inocciduous systole "The Thetamatheia" (thetikos{positive} amatheia{ignorance})

The poet, which kept by his annectant and peloric and niveous station throughout the complete protension of his knowings and doings is invested of the eurhipidurous and inermous firmament, or the bird's pterylae and apteria or the configuration of his plumage and upon all the carolitic and nidamental and epornitic edifice of the world's chrysanthemum which is proper for nesting; and which are those loving faces, verses, and bodies of some oscinian and trochilidine gentility, commands himself and is drawn hitherto by some interests retained of things like that most splendid Altamira Cave, and it's intellectual paintings of bison, deer, and pigs; for it is most attracted to that art which is derived from biology, and zoology, and history: mythology, and architecture- and most especially geology, archeology, and paleontology: to encourage the knowledge of porphyry, laccolith, granite, and breccia and all those tramontane winds which are like auspicial halitus and cord; as that antoecial station which by some incurrent and labent inundation of the poetry which is inclineth by those acroceraunian peaks of Albania and which performs by the resolution of psilopaedic and altricial birds of the first coming down, which by Summanus and Jupiter were graced; inspires the likes of Horace, and hitherto constitutes a new class of creator gods in that Intercessor of what most men are as a solvent through hemeralopia, or the failure to see with effectiveness in the brighter lights: the periapsis of our pittance- which are like reading and scribbling poems, some inconsequent fleas of ours- if flees were as aligerous, of course, or capable of flying and might elevate themselves occasionally from their host. But, if all men were acquainted with the taste of their pomarious hypocarpium, their newborn undergrowths, and first coming downs; the procumbent-fruits, which behind them always tread: those fleas, those disregarded portions of our daily effort which, by no common nature, might ever impede relationship with us. I have a funny little notion that the poet is as annotinous and untried, as I am by an infinitely durable despondency committed to assume some honest condolences on behalf of that poor dog Laika, the most venerable stray of Moscow, hence I am as encumbered of our sensitivity to be, as one would say, experienced. The poets, I have often noted of in my own nomenclatures, are likely as erubescent and timorous pygmies when firstly approached- that is to say, in the manner of some natural animal; a species yet occasioned with a man's conferences they require a certain degree of a "getting used to you, as a new pet of sorts." You could see that emotional conflagration of "The Rape of the Sabine Women" in Nicolas Poussin and Jacques-Louis David's work, but the poetic class does it better, forthwith justice to presume our word, the part of us most dominant in identity. We visit the Aventine Hill, of which, rather then King Aventitus of the aboriginal Italians, I choose to believe is named under those birds which nested there after rising from the Tiber. As poets are of the wares of Mount Pentelicus, which was near Athens, and celebrated for the white marble quarries from which the Parthenon is built. O, we might also admit gratitude upon that particular scientist Louis Pasteur with regards to his means of annealing those, by the token of mutual benefit; haemocoelic and epontic nutriments of the cow: flowering lately, with the vegetarian method in our society- how it might provide a milk as the the Himalayan goji berry and Hemp seed; which by the Hindus is recognized as some Holy sustentacle, into those fires of the Hearth of Hestia and Vesta; thus ensuring it's quality as pure as Acheulean tool culture; and so why not thank the poet, concerning his means of preventing the souring of language, and art into the great lakes and forests of Masuria which, in the manner of milk, is like a continual, illimitable, nectary?- Etruria in Italy, of which D.H. Lawrence makes of in "Etruscan Places" might have expressed to a more distinguished taste of history that import of the growing of grapes, and the making of wine, also several architectural styles- and the Olympian Gods to the republic of Rome, but alas, the poet supplies us with such greater things, as those whom are to acquaint themselves with poiesis are of the Silurian era made, the first of the convalescent animals upon which the air made conferences with. IN what was that frondescent field becomes by the impestus of verses, which is some pycnaspidean and heliconian bird of the milks of the river Styx and like tempered metals by the hands of the great Hephaestus himself; what is that inchoate and crepusculous instance of peloria, that manufacturing process of the annealing soul upon which entomostracan and impennous angels rest in their weightless flying, as the Copepoda, or Daphnia. To write poetry is to vindicate nature, as Chukwa the ancient turtle whom supports the Earth, and happens further to perform his natation by Ksheera Sagara, that thalline ocean of milk from which all the organs of the universe are derived. And, like a testudineous and chelonian and remontant seminality, there is by the respectuous endorsement of a propensity which, by an olamic function; dwelling as some rudimentary organ within that marcescent and insipid testa of every man, an incipient Homunculus which is titled as being poetry, and which from that most obdurate seed permissively consents to be known a definite humility, and a particular species of Amaranth that is called perhaps, a poem- that diaspora which is that symbol of the inocciduous comport that is, with regards to the city-life, forever banished by the necessity of it's attractively insouciant conviction which causes to be equated in uneven proportions the scheme of differences between correctness and rightfulness, of labor and having experienced work: and from that hodiernal station one amongst many takes up his residence as osculant and appreciative of the cumulative dust; that most pruinous poet attains in modest increments what he is so disposed to, with immoderate passion, exemplify in the repertitious germ of the Holy which is his "pileus," and the statue of cernuous Man and his Universe- that plangent and abirritative contraction of the eternal heart, territoried by the edacity for those most spirituous liquors of the "asthenia" of reputation and document and profile which absolve one to this comfort- to this particular velleity of placid amusements, as the watching of those things which hold interest from a distance that can immortalize the moment only in it's self, as it was before being dilapidated in the participations of one's own verecundious amateurism- alas; this enlivening rhythm must be rendered into our