The Smile of the Unvanquished

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