Sunday, July 31, 2016

The Stranger (Reedited)

From the Hyperborean Mythos

(In Long line, Narrative Poetic prose)

Lo! I know not, ere, where these visions came from: perchance, in the deep ebony eldritch scrolls of space and time, into my mind—
Perhaps tossed out of God’s archives, kept in his storeroom of infinite finalities, yet to be, to give to you during these sarcophagus end times!
Perchance, out of some pocket once hidden in a gravitational wave.
Who’s to say? 
Only God!
Written long ago on old scrolls by old prophets who have once lived and amalgamated and recorded, times yet to be, these were in part, my visions but presented for today.
And here we are living them.
And its name I have learned, from above the invisible stars, being: Wormwood.
Meaning: ebony portals will be opened, and a nocturnal age is just ahead.
From barbarous times I was brought back to unknown lands, and man’s devious anomalous ways, to a sea of fire, and a sea of doom, to a ferruginous period, of unceasing querulousness, palpable and anomalousness; where eidolons mascaraed as humans.
They’re all among us: sobbing, whispering, and shouting, in multitudinous mutterings, in tumults, all have I seen in visions.
Learned from demons, and archangels: a vision, a word, a syllable, I have put them all together, I have laminated them, carved them in sandalwood and ivory, in ebony teakwood!
I loathe to speak of this land and by what name shall I call it?  Babel?
And by what name do we know it? Alias, America?
Nay, it is she, the one forevermore the world seeks to destroy!
Many call her behind her back: lamia!
Greater than Rome, Greater than Greece in their memorable years, now the world scratches at her garments’ hem: they are not her friend!
I’ve seen it all unraveling: she was mingled in dust.
And the world around her carried on as if nothing was wrong, as in a royal pageant.
She was the stranger, and I heard a voice ask: “Where goest though?”
And she answered not, her brow down, darkened by her own unscrupulous demonic like potentates, who think they drink the ichor of the gods. 
Did not her forefather’s give her an ominous dirge, to this malefic?
That men can be inhabited by coadjutant demon?
While building world globalism.
That freedom is an illusion?
And all will be accountable for her sins?

#5260/6-5-2016/ Reedited 7-31-2016

Saturday, July 30, 2016

American Insomnia (In Poetic Prose, and not for every reader, and not for discussion. It is a requiem for America)

American Insomnia

(In Poetic Prose, and not for every reader, and not for discussion
It is a requiem for America)

Has it occurred to the reader, how many civilizations has been irretrievable lost—?
Buried by social upheavals with subsequent relapses to savagery?
Because of the loss of morals, law and order, violation of one’s Godly values, or for not having any values!
Rome, Babylon, Troy, Zimbabwe, Russia, China, North Korea, Venezuela, Cambodia, all of the Middle East, would we delve its ruins, they will come up short...
Cities, and then countries.
Soon to be Globalism, and the Antichrist running the show!
We look for rusting mechanisms for dispute, add some doubtful data, dogma, such as no one can decipher, leaving our old friends like Israel, for the Bulls of Bashan—
I assure you this is not probable but certain: the very history of America in the near future, will become more or less legendary—
That is to say: no longer predominant, or widespread…
If indeed it remains on its current course.
Yes, I am a speculative thinker, along different lines of thought.
We are now seeing the use of illimitable, illegitimate power through concentration, by our leaders!
From the outside in, and now from the inside-out, the growth of rapid radicalism is taking place;
Laws being bent to appease, and those so called quasi-friendships overseas, having left America ignorant and broke!
The loss of freedoms due to political correctness, has shattered our Constitution, our law enforcement, our military—
And I can go on and on, but enough is enough…
We the people are being put into an inescapable web, to the point one can’t even ask a personal question that seethes within them.
The more I come to know, the more I am overcome by a sense the unbearable needs to be seize upon with or by patriotism.
Chauvinism, —not narrow-mindedness, but like the Roman soldier who fought with pride for a belief, will soon be dead in our armed forces, and the will to fight for the flag, the one now allowed to be trampled on by dirty heels of whomever, will be nowhere to be found!
It appears to me—over much discussion I’ve listened to—and all too little knowledge within those discussions, the matter of what is and is not good for America, is overlooked—
Even by the FBI!
When God is gone, all that is left to satisfy the hunger of the mongrel, is power, and thus, power takes over!
This all will materialize on investigation.
Even in heaven, there was a war, and laws, and when Lucifer violated them and was judged for treason, there was a consequence.
Like Christ said: ‘Give to Caesar and God, to each what belongs to them.’
But both Caesar and Christ knew the value in maintaining laws, and values, had Rome not, it would not have ruled the world for 400-years.
We have ruled it for less than a hundred, and we’re falling apart.
Now in America I am struck by the tone of our elected, or soon to be elected intellectual elite, on their discussions!
And those who follow.
I doubt greatly if there is anything of value left to be learned.
Today in America the secret is: how is one to know the truth, which is a thing so utterly improbable?
Perhaps unsaid, but surely thought!
You vote for whom you wish, and you get the government in which one must tolerate—
Much as I have grown to admire America, and have fought her wars, and tried to keep her deep rooted values (which are no longer deep-rooted), raised on old thinking and reasoning I suppose, I have become the most incomprehensible and alien being on earth to her now thousand differences, if not indifference!
I seem not to know her, as I once knew her.
Perhaps I’m too simple of a person, in a complex world.
Now as I look at America she gives me a long unreadable glance.
Even though, I will never stop loving her.
On a few other thoughts: if the law isn’t the same for everybody, why should anybody keep it?
Does not a man or woman think: if s/he can break it, so can I?
And of course, this is when the politicians panic, God forbid they think like us!
America wake up, you’re walking in your sleep!
Plato said in so many words: if the law doesn’t stop me from taking another man’s wife next-door, and the spouse is helpless, who’s to stop me?
In war if you do not fight fire with fire you lose ground, you must be worse than the enemy, lest you lay down and die, and who back home will ever be thankful, and care, other than your personal loved ones!
The world at large bites its lip, turns an eye: out of sight, out of mind—they call soldiers ‘baby killers’ and turnabout and have an abortion, I’ve been called that, down that road, upon my return from South Vietnam, in 1971, I don’t remember killing a baby, but I know many who have, having worked as a counselor in Federal and State prisons for a decade.
America, she is blind as a bat, alas, when she hears the truth, she still will not accept it: pride comes before destruction, as the old saying goes.
So whomever is reading this, be on your toes.