principle homiletics as the implement of a certain diaphanous natation for our prayers and hymns, which by pluvial natures collect, and thusly upon the public be conferred for it's alimentative proreption; and the halituous and premunitive firmament that it rightly contains, beyond old - that inocciduous "systole and diastole" and "Euripus and Ampotis" of God himself- those infinitely veritable interpretations of the moment whose suppurative involution is foreordained to be made and remade indefinitely throughout the cantative parturition of inhalation and exhalation as produced of the Universe's "Coryphaeus" which is that susurrant ephemeron whom is called Poet, who is so disposed to develop his opus when no one in particular is paying him any degree of consideration- which, complacently manufactured in the operations of those most accomptable Monarchs of toreutic and encaustic versifiying, that is the delicacy of infusing the subtlety- which provided in their arundineous hermitage, possess of that most tenuous proclivity of hammering these most phalerate, or ornamented forms of wisdom in the metal brands of men's speech; alas, for it is so complimentative of vendition and industry and thusly unfit for that nemorous velum of dense woodland and backcountry which the poet encourages to precipitate from it in torpid and gradual appeasement, to then by various hortensial commitments becometh as some timeless, lapidescent constructures before God's own verdures and opulent fruit gardens- stone and open to the considerations of the age, and no longer partial; lambent impermanence of beauty- and fit for the tempering of that opertaneous commiseration, which by the employments of the poet can be revealed as some enchoric germs which are always complementing of the office of some vestigial layer of the man contemplating halcyon, and which is disseminated and in it's patulous body or ostium of transient creations possesses a various cosmogony of dematiaceous fungi and vegetation; segmented or meristic in the having of such a plenty of those somites of temporality which shine iridescent, setting alight the empty skies of being living; had inclineth the poet to resume his place amongst man as arborescent refuge, like an atavistic Tree to provide shelter, food, firewood, and more for merely the transient surveyors, which by various generation, migrate to that pulmonate adnascentia belonging to it in the hopes of determining some adient milks: which is readily able to digest both productions of a common element- as some earthworms prefer this delicatessen which the poet has attuned his dietary regime by as well, dependently within some sempiternal pensiveness and dexterity; for the day itself and the poet die together, so they are as commorient brothers. It is from this acclimation with the sanctity and poetic utility of the immediate, from which the poet- in subtle relevance like an amasthenic focus- uniting the chemical rays of light, embarks upon the considerations of his peculiar metamorphosis. What of that, which inspires the red in blood? The poet is like some alchemy to cause to change the element of nature into something able to be appreciated by those unacquainted with it's sense- some haematinic encouraging the pigments of the immediate and momentary. Call him also a shore-inhabiting fellow, or that limicoline bird that prefers some intermediate status in nature, and whom scouts out the various interstices of land and water and air. I often find that most hypenemian and emmenic station of "Euripus and Ampotis" in myself between the Boeotia and the Negroponte that I have, suggesting to me about how all philosophy and all that mesmeric corpus, entrepôt, or oriflamme of poetry- which kept by diameter of the greatest appraisable goods, are merely these limpid cliff notes, simplifications, and the commentaries of exceptional peoples; hence that sui generis, that inculpable region which is our personal lives and concurrently, those relationships with with we describe and circumscribe our meanings, our taciturn prerogatives. I hold true, the notion that solitude sharpens the wit and toughens the mind- this is unable to be disputed, and observed by most accomptable philosophers. But, the intellect is such a thing that it, by the recrementitious obvention of our daily experience, associates itself with beauties that must ultimately be communicated, even if only partially and by inchoate expressions. Those most conticent latitudes of our meditations, considerations, ponderous gradients: like incipient embryos, they open up and command themselves but in consequence of the power of intellect of which they bless us with, by our improved reason they must be consolidated of their distribution- they must be as dead upon the exceeding of their function. Man is mirror, man is propagator, man is voice when there is no voice. The philosophy of solipsism is the cruelest, the most inane of content and the quickest to devise ways of upsetting that allodial station. I feel the poet, with the most intimidating standard, characterizes this human necessity of love and talk, those things which above all are of value to us. The poet, from his alimonious and crenitic entertainments, who from time's impartial contract is exempt as the watchman Moai or the Gods of Mount Nemrut, or any pomarious ideal for that matter and of whom I understand were representative of their people's deceased ancestors, Gods, and living chiefs as, again, the poet: born of the Syrtis bogs and those munificent notations of Pippa; had he Ecnephia Sceptre; hence he inclineth the likes of the fruitfulness of obvention expressed in the manner of childhood: behaved in all it's procellous puerility, in all it's unsettled sediment as the plants Elecampane and Amrita conferring vitality, of the impediments of any sort he, in absentia, performs his commentary by noninvasive carriage as if he might have acquainted himself with the art of Ephialtes, and is so disposed to do so with the retention of being able to distinguish beauty, routine, life, and faith apart from one another. Life and the poem are, executed indistinguishably, as concerted synoecious and erinous upon each other; disproportionately inseparable like two prickly roses intertwined in growing. What person, betrayed of his own requisite proclivity, can not or would not engage them privately and force himself to withstand their separation, in the attendment of each thorn by consecutive thorn? Like Aeolus' Bath or Prothalamion Spring: withheld and matriculated to the air as Hyblaean Bees; these seeds skip all of time's various remark as a Neaera's trammel does, into those lengthy progenies of the ancestral Titan Iapetus; Father of Atlas, Epimetheus, and Prometheus: and like ongoing standards, the poet aspires to determine himself in circles of sacred quality such as these ones(1).

