An Era of Darkness

He was more than the sons, and grandsons, and great grand sons

       of his time, Humanity’s time—

He was among the bearded-breed, yes, but there was a difference

       with him, a difference that his predecessors did not have over him,

—that being, he had not done any harm to anyone.

So His link with human kind was hope, hope for a civilized

       humanity; thus, his species would reap the benefits he’d leave behind.

His decedents, mostly all dead, those who had perpetuated the

       earth before him, would lose their old genetic link, to the new Accidents, to a purer link of course, to his, hence, the error of long

       ago was now mended, and put upon the next, and those of the far past who could do evil and grovel in it, wallow in their mortality, until

       their end, would die out—; God had waited long enough, lest he wait forever, And so, came the hour that the era of darkness had ended.

And accordingly, humanity became no longer sufficiently dead—acts now

       mattered, thoughts appeared: “I know, I know!” Man had to Reproach himself or what he done, or what he didn’t do he was accountable. 

No longer free from his monstrous evil deeds—yet, instead of song

       and hurrying, man turned his back on whom he called “Creator”

(the very one, who had planted the link…)

And made no appeasement—they made no conciliation, asking for no pardon for what they knew

       now was sin—for  this reason, the world-over became an Impulsive, and  pondering, place to live, one that you would think, Never received the link, once upon a time, long ago.

#3471 (11-21-2012)

A Change to Madness in Huancayo

The ancient and Neanderthal like souls of those forgotten past, now called demonic beings in Sheol, or Hell, or Tartarus, all one of the same, born from the loins of those  legendary Angelic Renegades, thrown out of heaven, eons ago, who cohabited with female human flesh on earth, now cursed and damned—await for a calling. Those who have studied the Black Arts, and have indulged in them, may raise one of these shapes out of the ashes of Hell, hidden in those hot and cold vaults until the end of days—if only for curiosity sake, if not for the sole pleasure of their company. In a like manner, those ignorant of the consequences, the young and unlearned, may do likewise, in a like method, of mysterious games, such as the Wee-gee Board, where one opens themselves up to the corridors of Sheol, and those lurking spirits, to such a degree—unknowing, comes a pitifully outcome. Henceforward, the consequence of necromancy (or dark magic), once the horrors of Tartarus are released to seep up into a human shape, more often than not, a necrosis takes place, (death of tissue within that person—physically). Yet again this calling up of such a shape, a demonic-ancestor, a dweller perhaps of the earth, once upon a time, and for various reasons, ending back from whence he came from—thus, calling up by some ill-informed young adolescent, or adult, from these same chambers in Hell, he appears as if out of nowhere, and like fire to ice, melts, as if through a process of osmoses into the pours and inner being of his victim to be.

This most recent case took place, and for lack of complete information, I will try my best to fill in the gaps. A young girl, along with friends in the Andean City of Huancayo, Peru, in the fall of 2012, wherein a private school room played that insane game, the Wee-gee Board. A demon, we shall now call Tyr, a real name for a real demon in Hell, but chosen by the author, for lack of knowing his real name,  was called up in such a manner, by such a method, the other girls involved stood by in amazement and watched this oddity take place, wherein a matter of minutes—after the calling up of the demon—a general physiological as well as psychological change took over the body, brain and face and voice of the young girl, as if possessed by a much older voice, the voice of a madman. Consequently, she showed signs of mental disturbance. It is true that at a young age, one is more prone to such happenings, and such happenings are more rapid for the young and curious minded.  Thus her face took on a such and subtle cast—with contortions, which produced scratching, while she was screaming, and a queerness, jerking of the body, nothing in medical terms or experience could, or can describe this in mortal or immortal detail, nor parallel  this in medical terms, other than demonic possession. Her voice was lost within Tyr’s, so that she could not produce a sound above a whisper. And thereafter, digestion was prolonged, and minimized, as often is the case; heretofore, she had never been recorded as having any pathological, or abnormal behavior, and surely not possession. At which time she was rapidly and forcibly taken to a hospital.

In a like manner, her skin had a pale chill and dryness to it; as if the cellular structure had been invaded, stretched, and de-sanctified. Her tissue coarse and knotted as if loosely knitted. Her hips appeared disjointed, appeared I say, not necessarily so. I could see the devilish beast inside her contorted body, some bone deformation, her lips clutched at times, and thick. A mouth that when it screamed, appeared to want to devour half the face, and to a lesser degree seemingly being drawn into some dark delirium, perhaps.

