Poem – “To Lift Thee up from a Poor Tomb” – Romantic

Have thee gone astray?
From the wicked heart of mine,
Into the comfort of decay
And into the solace of a new moon,
Soon when your weary mind
Sees the heat in this garden’s bloom?

I see with steps that are taken,
Above a grave that reeks,
In the scent of an ocean,
The magnificence of your fall.
And soon to lift you up,
From this naked shell.

You are beautiful and exquisite,
Even in your pain.
You have the pain of a wounded bird,
And the eyes that show disdain.
Mere petals without being a bud,
Without any new beginning.

When you’ll see me and my strength,
There will be no doubt.
There will be no need to shout,
“I have not seen you in happiness,
So how have you found strength?”
I do not feed, my love.

I have starved myself of happiness,
So that I may see thy misery.
I have created torture from another flower
Where each petal holds poison,
And the nectar is just as toxic,
And it is how I comprehend pain’s taste.

I will take it away from you,
In this strength, in this love.
You are among the few,
Among the brave,
You have seen me among the rotten,
And you will soon see me as unforgotten.

Dialogue – “The Attempted Downfall of the Individual Perspective” – 6/5/2019

Q: As you term it, the “individual perspective” has become the beginning of the selfishness to a world with only a focus on the self, and a human’s inevitable yearning for companionship?

A: The “focus on the self” stems always from a view around oneself that is full of the rottenness of humanity. One believes in the value of negativity, though possesses the guilt harbored deeply enough to blame the self. They hold value in negativity due to them believing it as “righteous” to find all humanity equal to dirt.

Q: And as you term it, such people, whose focus is solely on themselves, have only done this, because a human’s flesh, or truth, is like clay; easily molded so that it is suited to be a desired shape?

A: The human flesh is like a canvas. And in comparison to the mind, the mind is also like a canvas. Truth is blank, like the clay that has not been touched, or like the canvas without color, and what grows from this is eventually the form or the color that is the influence. Influence molds truth and makes it whole. People find fulfillment in their reputation and status, and this comes from influence. Influence and truth are not the same, because truth, as has been said, is blank without it becoming a shape. It is formless, and as a Nihilist enjoys saying, is a nothingness. Nihilism is merely the reset of humanity. A nothingness does not remain a nothingness for long. It is the very reason for why peace is short-lived, in comparison to the “long winter” or the “long, and brutal war”. Pain is continually wondered upon with the words in mind, “When will it end?”

Q: You have said that the “individual perspective” has become the selfishness of an era, due to how when society is in disorder, then one has no choice but to repair themselves? And when someone focuses on themselves, they rarely ever focus on what surrounds them?

A: Though a human is inevitably affected by the environment, or inevitably interacts with their environment, this is not to say that they care for those who create problems. Humans will see themselves as humans, and will see other humans as humans; and as a human is only a human, humans will see their mirror image in another human. A world that longs for companionship, is the world of pain. Should we have to long for companionship, it is only because we have experienced it before, or grown curious over having witnessed it, that we say we should belong to it. The “individual perspective” is the belief that there is no universal traits among humanity. Such people with a mindset as this, will be wonted to say that each human has their own “perspective” on what companionship should be, and this only entices the feeling of “personal empowerment”.

Q: And you have said that when a human eventually falls in love, and faces disaster in the romance, the blame turns upon themselves, despite the fact that they have pointed their finger in blame of the other?

A: To speak of the “mirror image” again, one will one day see the grief in their eyes, the sadness in their eyes, and come to know the meaning of responsibility. For in a world that focuses solely on the self, it is a world that will come to loathe the self. It is a world that when disaster surrounds them, it is because they have seen another’s mistake as their own mistake; that such mistakes are human mistakes; and in such companionship that a human longs for, it is through love that a broken heart can be healed. The love for the self, however, does not heal a broken heart. It embitters it, and instead of healing the wound, there is only the stain of anger.

Poem – “With You in this Nightmare” – Romantic

My fragile darling,
How I wish to adopt your pain,
For it speaks many long sentences,
To my aching ears.
You have many years in sorrow.
And you are destined to be,
To be with me.
You have love pouring out,
Though, I recite this eulogy.

I found the universe to be lacking,
Among the stars and the shapes,
I found your face as singular,
Like a berry from brush,
Like an apple from a bough,
I tore away for my taste,
For my study,
And to be my muse.