Within every man, by the asynartetic portion of the sovereignties determining him for the public there is the poetic vision; which is the obsolescent hypolimnion, that tenuitas or attenuating of his stock in sodality and the the flesh-pots of Egypt, and like that prospect from the geographer's Ultima Thule- that northernmost region of the world, it's peak: like the benignant aegis of a less-obstructed view of something lovely. Might we adjust ourselves to stiller depths and attune our relationships with a still-calmer subtlety, colder waters, our benthal germs; for is not the labor incurred in simply getting there, by nature of having to comprehend such ordal, worth as much- as to improve the character, or rather the durability of the character? For to retain that deepest portion of one's self which is poetry one must undergo, by some protracted iterations, the instance of his recollections, imaginations, intellects, and reasons. The durability of the character, that is the effectiveness of the consecution of one's more intimate nature and honesty, is consequent of the expression of the individual. And who is master of his expression; both the employer and developer of his word? Who can, with such an idoneous sincerity, proclaim to be the derelict keeper of his expression? To be forever misunderstood, from that day hence: no matter his manner of speaking, or his context. Who is that poet, with the Syconia, reclining beneath the fig? I heard him say he could relate himself to the insouciant prince of swine herders Eumaeus and felt something missing in antonomasia, or the use of epithets and proper names and, with the respective attitudes refused to acknowledge dignities, offices, and the like. Though he only respected the personal names, and the personal lives that much more. It is because the poet is by the employment of no adulterated cultures termed and otherwise free to become of the intermixing with a various stock that their is that homochiral relationship, or freedom of enatiomers and reflections between the adelphous poet and nature as much that he presides representative of the experimental antecedence of that nature, that is because he finds by the determination of his similarity to that oldest and more animal concern of living, he becomes the animal that speaks and that Amarant of historicity who's coalescent filaments are intermixed with the world's to which we travel to, upon the compunctions to renew our ancestries. The poet whom is that Saadia belonging to the common stock and as Tasso put it, performing as the syrens of the ditch, or rather they are the Levant and the Ponent winds to be as outwardly unappealing and disregarded treasures; those Phoenician frogs and traders and navigators. The Egyptians treated frogs as the symbols of fertility, as to their appearances concordantly with the inundation of the Nile.

