Saturday, April 30, 2016
To Know or to love
(Inspired by the Good Samaritan)
To know is not necessarily to love
better said: love is something more!
more than to know, love is called
that is the difference.
All other love is cold, closed, intellectual
We live by the law of love, and do not
draw near to our neighbors and if we do
we ask: ‘Who is and who is not
This is the law.
But love says whomever you meet is
our neighbor here you must have
#5190 / 4-27-2016
Note: also inspired by a lecture by Pope Francis, Vatican City, Apr 27, 2016/ CNA
War, all ‘Cow flop’
The war in Vietnam was everything that one didn’t understand—
Frankly, I didn’t at all.
They, the Vietnamese, the Vietcong, were a lot of noisy slant-eyed rats in a trap.
The trap that the U.S. and Europe’s industrial Cow flop made (which made millionaires, billionaires).
Although at the time I failed to notice it, that that was a fact.
Soldiering had had an impact on me for war and Vietnam: word for word I never hated the V.C., we
called them gooks, not sure what it meant, perhaps, ‘guerilla’ a word somebody invented to
dehumanize the enemy so we could kill them like rats, swat them life flies
and we did… (three million of them)
Although they did look a tinge pale with secretive eyes, eyes of a wolf—
I didn’t feel warmth or coldness for them, sorry to say, indifference.
Why did I go when I was deferred?
To understand war in spite of everything and to go away far-away!
But it was all cow flop, anyway!
#5189 / 4-27-2016
Sounds of a Morning
The wind is soft on me today the birds chipper
a rooster croaks far away
The train’s whistle is blown it is April in Lima Peru
car horns honk, Juan is hammering away putting in a new water pipe for my wife Rosa
human sounds in the background
a dog barks?
I think he’s Lion, Gabriela’s pup!
I can hear, wood being shifted all-about every-which-way—
Juan is still hammering away,
went to the bathroom five times this morning;
and it’s still morning.
I can even hear the wind!
it’s liberating (here on my patio rooftop) —
I think I’ll have a Big Mac for lunch
heard a car door shut
Juan is earning his money, busting a gut, two days on this water pipe…!
Sounds like a neighbor has a quail I’m surprised my
neighbors don’t have their radios loud as hell!
Down the block I hear police horns honking that’s about all.
#5183 / 4-26-2016
A World Without God
Take away God from man, or man from God—
Take God out of the public speeches, schools, colleges, courtrooms—
Something is absent! Missing. The equation can never be complete.
Because God is not allowed in any conversation.
What does it mean?
There can be no quality nor integrity to the exchange.
When you take out traditional ethics, bar them from usage in the public domain, something is absent, missing (God)!
When something is missing, it makes everything unequal.
Consciences have disappeared with God, for indifference.
Something has to unite everyone and everything, now man must find that new something…
And he has found it, “Power,” and for those who have no power, the lesser group found ‘Victimhood!’
And this is what precisely what is taking place today in our societies.
Note: In spired in part by Pope Benedict XVI’s writings.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
(For a Prince)
I heard he went to Purple Heaven Prince, where it rains purple all day
Where there are purple dinosaurs, enormous with leaping flanks
And tearing teeth plated armor nothing can stand in his way hero of Minnesota
monarch of Paisley Park!
Not even sabre-tooth tigers and all only high fanged
waiting for his bones
Indifferent to morals, hypertrophied saint! Of 1st Ave.
Jehovah Witness, grinning like a skull even President Obama made a call and his rain-drenched super crowed…
Five feet tall cremated with honors faster than a gross hopper can jump (recovered drug addict, alcoholic?)
The dead have been waiting for him gnashing their
He was their loyal captain. Crack his bones to hold him down! Lucifer will release him soon.
