tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33959109269645024582024-02-08T07:54:28.385-08:00Evolutionary DarknessDark Energy not Only Expands the Universe,
But the Imagination TooOdilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-8800718847315964242012-12-11T07:28:00.001-08:002012-12-11T07:35:28.214-08:00Short Story: The Farewell of the Gravity Force<br />
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Back in that time, the earth was a geology tapestry over which the aeons had painted minimalist and monochromatic landscapes with a carboniferous inspiration. Every kind of life form, except the Homos Plus Ultra, had disappeared. This species, obliged by the challenges that the natural selection at a cosmic level imposed to it, took its self-evolution into a new course resulting in the molecular modification of an organism that wasn't base on carbon anymore, but on silicon; with a photosynthetic metabolism that —lacking of an atmosphere whose oxygen atoms had burnt long time ago, or had escaped toward the outer space because of the weakness of the gravity force— processed the gamma and X radiations like a substitute for oxygen.<br />
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The Sun, in the rapture of a dark inspiration, burnt all its hydrogen in the bonfire of a nuclear fission looking for the healthier color of a red giant. More than 450 millions of years had passed since its first blush; an adolescent shyness that devoured Mercury and Venus in the course of its expansion. It hadn't swallowed the earth yet, but its effects incinerated all the atmospheres; switched off the magnetic field and weakened the gravity force. In fact, the colossal weight of the red giant had displaced the effect that the earth's weight exerted on the space-time curvature. Reducing in that way the earth's gravitational pull.<br />
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At last came the time in which the Homos Plus Ultra knew the days of the life of the earth's effect on the space-time or —to not forget Newton in such ill-fated hour— the gravity force, were numbered. But the Plus Ultras were ready. When they felt the agonic farewell of the gravity force, just closed their eyes and let their bodies float up into the outer space. In that day, the earth saw how her children raised up toward the sidereal blackness: just like spermatozoids searching for the ripped ovules of planets rotating into the ovaries of others solar systems. <br />
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Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-32268277992221400702012-11-17T08:32:00.000-08:002012-11-17T08:34:39.233-08:00 Short Story: The Last Labour of Hercules<br />
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By the time Hercules reached the other shore of the river, the water that coated his body had been literally evaporated. Without casting a look at Deianira, he extracted the arrow from the dying body of the centaur Nessus. Nessus, could have put in motion the first scheme of revenge, but at the last moment changed his mind. His blood was too pure to bath the body of a simple, anthropomorphic being. His last words fallowed very close the blood pouring through his mouth:</div>
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—<i>Hercules</i> —he said— <i>I know very well that the Oracle of Delphic ordered you to complete another labor, the number thirteen, to expiate the killing of your own children and the pain in which that action threw Megara. King Eurystheus couldn't have given you a harder task; for not even the Olympians gods can fathom the riddle of this new creature which, from the darkness of the forest, deliver death throughout Greece under the dim and ghostly look of Hecate. A creature that's not a fix hybrid like the sirens or my own species, the centaurs —but keeps itself flouting between human and animal form; a creature that really belongs to a coming time, to a coming mythology... Darker than ours. Here this mirror. The next time Hecate cast her round look upon the earth, behold it under her pale light... for on its shining crystal you'll see reflected the real identity of the mysterious creature</i>.</div>
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Since the moon goddess reached the zenith cladded in a perfect roundness, Hercules unfolded the mirror to her light. He wanted to complete this damn labour, to which he have so far devoted more time and energy than any other. Neither the Nemean Lion nor the Lernaean Hydra, were to him difficult endeavor. But this damn creature...<br />
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Hercules turned pale when he saw what the mirror reflected. While each atoms of his body were an anarchy of electrons, protons and neutrons, he saw how it was changing into a hideous werewolf. Of course, he already have felt this sensation before, but only the magic of this mirror could revealed the cause. A furious howl and a well-aimed blow with his paw, silenced the shriek Deianira was near to utter. As the legend goes, that night, after the slaughter, a weird creature, which seemed a mix of man and wolf, lighted a funeral pyre and threw itself alive into it; and lie there till his physical body burned to ashes. That way, Hercules completed successfully his thirteenth labour.</div>
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Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-25625939373889651572012-05-25T06:20:00.000-07:002012-09-11T07:40:54.491-07:00Bottomless Tombs: Forsaken Shadows in Invisible Hells<div style="text-align: justify;">
We walk over the footsteps of the fears that have casted us. There're monsters, but we can't see them; we're suffering punishments, but we're not aware of them. We only distinguish a great desolation we long for touch it, but it's not really there. Our movements are fluent, like the aurora borealis' flashes in a pool of blood that stretch itself with tiny grains of salt flouting within it —crystalized tears drooping from the eyes squeezed by the comets which motion is cause by millions of third dimensional beings. They walk over the asphalt melted by their own thoughts. They're forsaking us! They're getting away toward the ghostly castles with thick walls made out of sepulchral madness; far away... in the dark forest of bleak foliage. </div>
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We move on blindfolded through begging symbols. There isn't any joy, except when the slimy light of the moon fall over us —it weaken us, just like the mud under the hungry jaws of the hyena. She sees things. There're goblins making fun out of her; showing her mirages that sneak away among the burning bushes of juicy rays of sun; while serving a feast in her empty stomach. Now the goblins are sleeping —dreaming with the slippery reality of all the dreams they create. Are we in the goblins' dreams? It's possible that our invisible torments spring out of a goblin's subconscious; there, where is all the reality that escaped while we were dreaming? </div>
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They've forsaken us. I've got the feeling we're in the same place of those memoirs that behold the past through a narcotic windows, while the memory itself it's absorb by its own reflection in the time's mirror. We know nothing about the things existing here, though we know that there're tombs —we feel them through the shivers that hunt us from time to time. Strange visions of moon-light over the ice; colorful shadows with black eyes; the heartbeats of a pregnant serpent reining over us. Moments in which we persist to be in chains —because at least they make us to hallucinate. Outside those moments, everything is a midnight in a wolf's mouth: a night that reach the dawn through the dark secrets of the light. Here, the best way to be alive is dying inside the tomb of those instances of necrophile vitality. They relief our present, reading the invisible images of our imagination.</div>
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Some shadows have gotten mad; they couldn't bear the faceless horrors. We can feel them fleeing from a fire that burn with bones and flesh, while telling weird stories about other lives just like us, but living in other dimensions. They feel themselves being dragging by emotional forces stronger than them. They're the weakest shadows. Indeed, there's other group that hold itself very fast to our silhouettes of intuitive outlines, but they're get overrun by the locomotive of the nothingness. Corpses without worms that devour their nonexistent putrid flesh.</div>
