Worlds Beyond The Demon Follows (Poem)

Beware, demons follow

The chosen, from birth to death—!

Throughout their lives!

With nets in hand, they

Follow like fiery red stallions,

Over dung hills, stooped…

They come from the bare

Earth; cracked and creviced, up through

Merger gases and granite roots—

Once above they hang in

The air, where it is plain the

Chosen have stood!...

Wondering and curious

The demon peers into the inviting gloom

And begins to blow, blow

Strange odors fill the air

And whispers to seduce the unaware

Come like opiate blossoms!

They disturb the human

Senses; now he must make him

Stumble, fade from God…

This is the demon’s job!

#5082/2-18-2016

Copyright © 2-2016, Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. h.c.

Worlds Beyond & the Hyperborean Mythos Arch Devil Belphegor’s Diamond Planet

Copernicus, also known as Planet 55 Cancri e, or the Diamond Planet, twice the size of earth, some forty-light years away, that has an orbit so close to the sun, its 2000 c at its surface. The planet takes eighteen hours to circle its sun. Its mass, eight times that of earth, and it is rich in carbon, inferring rich in graphite, coal, limestone and petroleum and above all, diamonds, all commercially important molecules for earth.  It is said, the smallest diamond is the size of a large thumb, and the largest—of which are many—the size of a five to six foot stalagmite. The problem for Donald Rump Olton, billionaire industrialist, is that its atmosphere is much too condensed with hydrogen cyanide and prussic acid, thus poisonous, and no water, and very hot. Hence, one can see with the clap of an eye, this planet is for the most part, sealed off to any earthly invasion. Or is it?

       As the old saying goes: if there’s a will, there’s a way!  And Mr. Donald Rump Olton, was going to find it one way or another.  From earth, it looked no more than a common pebble, a closer look, it looked like a chicken egg. Then Mr. Olton’s scientists discovered a crack, a large crack in the larger end of the planet, like the Grand Canyon, and as deep as the Colca Canyon in Peru.

       For the industrialist, Mr. Olton, of New York City, diamonds began to run gradually inside his head, wheels made out of diamonds, he had to perceive, recognize the unperceivable, and create a mechanism to mine them. There came that industrial devil’s whisper of a hundred flutes in his head: faster and faster the diamond wheels revolved. Then came a thought, ‘Did not Solomon, put giant demon to work for him, in building his temple?’  Yes, legend says he did. “Why can’t I?”

       Thus, he called to the Master Demon, Arch Devil Belphegor, who dominated the netherworld. When he appeared there was a terrific suction, an unseen current more powerful than a 6.5 earthquake, had there not been gravity and a thick atmosphere above Olton’s head, he’d had been plunged into black frigid space.

As well as I can recollect there was no less of time in the meeting. But at its end, Mr. Olton had to sign his soul to his dominion: “Nothing for nothing” said Belphegor. And hence, the forces of the netherworld, had a job for twenty-years to look forward to.   And Belphegor selected a force of twenty giant demon, whom complained of numbness, a painful tingling, blisters and rosiness from the 2000c surface mines on planet, 55 Cancri e; but in time they got accustomed to it. The good news was, the demonic labor force needed no water, or pure air, and therefore steady and slowly they could plunge through the sun’s flames as the planet circled its star, somehow these unfamiliar spirits became analogous to the sun, adapting to its unpleasantness quite well, and not so unlike the earth’s molten under crust of magma, and mostly unaffected by its heat, just a tinge irritable with the fluttering of the sun’s fire that burned into the planet’s surface, more often than not.

       The whole world could not guess where Donald Olton come up with such large diamonds, and until his death the demonic force throbbed with unnamable energies to dig them out for Mr. Olton, to build his towers and skyscrapers, the world over. But all good things come to an end, consequently, on his deathbed, he lay with an alien sadness, it was all so short lived.

                  

Written: 2-17-2016/5073

Copyright © February, 2015 by Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. H.c.

Little Jack’s Poem

Little Jack is fighting back, over and over again—

He has many medical complications

And I doubt he knows any of them!

(At fourteen months old…)

He said something over the phone last night

(The first time I’ve got to speak to him…)

I think he said ‘Hello, he…ll…oooo, ha, ah, ha!’

I think that’s short for Grandpa—!

