mist that sucked not just their vision, but their strength and breath. Sweat mingled with the rank odours from muddy pools and there was the sound of carcasses around gnawed and ripped apart by maggots and other vulterine beasts and the air filled with their ghastly sounds and stench. Both men had no desire but to escape from this internecine no-man's land but each of them stood in the other's way. They spoke different languages but fears, hopes and moods were brotherly alike. Tongues wouldn't move. Eyes locked on one another. Long, intense, first mostly insecure and irked, gradually more apprehensively and with mutual respect. In slow harmony they made a step aside to let the other through. And while the men continued their tracks, throats cleared up to speak, smiles were exchanged, wishing the best and hoping to meet one another again in more felicitous circumstanc

a fantastic woman who is like a rock braving horrific surfs, honest and steadfast, parrying unstoppable the vulturine actions of ignoble souls, flexible and indulgent though when greater goods may be achieved... a woman of rare pedigree, towering unbeknownst by herself, above the dire miasma of a failing world.

Here I sit smoking my pipe, phlegm collecting in my throat, phantom squeeze low down my side where my appendix should be with the rest of my intestines, slimy wet meat discharged thanks to surgical meddling. Late at night drumming words on a laptop not knowing where to head, idle and sidle with long pauses, looking for something to prick the roof of my intellect and pimp celestial intervention but beside the vague shadowy outlines of a twin-towered cathedral in a brown and tarred anonymous city pitched to a latrine yellow sky with undertones of severed emotions rumbling underneath its forsaken mask... not a thing. Now even the visions no longer persist, the words roll out deliberately, precise, construed to run after the liberating ending for fear that the task will be huge and similar to an epos. Failed writer, grounded in the sauna of his imaginations, lazy, proud wishes that looks for manicure, yet the arm is heavy and lost the aptitude to device the scissors.