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More ashes over the rails that start from us toward the postures adopted by the physical bodies to avoid cast shadows. The coming of those postures is our paradise. The orthodox sages don't believe it, but those postures make us invisible within the invisibility of the hell in which we live. The most fanatic among us only laugh at it —they wonder why the terror, for the invisibility is the real paradise: our invisibility within the invisibility of the hell, mean the revelation of those images seeing by our twin lives. That idea is the new religion. The liturgy is celebrated on locomotives traveling at the speed of light, while getting through millions of opposite mirrors at the same time.</div>
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A minority of shadows, insane and rebellious, keep themselves quite still. To them, the images seeing by our physical opposites it's the hell fleeing from itself —because torments get heavier by the gravity's force: "Foolish! —they cry out— the suffering of the shadows it's lighter than that of the flesh, beside, there isn't a soul waiting its turn to be doom or save". For them, the invisible hell is the gods' one. To see nothing, mean to have seen everything. The only thing left for us to do, is to ignore the vibrations that sneak down from those twin lives.</div>
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The hell it's getting empty. The shroud of shadows it's unweaving atoms. Some shadows are very happy, playing at the feet of their twins of bones and flesh. As for me, I'm just beholding the only visible image in our hell —a locomotive getting through millions of opposite mirrors at the same time.</div>
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•<em><strong>Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs".</strong></em></div>
Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-73438824151114043532012-05-21T06:14:00.000-07:002012-09-11T08:07:51.658-07:00Bottomless Tombs: Silhouettes in the Emptiness<div style="text-align: justify;">
Again this chilly path, what sinister forces have driven me to it? I cast into my thoughts a frozen glance. Hidden behind their shadows are the night's spirits, taking care that these endlessly footsteps tread the spaces from where hang the underground suns. On and on I'm walking, without the hope to get tire or uneasy, for my footsteps don't have a goal. Don't look to the sides! The gloomy weaving of trees that just a moment ago shrouded the forest... it's no there anymore. No! It's the emptiness what stare at me from out there. Its domains start from each one of my flanks. The piece of land occupied by my body right now, it's its only frontier. </div>
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No, don't look! I know that it's more than the echo of my voice —it's that of my body too, and alas¡ It stand for my fears. I want to turn around, but I can't. I must to defeat this curiosity, very much to the heart of those who are dying, and long before the dead, want to know what kind of deity forged their coffin. I feel the rage of the loneliness inside me, because there are intruders, they're quiet —showing their silhouettes in the emptiness.<br />
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Of course, that lair: shelter for those patient daemons waiting for my coming, to symbolize all the monsters with which I've played drowning a whistle in the darkest nights. It always have been the refuge for the mystery that escape through my nightmares' windows —the sole substance that fill the nothingness of my soul. My eyes, that never pay any heed to my fear, dive themselves like a falling angel into the depth of the emptiness, taking along with them the remainder of my being.</div>
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The silhouettes thrive everywhere; some of them alone and others in groups. Some from ancient lives; others beginning with this one. Silhouettes of frustrated love affairs, stumbling upon forms belonging to old and forgotten mythologies. There, what I caught in a flash glance from an hallucinatory rapture, take a ride with the characters of fairy tales. Silhouettes of apocalyptic images, beholding themselves at the double mirror of a Taoist coin.</div>
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They get stronger with my sensations and fears. I need to increase the speed of my pace —I need to run. But it's impossible. They belong to me long before my drunk soul crash into the density of these dimensions. Through all my journey, I've picked up many of them, and others have been channelized in my delirium: exhumed from the common graves of fallen civilizations —wandering through all the universe's deserts. It's a circular travel around the cosmos, only to come back to them, times after times, no matter where may be the point for our meeting. Great¡ The purple stars got their silhouettes and their emptiness too. They wait for new beings; for a new nothingness. To behold them, is to recall those that I've already forgotten, but still live within me. No, there must be silhouettes of more interesting monsters; or maybe of corpses that remind me a very old criminal impulse. There's plenty of time and the path is long. Moreover, this forest exist in the imagination of a nymph imprisoned in an awake state before a real sun. </div>
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Yes! I'll enjoy myself watching the silhouettes of my emptiness. To see the sketches that the rational fears draw in my daily dead. Better stop the motion. It's more stimulating to see them walking around me; thus, I'll get more and more daze, while they round me at the speed of light. That way, when I forget myself the deepest part of my emptiness will be unfolded to me —where all the silhouettes will be unknown. I don't care. Once I get out of this forest, always will be nightmares showing themselves on the children's eyes —in the shiver of a mystic sentiment or, in the testament of beings I don't know who they are. Beings that just in this moment are getting down into their sepulchers. Meanwhile, the only thing that matter, is to behold, times after times, my silhouettes in my great emptiness!</div>
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•<em><strong>Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs".</strong></em></div>
Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-54988849037018007332012-03-21T06:32:00.003-07:002012-09-11T08:08:37.170-07:00Bottomless Tombs: Spirits with Physical Amnesia<div style="text-align: justify;">
Spirits! Why you like to take refuge within the sugary fetus thrown to the Leviathan from this fabulous black ink sea's shores? Don't get in the domains of those cemeteries. There, the spectres keep a jealous guard over the corpses in which in former ages the fire made to them the offering of passions. Beside, the black out that fell over their memories, needs bodies that times after times vomit the dust from which they are made. They are in a dire situation. The spaces revealed by the sun in the daydreams of the legendary forest—aren't cradle for newborns.</div>
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It's useless a tender hope for your three-dimensional's dreams, moreover, isn't blood that runs through those images piled in the mirror's subconscious. What do you feel now that you are next to my coffin while at the same time the emotions given off by the sorrowful wolf's howls, tear you apart? Perhaps you want to take a nap on its melody; with the hope that, once awake, got your physical bodies back. Which ones they might be? What they do? Are they sleepwalkers wandering through streets on which their footsteps get mix with the dogs'? Streets that don't take the trouble to make them stumble. Maybe, they've built up a quicksilver bridge as a way to cross where they could be seen. Surely, those bodies are happy without spirits that make them uneasy.</div>
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Spirits! You like to plunge in the asphalt's vapors. But it's useless, because your existences don't take part in any breath of life. The flesh is too busy leading its herd of worms toward the stockade. Spirits! What came over your lives that suddenly made the Limbo the best option. Of course, in there the air is purer. No wonder you fell asleep when arrived to its realm. You enjoyed the oblivion's shelter, but couldn't endure so much harmony and started to miss the hell of your bodies. But they don't remember you, and they won't. They've forgotten you because they too, are in their own limbo... They're the madmen's bodies!</div>