The poet, whom might recall nature itself for us within some cinereous dust, is carried aloft by some sort of anamnestic magic to recite a star and who is sustained by those most reliable nests and the pinions of the vespertilian night-dwellers which persuade it to operation; like those bats observant to the world through a depth, deeper then sight and whom also are more likely to be the "Varuna" and "Argus Panoptes" of the animal kingdom- he whom performs indefinitely in concurrence with the instrumentality of eternal prudence; that judgmentally aperitive and ephoral citizen- kept by the common weeds and gramineous verdure, and by the pavonian and tumescent brain of nature from which he recites the poisonous vapors of Avernus and like Serbonis of Egypt, appears solid- but, is not. For it is to be said; the only human being which might illustrate the parturitive canticles of motherhood, is the poet- whom might come to enjoy and pasture his works and their equivalent seminals to odd degree, as if they were as some natal piglets by necessity fixed upon a fresh teat with stringent optation. There are but two creatures that give birth; they are the woman, and the poet- and all men must by interminable standard respect their natural ability to create with principle, instead of the "a priori" of artificial reproductions. The poet's writings, touch and tickle his soul, as the child to it's mother.

Take for instance, that pantheon of the Hindus which curiously draws such a considerable portion of the intellect to it, comprising the Gods as Ganesh, Shiva: or by that similar lineament, the Buddhist devices of reincarnation, karma and zen, and the like- I take these all as metaphorical constructures that are, as you might be inclined to put it, brought to life or "animated" by the mediums of: Iconography, Language, Interpretation, and Symbology- which are all those subjects mastered by the poets, so you might be able to find in them more divine fundamentality then in any priest or Brahman. The poets wrote those histories of the Gods, and the ancient metaphors of the Hellenic spheres, the unknown authors of the Vedic Testament were thus a class of them, the aboriginals of the tectonic enlightenments of our historically forgotten- these poets, wrote the Gods and the essential histories of our kind, which comes to us without terms and in these living Gods and Goddesses. The most intimate history was spoken or enumerated out of poets, it was not objectively documented by them, rather, it is the background substrate of history and is a part of them, thus to become a poet is to become history and uphold humanity as a living reckoning of it's various saecula.