#5323/7-30-2016 / Copyright © 7-2016

Monday, July 25, 2016

Snarling Lambs (Poem for the day)

Alone in the dark chair now
I have bathed myself in some
Soiled watery thoughts—
The world has brought…!

The state parchment of law.
The lives lost in grimy wars.
Losses yet to be seen at sea.
The lonely bed of a dying country.

Lions led by snarling lambs!
Lambs that gnaw at the souls of men.
Who lie, and hid in casks,
Like leather rats, waiting.


(11:57 p.m.)

Dennis L. Siluk's New Stories and Poetry: Seven Poems for Two Nieces

Dennis L. Siluk's New Stories and Poetry: Seven Poems for Two Nieces:   (Poems of snapping pictures of the moment) 1)   A Day in Lima (poem) Sharla & Sheryl—7-21—2016 (Lima) A foggy e...

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Eight Poems for Two Nieces

 (Poems of snapping pictures of the moment)

1)   A Day in Lima (poem)

Sharla & Sheryl—7-21—2016 (Lima)

A foggy evening is expected,
It will come…
The day is over.
The visitors have gone back home—
The girls are having a massage.

The rooster has yet to croak,
But he will…
A drizzle of rain seeps down
Throughout the air.
Lima’s a noisy city.

The girls will catch a taxi home
Rosa’s eating cabbage and carrots.
In two more days the girls
Will go back to America.

#5307/21 July, 2016 / For Sharla and Sheryl

2)  Slow Morning (Haiku)

Slow morning—with rain
July’s early noon, pale, bleak!
Forlornness, in Lima.

#5309/22 July 2016 / For Sharla and Sheryl

3)  Coffee at Mall Del Sur

Like new grass, Sharla and I smelt coffee bags today.
The spirit moving around in them: I could see into
The darkness of the bag—
Blazing up ascents with spiral motions, —the

#5310; 22 July 2016 / For Sharla and Sheryl

4)  Rain will Fall

This poem should express: thoughts we
have not yet thought, as with my two nieces
whom have come afar to visit me!
Those thoughts, now visible bodies, with eyes
and ears, have lived through the rain.
They have become a new and unusual, exciting
volume for my life, perhaps I for theirs
Is it not true, this is the tip of the tail, for life?
Not to be disingenuous!
If not, one wastes his/her life….

#5306/21 July, 2016

5)  Delicate Touches

Taking the hugs of someone you love,
You feel they are delicate touches…
Like tiny tweets of a bird singing
As in the deep valleys of one’s heart.

#5314/24 July, 2016
Note: Written 12:30 P.M. (17-hours after the two nieces left)
. . .

Notes: Written during a visit by the author’s Nieces after a ten-year gap, whereupon they came from Minnesota and Kansas (U.S.A), for nine-days to Lima, in July of 2016; ‘Delicate Touches,’ written 17-hours after the nieces had left the poet’s home.

6) The Lima Cathedral (7-18-2016)

Over my head I hear the footsteps of the girls,
They step down the last of the stairway steps,
Like sunlight between two oaks.
I lean back in my chair,
As the morning comes on, we all breathe evenly.
Their smiles can’t be sold.
Today we’ll all go—the wife and I
And they, —to the Cathedral.
Walk about, the Plaza de Arms.
I, like an old antelope, slowly…

#5315/24 July, 2016

 7) Lima Train Image (7-18-2016)

My two nieces
Are standing in the train
Amongst the crowd.

Like butterflies, backs to a corner
Hands on a rail
Voices all about.

I’m sitting
Next to a middle-aged man who’s
Sleeping (pretending).

The girls never move…

#5316/25 July, 2016

8) The Wind at Larco Mar (7-19-2016)

We, the girls, I and Rosa
Spent all day walking, talking, eating,
Waiting and guessing
At Larco Mar: gaging the wind!
To go paragliding—
Over the Pacific Ocean.

The wind was lifeless!

When the sky speaks, she suppresses,
Subjugates: makes man guess
When she’ll blowout her wind filled breasts
And she never did!

#5311/23 July, 2016/ Written 6:30 P.M.

Friday, July 22, 2016

Poems for Two Nieces

Poems for Two Nieces

(Poems of snapping pictures of the moment)

1)   A Day in Lima (poem)

Sharla & Sheryl—7-21—2016 (Lima)

A foggy evening is expected,
It will come…
The day is over.
The visitors have gone back home—
The girls are having a massage.

The rooster has yet to croak,
But he will…
A drizzle of rain seeps down
Throughout the air.
Lima’s a noisy city.

The girls will catch a taxi home
Rosa’s eating cabbage and carrots.
In two more days the girls
Will go back to America.