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Why don't you try with the cypress' seeds? So you'll have all the time you want without really need it; just like the graves under its shadows. What about the birds of prey or the cactus from deserts made out of stony tears? Try to feel the pleasure of a whole sea of poison while swimming within a snake's body. Make the pilgrimage through the cannibals' intestines. Fly with bat's wings till the peaks of the male goats' horns. Wait at the end of all religious war through the mankind history. Become the straw in the eye drawn by a blind man. Interrupt the conversations of the heroes' statues. Don't cool too much the air in the room of the dying, you won't do nothing there; only become the victims of even cooler prayers. In any case, you won't convince the new consecrated corpses. </div>
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Get exile in the solitary parks, there you'll be heated by the vagabonds' blasphemies. Become a huge wave and flood the bodies of those who escaped from prison hidden behind the moon eclipse; or maybe you want to dwell in the branches that never have been trimmed by the hurricane; engage yourselves in a ceaseless search in the places that give off solitude. Scan every corner of the nature, and don't forget the secrets that she doesn't dare to reveal even in the tiniest flower... Never give up!</div>
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You know very well that the physical lives worn out quickly compare with your sighs. Oh yes! Get lost in an infinite quest. But please, don't take refuge within my sugary fetus; for the Leviathan's hunger disappear when behind the woolly light of its favorite tidbit, are hidden dark spirits exhausted by the quest of their physical bodies; bodies that already have started the path of decay, still alive; wandering through the map of a new nightmare.<br />
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<em><strong>Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs".</strong></em></div>
Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-47604404084909339112012-03-02T05:35:00.001-08:002012-09-11T08:09:18.287-07:00Bottomless Tombs: Dark Refletions on the Ivory's Pupils<div style="text-align: justify;">
Useless have been my efforts to find my image's reflections; they're buried in these ancient pupils that in former times cast their grim looks upon me, hiding the light from the souls that, with heavy hearts, gave up their stars.</div>
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Everything in this park is made out of ivory, everything is lifeless. From the trees only the sap is flowing through the flowers' cracked petals —like a sneeze of dark sparks— searching for the spring that once more, brought it alive. But it's a pity that the spring itself is carved in ivory, like every being in this park.</div>
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They're on the benches, at the foot of the trees —static along the endless paths. In the gardens and beside the fountains there are men and women indifferent to each other, just like the columns of an ancient temple devoted to gods forgotten by their own minds. Only their pupils show to be alive, but only darkness is reflected from them.</div>
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Above us, the full moon exhales its silver breath wrapped in the nothingness' whispers —it flows like a bubble among the rigid foliage of the trees and blows out, pinched by my fearful thoughts, scatting its light over the landscape. All this have been carved by the fates that tried to tame my silence by means of these beings. They're the same that in other times use to offer along with me their hopes to the deamons captivated in the crowd.</div>
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My body's reflections ran away —lured by their looks— till the very bottom of their enchained souls. The old scenes I starred before their pupils, are captivated in the same instant —but now the darkness blinds them, and so, they're unable to find the way back to my memories. My mind feels a chill whenever try to take back those moments where only the ghosts dwell, slipping ad infinitum over the edge the knife thirsty of innocent blood. I myself am a ghost, drowned in the frozen meditations of the shadows.</div>
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The children around the fountains keep on playing in their imaginations —beyond their stony movements forged by the ivory's indolence. Only their pupils shine... but that light blinds. The bats' fly got suspended just in the moment in which their formation shaped the last profile of my image. An ivory's feather got into me through the tunnels built up by the pain. The light is never found at the end of each one of them. Only ivory's pupils, reflecting the darkness that shelter me. </div>
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My body stands still right now, while my soul flees toward the inner shadows carving the ivory that coats me. There're imprisoned images inside me —their colors are the fire that protect me from the ivory's coolness. I'm—just as the others beings in this park— an ivory's sculpture. Living in dark inner paradises, doomed to behold the real reflections of false lives. Our being has found itself in the darkness: she's quiet, perfect for thoughtful souls —tired by the excite movement of the light... End of the trip.</div>
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<em><strong> •Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs."</strong></em></div>
Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-11382159349605750602012-02-10T05:28:00.000-08:002012-09-11T08:10:06.951-07:00Short Story: The Weird Obsession of a Comic's Character<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm close to accomplish it! The only shelter for the ink is my own shadow. Is the only place whose existence depends on it. The rest of my being is burning with the energy that comes from the bones, the flesh, the muscles, the skin and all that build up a human being. With a bit of luck, the next vignette will be at night, and by then, surely I'll be at sight of my supreme goal—become a citizen of the third dimension... ¡A man! That would be the climax of my essence, which evolve from paper and ink till the sweet prize of a body that can sweat, catch a cold and have a headache—that can experience an orgasm... For everything started because of her.</div>
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That far afternoon, she expanded my universe by creating a destiny for my insipid soul made up of pencil's coal's prints; unfortunately, mixed from the very beginning with a strong feeling, a wretched union of inner radioactive impulses and Chinese's ink. They announced me with cursed echoes, the first gear acquired by me in my mad course toward a human existence: the obsession.</div>
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There are some gears in the affective and psychic mechanical of humans, that make me regret —till the point of try to get myself blurred— to have the desire of become one of them. The illusion, the enthusiasm are, for instance, some of those gears. I made a mistake. It's not true my near future success. I almost forget —forgetfulness is other of the gear that drive away my ancient envy for humans—, that a lot of things have changed since I knew her. Some freak-minded being, got the idea to take my comic story into the TV: a cartoons series. Children watching me, fighting with their parents; and the parents by their part calling me names; charging me with the accusation that their sons no longer want to study or ate, lost themselves, as they were, in the maze of my heroic deeds; children very influenced by me, cursing their parents and the school, while yelling at the same time: <i>"No mother, I don't want to study, I only want to see the knight Glowfix. He got superpowers that my teacher doesn't have, beside, he doesn't punish me; he protect the planet from the archenemies, The Vaporous Dragons, that feed themselves with maidens, jewels and children."</i></div>
