There, in the hunger meadow where the bones become greenish once more after an intense fever, you'll find the Guest's tomb.

  You'll find two footprints carved in the smooth grey dust: they're his. The unchangeable dust is the last effort of his physical matter to hold his captive soul in the vacuum of the footprints. The soul has tried for thousands of years to free itself—but it'll be impossible, as long as the dust sticks itself to the dark glories of a poisoned past. In that same place, collapsed down the Guest —dazzled by the dead. The decay of the body slowly immortalized the direction and place of his last two footprints.

  There, the dust to which he came back has become a terrible sentinel whose mission is watch carefully his soul, so it can't move forward or backward a single footstep —not even with the sickly winds against which he engaged in battle in former ages. Where was the Guest coming from in that occasion? Where was he heading for?... Who was him?

 Floating like a cloud of venomous gas, suspended in a point of infinite density by the spasms of terror. Buried under the threshold of the breath of an apocalypse sent by the cosmic laws. I envy the dark metaphors that will be conceived by the artificial inspiration of the cyberorganic poets in the last intelligent civilizations. Here, only millions and millions of parallel universes within bubbles of bile. A bleak face of the vacuum, sweating a purple loaded with a primitive rage. It blinds the souls, while it bleeds itself in the spirals formed by the dying stars. Millions of destinies connected by dreamy wormholes, through which travel the compatible selfishness of similar dimensions.

  Suddenly, each one of my conscience's sensations splits in many images that stretch out to become infinite quantum tunnels—dreams in different stages of evolution! That light isn't external, it comes from them. Weird, crystal beings show themselves up before me, with bloody hues shining like a hemorrhage of light. They are falling from their huge, crystal spaceship shaped like a cube. They want to scape; they're looking for help. Hurry up! Crystal creatures with a sand's past; come on!—free yourselves through each one of my thoughts; reach the freedom of my madness' universe.

  I left behind me the space, bored because all the expansion. My back behold millions of galaxies exhaling puffs of burning plasma; the black holes swallow everything that once were manifested with animal, plant or mineral form— wedded with the stellar matter. The universe is homesick, its return to the childhood will allow it to get into a new cosmic topography—a return to the paradise... for it. For the energetic consciences that fought so hard under myriads of life forms, it's only a gateway to the panic. All individual energy flees; howling cries that exploit in flashes of acid light. They crash each other in the confusion of their auras—the background radiation increase, thanks to the rage and the impotence!... Disintegration is just around the corner.

  It happened in a deep night forsaken by the moon and gnawed by a swarm of demonic purple stars. With a shudder, my soul felt the wandering breath of the abyss —it woke it up from the dream in my body's tomb.

  Which's the destiny it's heading toward on the wings of the Night Gaunts?

  They drown it, with strikes of shivers, in the universes buried under the archetype essence of H. P. Lovecraft.

  Such universes are placed in the very core of splendors dropping from macabre visions, and marvels that oxidize the time's bones, just before dying in Azathoth's arms. My soul is bound to wander covered by the shroud of a heavy mist through the infinite spirals of this paradise, populated with fears, awesomeness and fascination.

  Lovecraft, my soul is kneeled before your paradise's gates; command  Yog-Sothoth to bridge the abyss that yawns between it and your imagination with the carcass of an ancient dimension. It's getting impatience! Its shrieking darkness is sighing!... Because in your Eden it wants to dwell. 

The corpse was buried several light years ago in a wormhole, deemed jokingly by the foremost members of the long cyberorganic mankind, to lead toward a backward area of the universe, doubtless populated by third wolrd-minded cosmic citizens.
The corpse performanced its own descend into that hell burning with flames of silence, emptiness and, above all... coldness. The coldness stuck on the dead flesh, cooking it at the same pace of the Dark Energy; seasoning it with atoms of hydrogen and helium harvested during the universe's awake. The coldness dug very deep into the organic blackness of the carbon molecules, turning the corpse into a tasteful dish from the very structure of its former life, and now, of its present dead.
The corpse got out not only in a different point of the space, but in a different point of the time. Seemingly, the corpse got through the wormhole's dream; maybe a dream from wich it wanted to wake up being a butterflyhole.
But, that was just a dream. As for the corpse, a hunger gravity was attracted by the good smell of its well-done dead flesh, and began to pulls it. The gravity turned out to be the slobber of a ravenous planet, populated by cannibals.
That night, they celebrated a unique cannibalistic feast. Once finished it, they stayed staring at the fire, wondering why its flames don't cook the dead flesh in such delicious way as this one sent from the sky by the gods is. What kind of fire could do it? By dawn, all of them fell asleep with the hope of dream with that fire... With the fire of the stellar coldness... The stellar coldness of the outer space.

