Disarticulated America (Commentary, and personal thoughts)

The Government of the United States under Obamaism, and preceding with Hillary Clinton, to which surely will remain so if she is to run the country in the near future, will boil us alive, little by little, without us even noticing it. Like a frog in a kettle, turning up the heat little by little, unaware of it, and then never to be aware of it, once dead. This awareness of what is going on at the White House, is short on providing straight answers to simply questions. This I believe can be seen by the weakening of our country, as to reinforce our need for globalism. That being the main reason both Obama and Hillary have tried to threaten England out of their desire to be a sovereign nation, yet connected in a lesser form, as with NATO, etc. This is in the same strain of Obama’s thinking. The next step is to have us join the World Court, and be subject to their jurisdiction.  This is their homicidal and suicidal mounting horrors for all America, so I believe as a nation. A madness of immolation, or self-destruction, like Rome did it from inside out. Soon we will be 21-trillion in debt, another disjointing bone for America; much like taking and milking down gun control to have a carnival of bloody holidays, in safe zones, while coast to coast Islamic Terrorism is unleased, uncrushed  by allowing open borders. Hence, becoming a dismembered sacrifice for Islamic triumph. I see in many cases the Muslim communities want a part of America, just not to be a part of America. Right or wrong, rights without responsibilities gives rise to a savage error, as an American Citizen it is everyone’s duty to uphold the Golden Rule: to do on to others as you’d have them to do on to  you. So simple most folk have forgot the slogan.  If it was up to me, we’d have some middle ground here, not two representatives for president so unlike their own parties. But here we have it, so one must look at what is at stake, not what one can get out of it. In Peru, unfortunately, for a buck, you can buy a vote, it is not much different in America nowadays.

       A last word on this, and not to play the fear card, but American politicians are already studying and alert to, and awaiting for the nuclear disarticulated malefic Islamic Terrorist mind (they already know the source); it is not a matter of if, but where and when it will take place, we are now seeing the prelude to WWIII, and luckily it has not taken place yet.  The IsIs, the whole population of this Islamic Order is a blood-mad priesthood going forth daily in the ritual of those far-off days of Mohammed’s warriors; mentality sapped and bestialized.  It should be said, however, that most Muslims will misunderstand and question the statement of the New Testament that ‘God is love.’ Thus to address God, as a God of love or ‘Father’ would be far from Muslim thought. As it would be to address Jesus Christ as the Son of God.  They don’t fear him because they do not believe he will return. Therefore by doing so, they deny their need for Christ. On the other hand, there is no atonement for sin, no propitiatory basis for forgiveness of sins for Muslim. Contrary to Christianity.  As for Muslims, forgiveness is predicated upon both personal merit and Allah’s choice of mercy.  Thus, never knowing of their fate, and as the Qur’an stipulates, “God is All-mighty, Vengeful!”  They think Christians teach a falsehood, concerning Jesus and Mary, much as I think they teach a falsehood concerning Muhammad, and Allah. Actually the Qur’an, teaches them to deny. They believe the 3^rd Testament of God’s word, is the Qur’an that supersedes the previous two. Although this is contradictory, because although they may have some of the same prophets, they have a different God completely. What the IsIs have forgotten is the Qur’an states evil deeds will be weighed on a scale at the Day of Judgment. This should scare them, but evidently it doesn’t. So at the end of the road they look for balance. 

       And in case we’ve forgotten, a democracy is for the people by the people, not for a president and his associates, by a president.

       Anyhow, this is just a simply commentary on some daily thoughts, don’t take it to serious, we all need to have an open mind, that is the best of nature in the human.

Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Poet Laureate

El Hutchka

El Hutchka (Plague of the Mice)

In   the mountainous regions of Peru

Some say the rigid legend is still true, El Hutchaka:

Plague of the mice!

This nighttime, troublesome rodent occurs in mass

When there are two guilty spirits—brother and sister,

Guilty of incest; thus, the mice either plague the house,

Or the person, with endless torments!

Until they repent, or move on.

#5289/6-21-2016

Copyright © June, 2016 by Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. H.c.