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No, never I could imagine that I'd find myself at the center of such oxidized gears, belonging to the affective and psychic world of the human beings. How I yearn for the Golden Age!, far in the past, when the dawns were many issue of comics; in which my deeds were caress by her fingers; with gaps of ecstasy, in which she use to stop to give me a space in her imagination. She took the clay, and behold¡, I was made after the image of her fears for the magnanimous Vaporous Dragons from the dark side; her romantic fantasies with my superpowers of seduction; her dreams of adventures along the Warrior Jewels— the high brigade of the powers of the light... of her faints in my imaginary arms.</div>
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It was a gloomy afternoon, wrapped with a blind and apocalyptic grey. The people weren't expecting rain. In fact, they were imagining that behind the shroud of clouds, a gang of angels with scavengers' faces, were waiting for the proper time to fall over the humans and devour them like characters in a living dead's movie. For a moment, I try to convince myself that the general paranoia was cause by the fanaticism that my deeds woke in every inhabitant of the city. But I myself was filled with dismay. For I knew very well that the kind of thriller lurking behind the clouds, weren't angels playing demons, but my archenemies, The Vaporous Dragons, from the planet hell, Xidron.</div>
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She rushed to get the latest issue of my comic; surely with the hope that the present of her favorite superhero very close to her, would mean more protection. My colors got brighter by the joy, the peace and the safety that she casted on me. At last, I was out of that chilly kiosk— to me, the best version of the House of Usher, out of Poe's imagination; far away, floating among her fingers and totally doped by her perfume. In deed, the sensation was much more fantastic, the estate much more divine, than in those occasions in which, after regain one of the diamond that contain The Time of the Colors —safeguard of the perpetual darkness—, I show myself up in the magic realm of the princess Cristerval, to give it in offering to her, together with the heart of the dragon that had swallowed it, and a cup filled with its blood—for to drink of the blood of the dragons enhance more the symbolism of the triumph, moreover, it was the best narcotic of the entire universe to wake up the prophetic faculties. The Revelation of the Time, was the name of the hellish beverage. Under its effect, the good get the ecstasy through the ancient frenzy of the evil and its victories. That's the reason why the parents don't want their sons rooted before a TV raving because of my deeds. </div>
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The technology and its damned progress became a great handicap to me. There was a time in which I had faith in it. My creator used it to perfect my movements, to draw the characters and for the high definition of sounds and colors. But that was a light blow of fresh air in the cartoons' hell, far away from the Golden Age, in which I reign like a comic's character. Ah... the digital television and its damned remote control!—that's been my greatest disgrace, the huge obstacle and setback, in my evolutionary march toward a being made of bones and flesh, or better yet, toward the possession of her body— and be able to touch it as she did it with all the pages of my comic. There are too many stimulations, too many channels in the cable TV that weaken the once strong spiritual relation that we shared. Now, the time-space she devote to me every afternoon before the television's screen, is dispute by dozen of programs; she can go jumping from one to the other thanks to the spring of the remote control. A real mania that rust even more that affective and psychic gear of man call need for information.</div>
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She looks beautiful when sit down with her night gown on, and get in tune the sounds and colors of the television while de music prelude my day's deeds... but I don't bother myself threading illusions. In many occasions, even in full battle with a mighty dragon, I distract myself in order to watch her eating her cookies with marmalade; drinking a sip of chocolate; raise her legs and cross them, while the soft gown's silk glides backwards over the slopes of her thighs, till it reach her hip, and... just a flash of darkness, projected by the change of channel. When it fade, the only thing I can perceive inside me, is the motion of affective and psychic gears such of sadness, loneliness and holy shit!... jealousy. Jealousy, because I know that somebody else is taking her heart from me, her admiration, her imagination. And I know his identity: an insipid movie star. Seemingly my fall never come to an end. On the other hand, the only human faculties within me, are those affective and psychic gears whose only function is to turn the homos sapiens into a shapeless, channeling mass of negative and hypnotic emotions—"homos perturbationis perturbationis!". I'm ashamed of myself. Because after all, I'm a superhero. The knight Glowfix! The supreme comic's hero of the future cosmic crusades, the chosen one!... overwhelmed by jealousy.</div>
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Since that gloomy afternoon, my life struggled at the bottom of bidimensional abysses, and isn't a reference to my flat, drawn body. Inside me, the pencil's lines that use to draw who, till that moment was my god, fight each other for her body's curves, which I don't waste my time trying to find out. My nose drew a straight line to cut off my visual field and my attention between my superhero's duties, and it meant the normal development of the series, and my new destiny like an imaginary lover of a human fan. My own creator realized that there was something wicked in the way. From that very moment, creative difficulties sprung up; the poor guy was getting mad trying to give fluidity to my outlines and write the plots. That problem only happened with me. The other characters adapted themselves to the new story's nature. I was the only one who, from that moment on, became a social problem, putting behind bars the imaginative channels. And it was obvious, for I was the one obsessed.</div>
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Truth be told, the whole situation didn't matter to me. My god could punish me, erase me, scribble me, rip off the paper in which moments before he shaped me, turn me into a freak alien out of pulp magazine's cover, anything his free lance demon advice him. Because, when she showed up each week, walking out like a goddess from the mahogany's trees of the park, in the opposite side of the street; when she made a stop in the sidewalk's verge to wait till the street gets clean of vehicles; when her steps blessed the street's pavement that separated us; while the wind, drunk by the the spring season, crashed happily among her dress' folds... all my hardships got evaporate like the ink in the molted rage of my creator. She drew nearer to the kiosk, inlaid between two huge building, like a human's tooth among the elephant's... smile, make a payment and...</div>
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Sometimes, the rapture was so intense, that de plastic wrapper around the issue got tarnished by my cold, abstract sweat. Our union was sublime. At times, it was in her favorite bench in the farthest corner of the park, half hidden by the white lilies that climbed up like goats the narrow reed's arch over it. Others, it was in her room, next to the window. I liked it, only night and silence. The first contact always fed the tension—a tension too much real in my world as to makes me lose my missions. In those moments, was very hard to me to ride my Steed Ship; to lost myself into the vast blackness that stretched out through the hells of Xidron, chasing my archenemies, The Vaporous Dragons; defeating them, rescue maidens and jewels of sacred powers, and all that, while her fingers turn gently the pages of my comic. The rescued maidens complaint about my indifference, and they were right. Really I didn't pay them any heed. The Princess Cristerval was thrown into the same basement. Before the apparition of the human, she stood for the beginning and the end of my attention. But ultimately, I only gave her the usual bows. Nobody could understand, neither my creator nor the others characters of the story, what the hell was going on. It seemed as if an invisible power clouded his will to create; he lost all control over me, once the comic got to the shelves. But, I knew very well that invisible power—the Obsession. Visible only to me, its victim and its greatest admirer. It was the period that saw the birth of my pathology, my frustration for being a comic's character, and my craving for become a human being.</div>