#5307/21 July, 2016 / For Sharla and Sheryl

2)  Slow Morning (Haiku)

Slow morning—with rain
July’s early noon, pale, bleak!
Forlornness, in Lima.

#5309/22 July 2016 / For Sharla and Sheryl

3)  Coffee at Mall Del Sur

Like new grass, Sharla and I smelt coffee bags today.
The spirit moving around in them: I could see into
The darkness of the bag—
Blazing up ascents with spiral motions, —the

#5310; 22 July 2016 / For Sharla and Sheryl

4)  Rain will Fall

This poem should express: thoughts we
have not yet thought, as with my two nieces
whom have come afar to visit me!
Those thoughts, now visible bodies, with eyes
and ears, have lived through the rain.
They have become a new and unusual, exciting
volume for my life, perhaps I for theirs
Is it not true, this is the tip of the tail, for life?
Not to be disingenuous!
If not, one wastes his/her life….

#5306/21 July, 2016

Touch Someone You Love (poem)

Touch Someone You Love (poem)

A nun
She has a handful of darkness
She will die in a lonely
All those she knows
Are still sleeping
She’s still awake, in prayer!
These strange words enter
Into my old bones.
I know I will not live
All wrapped in flesh
Will fade like the clouds.
I have survived today
But no more than a blade
Of grass.
Thus, touch the hands of
Someone you love; or kiss
Their cheek for remembrance.

#5308/21 & 22 of July, 2016
For Sharla and Sheryl

Thursday, July 21, 2016

A Day in Lima (poem)

A Day in Lima (poem)

A foggy evening is expected,
It will come…
The day is over.
The visitors have gone back home—
The girls are having a massage.

The rooster has yet to croak,
But he will…
A drizzle of rain seeps down
Throughout the air.
Lima’s a noisy city.

The girls will catch a taxi home
Rosa’s eating cabbage and carrots.
In two more days the girls
Will go back to America.

#5307/21 July, 2016

Two Branches Full of Variant Petals ((Rain Will Fall) (Poem))

 Two Branches Full of
Variant Petals (Rain will Fall)

Sharla & Sheryl—7-2016

“My ways are not your ways,” says the Lord.
And I say, ‘It will rain’
forget about what you know,
and try to understand what you don’t know—
The purpose of man is to study man;
and so it can be for women!
All of course mixed with other things, present:
and past, perchance in times yet to come…!
There is that other world that other persons
live in—
The eyes become the extension of the brain—
So this poem should express: thoughts we
have not yet thought, as with my two nieces
whom have come afar to visit me!
Those thoughts, now visible bodies, with eyes
and ears, have lived through the rain.
They have become a new and unusual, exciting
volume for my life, perhaps I for theirs
Is it not true, this is the tip of the tail, for life?
Not to be disingenuous!
If not, I say: you’ve wasted your life….

#5396/21 July, 2016
Note: the author uses the title word ‘Variant’ in place of ‘corolla’.

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Dennis L. Siluk's New Stories and Poetry: Metallic-bodied Beings (2045 A.D.) ((Letter to ...

Dennis L. Siluk's New Stories and Poetry: Metallic-bodied Beings (2045 A.D.) ((Letter to ...: M etallic-bodied Beings    (2045 A.D.) ((Letter to a dear friend) (A Meteoric Phenomena)) “The year is 2045 A.D., and man has...

Metallic-bodied Beings (2045 A.D.) ((Letter to a dear friend) (A Meteoric Phenomena))

Metallic-bodied Beings    (2045 A.D.)
((Letter to a dear friend) (A Meteoric Phenomena))