The endless beauty of your years,
In all the pains that kept us near,
We comprehend,
Through screams and endless tears.
A mist and a puling,
The quietness of your weeping.
I still hear the pain that comes as notes,
Played as sharp melodies.

How is it that you remain beautiful?
How is it that I feel your pain,
In such love?
In the extent to this travesty?
I am in love
With the woman to who I cry aboard,
A titanic, a vessel that holds a limp form.
A crude ship that rots upon the waves.

With hands that tremble,
I feel the breast that glows upon your naked self.

With eyes that wander,
I see that Neptune would find my bottle as empty.

I feel the pain of your heart,
I see my own self as discontent.
We are not meant to be
This way in pain,
As two slaves taking sight of misery.
There is only death where there is sight.

Such pain that you exude,
Allows for my legs to stumble,
Over the rope and upon your skin,
That quivers beneath a silver moon.

I wish to raise you up,
To see the green and blue,
Not the lonely seas,
Nor the emptiness of a barren land.

Poem – “To Control Our Forever” – Romantic

I have in my palm,
The clay of your illuminated shell.
Your beauty that remains stilled,
Among the ebony shores,
Clears the skies,
In your nudity.
I am in love with only the failure,
That has become my eternal addiction.
Oh, when love is my eternity.
When love is my mercy.

I loathe the external benefit,
The mute loathing that shows
A frail breathing, lifted by toil.
I am staled by these bared hands,
That dig the soil
That surrounds your fertile form.
A beauty of flesh and soon to be
The bones beneath the extremities.
I’ve come to love the death beneath thee,
And not the truth to which makes you whole.

Fit for this merciful love and God’s own given ground.
His given ground of sanctity,
And his desires that are nothing
When compared to mine own.

Dialogue – “The Pathetic Obsession with Self-Esteem” – 6/2/2019

Q: What do you propose is the problem with those looking to improve their ‘self-image’ or their outlook upon themselves, which you say is the same?

A: The view of self-worth is the necessary ingredient in creating a world of arrogance. Arrogance, as in, what will always be a Sociopath’s fuel, for every machination that such a one brings to light. Arrogance is the belief in blood, and identity. Liberalism had tried to divert the world away from a system of kings and knights, though couldn’t ever divert the world away from the natural order of a human. The belief in ‘self-image’ comes through an understanding that if the self is worthless, then the self had only become this way through criticism. The coward spits on graves. The coward topples long-abandoned religious temples. The coward speaks of someone not in the room. The coward discusses an issue not before their enemies. In this, such criticism of the dead, of the absent, of the abandoned, is only born out of a mindset that a “criticism on life” is a criticism on those machinations by the arrogant. The “movements” as they are called, are the sight of life, and life in its “progress” to achieve. To reach a desired end, a desired goal, and ultimately rule with an iron fist.

Q: The problem, that is, is to see ‘self-image’ or ‘self-worth’ through the necessity to achieve, is this right? And also, to achieve, and to never take the moment to stop; is this right?

A: The mover among the ‘movement’ that never quits its movement will find that life will place marks on the skin. They are the marks of life that reflect stress, and the continued dissatisfaction that reflects rage and discontent; and among this, follows the destruction of never comprehending what results in an instant. For to face the many thousands of years with knowledge, is the equivalent of performing arson on a library. In the same way as a woman had protected her virginity, it could be lost in an instant; and a world without love is a world without protection. A world of lust is a world full of opportunities to win or lose, and should we lose, though still yearn for love when it is absent, we will say that the loss was still a win. The ‘necessity to achieve’ is the mindset of the monarch, and the dictatorship. Such people stop at nothing to earn what they want, not what others need. They target specifics, and not the entirety. It is a mindset, not a system; a mentality, not a law, that creates this disease.

Q: And for self-esteem?

A: Self-esteem is that belief in ‘superiority’. It is also a very subtle way to seduce someone into joining a side. The answers we receive for questions that remained subliminal, are either arisen from our subconscious to become endless confusion that results in madness, or ‘mental illness’; that, or it becomes a seduction from a rather large source. A source of answers that is always to be deception. For there is no other truth other than the recognition of what is recognized, and that is, the beauty that is original and new to the eye. For the question had been old, and the answer is new.

Poem – “An Ode to a Buried Woman” – Romantic/Mournful

I cry often,
When I think of thy prettiness.
The emptiness of my facade,
When tears fall in short streams,
To be caught at the chin
That is where I swallow my words.