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There she comes! It is now long since she turned on the television set, but so far, hasn't pay any attention to my deeds—deeds? At this stage I should say torments. It seems to me that she's taking much time to prepare her snack. As days go by, the need for her presence grew to the sized of Xidron's multihell. So too, the need for her illusions, her emotions, her grief, her cult and her reflections. Those manifestations of her being, born from the impressions that my adventures carved on her, are the chemical and ethereal elements that, through an astral channel, march like zombies to fulfill the complex alchemic duty in the constructions of what I want to be. The pose she adopt while seated is the usual one. Her legs and breast, as exquisite as the last time I saw them, get melted in a mix of sleepless nights, coffee, cigarettes and the pressure of my creator to keep me in good shape—in order to avoid my plunge in the common grave of the forgotten heroes. </div>
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What wonderful! She's absorbed. I'm obliged to do a masterful performance to amaze her. I need her stick to my destiny like a traumatic event to the memory. Maybe, I should to send her a sign that builds up a more intimate link. Oh no... she took the remote control! Must be the damned movie star that... No, it's not... but... Who's that man?</div>
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Long ago, in the Golden Age in which our destinies met, thanks to the fame of my knight's virtues, courage and genius, I didn't stop to watch the many disorders that my newborn obsession was causing to the noble feelings dwelling behind the blank spaces bounded by the ink. She came to me in the highest point of my career. Just in time to get involve with the cycle entitled: <i>"Rosy Flashes at the Bottom of the Black Hearts"</i>. That cycle of adventures made my universe another point in favor of the theory of inflation, for it became a new bubble in the block of the multiverse. And it wasn't only because of my obvious appeal, but for the rest of the character too. Especially the evil ones. Nobody who praises himself of being my fan; who at least once in his life have mistaken my mind with his; who got every single issue of my comic... can forget that cycle.</div>
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Its great impact was due, above all, to the apparition of a new character. The revered archdemon, the chosen one by the dark side of the soul: Azdöömik. He was a powerful entity conceived by my creator after spend a season hearing the call of Cthulhu. He finished it in the asylum's room in which was secluded. She fell in love with this entity, but, who could blame her? He was a silver-grey spectrum, whose figure resembled a human skeleton made with iron's rags, wrapped with a black robe. Even the reckless Vaporous Dragons, felt their stellar fire got freeze before the coolness of his eyes, sunk in a swamp of deep, bluish phosphorescence—indeed, he was a treasure of the darkness. It was an honor to be scared by him. She read voraciously, and even better, started to read naked on her bed. From that moment on, I got poisoned with other of the affective and psychic gears of the human being—Desperation. Simply I couldn't wait till the end of the reading to burn in the fire between her legs; while she looked with dreaming eyes the stars. "In which of them you live?"... Once, I heard her muttered. Another gear was born—Love. It must be a supervitamin this gear, for the frantic march of my obsession reached divine levels after a series of overdose. </div>
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She leaves. Again without wait the conclusion of today's episode. It's sure that after the next commercial break, I won't find her before the television's screen, looking forward to the happy ending. Foolish! Why get excited with other boring happy ending when she got the beginning and the end of happiness embodied in the guy who took her out of me? Not even the movie star could stand that assail. She's on the way to meet him—she loves him. Seemingly, will be the fire of his flesh and not the "maybe could be flesh" of my imagination, that makes her body born with pleasure, orgasms beforehand and low pace sighs. I don't even know the number of the affective and psychic gears that have been added to my being—doubts, rage, the vice of masturbation, murderous instincts, suicide tendencies, delusions of grandeur... Oh please stop it! In the darkest and barren corners of my desperation, I've schemed to forge a fleshy body to my archenemies, the Vaporous Dragons. Yes!... a covenant. They are greedy, and there are many jewels in the world. Yes!... and Azdöömik too. They only have to help me to get rid of that blonde superficiality. He's beautiful, and to admit it, embitter my ink. </div>
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I can give my legions a three dimensional existence. Mankind got a gear that, just in the same way of the imagination, reign over all its affective and psychic levels—The Soul. I've already got that everlasting breath of energy; thanks to the way in which she use to stare at my vignettes in the good times; to the atoms cast by her excited breath, panting by the emotion; to her heart's beating, that hammered the pages whenever her hands held them against her breast. Yes, I've made up my mind. I don't care a bit the aftermath, only her. The planet may be devoured by the dragons, after all... it's a great jewel.</div>
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Azdöömik gesticulate hellish thoughts. He holds in his right hand one of the three sacred rosy diamonds. His robe stretch backwards behind him, giving the impression —due to the pencil strokes around him —, that he suddenly halted a dizzy speed. His eyes cast over the vignette their phosphorescence mist, of a deep, mindblowing blue, herald of his evil will. It's a sinister sight against the dark vacuum of the space. I'm standing before him, with my body bent and my legs joined. It's a retreat's movement, for I was taken by surprise. My armor, made of silver's rings, it's glittering. I hold in both hands the sacred sword, forged with the coagulated blood of the ancient semi-divine heroes. Its handle was made with a carved tooth of Mozgrat, the forefather of the dragons. It's the final battle; the last of the three rosy diamonds to regain; the end of the cycle... and she cast an eternal look over the vignette, long ago, in the Golden Age.</div>
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But, why keep myself mining the better moments of my memories? No, the Golden Age became blurred, rusted by the time's witchcraft. Now, it is the heaviness of an iron's age that lying down, like an acid sprinkle, on my memories. It's useless trying to awaken in her being another Golden Age; in which I can be able to finish my evolutionary task. I'm going to evolve by my own means, till reach the human level, making use of the last two affective and psychic gears I've obtained—Hatred and Imagination. She'll be mine or won't be at all! To be, or not to be? My creator was fond of that phrase... yes, that's the question.</div>
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A week has past since the last I saw of her. The eternity got a miserable side, when the path traced by the time, must be travel over by a desire that doesn't begin nor end in ourselves, but in an indifferent heart—beyond the frontier of our inner's universe. I don't give a shit the numberless of people, including children, who are vibrating before the television's screen with my new adventures, enhanced with cutting edge digital techniques. What really matter to me, is to see her TV turned on. Behind the apparent war with my eternal enemies, the Vaporous Dragons; of the never ending persecutions through the ice's caverns of Xidron... the secret covenant, the scheme and the promises, are agreed. </div>