For he made a fuss, until he got his way…:

His voice, eager with love, and child’s play!

#5079/2-18-2016 7 For Jack Hageman

Pope Pius XII ((Nazism) (Revised with Notes))

Why isn’t the warrior the Saint?

Is he not the one that makes the peace?

Without the warrior there’d be more grief!

Pope Pius XII, was such a Saint!

With what he had, he confronted Nazism!

Resisted with resistance, in the silent

Spy-filled halls of the Vatican, in WWII:

He made Hitler the fool!

He knew to keep his distance from Himmler,

Who wanted to do him in, like in the days of Nero!  

So underground they went, those bent on being

True Christians, with the Pope—

Like in the days of Claudius and beyond!

And thus, he helped bring demise to the rise

Of Nazism. 

#5056/2-6-2016

Note:  According to new research, and wartime documents (several) and interviews with the American intelligence agent who wrote them, Pope Pius XII, was involved with three plots to assassinate, remove, Hitler from power, thus being indirectly involved if not unswervingly. He had according to historian Mark Riebling, opted to resist Hitler with covert action, which made him a coconspirator, or accessory, to the botched attempts.  

Worlds Beyond The Mineralogist: Night Termination! (McGee, Part 1X)

What makes Earth special?

       The rule of war is to avoid hitting hospitals, the International Criminal Court calls it a War Crime to do so.  Now there is a new war game going on, the rule of proportionality has been altered, which says, even if the enemy is in the hospital, you cannot kill them, because the greater number will be civilian casualties, thus how do you kill the enemy then, when they are hiding in the very place, that is given sanctuary? The Mineralogist has come up with a new weapon of war, ‘Tight War Termination Killers’. Prof George Bacon, Mineralogist and Entomologist (the study of insects), was assigned to the project called: ‘Night Cessation’ (or `Night Termination`); for the United States Defense Department.

…

       So the question comes up again, what makes earth special, more so than Mars, the Moon or Mercury, or to mention but a few planets?  Minerals!  In a nutshell, minerals!

       Recently cobaltarthur—5 mm, were discovered, and we have a tinge of abelsonite, and fingerite, and particularly a thimble full of edoylerite, the latter being called by those who know the mineral well, the Mineralogist, and more often than not, the Entomologist, who study insects, especially those stuck on some extinct plant species covered in amber, or fossil flowers trapped in chunks of amber for fifteen-million years. So you take the Mineralogist and the Entomologist, and edoylerite, and name it ‘the Vampire-like mineral’ and what do you get, you get a mineral that decomposes on exposure to light (as rare as  the universe is old), a very rare short-lived mineral, and hard to find.

       Now if you take the mineral fingerite, it forms like flakes on the Izalco Volcano in E. Salvador—the only place in the world, when it rains fingerite washes away, gone forever. Thus only a few people know where these special mineral reserves are in the world. Safer that way.

       Rare as they are, can be manufactured, by industry, so Dr. McGee asked the Louisiana Space Agency, upon the visiting Mineralogist, “What insights does it provide for us here, and America as a whole?”  Prof George Bacon, the Mineralogist, ventured to say, the three Star General, Wessington at his side, whom were working hand in hand with the Underground Carbon Industry, “It all works in with minerals, earth’s system, insects, the colorless crystals are essential, they produce microbial ‘poop.’”

       Now they were all sitting in the meeting room and the General asked for them to turn off the lights, to make the room halfway dark, and Professor Hightower did as asked, and someone walked into the room, one could hardly make him out, “This is our new night fighting machine” said  the general.  Dr. D., looking closer at the outline of his face, a mixture of reds and browns and greens, had the room been any darker the person would have been un-seeable.

       “What exactly is he?” asked Professor Hightower.

       A little light came through the curtain of the window, and the person stepped back under a shadow, as not to be inclined to have the light directly upon him. Then Dr. D., took out a little flashlight from his pocket and shinned it on the object direct, or person. Instantly he became decomposed, moldy, rotting away as those flacks called fingerite, and not so unlike the mineral it was made out of, edoylerite called the Vampire Mineral, on the exposed of the direct light.

       “You did exactly what we predicted you would do if you could figure out what we did,” said the general, “and now you can’t question our hunt saboteur, or assassin; whatever mission he may have. He is an enemy’s nightmare.” 