Under Kaypacha, the Muki

The   Muki, is playful prankster.

He’ll give you gold nuggets only to turn back into stones.

He’s happy-go-lucky, if he’s alone.

Perhaps a foot and a half in height.

Who has very few possessions besides a pickaxe, and a hat?

He lives in the High Andes of Peru, usually barefoot or with sandals.

His garments are usually of wool; he is semi-human, I am told!

They have a village, the Muki, under the earth, some say in the mines and some say they are bewitched, while others say very rich.

They live in Junin, and some have metallic wings.

Under Kaypacha (earth), resides the Mother of Waters, where the Muki swim among gold and silver columns.

Where in the beginning of the world ukhupacha (the world below) they learned to live in the dark world’s shadows.

#5288/6-21-2016

Copyright © June, 2016 by Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. H.c.

The Passing of Enkidu

 (From the Epic of Gilgamesh, and the Book of Enoch)

     The Passing of Enkidu

                   ((Sumer/2750 B.C.)(In Long-verse Poetic Prose))

Shamhat of Uruk (2700 B.C.)

No human foot, henceforward had approached the grizzled   half-human looking beast!

And if so, if some had seen him, by what name would they have called him by, other than freak or beast? He had none.

No one had previously sought him out, it would be in time said: the gods sent him.

Whereupon one morn, a young lad was searching the forest for fruit, and came upon this freak of nature—

The adolescent stood stone-still, like white marble, stunned as a white tomb of salt—

Hence, he did not murmur a word, a breath, but ran back home to tell his father of what he saw; and of what to said, he described a hairy ape looking demon of some un-descript  humanity in him, thoughtful at that.

And the father told King Gilgamesh of Uruk, his boy’s story.

Explained his father to the King, “The boy looked baffled of what sort of human being he might be, and the forest being his whole home; he ate and drank like the animals, but had human agility, rigid, form.” 

. . .

Enkidu’s home, was the forest, it sheltered him in silence from the outer world around him, a form of seclusion—

He lived and slept in the open air, likened to, and with the other beasts, and reptiles, primates.

He wandered more often than not by the lagoon he identified with, and its tributaries.

He roamed where he was most familiar, that had much vegetation, fern-pals, of the most unusual kind, and wide-leaved grasses.

The man-beast, yet unnamed, mainly was preoccupied with clarifying and assorting and recollections of the present.

For this, it was a more troublesome thing, than one might think. 

His thoughts and sensations were curiously confused.

His mind went from gray to dark more often than not; from there to pitch black, to oblivion—

For it was that he simply awoke one day, likened to Adam from the Garden of Eden, and had no recollection of what took place ahead of time!

As if it was whipped from his memory, by some sorcery.

It is said, the gods made him to pal with Gilgamesh (demigod, more demonic than human), for he, King of Uruk, was amongst his people, a most hypersexual animal, a demigod who took at will wife and daughters of whomever he pleased and did with them whatever his pleasures were to be for that day or night.

His father being Lugalbanda (Little Lord).

Guardian and deity of Uruk (born from the souls of pleasure, whom were thrown to earth from the crags of heaven).

It was also said, the likes of one of the Watchers (like Azaz’el or Semyaza) those angelic renegades who cohabitated with human females in those pre-flood cadaverous days gave birth to a she-devil, who cohabited with a male, and gave birth to Enkidu.

Then left the babe in the forest deep, with imps to feed him and watch over him in his sleep, to his manhood.

And thus, this is how he got his supernatural physique, akin to Gilgamesh’s height and strength; but only a tenth of what Humbaba was.

But who were those Angelic Renegades and so called watchers?

(Interlude: It is indeed strange, the Epic of Gilgamesh, Enkidu, Shamhat, and the Angelic Renegades—from the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha—these writings should have fallen more speedily into the hands of posterity, but rather fell into semi-oblivion into a somewhat flowery romantic style, but now, in spite of their range and penetration, I take them out of their pervasive verbal sorcery, and take them out of unaccountability:

Who were these archangels, seraphs, and seraphim, Watchers of Earth, who swept through the earth like gravitational waves?