I choke back the emotions,
The loss to which I feel open.
I weep for about a minute,
And loosen my tears to the open.
I see swallows and pigeons alike,
Both hearing these calls.

I ride the current,
Down to where my end had begun,
And see with eyes so wide,
The world and it’s lifeless plenty.
The world seems so distant,
For we are an ocean apart.

We are the milk among the galaxy.
The disease among the many.
The beauty among the frenzy.
You have been the burning to my heart,
The blood that boils and flows.
And the enemy to which I love.

Teaser into the Novel – “The Devorah of Reims” – Information about the Book

“The Devorah of Reims” is a novel about “split-division”. That is, it is about a young girl, named Devorah, whose life consists of everything being only “half-way” achieved. Everything is “half-way” for her, as her life continues to be a game of “Tug-a-war” between two men who are her lovers, two parents with one a Jewish woman and the other a German man, and two cities, of Reims and Paris.

It is a story about origin, prejudice, and disposition. Devorah is victim to both her ignorance and the knowledge of her identity, as a girl to a targeted German father. It is so, since this tale takes place during antisemitic France.

Poem – “Rosy Cheeks and Barren Words” – Romance

You have love that surrounds you,
As two arms that have closed upon you,
I have locked you as a shape,
I now love you in this place.
Your rosy cheeks are my dessert,
Your barren words are its sweetness.

I describe,
With a voice so cherished,
The roundness of a cheek, the left one,
And the right one, that has a distant hue,
Attached to the ivory skin.
What ivory that raises a chorus to Heaven’s chambers!

Your face has made a public sound,
Your eyes are not for me to salvage.
I feast now on the cheeks,
I creep, with hands that seek,
To reach,
To eat, those cheeks from that ivory.

A beauty with a face so divine,
So harmonic and rounded,
Tresses fall to your smile,
And surround your neck and shoulders.
So much beauty has left you wicked,
So much pain has left you empty.

Allow me to make you mine.
I drink the blood from my bites,
The wash of crimson against my lips,
Is there for the savoring.
Each moment spent in this bliss,
Is it only mine?

You are distrusting, my sweet.
Have you come to see?
The new moon, surrounded by a fault,
To which our love had grown
From the thorn of a patch,
Lone, and destined for failure.

I am in the music of memory. I am away from the bleeding cheek,
Only tears to eat, only tears to see. Only the finery of a musical word:

One that you speak, with cheeks that bleed,
“Go wither, and sadden all others!
With thy gifts of mercy
And the cloak of a man, who dresses in safety.
It was deception, and nothing else!
You have the face of Satan, not the face of love.”

Poem – “The Love Consumed from a Wine Glass” – Romantic

Tipped into thy divine mouth,
Like Heaven draining through an hourglass,
Of thy heavenly form, with no crudeness
At all, to the beauty of serpents.

I am in love with a sin,
To make love with the surge of emotion,
To make love with a woman of my nightmare,
Of all pain, and her studious gaze,
Here is me, to count the steps.
The disdain
To which I describe the form,
Measures my worth,
Like numerous trails that leak
Emptiness from my mind:

You are about as beautiful as the next
Monarch to be placed on a throne,
To me, as wonderful as the throne
Carved into it, with stones of red and green.
Your form is exquisite and serpentine,
A curve, alike to the serpent,
When upon golden sands,
When upon the shielded waters.

You are about as beautiful,
As the woman to which I take into the next,
The next room, where there is not you.
Infidelity is my crossing.
I dine now on the next,
My comparison is everything.
I draw on your flesh the word “deception”
And the word “shame”.

Oh, devil, take me down,
To where you will see yourself,
And your fields of ruin,
I see you, and I see the next,
Woman of my nightmares.
Is a love so entwined with virtue or sin,
As this? In my place beside thee,
Have I come to enter a new room?

My God, as the one who forsakes,
My tempest, and my wants,
I place you among all things,
To watch, to espy, to find salvation in the many.
My death is my certainty.

Poem – “The Sweetness, Unresolved” – Romance

Your dreary web of shades,
Falls into my place,
From the world’s hidden face,
As we stand beside a banquet and its host,
Placing each memory to our shoulders,
Hoisting its intolerable presence.

Oh, beauty.
With thy lavender scent,
From attire born to beckon.
You have a harmony to your voice,
And a grace to thy shoulders,
A tempting look,
In two orbs, of two eyes.
How wonderful you’ve grown,
In the thickets,
In the thorns, in the briar,
In the mire, when thou has been,
Nothing but blood.