#5074/2-13 thru 16-2016

The Hyperborean Mythos Amsterdam: Deserted Orchard (1975) Part II of II

 

I entered the room with my twin boys. Like the hall and hearth downstairs, it contained the furniture necessary for the most meager hospitality of a guesthouse in Amsterdam.  It was 11:00 P.M., It had an iron bed with a brown-drab-colored spread over it, a wooden chair next to it, a hat-rack and a washbasin, nearby. The walls were a dirty pale yellow, and naked of any pictures, a nail here and there, short and rustic, a sinister looking room.

       I fed the boys a ham and cheese sandwich, they were per near four years old.  Then I put them to bed, “What can I do until I’m tired?” I asked myself; a rhetorical question perhaps. Horrified by the idea of being shut up in this room sober. I paced the room shrugged my shoulders, it was fall of 1975, and there was a chill in the Amsterdam air.

      I had noticed a little bar at the end of the street was opened, prior to finding this guesthouse. I could go there for something to drink, —if I didn’t make any noise the boys would remain sleeping, and I’d be back in a jiffy, otherwise I’d have to remain in the hotel room, dry as the night is long.

Half an hour later, after washing up a bit, I was per near jogging along the way to find the bar. With my eyes wide open trying to remember the signs, to the bar, and for my way back, it was farther than I imagined.  I gave myself over to my thoughts:

       This was for me and my boys a weekend vacation, I was twenty-eight years old, I had a good job in Darmstadt, Germany, the long weekend, a four day weekend, was mine to do with whatever I pleased. And I wished, as I always wished, to travel with my twin boys. This desire had frustrated me at times, my job strangled me night and day.

       If I could live my life again, I would give up my drinking, the boring routine of professional drinking and live the unlived life which attacked me,  with my boys, for so often I am teased by Satan’s demon of the countless opportunism and paths which my feet would have trotted, had they not followed the will of the drunk. 

      Since then I have wrote my poetry in dreams, to save for a later date.

As I made it to the bar, at the top of the foothill my thoughts came to a halt, the path to the door of the bar was like a path that a reptile crawled ahead of me, as to guide me in.   I looked behind me, it was a slope of a hill I had climbed, curved: thus, I lost sight of my hotel-guesthouse, this area covered by low buildings, and now connecting streets, made me feel a bit lost.

       Inside the bar, it was a blessing to see all the booze I witnessed; it had a mildew odor, as all bars seem to have, and smoke circled about like  you were in Charlie Chan’s dope den; it never seemed to settle in anyone place. I ordered a liter of beer; I noticed four hooligans were watching me.

       Now before me laid the long path back. It was a modest walk, surrounded by a crude brick and stone wall I hadn’t noticed before, or if I had, it now came clear to my mind. My walk was like a deserted orchard. I counted four blocks, I judged it should be six total, hence, I had two more to go.  It stuck me for a moment, I might be lost, I mean, not lost but I wasn’t sure of the archway to the guesthouse, which one was it? They all looked comparatively the same. That is to say, the sprawling designs on each one looked similar.

       At the far end of the street those four young hooligans had been following me, I meticulously watched them. I thought of them as pebbles and weeds the earth spit up, that posed for a fight, this was my way of prepping myself. I let them draw nearer, picking my glass liter of beer up like a weapon for them to see. I stood under a streetlight, thus I was half-buried in light. I struck the liter of beer hard against a body of cement. It seemed to carry an echo, a death threat to the hooligans.  I don’t think I felt any surprise or fear, I have found myself suddenly face to face with grave situations before, and this was no different. I began to yell at the hooligans that it would be a mistake not to turnabout, and head on back the other way, and the sharp edges of the glass, sparkled, as the beer dripped out of it to its last drop. I even scrutinized closer, made a step two towards them. The night was left blank.

      

They turned about, and then I got moving slowly looking for the right archway. That was more a nightmare than the hooligans. Then it appeared. I brushed the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve, and sat down on the bed next to the boys, whom were deep asleep. Many minutes passed, my brain appeared to have shut down, stopped functioning, yet it refused to provide any logical explanation for my strange act of breaking my liter of beer, perhaps I could have chased them away without do so!

       As night advanced, sleep spread its ink-colored darkness over me, and for one night out of three-thousand, I fell to sleep sober.