Who traversed the warp of time?

Leaped through black holes to haunt earth, and became souls of pleasure.

Who radiated pure energy once, as if having inside of them the mass of a star!

Who were not subject to the ripples in the fabric of space and time, produced by interstellar violent events! Propagated at the speed of light…

They we God’s castaways, cast-outs; those reckless fallen angels, those exiled from heaven for treason; who gave earth giant sons… hybrid demigods?)

. . .

Enkidu, the man-beast, also called ‘The Wild One’, lifted his head a tinge, when he’d drink from the lagoon’s stream.

Scan the principles, and topography with his peripheral vision, to see if there were any apposing predators—

With prodigious effort he stood erect, too often stooped much in the forest, therefore it was trying at times to arch his back.

He was friend to all the forest, gleaming and enormous was his appearance: he lived among the matted creepers, the venomous serpents, and dire beasts: the animals lured him evermore, yet he had a mystery of some infinitude.

He dreamt of flowers fairer, of trees high and stately.

He loved the forest with a strange and fearful adoration.

And for the most part, humans avoided this perilous wooded area of the forest: thus, he knew none.

No one drew near to the edge of the forbidden section, where the monstrous Humbaba was, saying his heart beat was like thunderous drums.

Not even Enkidu.

. . .

Enkidu ‘The Wild One’ slept by the verge of ancient trees in the Cedar Forest, also home to the monstrous Humbaba, guardian for the angelic renegades, and demigods; but Enkidu kept his distance—

He was well aware of his deep and green shadow and his thunderous roar.

Thus, he stayed with the fretted ferns, played with the lovely shaped fall leaves, and the many butterflies.

Too, the emerald and scarlet birds.

Even he’d step further and further into the emerald gloom, yet he feared only Humbaba, and never stepped beyond—a certain point, not yet.

Happy was his soul, unknowing of civilization, or the human female.

In a childlike manner, and mind, he picked many flowers, smelt the inebriating perfumes.

And then one day Shamhat, ‘The Joyous One’ appeared all sprawled out on the grass by the lagoon, naked.

Her beauty, the likes of Aphrodite, sent by Gilgamesh to entice and civilize him, to be his pal, for Gilgamesh had no equal.

Shamhat, well-endowed, priestess of Ishtar from Uruk, enticed him from the lagoon, to her side.

. . .

And she taught him different and unfamiliar things.

And he lost himself to her amongst the trees and beasts.

And they participated in a seven day sexual odyssey, to which he had been wrenched body and soul.

Put into a long dreamy sleep.

When he came out of his slumber, dog-tired, he found his life beyond retrieving.

His old life was somehow unreal and remote.

He was very weak and wobbly, looking for eatable fruit.

In brief, when he made love to Shamhat, his body was stiff and hard, and his heart throbbing like fire.

He felt light headed, and thereafter, limp, just what happed?

He was puzzled, dazed in a feeble state.

For his particular remained stiff as a stump of a tree, and he engaged in coitus for seven days, without rest.

It was all like a heavy wave, without much of a break.

And the animal in him was tamed.

And the trees grew lighter, and his animal friends wandered off, they knew him not.

And he was drowsy and dizzy, and he no longer rose to the sun, or allowed it to wake him.

And his old life faded, sank down to an everlasting naught.

And Shamhat achieved her plot, and allotment.

Afterthoughts

Those so called renegades, Watchers, Fallen Angels, came down from the fathomless deeps of time and space—

Not originally to stomp themselves on the face of humankind but to watch over them.

They like Enkidu, were lulled into power, vanity, and pride and at the end lust.

In so doing, stomped on humanity as they pleases because they could;

And those prehumen demonic forces, were reinforced to do likewise!

And thus came diabolism.

And long since has it been since this took place.

And those who have survived God’s fury, long since have grown silent, for a time being.

And for man today I know not their thoughts for him, but I do know they know, their time grows short.

How many remain, only Satan their godfather knows, other than God himself.

And Satan the Great Dragon, will summon them forth into time, anon.