This mystery is not to be wondered at, as if marvelous, but rather dreaded, and feared, for those caught in its web—in such cases as the above one—I have no doubts, the metabolism becomes retarded to a high degree, and when the demonic being is cast out of its new home—should this be the next step—for I could without a doubt see the madness within this young girl take hold, held no affinity, no similarity  to any past sort of record of hers—to my knowledge and the media’s; that is to say—(replicate): no behavior trace of such madness. The strange and grotesques form, I named: Tyr the Demon, once evicted, searches high and low for a new home, lest he be sent back to where he came from—Hell, and that of course is his dread, thus, should he not find other accommodations, so in haste, he seeks out a legion of his own kind, like to like, and once gathered, will go back to the same prey, bombard her to reenter her, to take her mental capacity away once again, and thus, she is worse off than before—consequently, a sphere of insanity increases in her, acquiring seizures—; she must, once freed, with prayer, and with  all heart and soul avoid this consequence.

If there is a lesson to be learned here, it is three fold: don’t open yourself up to such harmful happenings—you are playing with fire; second, if you do, seek out your clergy right away; third, curiosity killed the cat.

#976 11-23-2012

Every Bird in the Garden

English Version

Every Bird in the Garden

The Author’s wife Rosa

Every sparrow, every bird in our Patio Garden,

To include the doves and ravines (and there are many),

And those birds with the red tops, that look like Mohawks,

My wife observes—she says: “God is amazing;

Each and every one has their own mannerisms, and Characteristics, their Own looks: Some sleep on branches overnight— quiet as a mouse;

some,

       like those doves wobble when they run, fight among

Each other, as if this or that part of the garden was theirs to run, to own,

       territorial like;

Still, the yellow sparrow sucks the juice out of the flowers, like the

       hummingbird does…!

And the yellow, black and brown sparrows and now even the Doves and Ravines, and even the Mohawks too, and some bird

       with long thin stick like legs, too thin to even carry its Own body Weight, like the others:

       they all swim and bath in the birdbaths—these are quick

Learning birds—I’ll have you know.

Each one eats like a starving horse, a galloping ghost, an elephant,

Even some perhaps as much as a whale, they just never stop, fly from

Branch to branch, then go back down to the seed dish and munch…

Then they lay on branches in the garden, while basting under the sun, as

       if they were Queen Bees—each and

Everyone:

       and my wife, she just keeps on feeding them wanting their love— and to be frank, they all seem to be hissing, or is it whistling,

some

       fancy tune!

Perhaps they are saying in their own way: because of her giving,

every day is:

        ‘Thanksgiving!’

#3465 (Written 11-15-2012/reedited 11-24-2012) Drawing by the author, 2008

This poem is for my wife Rosa

Spanish Version

Cada Ave en el Jardín

A cada gorrión, a cada ave en nuestro jardín,

Incluyendo a las tortolitas y cuervos (y hay muchos),

Y a aquellos pájaros con el moño rojo, que parecen como los Mohawks,

Mi esposa los observa—ella dice: “¡Dios es asombroso!”;

Cada uno tiene sus propias características, actitudes, su propio aspecto: 
Algunos duermen en las ramas por la noche— tranquilos como un ratón;

algunos,

       como aquellas tortolitas se tambalean cuando corren, pelean entre ellos,

como si ésta o aquella parte del jardín fuera de ellos para correr, para poseer, 

como si fueran territoriales;

       Todavía, el gorrión amarillo, se alimenta del jugo de las flores, ¡como lo 
hace el colibrí…!

Y los gorriones amarillos, los negros y los marrones e incluso ahora las tortolitas 
y los cuervos, también los que se parecen a los Mohawks,
y algunos pájaros que tienen sus piernas tan delgadas como palitos, 
tan delgadas para incluso cargar su propio peso, como los otros:

       todos ellos nadan en la tinita de agua—estos son pájaros

que aprenden rápido—te lo haré saber.

Cada uno come como un caballo hambriento, un fantasma galopante, un elefante,

Incluso algunos tal vez tanto como una ballena, ellos no paran de comer, vuelan de rama a rama, luego vuelven al plato de alpiste y comen…

Luego ellos descansan en las ramas en el jardín, mientras se tuestan bajo el sol, como si fueran las reinas abejas—uno y todos:

       y mi esposa, ella solo continúa alimentándolos queriendo su cariño— y para ser sincero, todos ellos parecen estar cantando, o es silbando,

algunos

       tiene un tono sofisticado

tal vez ellos están diciendo en su propia forma: por su generosidad,

cada día es:

        ‘¡Día de Acción de Gracias!’