“The year is 2045 A.D., and man has come to the point that he can, and does qualify as tenements of the new so called metallic-bodied beings, their brains incased in a spherical domicile; beings within shells, who now can live a thousand years, so they are told, but that of course is still theory, yet to be seen.  Their eyes kaleidoscopically, are made up of some kind of: constantly color changing recherché adamantine material; when the eyes blink, they emit flashes of lightening, bright as the North Star. Their voices are clarion, and still maintain—for whatever reasons—human respiration, although it is an add-on, and not so perspicacious in cost.  The globular heads are triangular, the metal beings have a sort of cupola back, and it is very hard for genuflections in the church I am told. The human beings that choose not to buy one of these lasting devises, calling them marionettes-freaks, with brains, are being considered prejudice, not sure if I can agree with that but who’s to say. They are not arabesque. Nor do they need to eat like humans, although they need sleep for the brain to function, and a flow of nutrients likewise. Most folks who have purchased one in their old age, have kept their old bodies in storage, as in an urn, some made them into statues of frozen ash. There is a negative to this I found out, they are subject to the ravages of some corroding acids, should someone take advantage and pour this acid on the metallic-bodied beings, in sleep, of which they only need four-hours per twenty-four. The amazing thing about this new form of being, he has super x-ray vision, diaphanous. And people are complaining of this, especially in the bathrooms around the city here in St. Paul, Minnesota. The democrats find nothing abysmal about this, although the republicans do.  There’s no need for gun control, bullets will not hurt these metallic bodied beings; so the issue of gun control is neither here nor there. Inside their torsos, or upper body parts, are frames of spiral rods and arabesque filaments, quintillions; a master Dom of science technology. Some folks who care to be different have even ordered the shells to incorporate a put-on and take-off proboscis, like a trunk for a nose; some have even ordered artificial wings to attach to the back of their metallic shells.   I have ordered one myself, being at that age of enlightenment, to avoid the sepulchral, although I think I’ll save the body, I might as well as for memories of how it once was.  There has been some dirty dealings with this as often people will take advantage of modern science and its gifts: those with a weird prerogative for the most part: one doctor, I can’t say his name for legal reasons (I’m afraid to be prosecuted, as everyone is today), has crafted one of these metallic bodied beings, and took it a step further, made him into a anthropomorphic, that being: half-canine and wholly diabolic, in that he now craves human flesh, a brain eater; I know you’ll ask, ‘how so…’ by implanting old genetic material from Neanderthal bones into his brain. I told my pupils at the university, where I teach, ‘Nothing is perfect,’ like our president has inferred, ‘and one has to expect some chaos, it’s common, especially during the adjustment period of new ideas, it’s a simple matter of new criterions; change is inevitable, change or drawn…that’s the name of the game’ implying I think, it’s even healthy: like Robert Frost inferred, so long ago: ‘I like a little corruption myself, if it’s amusing.’  Incidentally, with these new pewter-like bodies, for a premium you can get two sets of eyes, kind of comparable  to a spare set of glasses; although I hear the second set is  dull and lifeless. On another note, I imagine it will be a weird ordeal, and the men whom I’ve talked to have felt as if they were being dissected. And I also heard: after the transfiguration, one’s voice and language tone are somewhat similar to: horn-like intonations for several months, a ‘recuperate period,’ so one has to expect that. My operation will be done in the diurnal period, nighttime is too spooky for me. I look forward to linguistic studying thereafter, when I can learn two or three languages at one time, evidently there is a magnetic force within the shell that helps the brain in multiform wonders such as linguistics, my wife keeps telling me as do her friends I should learn more and better Spanish, well here comes the chance. But the best asset yet is these metallic people, they’ve found—that is scientists found—were exempt from all the ordinary biological needs and desires. That is some form of pre-metallic stage I’ve got to see. When this process is complete I can devote wholly to reading and writing and research. Although my wife says, I have already done that for way too long, and the infinite grotesqueries which I’ve devised and created with them, are enough for anyone’s lifetime. Some of the side effects I understand can be: anti-social impulses and actions. As I stated before: nothing is perfect: ere a means of retardation as well.  Heretofore, all the experimentalists have made that per near a doubtful reaction. The reason being, even if the body and brain are blasted into a million pieces, or fragments, they now have the knowledge to sew the brain back together—figuratively speaking—the body is useless anyhow.  Yes indeed, they can reunite single atoms, electrons and protons, so why worry! All one has to worry about is the onslaughts of those brain eaters I talked about, and how many will end up being of that caliber? One out of a million. Well, dear friend, I got to go, see you in a year or so in my new body.”   Sincerely, DLS

Prophecy of the Popes

Saint Malachy, what was his prophecy in the 12th Century?
The destruction of Rome, and its city and papacy!
One pope will resign before 1590 A.D., and this came true.
And a second pope will resign thereafter, and after that
Anon: the new pope will inherit the fullness of the prophecy...
And then some!

No: 5290 6-26-2016

Gallipoli (a poem)


For nine months composed, England, France, Australia fought the Germans and the Turks, had invaded the land of Asia Minor.
From the Aegean Sea to the Straits of the Dardanelles, they had to conquer all the land, to achieve the impossible nor was there any place to land, along the Gallipoli Peninsula, to make their stand.
There was no railway, roads, wheeled traffic, no town or city no shelter, here nor there nor anywhere found.
Yet 100,000-soldiers who loved their country, shunned the evil fortune —as the enemy looked down from higher ground, onto this waterless peninsula, sun-smitten.
So great was the heat that the dust rose…
The hills were entrenched, the landing mined, the beaches barbwired, howitzers and machine guns, bayonet clambered upon the invading forces, day and night, allowing just a brief sleep, —
And men of chivalry too, fought cunning and skillful these overlords, like a swift current from the sea.
No Turk spoke save, all silently and no-one else; the German and the Turk, arrogant, but strong!
The British, Australian, a European Power— should they allow them to force a passage through the defended channel of the Hellespont, then what?
And all one can say, ‘…was not their hearts bigger for that!’

No: 4579/10-23-2014/Revised 7-2016
Note 1: March thru October, 1915
Note 2: The author went to Gallipoli, and stood in one of the trenches fought in during these battles, in 1996.

Friday, July 8, 2016

The Woodlands of Ebenus

Weird Poetic Prose Vignettes

“In The Woodlands of Ebenus” 
 . . .

The Hyperborean Mythos

 The Woodlands of Ebenus
(In Poetic Prose/Hybrid)(A Gaul and Celtic Tale)

Tale One

In the Woodlands of Ebenus, dark weft, horizontal threads weave, are interlaced into its greyish eldritch night, — with its gibbous moons…

Within this infernal region, and within its nocturnal ages, resides a hidden expanse, of hell!
Unlisted channels, chambers, vaults, unknown even to immortals, other than the unscrupulous Gaul’s, and their brotherhood of disincarnated souls!

Here resides pre-Satanic entities who speak in rude rhythmic gutturals—
Malevolent demon in a primordial chant and malignly frenzy who: pace, plan, and implement, within their diabolical enchantments…
And make their sacrifices to Taranis, thunder god of the Gaul’s— hence, they never relent, in this expense!

Lo, to the Romans but a curse!

In this Woodland of Ebenus, forthwith, the succubus lives to play her sanctimonious tricks!
This female demoness, Lilith, takes her pleasures in mortal men, whenever she can, and she can.
. . .

Here the Gaul, the Celt, and those along the Rhine cater to Lilith’s fancy, worship the demon princess—
As strangers on a stroll who lose their way, wander in a daze, they are the ones besought, pressed, navigated to Ebony’s Inn.
Then brought to her on her flat fiery stone slab.