#5180 / 4-25-2016
Note: Prince, the Pop Star, from the 1980’s, died Thursday 21-April, 2016 (?), of last week, at the age of 57-years old, it is said, because of the flue, his post-mortem examination has yet to be released. The author used to hang around the 1st Avenue nightclub in the ‘80s, and all the bars thereabouts, writing his poetry, and having it published in the newspaper “Insight” a black newspaper, until they found out he was white and he went to one concert of Prince’s. If there is room in heaven for him, there is room for anybody. For whatever hero statues he holds, I can’t figure it out. We don’t pick out heroes as we used to in the old days that’s for sure.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
From The Hyperborean Mythos
Padlock to Hell’s Door
(‘The Seeds of Time’)
All that he learned, Pachacuti E, and saw and did was never told, or written down, but he did leave a journal of sorts for me, moreover, a brief written account, more like a letter, in his Peruvian native tongue –Quechua— … and now I understand why E did not write down everything. He viewed unfailingly, repulsion he had no words for; on the other hand, it became of a morbid interest in the ‘seeds of time.’ To my understanding much he reframed from witnessing, doing, consuming. And many of the times he wished he had a Rosary, although not Catholic, and I’m unsure even if he was a Christian or of any certain faith, he just mentioned it in passing, but as he also told me, ‘What is done is done,’ it sounds like a quote from Macbeth, and he wrote me, Dr. D.L. Siluk, ‘I fear, Ayre, by this, this day’s end you shall see me no more, nor shall I set sight, again of the sun? Long ago, I had found the padlock to hell’s door? To its eldritch passages. This is my newest state. When I am in this world, I am a rat without a tail! Habit and curiosity kills the cat but most of us end up doing and doing and as if owing, giving to the wind one’s senses, intuitions. The devils have given me a new name, Yima.’
My dear friend, E, a fascinator of the ultimate abyss, with persistent curiosity, entered the netherworld some seventeen-years ago, including the deeper part of Hell’s abode called Tartarus, into Hell’s cyclopean eldritch cyclopean ruins, and passages, and chambers, into its macabre parlors. He witnessed the phenomena of the devils, imps, unfamiliar spirits, undescriptive beings, their breathless and nameless subsidiary beasts, and monstrous fiends: their human metamorphoses forming’s from: devil to man, to creature, and back again (powerless to form any satisfactory picture of the visual features of his near daily life visits of these metamorphoses, he gave no more of a description): dematerializing and rematerializations, as they go forth and returned, to the outer-world, as they call the surface of earth. His very capacity I shall explain in time, call it astonishment, but not magic, bluntly I repeat, there is no magic to this (although he said—in passing--there was black magic being performed in the ultimate abyss, below Tartarus, in some ice frozen pocket or chasm of earth), candidly I repeat, there is no magic to this, it is just part of the supernatural worlds around us. And he is no superhero, yet he has such DNA, yes, DNA that cause disease, and mutations that to most who should have developed debilitating diseases, his DNA counters it, and more.
Before I go on about Mr. E’s last days, that being, the last day I heard from him, —I shall explain him to you a bit more clearly. He was outside the radius of most human beings. Although he was no ‘Superman’ he did come from what is called an Exoplanet, semi genetically; such planets had at one time atmospheres likened to earth, and their host sun bombarded them with torrent high energy radiation, burning up their atmosphere, mostly because of their orbit being too close to their star-sun. These super-Earths, are twice the size of earth, if not ten-time Earth’s size, and/or massiveness. And in due time because of the sun’s rays, shrink in size.
To my understanding from what he said, or I think he said, I’m a slight foggy on recall, he spoke rapidly and sketchy on his father’s background, but that he came from the Alpha Centauri System, or the nearest star system some 25-trillion miles away.
I told him it would take “…30,000-years to travel that distance in a spaceship to earth!”
And he replied, “How about 30-years, take or give a one or two… his spacecraft was pushed out of our planet’s orbit by a giant lazar, and once on his way, he traveled along by light rather than wind, reaching 20% the speed of light”
His father came from what we call a ‘super Earth’ and that of his mother being Earth born and a high plains Peruvian, they mated. And it would seem such a mutation as I talked about took place, in that it allowed E in time to make those novelty visits, to the utter horrors of Hell’s roots. And he told me, the devils took it as an invasion, if not intrusion, upon their domain, that is, as time progressed; by and large, he made more and more visits, longer and longer. Hence, he was the subject, of much talk, of his transmogrifications, his body adjustments, in those domains.