#3465 (Escrito 15-Noviembre-2012/corregido 24-Noviembre 2012) Dibujo hecho por el autor el 2008/Este poema está dedicado a mi esposa Rosa.

White Last Moon

(The Sacrifice of Lost Youth)

Here is how it works (at least it is how it has for me): at the promising beginning, indeed, a youthful age—

       life is frankly attraction, one lives with grunts and pleasures—

Nothing repels him! Whereas, at an advance age, the very sight of such

       things, brings on closed eyes, with both hands, little need of

Stimulation; it is more a question of health—; thus, life has formed a new

       hypothesis: the man is not the man he once was.

But God does things slowly, as not to shock man’s system.

In the beginning it was the warming up stage, a white full moon, you might

       say for an analogy. Now the cooling down stage, — hence, the fleeting

Sameness of temperature—an ill-fated twist; I mean: to have had once,

       which now you no longer have; I mean, now you have a white last Moon, in other words, time is short. There is no law or form of time to

       expatiate upon this—it happens more or less on its own: Why?

Why are there two holes in the nose?

#3474 (11-25-2012)

Tall Fernando

(San Juan Miraflores, Lima Peru)

Fernando, He’s   tall, and thin, all the neighbors say he’s a very strange man, one who likes to get revenge. An angry man, who yells and screams, a clubfoot it seems, but a man who loves dogs—: ‘…hell,’ I say, ‘he can’t be all that bad?’ We had a disagreement—a week or so ago, in the month of November, of 2012, him and I, I wouldn’t let it lay, I suppose you could say, I provoked him, swore at him, egged-him-on wanted to fight. We stood per near nose to nose, or chin to nose being Fernando, he’s tall, tall and thin, taller than me, like a streetlight pole, and just about when my fists were to bounce off his tall thin-chin, my wife butted in, in-between him and I. Not sure why, why she per near started to cry, but I think I knew what I wanted to see, I wanted to see for myself if those awful tales were true. Anyhow, he was simply a man seeking respect, like me, with a deficiency—that shorter leg that he appeared to drag as he walked his way, walked away down the street towards the little ma and pa grocery store, yet intelligent, he was smarter than the neighbors took him for, more so than the neighbors I’d say, cared to know. I figured he was a man, tall man, that could take more than me, before he got peeved, could speak two languages, went to a noble and fine school—and perhaps that makes him less strange than me, to a certain degree.

#3476 (11-28-2012)

Rushdie’s Revenge (a poem)

Salman Rushdie, a man with no hair on his tongue—

A man with no blood in his face—

Cleaver as a fox, a snake in the grass, ready to attack!

His words in “The Satanic Verses,” are out of anger

       and frustration, perhaps some disgrace…

Whose plots are surely Islamic comic, even if he says not!

Who loves the world’s money, and perhaps would kill

       himself for the 3.3—million fatwa reward, if indeed he could

       live to spend it of course.

Surreal as it may be, he makes a monkey out of Khomeini,

       and Muhammad, it’s plain to see…!

With its magical realism and its dream like sequences,

       parallel stories and sub-plots (how many have died

for his freedom of speech: of which he holds no responsibility

but wants his rights?)

I guess what I’m trying to say, and to say in all honesty,

He’s a great actor, writer he is not, that’s plain to see,

       complex yes, but nonetheless, gobbledygook, like

       “Finnegans Wake” or for that matter: dark as Blake.

Yet, his dream-visions narratives cross the seas…

From Mecca to Jaipur, to the underground brothels of

       New York City…and has caused controversy—but

In all this do we see? How about a man laughing,

      and running to the bank by Union Square in

New York City?

      

#3480 (12-3-2012)

The Granulate Hotel Episode

(Abysmal Terror, in ’99) Written in Lima, Peru, 1-10-2009; based on similar events taking place at the time

(Rewritten as ‘Resurrecting Jonathan’, 11/2011)

He had listened to the voice without interrupting. He was speaking to him slowly, and as his voice faded, his body seemed thicker than a wall, and the man’s voice sent back an occasional echo.

       He regarded himself as frozen in place; thus, the young man was forced to listen—; consequently, without embarrassment. Otherwise, he’d not had been able to tell the police the part of this story he endured. The rest of the story the girl across the hall, and the police would fill him in on, upon his complete revivification. 

       It was a stranger’s path he had crossed that afternoon, in a bar, in Miraflores, Lima, and an American male with two Peruvian friends, feeling no need to shoo away the company. He didn’t know he’d be wrapped in the anonymous cloak of a strange scheme; these three were up to something. And when he’d cast off the cloak of darkness, removing the unknown, such things are never brought back to its normality, and life never the same.