Complacently, the succinous and auletic and nemoral Bards peregrinate their asterismal lands and rather curious moratoriums of experience, or ponder their insular genius; expressing the highest sphere of noematical meditation and the retention of knowledges by prudent comportment. To determine their relation to "terra incognita" they prescribe themselves to the rumination upon their own limited acquisitions of understanding, prolonging an intent consideration of their own aphelions, and in them relishing their indelible destiny; which is to wonder in constancy and to avoid the central evil, which is oscitant hunger, the stains of boredom which prohibit the ambulant spirit which has pardoned itself from rustic experience, the verdure, and baccaceous impletion on behalf of the being filled with meat, wine, and some odd-proportioned entertainments. These men, in some adequate performances, live as the shrew is so disposed to live. Some of those most considerable shrews, in their own common propensities, include the operation of the trees and acquaint themselves with higher altitudes, and some are yet inclined to take beneath the soil and rebuke the light and the surface Earth, from their own experiences. Even more so, some might comprehend venom as the snakes do, to execute a degree of superiority in killing and therefor, among their kindred, revolve themselves with best fulfillment of their nature in the thickness of combat and defense-, and some might, in manner of the bats and wales, perform a certain echolocation- employing the means, as we do, to describe amendments for a various demarcation, of sorts. A strange, constant hunger assumes itself to impel them towards restless lives, and even more interesting, they retain ten percent of their body mass in their brains, a rather odd proportion for such a thing as this creature. These versatilities assume, in my mind, a poetic expression for man.

The marshes do, with an honesty and volition, occupy themselves with poets, providing them conjointly those trenchant osculations with land and water that, when considered by humans, accommodate some temulentive babblings and distanced lore. Truly, that paludinous plane of the poet is not so hospitable towards it's auxiliaries, but someone told me once, of how a dictionary was something more then a document of reference, that it was some plenitudinous region of submonition for the poet and his histories to draw from; thus I have to think when writing and reading of some higher procedure of the universe.

Somewhere distant living there is this panoistic firmament reproducing itself by the noble heath of immaturity; it is this horotelic regularity of form and expression, of sorts; this sort of ichneumonidan and epornitic and oscinian "Koan," or "Terma" of which we might acquaint ourselves with, to examine hitherto that purulent manner of our thinking without the idea that, our self is retained in the residual effects of which our influences upon others has produced. All things which reside in the ear relate themselves to those epithumetic and sanguine birds, as the worms do. I recall now, with a great satisfaction, that I know less now then I did before I could read. He who participates in philosophy should at some point retain in himself no answers, yet know all the manifold potentiality of questions. Thus by this extension, I believe that the goal of philosophy, is to in subtle gradualism, inclineth the mind into the questioning of things to attune the point in which the mind is possessed no longer of anything, save questions; and hitherto let not the agonistical wisdoms prevail. It is suitable for the philosopher to question, and better to question those natures which are of the immediate class. Those philosophical spheres alternate the veritable intelligentsia in varying and reproducible conditions of prejudices, so as to perform the sublating of one from the world, and away from intellectual servility. The goal of the philosopher is to, in himself, contradict the world and present to it the inadequacies of those pertinent reasonings which attempt to obscure it's various discrepancy. He claims some respectable station for himself in that vespertine and galeate firmament, exacting his own stalwart running sticks through a chelonian and testudineous enclave of answers and resolution, for they are most orectic, or inspiring to the appetite; and they do not penetrate his shell, and the diminution of his seriousness exalts him perfectly, as the tortoise and hedgehog.

How vapid answers are in developing the ends, how hebetate is man in those senses! How succulent is that meat of a good and acataleptic inquiry, or that enterprising temerity of some overly-curious interloper, which in any conceivable case we might regard as the philosopher. That affordability, of the multiple expression of meaning and promotes a certain commodious reclination, to which on behalf of the Soul's involution might be reserved with the exchangeability of ideas. Those formal objectifies; those whom desire answers, I tell them; the answers of which you concern yourself with afford no discussion, for they are impersonal and concrete. The temporal products of philosophy and poetry, these hermeneutic devices merely exaggerate one's acquaintance with himself and becometh congeries, and strengthens the bonds he shares with his world respectively because it has encouraged the growth of the common seed(1).