On one occasion he whispered to me in the left ear, at ‘Starbucks’ at the ‘Mall del Sur,’ in Lima, “So weird they look hand in hand, these hermaphrodites some Archkings of legions, Queen Litittis of Atlantis, with one, as they kissed in the great Sacred Grove, that sunk 13,000 B. C., under the Azores. Many walk aimlessly with grief-pierced hearts, weird phosphorescence, I’ve seen Atlantis’ ‘Gates of Day’ and what is left of the Archkingdom. I even visited some of the spirits that walk the sea, the imperial Crown Jewels of Atlantis, the Forsaken Palace, the Port of Poseidon, the prophet Mohammad, Kubla Khan, Roland’s hall, it is a land of darkness, beneath the Azores, and Tartarus. Why the devils do not stop me, interfere with my moseying about, bewilders me! So foul are the days I spend there, they themselves are so weird and wild in their attire. They far from look like the inhabitants of earth!”
I told him, “You seem to understand them and this land of darkness, quite well, so much so it has enchanted you?”
He hesitated, paused thereafter to say anything for a long moment, it was to him all fantastical. To me, very dangerous, in that now he greets his visits with grace and prediction, to the point he appears to be wrapped in them. If only he could have looked into the ‘…seeds of time,’ as Macbeth inferred, and said, ‘…which grain will grow, and which will speak then to me….’
As time progressed within those seventeen-years the longer I knew him, the more he became bored, restless, cruel, revolt like upon his returns. He became more comic for him as he spoke about his visits to me, a sadism, with a growing desire to escape into the non-physical world, a half-spectral state. And then it happened!
I shall not spend a large expenditure of time in telling this sad ending which was inevitable, and prowess confirms, the thrones of Tartarus, and their kinsmen, such as Agaliarept, Henchman to Lucifer, and general of five legions, and Arch Devil Belphegor and the demons known as the order of: Tagaririm, these demons and Belphegor’s leaders, with the mystical teachings, have long awaited for my dear friend, and knew the signs, assumed the signs, using the zodiac to: conform or be in conflict with whom they should devilize, then wait to the last minutes of his or her dying, they are even measured by one’s worth, and Mr. E was worth the wait. I would not have wished him to a fair-minded death as his, yet under such circumstances, what did he expect, more a statement than a question. What did he imagine? Who’s to say! Whatever the case, his worth was worth more sorrow, for he shall never come closer to more comfort than what he had had, had he not ventured to those forbidden limits, and he did not part well, although who’s to say. But let me finish my account, and his last words.
I repeat, and then it happened, he died, and all efforts to leave came to nothing, a halt, his curiosity killed the cat, figuratively speaking, that is to say, his repeated desires to return to the devil’s abode; that said, somehow he fancied leaving me these last notes, having delivered them to me by some earthly magnetic substance, and some of his last words were: “What is done is done” a phrase he came to using often. And about this time he knew he was guarded by creatures of the netherworld, forces he feared to oppose, I assume he was quite dead at the time, or nearly, and too fearful and too weak to return to the outer-world physically. Thus, he found his way in, and as such enjoyed a privilege, if you can call it that, that few people, if any have, to see what awaits men of evil. And his very last words I shall now quote, “What’s is done is done, I am drained of all flesh and self-defense. The devils have drained me dry as with bone with no marrow.”
Written: 11 & 12 of April, 2016
Friday, April 1, 2016
The Hyperborean Mythos
The Abomination of the Tor
The old man was of an inordinate age—
He left a mound-lore (of the Tor)
Perhaps mostly of fragile gossip, yet it was food for thought.
“It is the only hillock around Summerset, and considered quite old…
A manmade structure, once known as Avalon, which had a moat of water surrounding it…!”
My start was timid—
I carried a handbag, field glasses, a steel pistol, strong rope, incidentals for emergencies, and a trench-knife, along with a heavy battery-operated flashlight—
To those who knew me, I was set out for a certain doom.