There will be no more stillness here on earth, and if there should be, it will be false.

Satan knowing that time is brief, what he has planned to do, will do.

This is why I have written this account, the undoing of Enkidu, is as we see, the undoing of the present day world, and America to boot.

And it will be done in front of our faces, to mock God: like Sodom and Gomorra, like Radical Islam, like those whom all they have is indifference to their neighbor and similar—

And now I must make an end, and fling this writing forth to drift upon the wave of time, and let it fall between shadows to shadow.

Written 6-15 & 16 -2016 (#5278)

Note: in the past twenty-five years the author has read three different accounts, translations, of the Epic of Gilgamesh, and this is his view only of a certain section within the Great Epic, written in stone fragments about 1700 B.C., and the happening about 2750 B.C. The Epic itself is considered the 4^th greatest story ever written down, to which even surpasses ‘The Book of Job’ (the story goes back to about 2200 B.C.) and ‘The Iliad and Odyssey’ (the Trojan War being about 1250 B.C., and  the Epic being written down about 800 B.C.) The author has taken insights from the Epic of Gilgamesh, and the ‘Book of Enoch,’ (written down about 200 B.C. 7^th from Adam, Adam going back to about 8700 B.C. thereabouts according to Jewish lore?) to tell his story, “The Passing of Enkidu” with its ‘Afterthoughts’ for mankind today, or modern man.

In the Abyss of Dreams

Cloistered Poetry

 In the Abyss of Dreams

((The Old Tramp) (poetic prose))

He, the   old tramp, had found a lost continent.

He dreamed a new world.

And he had stepped into it, —so long now had he drifted back and forth from it, he had forgotten who he had been.

But he mumbled often—to whom might have been listening—“Too many people around, too indifferent, self-absorbed.”

And so I write of this old man, brief as it is, a tramp I met, and I shall fill in the gaps of his life, which was more his dream world than, what we consider reality.

For the old tramp, his dream became reality for him.

The more he dreamed, the more it took on an enraged realism.   

Outside of this dream world, the world to him was ugliness, and foul.

“Where truth was, was what people wanted it to be at any given time, and never revealed fully,” so he’d mumble.

“And pretense was worshiped, like Baal,” so he muttered.

Consequently, in this nebulous sort of dream life he found a new world that he could live in, day and night.

Disassociated with earthly existence, its struggle for survival, continuation, while his other world became more real, deeper, and more profound.

When he was awake, what he ate was for the most part, what he found which was seldom, during those last well-meaning forgotten days: that being: garbage thrown from opened windows of apartment buildings of the city!

His mind was shaped by thoughts and fantasies.

His awake life, was a life of pictures in the brain, he preferred the inward dreaming.

It was as if something was chaining him down.

. . .

In his alternate world there were enchanted hills, gardens that grew flowers that looked as red and glowing, as the sun, blinding sapphires, mountains that sang to the moon, whispering seas, bronze and gold roofed cottages—

And he himself, rode a caparison white horse, across carven bridges, white paths, watching the birds, bees and butterflies swarm the fields around him, in a placid manner.

Throughout the cedar forests, he leaped with his horse past the ivory gates of fetching cottages, and townships with tall steeple domed towers.

Always trying not to wake up, or if to, to drink more wine or his choice of drug—whatever he could find—to supply his habit to fall back into REM sleep, and deeper into the hashish world, for one more eloquent episode, one he was born for, and to get out of other one that he was thrown into.

One he preferred to exist in was not the one he was born into.

Should he have been awakened, all he saw was a fearful aurora of a ruined stagnated city, a reedy muddy garbage filled and verminous stream!

People staring out their windows at him, chocking on carbon dioxide of the passing cars, trucks.

Too, he knew he’d grow weary fast of the crudeness of the people’s emotions, and sameness, and they’d never understand his meaning of life.

And then once in reality, full reality, clean and sober, where would come the satisfaction or fulfillment?

That which he had left in yore, way back in his gallant dreamland.

Was this not in itself the antidote?

Old popular doctrines, inflexible cures, most cures were muddled thinking.