Tame wild, Orbaneia's bird: Ichneumon's qualm when Muse, by orient shell, inclineth by it's thural Strain; Al Cauther as fragrant waters reign, all softer: so well the sense, the organ, moved to swell Chloris' vernal, vestal: the endearment, Gale. To hyaline brain, to that Dulcarnon Jail watching outside dim Cupid's Dulcinea needing; obstinate pulses, chained around long vernal hull- Long vernal pull, long vernal withdrawal; through that Farina meal devout parallel crawl. Écorcheurs-looted, stripped of vogue-fashion; Lerna, that mendacity betwixt all. Stolen from, Pagoda rationed and pawned, instead for this- My Phaedria lake, from which I absconded wanton to a crawling along some niveous diadems, as Haemos proves strong, that boreal throng. Petrels, Fulmars, Shearwaters; procellarian magnate! It is that bird, who's musing and coalescent pinions and him performing that assortment of caprioles above the open seas improves, ineluctably, my tempers as Encelados' apertions, gaping unlike Lachesis contract but that poet: priest of Canopus, a living depth- exceptional waters. His Mam Tor ague as Italy's merino; soft, as your on Campania's plains, but unlike the world in being as some plainer currencies, or that sort; as having escaped that circulation of impeccable and succinous truths; the sepelible poet engages himself to preserve the ages- to immure within himself that inquilinous and palustral One; marking the innominate, indefinite, soul. The atramentaceous Om which sings to himself in another's tomb and ceremonies, and bleeds like portative and aurigal Sun- hitherto describe Age in immortal communication- which hence constituted a maturation in our lineaments. I speak of, when that performer of society became, and was the Poet. Good society; he renewed himself to on behalf of, and to the administration of his caste- he began hence the development of all his prejudices, his tastes. But, in that lacking affordability of his complicit participations, with that ecumenic order, distances performed to limit his various correspondences with his subject; and like that lover, permitted never the poimenic calculations of the body of his love, he was made to becometh as plaintive and disconsolate.

The memory is the illimitable artery of the self; and the appendages of the self, and thusly retains any quantity of philosophy for the individual, and deserves to be treated within a degree of spirituality and reverence, as it possesses the individual-self. The insensible perspiration to which the diapnoic and ablutionary apertures of meditation; wherein properly executed in the manner of testamentary canonicity and scripture, animate our rudimentary organs has hence inclineth me towards a goal; to internally retain some architecture of my writing and philosophy, to effectively compartmentalize some chronology of my own religion, such to devise an anamnestic poetry of sorts. I understand the particular method to which I employ to be of a Latin origin, accounted for in the "Rhetorica ad Herennium." The author, unknown had composed the work around 85 BC. Cicero in his "De Oratore" also yields references to this, and it was adapted by incipient and ancient monks to be used as a tool in various meditation upon their sacred texts, such to intertwine themselves and their prayers. The consistence of the craft is of a most copacetic and imputative effectiveness, for one might; in the manner of someone composing, or reviewing a film or book, come to meander about in an infinite manner of directions, and patterns, in his manifold of recitation. As opposed to rote learning, which might go simply in some preconditioned formulas, this method of memorization predominantly encourages the rhetorician. One takes the Loci; which is a section of a mentally projected room or location, and associates it with distinct sections of his speech, thus affording him ample flexibility upon reciting it, allowing him to shuffle it and ponder, as if turning chapters in a book. My poetry is this place in my head. One might even extrapolate the possibilities of this, using “Locis” in the form of ancient temples, castles, monasteries, etc. This dimensionality of scripture has attracted me, and implemented me so as to share it's composures with my reader.

That personal life of ours, is amuletic and eremean and vimineous; as the various pilgrimage from life to death revolves in it's campodean and aposematic signatures, we wear them as a collection of Holy periapts and ornamental garb. The intellectual, by any given nature, will in opulent credulity, concern himself with nothing but the immediate, and the inexpedient remoteness of the applications of telestic contemplation tend to fail in the soothing of his appetency for various knowledges, which is insolvent and paraenetic in it's expression. For you have serenaded this world, to look upon it in these particular ways; that vacillant and aporetic uncertainty which affords the soul of a man a certain solacement in that tabescent and anemic erudition of Earthly wisdoms, which affords him a certain remordency and color in that unconsoling verisimilitude and epigaeous truth, who's fruits ripen best beneath the ground, unchecked by the higher utilities of the human soul.