At one time, the mound, or Tor—during the 10th Century A.D., was known for its expression of infinite evil.
Although I could not concur with this.
At present there was a slight decadence to the ancient long-rounded- mound, with striking features, as I did my surveying and orbiting by foot to its perimeter—
Hence, convincing me it was an artificial tumulus (perchance dating as far back to the days of the Neanderthal, if not proto-Neanderthal, or some intergalactic alien burial grounds, like Stone Heap of the Wildcat, in the Golan Heights of Israel).
But where was its inner door to its massive passageways, roads, corridors throughout its body?
No maps or signs existed to or from its lower to its top, of where once it had been quite visible to the monks of old.
On its summit was a plateau of some three-hundred feet in dimensions, and a section of an old relic tower, perhaps once a chapel, or monastery, destroyed in the late 10th or 11th Century A.D., after King Richard the Lionhearted visited Glastonbury (Summerset, England), coming home from the first of the Crusades, stopping to see King Arthur’s grave site, which I had visited ((dating back to the 4th or 5th Century A.D.)(At the time of the fall of the Roman Empire))
The whole mound was covered with rank grass, dense underbrush.
The old man had told me of several friars, who had found the entrance, sometime in the14th or 15th Centuries, only one finding his way out, a monk who had become known as the Mad Monk, thereafter.
Now as I turned about, the old man had disappeared a little hauntingly-like; then I made a complete 360-degree turnabout, no longer was in sight.
In consequence, I started to wonder, as I climb the mound of his identity, he had just happened to be there when I arrived, full of information—
‘Could he have been a collective hallucination with the community?’ I pondered on that thought for a moment, or an apparition? Who’s to say!
As I looked back at the village, I knew but a few of the town’s folks, for this was my second visit, my first in 2002, wherefore, I had visited the Tor, and at which time I had also visited also King Arthur’s gravesite, this time—fourteen years later, I wanted to find its entrance; find it and venture into its labyrinth, into its heart!
Several of the town’s folks were by the guesthouse I was staying, some 300-feet from the skirt of the mound, leaning on the thick wooden fence, watching me with spyglasses, studying my every step.
I waved my hand to show jauntiness, and self-confidence.
Then picked back up my shovel and machete to clear a path through the high grasses and thickets.
It appeared to me at times, there was a drawing force not uncommon to the town’s folks—but to me—who found themselves often at the skirt of the mound, unaware of them having walked there, perhaps that was the simplest explanation for the old man’s presence, and disappearance.
By late afternoon I noticed a light slump alongside the east end of the mound, halfway up her slope, covered by entangling roots and earth and several large boulders.
I figured behind these large rocks would be a good place to start my digging stage.
My shovel quivered, as I made my first strike into its side…
The shovel acted as if attracted by some draw or attraction, some magnetism in the soil.
Then I turned up the soil with my trench-knife, cut the heavy roots away, layer after layer…
I could smell the prehistoric dirt, it had a submitting odor, and the roots were like thick elephant trunks, I tugged harder and harder, chopping harder and harder, more and more, harder always prying inwardly.
After an hour or so, I had uncovered an old cylinder, hard as teakwood —
It was eldritch dark within that manhole I had unearthed, hence finding the entrance large enough for me to crawl in on my belly, but not stand up, perhaps move about like a giant gopher might—
It was too late for the village personage with binoculars to have seen this discovery!
And so I sat back, and looked at the craftsmanship of the item, it was of a carved Christian cleric representation of the apostles, with fancy designs rippling from the top to the bottom of the thing.
The opening to the cylinder was quickly opened and its sole contents was a haughty if not pompous, if not ostentatious scroll, in old English.
It was hard to decipher the script of the vanished writer—
From what I could make out of it and confirm, is the fury of the person writings, and for me the curiosity of its age, which I placed between the 14th or 15th Century; a good guess at best.
The scroll told about the prior clergy who had risked all to circumvent, to outwit the tunnels of the Tor, in finding its underground cavities, its ancient relics, there within hidden.