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The mood I perceived it's very far from being a vast savanna full of violet flowers, joined in the horizon with the orange steps of a sleepwalker twilight. She looks pale and slovenly. The nervous, brief smiles that she sketches from time to time, are sickening. The television was turned on, I know it. I know too, that before get into the shelter within me, she was seeing some absurd movie stared by the blonde superficiality. A tear rolls down, a disappointment gets reflected on her; a fist that stopped just at the threshold of her cheek, and on top of all, a... get lost! I meditate. Affective and psychic gears of the human machine, still unknown to me? Why she comes back to me? What may I stand for her, that can't be found in the movie or in the wicked one who threw her into this state of sadness and desperation? It's this what's in the store for me too? To end up in such a fucking way I struggling to become a human and give up the fantastic realm of pure magic, evil and innocence in which I reign?</div>
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Innocence!... that's the word. I belong to a season in her life, in which she uses to dream for the pleasure of it, waiting nothing of it. Long ago, under the reed's arch wrapped with white lilies. A sky full of stars at the bottom of a cup of chocolate, and the stars themselves, drunk by the smell of fresh printed paper. The silent night, she and me; the princess Cristerval and the Vaporous Dragons; Azdöömik!; the Warrior Jewels of the powers of the light; The Xidron's multihell. Again, the famous knight of the cosmic crusades. We'll be able to come back to that time, to the fairy tale of your life? Let's fight that battle together. I need it too, because I'm too much corrupted with many human's affective and psychic gears and vices that haven't nothing to do with our first love, long ago, in the Golden Age. Yes, without television, its superficial nature and damnable commercial breaks. Yes, tie your hair into a knot, that's it... wipe a littler more your tears. Where you go? Of course, to check the collection of my comics. Don't bother yourself making a choice, you can pick up anyone. Because in each one of them, shines the light of our everlasting spring. Someday, I'll got the chance to apologize myself for the grim scheme I conceived. The dragons are amazed too. Every one in this dimension is watching you through a portal that others use to call television. Ok, you've already chosen one and hold it very tight in your hand. Yes, now you can turn off the fucking TV—for the farthest corner of any park is waiting for us.</div>
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<i><b>The End</b></i></div>
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Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-3989756905360514002012-01-25T06:31:00.000-08:002012-09-11T08:12:29.718-07:00Bottomless Tombs: The Visions of the Cyclops<div style="text-align: justify;">
Again, I'm walking somnambulist through the dream; again I've slid through the gateway of the ancient myths. Walk along with the blinded memories of time, without understand neither the absence of fatigue nor the infinite path through which I've walked in this wilderness imagined by another being. </div>
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At last, in a moment came out from the eternity's childhood, what I believed was a mirage, redeemer and stimulant, amid all this nothingness, turned out to be an apparition that populated with horrible figures the reigning desolation.</div>
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It's a gigantic pendulum, its sphere got inlaid the eye of a Cyclops. I've interrupted its distant dream; its eyelids, closed by thousand of years, lift themselves up slowly, and set my being on fire with their ardent and prophetic glare. In the very moment in which the huge eye gets rid of the iron veil that blinded its terrible gaze, the pendulum starts its hypnotic oscillation. The fire-like gleams, casting down by its iron armor, threaten with the evocation of gloomy ages within the halls of my rapture.</div>
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The colossal Cyclops, became stony by a fright that ambushed him in this twilight valley; he stayed erect for all the eternity, as if it were a monstrous phallic symbol. The horrible iron's paws, crushing each one of his muscles, offered him the last sensations. His face shows the cruel liberty that a bristly soul carves in our facial expression to embody the terror. From the empty socket of his single eye, springs the iron bar of which end hangs the enormous sphere. It comes down like a gloomy thunderbolt from the quiet swamps inside clouds wrapped by slime —stuck like ticks on a bloody sky. My eyes, struck by the dizziness, brake through the mist, and shaking, follow the vertical bar in its flashing descend till the silver scorch of the land, on which I'm stand still. I'm paralyzed with fear. I can see my huge reflection on the enormous pupil of the Cyclops' eye. It got bewitched my space and my time; and stops the large migration I imagined undertook my soul when departed from my body.</div>
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The eye keeps on moving from the farthest point of the infinity to the one closer to me. It sinks me in dreamy regions and in the chaotic dimension of an embryonic estate, from which rush down the visions of the Cyclops. What a strange doom to stare into his fabulous landscapes pregnant with myths! Millions of gods and heroes frozen in the bottomless abysses of his iris —with their legends drowned in the coagulated blood of numberless sacrifices... beyond of any space-time continuum. At the bottom of the Hades I can see a serpent exciting my soul with dark fantasies; they were before the Alpha and will be beyond the Omega. The pendulum comes again, along with the dark purple of the dawn of a new oscillation. I don't want to stay in this sluggish contemplation; I want to be an active part of an ancient myth! </div>
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In the sacred moment in which the huge eye gets suspended before me... I'll plunge in the deep pool of its enslaved time. Here it comes!... What a wonderful Olympus is the blackness of its pupil.</div>
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<i><b>Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs"</b></i>.</div>
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Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-56053923652268782142011-12-09T06:18:00.000-08:002012-09-11T08:13:12.721-07:00Bottomless Tombs: The Guest's Tomb<div style="text-align: justify;">
There, in the hunger meadow where the bones become greenish once more after an intense fever, you'll find the Guest's tomb.</div>
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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.</div>
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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?</div>
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It is said by an ancient legend —that even now can be caught by the intuition in foreign crypts—, the place where you'll be, it's the feeble memory of a temple that in former ages was devoted to the rites of the first pagan cosmogony in this planet. That which was granted to us by the stellar sorcerers, like the symbol of a covenant that haven't breeds nothing yet. Because the mysteries hidden behind it, flee from our ignorance. The transcendence of the ancient myths keeps on feeding our dreams. Maybe you can make them come true after the awake that is drawing near to you.</div>
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The cold wind will betray your bones as your presence invade the desolate numbness that has conquered, with ivory like silence, the space of the ancient temple. It won't be hard to find the dust mausoleum that shapes the Guest's tomb. Its greyish atoms of crystal will be the only thing reflecting the invisible moonlight —in that darkly night in which your destiny will fall asleep. Then, it'll climb up the spiral rapture of an infinite adventure till the nameless tomb, where the ancestor of the secrets embodying our fathomless visions... never have rest in peace.</div>