 

5072/2-14-2016

For Samantha Shields (by Request)

Part one to this story is under the title “A Hearth in Amsterdam” written 2008.

Where Part one leaves off, Part two, takes over.

Nonfiction 

The Hyperborean Mythos Land of the Forbidding (Out of Haunting Wild of Minnesota and the Arctic Regions)

In the deep twilight when snow covered shrubs look like ghosts, and wandering deer look like monsters, beyond the cities and the farmlands, the farthest regions of Minnesota forests, and to the Canadian Arctic, nothing seems to appear in its right perspective; everything is too large, too tall, too wild, too ugly, too far, too near, too fierce, thus one never sleeps at ease in the wild of winter nights in the land of gray strangeness, in the land of the forbidding.

       When the northern lights appear, never are they the same, they, like the cold forest wavers and shimmers like the crossbones on a black flagged ship at sea.  The Inuits know the land and its old legends. Its ghosts, death, for death is common in this place, should you make the wrong, move, turn, step, choice, you must live with its results.

       With a bottle of whisky, which is common in these out of the way places, and an odd warmth comes to the blood and unknowingly you slip away, the spirit leaves its long dwelling and is no longer cold or hungry, but you are dead all the same. 

       This strange land that points to the North Pole, wicked demigods battle for who will take the form of the bear, the wolf, who will enter them to possess their spirits, after twilight. With them they bring sickness, death to the living. The spirit demigods are concealed in wedges, have good knowledge of the area. They sit on rocks and wait. Foolish they may be, but there they wait, chewing on seal skins, as they choose to pass the time.

       The wolves know more than any book will ever tell of the wild. To the wolf, darkness or light of day, one and all are the same. They howl through the valleys and the polar bear, thank God he can swim, avoid the packs of wolves. The caribou, astray, are a quick mark for a pack of hungry wolves.

. . .

At such a twilight a thing accrued, a great wolf fell into a pit, one an Inuit dug, covered with twigs and moss, he had several stakes embedded into the bottom soil,   however, somehow the wolf landed twisted all around the stakes, unhurt on the floor of the pit, but escape was impossible. 

       As I implied, death is common and the news of this wolf defeating death became a big news for the little Inuit fragment of a tribe of fifteen inhabitant, without showing its astonishment or giving comment to the beast, they freed him, they might have known some evil could befall them, but it didn’t occur to Kayak (who was named for his love for the water).

       What creature survives without the demon in him?  Did not God send him to Kayak’s pit for its execution? So a wise man from a nearby village had said to his pupils.

       It was the evening of the second day of the wolf’s freedom that one of the fifteen inhabitants of Kayak’s tribe had died, left were the marks of fangs coming from a stray wolf. Then the following day, another youth died, wife of one of the inhabitants of Kayak’s tribe, her body lay lucid and ripped apart as she lay on a pile of skins she evidently had been working with; her throat ripped to its windpipe.

       On the third day, a new born was fond with its limbs chewed to its bones, and left for dead, thus, the tribe was now twelve.

      The wolf-devil, was a virile active creature, huge in size. Never did such a beast have such sturdy legs, and strong spine, “He will die in day,” said Kayak to his tribesmen, “I will slay him with my spear!”

       And alone in the wilderness, that very night, he sensed the dark eyes of the wolf fall upon his back, and in a moments thrust, he was chewing through kayak’s elbow, disconnecting the upper and lower parts, and accordingly he dropped to the ground, prayed to his guardian spirit, that his little son would survive.

       The beast bent down lower as if to listen to his last words, his eyes appeared very wide to Kayak, and the wolf, with a human voice laughed. This fact no longer surprised Kayak, then suddenly, lightening hit the wolf, and its pelt was burnt to a rough brittle, and the animal sniffed his own hide, and died alongside of the Inuit. But before either one’s last breath, Kayak heard the beast say, —as Kayak bent his ear close to the mouth of the wolf, and through the lips of the beast the demon whispered: “The bear is on its way.”

It was said a bear killed every member of kayak’s tribe but one, whom this story comes from, it was Kayak’s son, and the old man of the nearby village, told his pupils: “The devil and the wolf have grown up together they both like blood. Let them die together as they are playmates, do not disturb nature’s plan!”

      

#5069/ 2-13-2016 

Copyright © by Dennis L. Siluk 2-2016