So I had found the entrance to the mound’s subterranean world—
It appeared to me this writer of the scroll never made it back out of the mound, but knew of the mad monk that did.
His name was not on the scroll, of which was of an earlier date, from his exploits.
Now came the onrush of the night, and as a result, the whole day had overtaken me.
I had not finished reading the scroll, lest I use up my battery, nor dare I return to the village—
As I gazed for the last time with my flashlight into the Tor’s strange deep mouth where no humans had entered for untold eons, deep into its paleoanthropic night, it produced goosebumps all over my body.
I knew inside that aperture it would be another world.
What did the mad monk see that sent him back?
What made him thunderstruck?
The scroll would not tell, but he knew.
Surely there was an evil world within the maze of the mound!
Probably many of the passages were now closed-up, sunk from one layer down to another.
Save demons could very well be in league with evil spirits, or ghosts down where they dwelt, in its core belly, or wherever.
A dark-blue shaded mist came seeping out of the entrance, old gases held in for centuries I presupposed, it provided, I felt, a false lurking terror.
I replaced the scroll back into its home, till morning (not wanting to explain my curious finding to the village folk, as I remained put), and then fell to sleep.
I could not help shivering throughout the night, awakening, and falling back to sleep several times, it was as if those elephant roots I cut turned into abnormal snake-like forms.
In the morning I found those roots were still roots, but somehow they seemingly transformed into an octopus arrangement, or in preparation to do so.
At the time I took it for a sort of occipital interference.
I again pulled the cylinder to my side, opened it to read another paragraph, it read, and I shall paraphrase it in brief:
“The roots to the entrance will form heads, should you venture beyond them, and follow you like snakes, so the mad monk told me.
I have yet to find out. If there is any truth to that.
These roots are as old as the antediluvian age, I believe.
And are semi-anthropomorphic, that is to say: unhuman with human motivation.
It is said the treasures of King Arthur are buried under the mound. I leave this scroll for he who dares!”
I lowered the scroll, perhaps the writer was exaggerating, and perhaps he was mad too, then read onto the 3rd paragraph:
The Scroll ((to the cryptic doorway) (3rd Paragraph))
“This mound, the Tor, had nightmare battles reflecting those which had been fought in those far-off days, before the openings was closed, so the Mad Monk had told me, how he learned this, is a mystery.
Whomever the Old Ones were, which is seldom brought to light, they themselves were half-ghosts, or aliens, who’s to say, indeed, they were different in that they never did grow old, yet they remain as being the Old Ones, consisting of flesh and spirit, perhaps inhabiting human bodies, as would a demon.
But they did breathe, with a faint strain of human blood, a people of a carnivorous race.
Perchance they recruited those who searched those tunnels, to become their human flesh slaves, revived.
In essence what I am saying, these beings, knew how to make a corpse into a mechanization, or automation to represent them open-endedly, and perform at their will, when engaged by streams of thought.
This Tor is eon’s old, with entities from the stars, hideous beings.”
Surely there were burial chambers throughout the mound, in its long history, but for me to venture into the tunnels throughout the Tor, was liken to climbing Mount Everest, of which only a few have done.
In this case, only one man in all of history had accomplished this, and went mad in doing so.
But he did return, meaning he found a turnabout, a U-turn of sorts within this earth heap.
But to return as a mad cockroach, was not to my taste.
I also know in this part of Summerset, England there were many brooks, linking to rivers, underground water, and wells that led to brooks and alike.
This could be a means of escape, for the Tor was once called Avalon, to which it was more of an island, with a drawbridge, crossing from one side to the other.
. . .
An hour inside the site, into the belly of the Tor, it was as if I was in the belly of Jonah’s whale.
I was crawling on my belly, arms extended forward, I heard in the distance some sort of thing, or things rattling on, panicking to get out of my way.
The quality of the air, was washed-out, just tolerable, and the dampness depressing.
I found a cyclopean chamber, here were the great roots, the mad monk was talking about: then quicker than a clap of an eye, the horror started, they took on a human metamorphoses, forming into serpents with small human heads, then: took to dematerialization, then a re-materialization, my mind was all blunted out by the overabundance of these happenings: ‘Were these nightmares, or visions, or reality…?’ I questioned myself, and how long could I endure this?