He wanted to escape, or find its equal, like Gilgamesh who sought out Enkidu, because of boredom.

No one took the time to find out the secret pits in his life, those that described him, he had a room for each, hung in aspirated colors.

And then one day, out of the blue, a rift came, a chasm appeared, a fissure opened up—like an earthquake, in the deep hollows of his dreams!

He fell down, down, way-way down into its abyss.

And there was his biggest achievement, he found it, the Radiant City of Crystals and Pearls— “This,” he whispered, “is where I’ll stay and live, it’s where I belong!”

This magical world so vivid, once in fragments now all together, associations of his mind fell into one vista, a breathless expectancy, one that was unquenchable.

. . .

He felt a tugging on his shoulder, it was likened to python was trying to pull him out of the city.

“No, no” he cried, but nobody heard him.

The old lady tried with all her effort to wake the Old Tramp, laying on a damp mattress thrown away as garbage, and full of ants, ticks and bedbugs, and white worms, in an empty lot, within the greater city, a metropolis.

Lo, a police officer then approached, felt his pulse, he wasn’t sure.

He took a long, long glace for movement, at the laying old tramp!

Even tapped him lightly in the face to wake him.

But the old man was warm, feeling the breezy sea lull, watching the clouds drift over a village cliff (in the land of make believe).

One of the several curious strangers that had crowded around this limp body, said in a loud cry: “Someone please take him to a hospital!” although he reserved the right to back off.

Then the police officer announced that he was dead.

Saying to the old lady that had waved him on:  “I’ve seen him here before—he was a dreamer, a drunk, a user of drugs; although he did find something out of all this,” and he hesitated to say what he thought, as the old lady waited patiently to hear his closing remarks, “calm, lasting beauty, only comes in a dreams…what the real world threw away long ago!”

For those alluring moments, the old tramp was observing the region where the sea meets the sky.

He refused to allow the python to wake him, or the bugs slapping his face.

And all those who at the present knew he had passed on, to wherever, they too, went on their way, to wherever.

#5286/6-18-2016

  

The Charnel Vaults

((A Long-line Eldritch Narrative Poem) (poetic prose))

Should the corpse speak to the charnel heap, what would the corpse say?

Perhaps, “All that man is, is of but dust and water, and he thinks he’s a big deal?”

Or perchance, “In the end, man is thus, evaporable! And that is that!”

What would the catacombs say to all this?

“Down here it is just cold, drafty with damp walls, with deposits that are rotting, decaying, giving off dead air, and foul smells?”

Who’s to say, so I speak for them?

I think they might surmise, “All the wisdom of mankind can be put into one head, why so many? We need more room!”

. . .

Maybe a statement-question might arise: man is but a laden camel that snuck out of the deep dark Edenic vales long ago!

And since all he has done is go with the flow, or the flocks of geese, what more can God expect!

And then there are those who seek the irretainable plunder and booty, beyond redemption. What does God think?

Alas, man, if he has not walled himself into the likes of the ‘Gardens of Babylon and their diabolical ways, akin to Sodom and Gomorra and their in discretional ways’ what then, has he done?

And what he has done is for the most part on behalf of the crimson demons, given them the rights to devour him, when his time comes!

Demons, like ghouls and vultures they search and thirst for captives, knowing the mysteries of man’s desires and nature: be it, primeval silence, or clamor and glory or a scare-imaginable romance!

They want to bring mankind to Hell’s un-chartable extreme.

To demonstrate horror with their multitudinous count in horned heads, and devil like tails

To place them in their funeral vaults never to return.

Instilling coeval in generations to come, into the yet to be born souls, by proxy.

While the prime taskmaster, is still alive: thus, instill vertigo madness, and delirium.

From the mud-brick towers of perdition, they curse, and have long yawned for man to be part of their misery.

In Eden’s ebon corners, came desolation, troublous horror to the shores of all mankind in those latter days, after Adam and Eve were tossed out; Today, God’s tribulation, and trials by faith are hanging on a hinge, with a thin thread, as thin as a spiders silk like strand.