(In this riddled haven, where past and present co-exist, both in its own portals, atolls!
Yes, separated in segments and cycles of time, to live and relive in its unhallowed barbicans, men are brought from centuries long born, to Woodlands’ Ebenus, forest…)

       “Where am I?” questioned a wayfarer, walking livid (in the Black Forest), beside himself, lost in the crossways, snatched out of the current age, to the end of Rome’s great fall, in Gaul! 
Finding himself at Ebony’s Inn, —in the Woodlands of Ebenus—: thus, he orders a flavored birch Barbarian dark beer, a veal cutlet, and cheers.

The keeper pinched a drop of potion in his pint; hence he awoke on the stone pyres of the succubus, in two shakes of a lamb's tail—

To which this story’s trimmings, are too cadaverous to tell. 

But I will say one thing: in the swirl of flame and shadow he vanished!


The Hyperborean Mythos

The Hounds of Ebenus
(In Poetic Prose)

Tale Two

It came to my attention, while in the Rhineland’s, in the early ’70, the  Creatures of the hidden woods, hounds in one of the unknown, unlisted terrene Hells, called the Woodlands of Ebenus, three  hounds in one, aggregate.
They had snake-like necks, eyes that burnt like hot coals, with no eyelids, saber gleaming bloody tattered teeth, chipped, and jagged, with wings of a bat.
Hence, flaring with venomous green mist from their mouths, on slither like limps, having skin like antique oak, they were released daily to eat and find their protean from  within the Ebenus Woods, —its neighbor, the Black Forest, outside its portal, to which they were forbidden.
And once these hounds found their urge befallen, they gashed and laid their prey—: spine to neck to legs and tales, bare boned, and then to devour their marrow: a marvel in evil in a most cadaverous plight.
Their cuisine, or fare, was: ox, a horse, a wolf, a rat, all like to like to the hounds of Ebenus.
But tedious, in their routine, century to century.

They searched night by night, and slept day by day, in a lair behind the cataracts of the Charnel River., the river of bones.
. . .

At first this did not strike the Gaul’s or Celts outside the portals of the Ebenus’ forest, although they heard of them, but all being aphorism.
But then corpses were found here and there, lying bone bare, with even dug graves—
A Cadaverous nightmare.
The hounds had become anthropophagic, in that they were eating flesh and even the rages that were, blood drenched!

Great was the scandal of these happenings.

Lilith, Princess of Ebenus, heard the shrill screams  from beyond the portals, and peered through its ingress, the starlit gate from forest to forest, then locked the door, to allow no retreat, hence, the hounds had to face their fate—

And although they were not eatable for the Gaul’s and Celts, nor for the stags (the giant red deer), they burnt them on a pyre, but would not disappear:
Therefore, they called on the monks of a nearby abbey, who cast holy water on their hides, and pelts as they reemerged from a simulated death, to awe and havoc, they were cast to the hyperborean winds, never to return.

Note: 6-10-2016/#5269 (2:00 a.m.)

The Hyperborean Mythos

Lost Portals of Ebenus
(In Poetic Prose/Hybrid)(A Gaul and Celtic Tale)

Tale Three

I tell this tale as men have told it, in the time of the Gaul’s and Celtics of long ago, in the deep forests of the Rhineland, I tell about Woodlands of Ebenus, her last breath; a ghostly blood splash!
How the halls of Ebenus’ devils and demons battled the race of Astral Devils that appeared in the year 479 A.D.; who leaped from a passing asteroid… To earth!
Who wished to circle her globe and create their own epoch!

Some who will read this narrative will no doubt, doubt the complete disappearance of this eccentric diabolical race of devils and demon in such an ending, but be that as it may, legends and tales of devils need no verifiable motives nor explanatory circumstances:  like emotions, they just are, and then they are naught, just like a long lost constrained source, for the archeologist and anthropologist to discovers… eons later!
. . .
Lilith, Princess of the unlisted Hell, called, The Woodlands of Ebenus, had seen them coming several years before they came—
Beyond the planet of Pluto, and its five moons.

These devils more wicked than her kind, with no ears or noses, semi-Serpentine, in their meandering ways, had now arrived.
And to the dormitory of demonic beings in Ebenus, a horror awaiting, that need no further waiting!
And to the Gaul, and Celt, the inhabitants outside the gateway of Ebenus, a tribulation in the making!

The Astral Devils, made their lair, just outside the portals of Ebenus, five-thousand in all.
Lilith knew she’d have to intervene, lest the Gaul’s and Celts worship another deity!

After dismissing her arts of necromancer, in summing them, in vanishing them, hence, she knew there would be a shrill and eldritch battle forthcoming.
A battle of scourge and peril.

And so, she called on her father, Taranis, ancient thunder-god of Gaul, whom gathered together his devils-at arms, to fight: fiend to fiend, outside the aperture of Ebenus, in the bat black darkness of the Ghoulish woods.
. . .

Taranis armed with his battle-axe, in lieu of the sword or hammer fought with valor and honor, as did Lilith—
All her demon fought like werewolves, teeth clashed, like linked iron, as they raised smoke and fire, all hissing with a voice of fury and all leaped one to another—
Wounds, like dark wove welts, binding intangible thickening webs encircling them with wizardry, clashing upon them stone and axe, in this inexorable fight—
A powder of dead atoms, filled the air, and it was as if a metamorphosis was taking place:
Each familiar spirit, turning each and every one into constrained, estranged carbon: stable, chalky, solid, graphite, limestone, coal—all turned into minerals!
For it was long forbidden, by the God of Heaven, for their kind not to molest at will, beyond the boundaries of Hell.  