The longer I stayed in this chamber within the Tor, the more I wished to leave, turn back, based on impulses of course.
Your body has radar, it tells you the radius of how far your heart can go, or take before it bursts.
It also tells you of your mind’s capacity, to what tolerance it can withstand before it breaks down.
I will resolve to hint here at last to the readers what I dared not have even hinted to the village folk:
On that terrible March morning, I do not know just how to say it, for it is strange: you see, a horror is a horror, but once seen, it is forevermore never forgotten; hence, it is another thing!
It is as one might see a miracle, one never forgets it, say what you will, but s/he who has experienced it, will validate it to the day of death.
I stayed in that chamber for a dozen hours, and came back out at night, as the village stood by awaiting to see if I’d return!
As a consequence, I came out babbling like an idiot: crawling out of the hole like a mole, or a dried up cockroach: babbling of these roots that turned into snakes with human heads, whom had kept moaning for me to leave the Tor.
Those creatures had told me there was much more brooding and festering awaiting for me, if I dare go any further, as I assumed all but the mad monk did.
These creatures had no lower legs, or arms, just heads, and a few customary parts of a human being, like hairy chests, small saber-like teeth, as if for vampirism.
I got thinking, were these the same roots I chopped or new ones within the earth mound’s soil? And were these half human serpents, once human beings?
Very obviously, they were warning me.
I don’t think they were the same I had cut, but they were as large as an elephant’s trunk, similar to those ones.
Thereafter, I was hospitalized for six months in an asylum, no one believing a word of my madness, as expected of course, everyone for the first month in the psych ward, kept their distance from me.
Then as I changed my story, to admitting I was having hallucinations, only then did the hospital staff and psychologist agree I had found my way back to reality!
But if you ask the town’s folks, they’d say: “He saw something, a horror! Just like the Mad Monk.”
The Cyclopean Chamber (narrator’s point of view)
Amongst those serpent type creatures, I know I mentioned I saw, I also saw images of men with blank stone or metal faces, and told this to the psychologist, nurses of at the hospital, and other patients.
I think to them—they thought—I conjured up a wretched semblance of what these men, those before me who tried to navigate the tunnels, and had been long dead, these lifeless forms who lorded above me like stolid monsters, that they might have ruled, controlled or directed some immobility imposed upon me, should I go forward of how to present them, was simply part of my hallucinations, and a story to be told to some Weird Magazine, or newspaper for profit.
In brief, those Old Ones in the Tor, wanting men to think the worse of them, lest they seek to explore the Tor more…!
Yet had I not my large battery light, the stone darkness of the tunnels, and that cyclopean chamber would have forced me forward, and this story would have never been told.
(The narrator cannot help talking advantage of this moment, referring to the Cyclopean Chamber, and a word of course is here for the protagonist, he is well aware of the reproach, or criticism he got from the hospital staff, for speaking of those effigies of men who made him in respect, what he saw.
He was compelled, as indeed every human body was compelled to give a lighter account or attention to those images—should they be allowed to escape the Tor, and explain their ordeal—which was of course, left up to them to proceed forward, or to turnabout!
In any case, let us not assume that the protagonist acquired an assumed morbid mind overnight, for such concrete illustrations of those beings and happenings, for he ran a risk in telling, lest he be converted himself into the company of the living dead.)
(3-31-2016 thru 4-3-2016) Drawing by the author, 6/2007 / Copyright © by Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. H.c. /“The Abomination of the Tor”
The Tor of Glastonbury, England 2002
Note: the author in 2002 visited all the areas, spots mentioned in this short story, in particular the township of Glastonbury (Summerset, England), in writing “The Abomination of The Tor” in Poet Prose, and listened to a few legends and lore of about the Tor by the town folks, and now for his second story of the Tor, he puts them all together, and fills in the gaps: The first story ·Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury,” can be found in a book called “Death on Demand” a book of short and strange ravishing stories.