Watch the sound of your fury, smell the color of your frustration, within this subtle darkness forged by your thoughts. Buried in yourself, you keep on moving forward through this swamp of rotten light; scourging your palate, with the faded gleams that cast out the sacred mud. Your steps still hold fast to the confusion and the trembling, but move forward, for I'm waiting for you in the very core of this swamp; wetted with the shining of the eyes of all those left out of the destiny's testament. Come with me, the heritage that was denied to you, rest in my mournful ark.

My blade is made out of blood and sperm, and can make a masterpiece of the straw in your eye. The gnats shriek the echoes of your memories, carved in the wax that gets old in pilgrimage toward the death's iron. I know they're melt by black bees in the souls of all those you met. If you come to me, you'll see that I can be confidant of your visions about the end.

I can see you possess painful memories. That's the reason of the vehement darkness. The gnats aren't enough for the memories you've sacrificed before the shrime of your hatred. Your hands aren't enough to get through the deafening darkness, filled with foul-smelling screams. Come to me, so that your holocaust will have the rare flavor of a narcotic honey. You'll be amazed to see coming back your soul mutilated, but triumphant, over the ragged deities.

Only to them was given the gift to plow the flesh that spread out all over the earth, with the implacable iron of their thoughts... and yawn before the ephemeral harvest of their rotten desires.

Gloomy workmen of the most sinister prophecies, those that sow hunger in the imagination to know what will bloom beyond the end, and the dark decision to journey toward that end.

Some of them, are patient prisoners of the paradise's light; projected through the fragile consciences in spiral of blood, held by pillars of dying flesh. Skillful and quiet, they avoid the enervated souls of the light: shallow essences, that get satisfied with any paradise; and fear any hell. Determined, they are not afraid to drain their inner cup, and lost themselves in the rapture of their being.

Everything evolve. The universe, its laws, the light, the darkness, the good, the evil, the human being. And everything can does it, thanks to the faculty of the imagination. But the imagination it's something hidden and needs to be explore by the creative beings, no matter if they are humans, angels, demons or gods. The greatest field of the imagination is the Dark Energy. That's why the Dark Energy not only expand the universe, but the imagination too.

My literature is my personal exploration through the Dark Energy of my imagination that runs parallel to the cosmic Dark Energy that push forward the universe. Of course, always keeping in mind, that the mystery is more important than the revelation. In that way, each one of my prose poems, stories or thoughts, it's a thin ray of light out of that infinite mystery, of that infinite Evolutionary Darkness.

And the revelation in the light's showcase of that tiny part of it, only makes it more mysterious, more dark.

About Me

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Odilius Vlak, is the pseudonym of a guy whose real name is Juan Julio Ovando Pujols. He was born and still lives in Dominican Republic. The pen name turned out to be his spiritual name, because it was chosen by his soul, and not by two pieces of rotten flesh, namely, his parents. As a writer he likes to explore the dark aspect of the imagination and place the result in the light's showcase with a fantastic attire. So far, his main way of expression is the prose poem. Some may be very lyric; others, very narrative. But, all of them being a kind of philosophic declaration of why the Dark Fantasy should be loved. He has two unpublished books, of which several samples will be show in this virtual temple: Plexus Lunaris and Bottonless Tombs. Currently he's writing the first story of the book "Chronicles of Tandrel". It will be a universe builded in the same way that "Zothique the Last Continent", by Clark Ashton Smith; that is, showing the whole feature of it, through a series of tales. He also run a Blog in spanish devoted in part to the sacred figure of Clark Ashton smith: the «High Priest» of the Dark Fantasy.
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