All this humanity was originated way back when, and that when is now coming to an end, perhaps we will be the least existed species the earth as ever known.

I doubt man will survive this coming generation; his extinction is around the corner.

. . .

In the worm gardens of porphyry, holds all the king’s, false clergy, ex-presidents, governors, mayors, monarchs, tyrants of industry, of old, and new.

All in enchained, in an enormous spider caged like cell, in the deep intestines of earth’s putrefying cold—

Now so old is this enormous room, so encrusted with an overabundance of white worms, they are woven into coats, and garments to keep the tyrants warm.

Over the enormous room, paces the Hydra-headed Demon, the keeper.

With a venomous love for his special guests by virtue of his pleasures measured in tortures.

Such as torturing with Cacophonic, jarring sounds.

Sounds of evil Dom that chills the marrow in the bones, and clogs the blood, chokes the heart, and vibrates one’s tissue.

He has his imps, constantly beating on the tabor drums, with the menacing music of the fifer, twisting ones prune wrinkled skin, to burst level.

He drops vampire bat oil on their heads from above, and lights them on fire.

He places a wrangling python around each and every ones ribs and breasts, and orders the python to curl.

It’s just simply his entertainment.

. . .

And so we, you and I, we’re sent out of darkness into a stirring world of air and twilight—

Sent forth by our elder’s eons ago, through fathomless births and rebirths, out of sullen blackness rippled and warped space and time, to this strange phase in time and space, in a certain place, from a land of no reflection of before.

Looking on the ramparts to find our creator, busting down infernal walls and doors, on our way, ending up in the Charnel Vaults—

Some of us being rescued by the blood of Christ! 

Others groaning with the demons, the very ones who imprisoned them, us!

All in some allied brotherhood, with demonian Lords that traverse the earth, awaiting for the forthcoming prophecies; waiting for Christ’s return!

6-13 & 14-2016 / #5277

Shadows of the Dead

 The Hyperborean Mythos

Shadows of the Dead

Some shadows have upswept dust, like the dead who awake from their deep unnatural sleep, fighting to avoid the abysmal Hell, or mysterious Limbo, of the un-desecrated dead or the dead who are awaiting placement, beneath their feet: avoiding those vertiginous gulfs and crags!

Only to be seen before the first light, behind the abating sun, below the noontide, or pale moon, and in the interlunar darkness: they have unmoved lips of the fortnight.

Thus they lurk in the eclipse of man’s shadows, behind trees, in allies.

These are the dead who walk in hazardous obscurities heedlessly, to avoid the living, and the Henchmen of Hell. 

They blow with the riven winter wind, or bleak spectral summer breeze, like leaves fleeing the eternal night!

Not to be lost, or unseen forevermore.

Nauseous, quick, and at times languid, wherever, they run in dire fear the ebon imps of Tartarus, will slay the soul!

Torture and benumb them!

I noticed in a vision-dream, one among many, who I knew had died, who moved not with the others, he was in an oubliette.

Death had found and left him there.

And I could not tell if it was a dungeon, for slaves or kings.

My mind and eyes ebbed the scene, ere he had no age, nor was he crumbled or encircled with darkness, rather a chimed in sunlight, but there was no sun, and when he died he was eighty, now forty.

He was not reeling, in the feet of time.

In-between Heaven, Hell, and Limbo, I sensed there was a mirage of things that were, and after-figuring of forgotten time, twilight hushed the vision-dream—and it sank into irretrievable oblivion.     

. . .

In another vision, I saw many wandering souls of men and women, hesitantly or in haste.

Knowing now that s/he had been forgotten.

Thus they turned away despairingly, stooping hastily from the little light they had.

Unable to distinguish the faces of their companions and comrades.

Forthwith, and henceforward, they—one by one—dropped to an irremovable Limbo, or the irredeemable Hell.

No exceptions, but the old man of eighty.

And between these two subterranean tombs, —Limbo and Hell—a mysterious black winged gigantic seraphim ran his ineffable errands, to confer with demons just who would remain, where?

#5283/6-16 & 17-2016