       The waiter informed the young American, pointed out to him—one of the three men put something into his drink, then they all three up and left the bar. What the waiter did not tell him was that there were three other persons, a man and two women also interested in him in the bar (not knowing of course their intent).

       The two women were rather on the hefty and broad side; they had blue jeans on, both had a medical bag, both under thirty years old. They rather looked alike, yet didn’t clash.

       The man had his back turned away from the waiter, and Jonathan.

       “I thought it would interest you,” said the waiter, “because I heard you speaking English, with the two Peruvians.”

       Involuntarily, Jonathan exchanged a glance with one of the two hefty women, followed by a look of near stale indifference by her, as if she couldn’t care less. He then looked cautiously, peering around the room in all directions, and within his head, the voices within the bar, seemingly turned into whispers, innumerable near silent exchanges.

       Within the following fifteen minutes, He discovered himself at his Four Star Hotel, opening up his door to his room His head in miseries.

       It was imperceptible, impossible closing of his eyelids. He heard voices over him—without the slightest sign of interest to his moaning.  

       “We know who you are,” said a woman’s voice, “bring me the smaller seizers,” she told her female accomplice, as she continued to do whatever she was doing, calmly.

       “Where’s … (a pause) said the first voice to the accomplice, making a gesture.

       “He’s guarding the door,” said the accomplice.

       They needed less than an hour in the apartment; dusk had fallen, and the windows and curtains had been closed by the male member. Also the man by the door had turned off all the lights, all but the one by the bed, where Jonathan lay paralyzed as the operation took place.

       Had anyone rang, it wouldn’t have mattered, Jonathan couldn’t have answered—but Georgina from across the hall had seen all, everything, and called the police, but she knew it would take them hours to come, if they came at all. They seldom took such calls serious (and more often than not, they were not the solution, rather part of the problem).

       For half an hour she sat waiting, listening to the sounds from across the hall. Immense feelings of dread, loss came over her, helplessness, it wasn’t painful I mean, more like a dim shadow creeping over her from under the door across the hall, into her room, she felt as if she wanted to swallow up the police for not showing up. That whatever they were doing to him, they could do to her, to anyone without regard for their liberties.

       And in the mist of all this, Jonathan, in helpless desolation, became empty inside, weighting less than before. And the next step would sink the scales of repair probability into the sea, forevermore lost.

       “Fill them up with gauze!” said the hefty surgeon, to her accomplice.

       The man was half asleep leaning against the door, wakened by the sound of voices on the street, and then they disappeared into the entrance of the hotel.

       “Be quick,” said the surgeon.  “We can go now,” she added in the second moment.

        “We’ll meet in San Juan Miraflores,” said the man, “I left my suitcase there at the Hostel, near the ‘Cristo Redentor’ church and park next to it, around the corner, under the name Garcia.

       “Pay your bill and go to another hotel, call me on the cell then,” said the Surgeon.

       They went out the back door of the hotel unseen, except for the eyes of the neighbor across the hall. The police showed up, a warm feeling came over Georgina. She opened the door, the layer of paleness that had stretched out over her face, still showed, but her eyes sparkled.

       “Something was going on in that apartment, I saw one man and two women enter and leave, they’ve been in there for a bit over an hour with a young gringo, what took you so long?” she questioned, knowing she was not going to get an answer, and just a stare which 

       the police did not reply as expected, as was normal practice for them, and knocked on the door as she; the young female kept talking, as if the whole matter involved a murder. Then the door opened, it hadn’t been locked.

       A foot inside the door she muttered words that sounded like a prayer. When the police turned on the lights, she held her breath; the young man was laying on his bed, on his back, bandages over his eyes.

       “What are you waiting for?” she questioned the police.

       They kind of knew now what had taken place; it didn’t baffle them any, as it had Georgina.

       Jonathan, druggy, slow in motion, trying to get his senses back, lifted his body upward with what strength in his hands he had left, said, “Whose here, what’s going on?”  Then leaning his back against the backboard of the bed, his mind reactivated from his hour long endure, and slightly dimmed hangover, came out of his dilemma. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded and shouted, again; now feeling the gauze over his eyes; tarring the gauze and its holding tape out from his eye sockets.

       “Please calm down young man,” said one of the officers, he knew what had taken place; it was a new kind of business going on in Lima.

       Georgina fainted, the surgeon had stolen his eyes, they would within a short period of time be sold on the black market.

#834  Originally written in 2008, and rewritten in a shorter version 11/24/2011, based on actual events taking place in 2006, in Lima, Peru, fictionalized here by the author.   #555