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Ah, the witchcraft of the Guest! There was a time in which it slides down over the breath of outcast demons by others stellar uprisings; and over the echeloned tears of gods that were forced to give up. Coming down till the last step, the arts of the Guest, outcast themselves, sought the shelter —like sparks from a heretic fire— of the dark pit of our three dimensions.</div>
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Once in the earth, the Guest improved with his wisdom the prostrated consciences of the human beings. Above all, illuminated their souls with the darkness' treasures. The experiment worked. A new kind of beings raised up with a fresh will to crave for what is beyond of the universe's womb. His main merit was to teach the first humans the lesson that any peaceful paradise or horrible hell; any galaxy and parallel universe, breeds by their imagination or uncover by their scientific knowledge —are only fetus. Once you dwell in the awake state, it'll be necessary to be alert. Only the one who listen carefully —will be able to hear the cries. Will you unfold, once and for all, the shadows casted outside the womb? </div>
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The moment your heart stop to listen, you'll be in the verge of the Guest's tomb. How many have had the opportunity to behold a god's tomb? You'll find yourselves in the dwelling of a superior being. So, if you feel your blood flees in panic into your bones... don't wonder by it. In any case, you won't be there to deposit flowers on the greyish dust. Your mission will be to deliver the Guest's soul from the sepulchral captivity of its body's remains. His soul wants to create; invoke new cosmic forces; scan the possible vital energy hidden within the machines created by the human beings; and use its powers to connect such energy with the magic conscience of nature. The ultimate goal: reshape these three dimensions, developing the intuition and imagination in the machines, as once he did it with the mankind.</div>
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Why I can feel your doubts? It's true, every soul quivers, no matter its high level of evolution, when find itself to be the gear of an action bound to change the existence of the human beings, and with that, of all animals and plants. Such is the nature of the steps you're going to take. Because, that's what your mission is about... steps. The only thing you'll have to do is to place your steps in each of the Guest's footprints. Occupy with your body and soul the empty space of the prison of his soul. Once you'll be standing in the right place, position and direction in which the dead took the Guest's life, his soul will find the freedom in each one of your body's atoms; melting itself with each one of your soul's flash of light. Then, you'll see the route that ages ago the dead interrupted. That way, you'll be able to answer the questions of all his worshipers: Where was him coming from? Where he was about to get in? Who was him? Because, from that moment on, you'll be the incarnation of the Guest. You'll carry out all that, in the same way in which my visions have showed it to you in this, your first dream. A dream ignored by your mother, lost as she is... caressing her womb.</div>
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My visions, that blind with divine darkness, the destiny in store for you by the mechanistic future your mother is dreaming for you —drowned among the undistinguishing goals of the multitude. My visions, coming with angel's wings and demon's paws, through an invisible tunnel running parallel to the umbilical cord that feeds you. The one whispering to you, little fetus, it's me, the Guest's soul. I got the privilege to give you your first sleepless night.</div>
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•<em><strong>Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs."</strong></em></div>
Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-8485800679517090562011-11-02T06:59:00.000-07:002012-09-11T08:14:20.548-07:00Bottomless Tombs: Close Encounter in my Last Nightmare<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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I can see myself there; I'm the flabby ink of an abstract form slipping through the visions of my astral guests. A very advanced civilization of sand in a far off planet; beyond the point in which the light leaves to the darkness the counting of years. Weird rituals to worship the wind, the single and supreme god! Infinite dunes of silver sand running through the dark halls of their cities placed in flouting caverns. An harmony killed by the frantic exaltation of the stars, while sweating the fever just before to utter their final death-rattle. Now, the wind isn't a god to them, new beings of crystal. It's an intruder, a demon.</div>
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The light that awake blue in the new crystal structures, it's the new creed. All of a sudden, the coolness gets down from the gases of the galaxies that threw away their energy—the thermic death! Probably caused by wasting cosmic sperm in life forms that raise the flag of involution. Everything is like ice, empty. The energy intercourse only take place among the conqueror worms of the Dark Energy. The universe's end is waiting for us within a couple of eons. And from there, from the far future of a parallel universe, come the weird beings in search for energy. Avoiding the broken fragments of the time-space; the epileptic spasms of the black holes, with their foams of inert matter; and the stars' corpses that collapse from the gravitational nexus like the rotten limbs of a hanged man—getting lost into nothingness.</div>
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They come to me exhausted, with their transparent matter pale by the awe; melting by the eagerness of the prolonged persecution that the absolute zero keeps on in their paranoia. Yes!, how I'd like to be there, taking part in the cosmic odyssey to find a little of energy; in the battles for the possession of a black hole, in which we can exchange, as these visions show me, the garbage piled up in our collective unconscious for a bit of its ghostly light; of its gravitational energy, lacking of thermic sensibility. Why it's the universe fleeing from itself in this never-ending expansion? It's perhaps from its inner demons; from its loneliness that hasn't enough gravity to keep it nailed to its own thoughts? I got very few options for you, inhabitants of the future inorganic chaos. It's sorrowful that the cosmic death reached first your imagination—the archetype universe. The atoms disappear inside the hats of the necromancers that performance this act of black magic. You can get closer to me—the chosen one. The primitive energy from which sprang the Big Bang, it's awakening inside me... in my fantasies. Hurry up! Get into the shelter of my deadly closed fists, before the vigil's sounds split your crystal bodies with the next stage of this nightmare. </div>
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The bed sheets lie in disorder, because of the riots of the drunken ghosts. The nightmare, completely drained, hold itself fast to my memory to avoid get lost in the daily end of the oblivion. My wakefulness is frozen, as if it wouldn't like to be part of me and the visions that in this night, the deliriums of the last day masturbated over my prophetic ego. The light bulbs are getting melt by the stars' light, that from this very moment take refuge inside them. They are burning with the fire of all futuristic vision... I won't turn them off.<br />
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End</div>
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•<em><strong>Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs".</strong></em>Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-17673784123788244822011-09-29T06:59:00.000-07:002015-03-01T14:28:20.890-08:00HOMAGE: The Eden of H. P. Lovecraft<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
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Which's the destiny it's heading toward on the wings of the Night Gaunts?</div>
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They drown it, with strikes of shivers, in the universes buried under the archetype essence of <em>H. P. Lovecraft</em>.</div>
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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 <em>Azathoth</em>'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. </div>