Note: 6-10-2016/#5270 (11:43 p.m...)

The Hyperborean Mythos

The Unwilling Guest of Ebenus
((The Woodlands of Ebenus) (in Poetic Prose))

Tale Four

The two warring demonic armies that had met near the Woodlands of Ebenus in the year 479 A.D, one earthly one astral, now sealed in stone, as if being in a sepulcher, or tomb wrapped for ages, now were in a veritable oppression; and the illumination they were afforded was vague and indistinct at best.
The thronging shadows within the carbon stone (likened to the Chalk Cliffs of Dover) the devils and demon of that battle numerous in years and perhaps ten-thousand in account, were bored with the mysterious disquiet: they were inflamed in repugnance, likewise.
As if dead in a windless vault.
And amongst themselves they plotted, and befriended one another, according to feudal and demonic customs of their times.
And even more so sinister and insoluble, as they were as demoniac ruffians of those far-off days.
But as I mentioned, insuperable, but united, although constrained, and all selected Lilith to be their queen, and her father the baleful taskmaster, Taranis,  ancient god of the Gaul’s, now their potentate.
What supernatural horrors and unavoidable bewitchments had Lee Sexton become involved with, so he questioned his other self?
And what he was about to do he cursed himself for.
Yet, he marveled at the spell that seemingly drugged him, drowsed his faculties, his will, and choked his human power.

A funeral fabric odor was in the air, it appeared to fall around him, and all around the surface ground, a mustiness of death, and dead years.
The geochemist, was inspecting his environment, as if the whole place was a buried tomb, a clinging decay of stone like chalk.
Lee knew by legend and lore, and yore he was standing next to the invisible Woodlands of Ebenus that had no legitimate existence.
But here he was, and looking at supposedly dead demonic beings long entombed in stone, for some 1500-years (the year now being A. D., 2016).
Yes, Lee shuddered, for it was some ensnaring malefic necromancy that brought him here;
Here being the land of the Gaul’s, in the time of the fall of the Roman Empire, in the Black Forest!
Here for whatever the case may be.
At one time the cornerstone, or fountainhead of the demonic sorcery of the Gaul’s and Celts; today, it would be dubious.
It was an eerie place indeed, he pondered, as if in bafflement.

Insanely—so he felt—he could sense, if not even hear, crackly like twigs snapping inside the stone.
As if those long entombed demonic forces sunk deep in its terrain, were trying to move upwards and out!
“What is it you want” he decried.
He resigned himself to no reply, but to his surprise, one came:
 “We’ve been crushed down into this mass, for our defiance long enough, help us to get out!”
Lee was unable to resist their pitiful request, thus he—within the following month, shoveled up 20-tonnes of this enmeshed carbon, and transferred it into a fossil like fuel.
Turned up the heat, liquefied it, burnt it: and curiously enough, the demonic forces were transformed into a smoky cloud—a long trail or tail of shadowy like torrent interlacing fiends, separating, and transforming as if in a metamorphoses transformation.
Hence, he sat back on an embankment, made no further effort.
The middle-aged geochemist, was benumbed.  

It was Nyx (born of the primeval chaos in the ancient cosmos, who once was demonic Arch-knight of Atlantis, in Poseidon’s Capital Citadel), who stepped forward after all was said and done, and announced to Lee Sexton, his reward:
To be entombed like them into the miseries of stone.
And to all that watched as Lilith opened the portals of Ebenus, —observed the geochemists’ end as he was stomped into pulp, and buried under a rock.
All cheered with sardonic amusement.
And what was once two demonic forces, now became united: a fawning, implacable throng of fiends.

The Hyperborean Mythos

The Ebon Book of Ebenus
 (In Poetic Prose/Fusion poetry & prose)(A Gaul and Celtic Tale)

Tale Five

 I found a thin deluxe edition of Lilith’s Spells, Queen of the Woodlands of Ebenus, originally written in 489 A.D., in what was known back then, as “Land of the Gaul’s”. 
It had been rewritten only once, which dated to the 11th Century, in Old English.
I had heard about it but thought it was a fable, the legend foretells: that its possessor, could activate the spells within the book, and only s/or he.
It told about the scourge of demonic diabolical arts, learned from the angelic renegades, in the antediluvian age.
The contents of the book goes back quite a long ways, some even say, to the days of Mu and Atlantis.

I am for the most party a poor collector of rare books, allured into most any worthwhile bookstore wherever I am.
And on this particular weekend, while visiting friends in St. Paul, Minnesota, I stopped at the bookstore off University Avenue, next to the rarest known bookstore being in San Francisco, this was a close second, if not indeed the second best in the good old U.S. A. 
I was really window shopping as they say.
I pulled from the shelves a web infested book, and behind the book in the north west corner, was an old gray rat, so old it was devoid of hair, with half blind eyes, eyes with no eyelids so it appeared, in the eldritch deep blackness corner, and the deep blackness of its iris was a porphyritic dote, like a spark of crystal, in its center.
Of each eye, tenebrific gloomy sight, so I deduced.
The rat possessed a flat head the size of my fist, likened to an anticodon, and in form, serpentine, as long as my forearm, and not so unlike mongoose.