Oh, have you come to see,
The community of flesh and phantom?

Oh, have you come to yearn,
For the petulance of children, and their moans?

Where we hail from,
In the void, and in the snow,
In the golden glow of a winter sunset,
In the silence of a winter’s morning,
We will dine,
On fruits and violet petals.
Death deals a merciful blow,
To our craving hearts.

My beauty with your feverish stare,
And thy wicked tongue.
Unfold your tresses for my unfurled lips,
And make a mockery of thyself,
Make one of golden roofs, and ornate gowns,
Of pleasant balls and moonlight glares,
From a moon so tolerant,
It would leave us aware.

Dialogue #1 – “On the Subject of God’s Reality” – “Of Flesh Raised or Flesh Buried”

Q: What you propose in your scenario is that flesh has a Necromantic emotive to it. Do you wish to elaborate?

A: Necromancy is the emotion, or emotive, that arises from an inability to forget those who have died. This is to say that we should forget their physical form. What manifests the physical form is the flesh. What places the flesh as literal, and opposite to the figurative, is that what is remembered is the emotions, felt from touch. The profoundest form of connection is in the literal and direct. This refers to honesty.

Q: Necromancy has the subtlety in which is forgotten, because it directs itself immediately upon the direct?

A: The most direct of things is the physical, and in this “scientific-loving” world, there can be no more the love for the physical, than a disregard for God. God has the emphasis on the ethereal, and the airy. Of things that dwell in higher places, they feel wind. Though, is it not the canyon that creates the wind from the lesser? Wherever the river wanders, is where God wanders, as such a river carries life. The cattle follow the river. The ox and the zebra follow the river. The most beautiful of things are the things most searched for, in discovery of them, and seemingly, as well, to relive them. If love is that river, that waterfall, then so is life to flow in that direction. Necromancy is the direction of the river, though is unlike life with a soul. A body without its spirit, is to neglect that God has a son, and are both the Holy Spirit. For Christ is the body, the blood of the body, and God had made him; though, without the spirit, this is not to say that Man was created in God’s image. It is to say that Man is lifeless, when such is, in truth, the opposite. Man is the beginner of life.

Q: In what manner is Man the beginner of life?

A: Every womb requires a seed, if there is to be a light, or a life, in it. The darkness of death, is in the darkness of the soil. Deep below, and one is blind. Above, and one sees light. To escape from danger, and find light at the end of the tunnel, is then to see hope. Still, when the infant is first born, it becomes aware to the light, at first. It was blinded by darkness in the womb, and then, aware to that light, that also blinds. In the nature of unity, there is family. Creation. In that, and such truth of creation, such truth of flesh, become exhumed from the womb. Truth is created. Birthed. Responsibility paves the way for the truth to appear whole. Should a mother care little for her body, then such truth, as an infant, will appear hideous.

Q: And for Christ to be resurrected?

A: Christ and his resurrection has the meaning of Necromancy, although, it is not placed into the category of eternity. It is, in fact, placed into the category of the vulnerable. For we have remembered Christ’s suffering, and through suffering, over vengeance or the wrath of God, there was only forgiveness. Necromancy is the vision for the one who cannot forget, as such perfection holds the meaning of eternity, and a denial of death. We see in such “eternal life” as God would present, to such “eternal death” as the Necromantic would present. Soulless, and without any spirit. Did Christ raise as a spirit, or as himself, as whole?

“In Love with the Personal” – Poem – Romantic

Here, I shake to know,
The dreariness in thou.
Why are there those who doubt?
Why are there those who say against?
Are we not to be?
Is there love at all between us?
I question it, for doubt has strung
My torment up, for the world to see
The darkness of us.

My dearest one,
You have a face like milk,
And a nose, molded upon a face
Like the wax from a candle.
And when you weep,
I see the candle flame melting it down.
Your face holds a fire,
That strikes my heart to bleed.
Have I held you up in my strength?

My withered strength,
My withered pride,
There is nothing more than you for me,
Not the kingdoms to which God has promised,
Nor the gold to which a king has ever promised,
There is only the comfort
To which we have promised ourselves,
By the hands that caress the bleeding wounds.
There should be no more mockery.

There should be none of what says rueful words,
When upon our shoulders,
When upon ourselves, entranced.
There should be none of that impending doubt
In formulation to our years in marriage,
In formulation to our years in each’s arms.

Like a scribe with a wishful note,
To translate into tears,
Tears of wax and tears of sweat,
As my toil is now your blood.