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<em> Lovecraft</em>, my soul is kneeled before your paradise's gates; command <em>Yog-Sothoth</em> 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 <em>Eden </em>it wants to dwell. </div>
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From the shore of an ominous river that streams between the horizons of your mind, I behold the crown of all black dreams... it's <em>Kadath</em> —invisible to the exorcisms, sleeping peacefully on the most ancient visions. My soul wants to ascend till the highest tower of that fortress, forged with the handiwork of many parallel universes —it wants to do it with the ardent impulse of a lightning. But your <em>Eden</em> is the physical body of the magic and, unable to avoid it, it is drag at the foot of a cosmic shrine, beyond the plateau of <em>Leng</em>.</div>
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There, amid the pale sands of a desert frozen in an inner winter, <em>The Old Ones</em>, born in those stars that orbit around the gloomy manifestation of your memory, mask your paradise's face with the manuscripts from which will spring —like hellish sparks— the ghastly and frightful landscapes, heralds along with <em>Nyarlathotep</em>, of the nightmares of the chosen ones from the future aeons. </div>
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My soul nestle itself among the venomous <em>Fungi from Yuggoth</em>; they are the nourishment of <em>Shub-Niggurath's Thousand Young</em>. It doesn't want that any wind, comes out of the puerile waking state of the human beings, drive it away from the cyclopean ruins of these mythic darkness —no, it doesn't want it! For in your <em>Eden</em>, through all the aeons, it wants to dwell!</div>
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Your imagination is a spiral galaxy in the center of every supernatural tendency that carves iron visions in the longing of the dreamland's warriors —those that sink themselves in the darkest fantasies —who die under the noises issued by dead things —burn out by the cruel gaze of invisible realms —that put their necks under the sword of loathsome entities crawling beyond all space-time continuum. </div>
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In this weird garden, a scavenger dew devours the dreadful dreams that once fainted along with dizzy spectrums.</div>
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In this weird garden, the ambitions of the doomed and solitaries are the energy that feeds the wild deities reigning in the <em>Necronomicon</em>'s deep forest. </div>
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Here, in this <em>Eden</em> of reanimated creatures, my soul is the virgin in the ceremonial. It'll give in offering the essence of all its physical incarnations —that's its blood. It wishes its shroud be the same seal that got bounded the <em>Great Cthulhu</em> within the <em>City of R'lyeh</em>. It doesn't want to be exhume from this grave out of time; for in your visions, <em>Lovecraft</em>, it wants to become stellar powder. In your <em>Eden</em>, through all the aeons, it wants to dwell! </div>
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The end</div>
Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-46813751585235360852011-09-19T06:33:00.000-07:002012-09-11T08:16:02.486-07:00Baked by the Stellar Coldness<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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 <em>butterflyhole</em>.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-41952536061209683242011-09-12T06:57:00.000-07:002012-09-11T08:17:33.712-07:00Bottomless Tombs: The Promises of the Knife<div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.<br />
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My throne is a living heart, nailed on the thorns that crown the serpent. I'm the gift of a pagan god: worshiped by ancient people of beings that always were ghosts. The legend tells that the god was engage in battle with the principles that were about to enslave the nature of his worshipers. He won after a long battle, but a fragment from the baptismal font wounded him. Once it was extracted, was used to forge me. I was consecrated to the liberty that overthrow the desperation, the sorrow and the curse to the own being... To the will to scape toward the infinite. Great!, you keep a good pace, come closer, I assure you the gift of an horrible tenderness.</div>
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Your past is fermenting along with the excrement of starving rats. Rats whose last resource to survive was to stick on the reason. Very far, in your childhood, a paradise is crumbling over the nightmare that used to hide in your mother's womb. You dreamed in the hells of inquisitors minds your own dreams possessed by will to power. Angels cried out to your adolescence, but you, seized by the witch's profile, keep yourself on the track of the prophesies that spoke about rituals under the moon. In this dawn, you woke up grasping the decision... only to wait for the night. This night, in which you will make me flesh or your flesh. Ah, I sigh pain just to feel you so close! My promises are already transforming you into a gorgeous posthumous poem.</div>
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Now that you're before my shrine, after break through the thick wall of gnats; worn out by the burden of the laments that swarm in the whole wood; unweaving nerves that catch the spiders that build up the magic of my dwelling... I only request from you a little offering in exchange of my gifts: that your hand doesn't hesitate. My child, the last shelter of the light is place in my brightness. Take me, and you'll glare like the heavenly bodies without any orbit to draw.</div>
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<em><strong>Note: This prose poem belongs to the book: "Bottomless Tombs".</strong></em></div>
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Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-34125734115265450872011-09-05T06:38:00.000-07:002012-09-11T08:19:20.770-07:00Bottomless Tombs: Lugubrious ApostlesOnly 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Burning souls whose destiny is to enlighten our abyss. Physical manifestations of the splendors of the iron ages. Aware that the physical universe is a dream chewed by an infinite crunch of teeth, they rock the cradle of our being, times after times, in the secrets of perdition.<br />
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<em>Lugubrious Apostles</em>, let us to extinguish the thirsty lust of our imagination with the sweat of the ashes that hold the corpse of the faith... the faith of the crowd. That our <em>Ark of the Covenant</em> be a sepulcher, where return to the dust: the men; their gods and their domestic demons; their future; their fears; their sanity... the memory of their <em>Nothingness</em> and the oblivion of their <em>Absolute</em>!<br />
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A solemn sepulcher, that behold the horizon from where will arise those that will carry to the end the horrible gospel. Those, that just like us, ages after ages, will tinge the light with blood.<br />
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<em><strong>This prose poem belongs to the book: "Bottomless Tombs".</strong></em>Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3395910926964502458.post-62481928916401337692011-09-01T06:46:00.000-07:002012-09-11T08:20:26.713-07:00Manifesto: A Dark EvolutionEverything 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 <em>Dark Energy</em>. That's why the <strong><em>Dark Energy</em> <em>not only expand the universe, but the imagination too</em></strong>.<br />
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My literature is my personal exploration through the <em>Dark Energy</em> of my imagination that runs parallel to the cosmic <em>Dark Energy</em> that push forward the universe. Of course, always keeping in mind, that <em>the mystery is more important than the revelation</em>. 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 <em><strong>Evolutionary Darkness</strong></em>.<br />
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And the revelation in the light's showcase of that tiny part of it, only makes it more mysterious, more dark.Odilius Vlakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06860767178996563360noreply@blogger.com0