The rat, or mongoose-rat, grabbed onto the spine of the book with the side of its gums, for it was per near toothless.
Its jaws tightened around the spine of the gothic book, but left no imprints.
We were in a tug-of-war.
In fear of tearing or perchance ripping or even loosening the hinges on the book, the near toothless-rat let go, lest it damage the book.
The creature was infinitely foul, macabre, but too old to do much physical harm.
His whole pelt, was shriveled corpselike, ready to become mummified.
Perhaps the rat was as old as the book’s ancient binding.
That is to say, I knew its contents was written down in a previous book, in: 498 A.D., and was rebound and perchance at the same time revamped.
It read in Old English, perhaps the 11th to 13th Century.
I have been a poet for fifty-years this rat was quite the occult phenomena, I’m unable to describe it other than a horrific hallucination.

The bookstore off a busy street called University Avenue, on this full fall day, this overall happening for me was a tragedy in the making.
This parasite could only have existed in the inane night world of the sorcerer; so I told myself; as atrocious and horrific as it was, it was from a world that really wasn’t.
. . .

I do believe the rat itself, was an animation, a creation of unreality planted within the book, a spell of yesteryear, renewed.
For within the book were the demonic unfamiliar writings of a special black arts, long forgotten?
I took the book in hand, as the rat vanished as if it was part of the book, its ancient guardian, guarding its precious impermissible writings, from perhaps from Christians or whomever might find good reason to destroy them.
As I sat back in a sofa chair and opened the book to read it, the apparition of the rat leaped out at me, as an imperceptible projection.
I dropped the book on the floor, startled, the vision vanished, “What’s wrong?” asked Tom, the owner.
Then eyeing the book on the floor, commented “Were did you find it, I lost it twenty-five years ago, when I first bought the place, and put the books on the shelves, perhaps forgetting to clean this back section…”
The book now produced a foul order, but Tom didn’t mind, it was as if he was in too much an adulation in finding his lost treasure.
He started to pick up the book with gargoyle eyes, having crouched down on his knees to its level, as to inspect the book of any harm before actually lifting its form, from its inorganic insertion.
Still with abhorrence, and Tom with fascination with the book, said to me, lifting it, and looking upwards straight into my eyes,
“How did you like my little pet inside? Did you both get along, see eye to eye?”
Before I could answer him a customer came in, Tom could tell, he had a bell attached to door, with it opened.

However I made my exit from the bookstore I don’t quite rightly remember, I was still sick with revulsion.
I recall only I found myself on a bus feverishly trying to figure out the street I was on, and clumsily found out I was going in the opposite direction I wanted to.

#5273 (6-12-2016)

The Hyperborean Mythos

The River of Trepidation
Under Ebenus
(In Poetic Prose/Fusion poetry & prose)(A Gaul and Celtic Tale)

Tale 6

 Underneath the Woodlands of Ebenus resides the River of Trepidation.
The eldritch river surges in an underground maze, and swift is its current! 
Its serpentine length, is said to go under the Mediterranean Sea to the African Continent.
This river navigates down a legendary tributary, called ‘The Necromancer,” channel.
And not even the devils and demon care to challenge those rapid waters, nor put their fate in a worse atrocity.
All the same, Lilith, Queen of the Woodlands of Ebenus, wanted to be the first to conquer the tributary, as one might want to conquer the Himalayas.
Legend also says its end—to this tributary—cast its travelers into interstellar space, lest s/he escape its rapid edged cliffs, and do a turnabout.
Whatever the case, there is, nor ever has been, the return of man, beast or unfamiliar spirit, to its origin.
Lilith, the most skilled of the sorcerers in Ebenus, employed Otis, the Oarsman Imp, to grit his teeth, and row her down the tributary, or face the pyres of  her father, Taranis: thunder-god of the Gaul’s, who has the strength of an renegade archangel. 
. . .

And so it came about, down its shadow passageways, to the tributary the craft was rowed: an eighteen feet long vessel, with a teakwood keel.
The herculean imp, with his massive physique, had no trouble rowing, but hit numerous times the cliff walls, and at times scrapping the bottom of the vessel with mud and stone and slime.

The clanging of the vessel, must have woke up the creature of the deep, known as: Plesiosaurus the Death Unhuman, they were now in her nest, her tenebrific realm.
Otis, hearing and feeling the shrill shrieks of the Unhuman creature, and attesting to its bombardment of the craft, became frightened.

Otis, a dimwitted deity of no renown, was now eye-searching every foot of water, to see where the creature was, and still hitting the horrific crags as he rowed.
Ere, still came the grinding and crashing underneath the torrential waters, the beast pounding with its head and body, trying to break the keel of the boat.
And although Otis was an oarsman, he had no skill as a swimmer, and now this he feared the most, as the keel cracked, and he was swept down the rapids forthwith, and over the cliffs into empty space.

Lilith, swam to the creature, and with her spellbinding phantasmagoria magic, made herself into a more ferocious beast than the beast, and had the plesiosaurus numbed, thus, rode the on its back, wave to wave to the wildered woods of Ebenus.


The Hyperborean Mythos

The Anthropophagi of Ebenus
(In Poetic Prose/Hybrid)(A Gaul and Celtic Tale)

Tale 7

Born of a staler birth, on what is now being called planet #9, there were a group of nomadic demon who rode an asteroid to earth, eons before, and lived amongst themselves within the Woodlands of Ebenus.
Among the pines, cypress, and eucalyptus trees.
They robbed the graves outside Ebenus, the deep rooted and ancient catacombs, the caves, they emptied out stone coffins, not for potion resurrection, but the task ordained by their master, cannibalism.
Also for sacrifice.

Queen Madb, a most powerful sorceress, and warrior goddess, who during those far-off days, of the fighting Celtic, —was there necromancer.
Strange it was in the year 2018 A.D., Madb had decided to hunt to and fro outside the Woodlands of Ebenus once again, and done so unnoticed, decided with sorrowful sweetness to venture where all such forces like her were forbidden unless asked by a mortal.

It was forbidden after the Christian era had begun, to eat flesh again.

Seemingly, she was now successfully reviving the lost ardent love for flesh-eating.
This was taboo for 1500-years, or more, it was put fathom-deep into oblivion—as previously mentioned—but  always did this tribe of nomadic demon have its wild yearnings.
And now like a seamless tide, across old Gaul, they brought back this terrible evil.

Madb and her tribe of fifty-fiends, in mad surges, robed every cemetery in the Rhineland’s.
In a weird way, this brought peace, from out of the dead, an eerie gray web like peace for the tribe, and sorcery was of course woven into it.

On the other hand, the other hordes and throngs of demonic souls of Ebenus, beckoned for Madb to stop her furtive escapades of robbing the dead, and dragging them back through the portals of Ebenus. 
Lest God be maddened by this, and all of Ebenus be cast into oblivion.

“Ere,” spoke Lilith, to Madb, “…darkness will fall upon you if you do not retreat from this old credo!”
Then many fearful glances were exchanged between the two Queens.

The question came: who had the magical supremacy of the two.

The following night there was a full rounded moon—
It was timing and shrewdness that also counted in the game of war, not just who may be superior—
Lilith knew she was not equal to Madb’s sorcery, but Madb had a bigger ego and she took this into consideration.
Hence, Lilith was allowed to pick the weapon of her choice, and for them to battle it out instead of having a gang-war: once and for all, and Madb likewise picked her weapon.

“I must slay my pry before a mirror,” Lilith told herself, “and do it swiftly.”

Lilith picked up her father’s battle-axe, shined it to a high glow, likened to a mirror, put a death spell on it—

Madb, declining the battle-axe for the sword, and she too put a hex on it, to when it struck the battle-axe, to melt it into liquid form.

And they met, hastily in an empty area of the forest, with 20,000-fiends and demon and devils, watching.
Whispers and shadows of invisible beings, phantoms, all silently awaited for the battle to begin.

As they fought, flames arouse from their weapons, but none yet broke, or melted: for it was spell to spell, and curse to curse holding them together.
The vessels of wizardry was working but with no results, it was like matter and antimatter fighting for its dominance.

All the evil spirits were dazzled by glimpsing at the radiance of those clashing weapons.

Both Lilith and Madb, peered into the other one’s weapons, mirror-like weapons, making them immobile, and they dropped to the ground like mummies.

All the demonic and unfamiliar spirits held back, thinking who would rise first, they both had been blinded by each other’s weapons, a strange brightness of its mirror reflections.
As they looked into the eyes of both warrior Queens, a weird brilliance remained in their eyes—; porphyritic like.
And their bodies had fallen into a magnetic orbital slumber.

Both weapons remained in the hands of the original beholders, both frozen in time and space, both lay side to side.

And the demons did what they do best, they left to find more entertainment and mischief, elsewhere.


  The Hyperborean Mythos

The Red Death of the Celts of   Ebenus
(In Poetic Prose/Hybrid)(A Gaul and Celtic Tale)

Tale 8

The year 499 A.D., grim was the Red Death of the Celts outside of Ebenus, and swift, within hours, to those who acquired it bled its victim’s dry of blood, by way of its red sores.
It came to the portals of Ebenus, but had no way to enter its abode.
Yet outside the Woodlands of Ebenus, it devastated the realm of the old monarch, called the: Ebon Diabolists of Rhineland, king Fergus, once lover to Mebd; or diabolic king of the Celts and throughout the Black Forest and the Gaul’s, and the Rhineland’s.

Those who were infected felt sonorous taciturn to their bodies…
In the matter of hours their bodies strangely whitened, became stiff, emptied of its blood, anon to join the long dead!

Eerie was this plague that passed through the Black Forest like a merry-go-round, faster than the speed of light!
So it appeared.

And the thieves, once they touched the infected booty, dug their own graves, figuratively speaking.

The Red Plague, breathed upon the forest like a typhoon, corner to corner and throughout, the birds brought it even farther.

Demdeez, the Sorcerer, said it fell upon the forest by a passing comet which shed its decay from stones and rocks that fell through earth’s atmosphere—
Rocks that fell upon the comet itself as it passed through a belt of asteroids that circled the sun, and it came far-back from Pluto.
Alas, he had many ambiguities of this rot plague of red pussy sores and scabs, but no cure of ridding the forest of the disease.
His sorcery and science was limited.

As for the diabolist king, king Fergus, he hid inside a monastery with monks indifferent to his subordinates.

It came to pass, 10,000-had died of the plague, the red death of the Gaul’s and Celts, before Demdezz, approached the Woodlands of Ebenus, its forest portal, and begged for a spell a cure of this  undistinguishable killer disease!
Striding and pacing upright and rigid outside its gateway for days on end, he would not relent until those wizards inside the portal would listen to his plea, and hence, they got dizzy of watching him—
Whereupon, he was given an aromatic wooden ring.
He then was instructed to duplicate it, and put it on the index finger of each and every person to whom he wished, to each ring touch by the very one given to Demdezz, the Red Death would pass.

In time those who wore the perfumed ring, would purify the forest, and preserve each person who wore the ring, unto his originally assigned death.
But to those who didn’t wear the ring, a blatant death for sure awaited.
And so Demdezz, done as he was told, and the contagion never once seeped into the flesh whom wore the ring.
And this was kept a secret from the king, and his closest watchmen, and it was just a matter of time, they met their great sorrow, and joined the ten-thousand.
And the Rhineland in time became known as a realm, with a realmless king.
And to all those who lived within this realm, it was a great thing.