It is most certainly true; that every particular age, in it's own extensive body, possesses a various assemblage of elite, figures, or representatives, and that these bodies of individual men serve to be therein attributed to the vocabulary of the various spectrum of our mortal expression and effort. Though, these men are certainly great, I have been inclined by no manner of evidence, as to believe that they were any more great then ourselves. It is the fault of that society, that it lacks the capacity to acknowledge the opulent fullness of it's constituency, and invests itself to the task of enumerating it's stock within a lazy stupor. The given society might incorporate only a limited portion of it's greatness to the historical canon, and so, the most worthy experience of humanity; which is the individual life, must go for the most part as some plangent yet recondite poetry, as "Ovid's Metamorphoses". That society is weak of mind, for it can only recall itself in miniature forms. Above all that I have seen, I appreciate; the meaningless, the meager, the incorrect, the imperfect, the abstract, the personal, and the illogical, the unanswerable, and those creatures unburdened with names; which are all the things which inhabit "Parnassus."

The lacustrine margin; if one were so disposed, as to take the world in manner of symbols, he might relate himself to that sative cadence. Standing, overlooking, the nitid lake; the individual corresponds in his branching, or ramellose citizenship with that sempiternal petrichor that forever; in it's papilionaceous and etesian and pactolian estate, amuses and assures the human spirit of it's supremacy in nature; as sure as God favors the unshaven man. All the vine of historicity, like an echinate and ampelideous spine, runs through and interminably connects these tribuloid and prothallial and epigean vastitudes of personality, so that history itself has invested in it's own identity, and in the case of the lake; I feel as though they are some sort of patulous opinion of sorts, correspondent with this Human. All action is immortal and converges eventually.

The poet, by that epeiric and tribuloid and ampelideous flower of Cataonia, engages a various piscatorial lifestyle as indefinitely sailing; becoming that essorant and provisionary intercessor that he is- wings spread, about to fly; but alas, that instance of flight has not yet been so as to occur upon this cachaemic creature who has inclineth his perichaetous body, or briary and lotic form to the various tentation of open water, as opposed to; open sky, though he still retains that hypaethral firmament to the skies for when it might be needed, this implement of flight. The poet is that sanguine and trenchant sumpter, or pack-animal; that aleatoric and elaphine audience of sorts, beholding the world in it's Styx by various pycnaspidean birds. The poimenic and homiletical beatitudes of which he invests himself in, tend to enrapture their beholders, encouraging a certain submission in them towards strange and stranger religions. He delivers his effulgent sermon like no other adept of "Paideia" or the refinement of Man into his more honest natures. This is the poet, and the parameter of his ardent vocation is in the adjective. He is a Stag which, by the proportion of chance you are met with.

I think that the hedgehog is the greatest, most virtuous and noble animal and that of the fishes the supreme rulers are most certainly the perches. I recall capturing lighting bugs as a child, and I have reserved myself to live; merely to ponder those thoughts again and revolve their kindness in my lonesome plazas, like a failing light in my breast. I recall the constellations of lambent vendors along the beaches, of which I last observed as some distant child. I recall when my parents were healthy. I recall when I was healthy. Alas, even so I recollect, I can only approximate these secular creations in the invasive blindness of my iniquity, incompassionately rendered on my account on various occasion, and I am by that insularism punished by myself, so that I have relieved God of his most operose work.

There is that implement of philosophy which we call "agnoiology;" that doctrine which deals with a sort of requisite and apodictic nescience; the rumination or studying of ignorance, and the now quite noticeable antithesis of that certain, indecent temulance, or being drunken of "unknowing" which has been quite rudely subjected to some sort of miscalculated prejudice, which I would presume to correct hitherto. I have my own introductory, or propaedeutical agnoiology, or this treatise on ignorance, of sorts; of the concerns with the various horticulture of artistic expression, which is that timeless and amaranthine evocation that is SOLELY dependent upon some thing your likely to not expect. Ignorance is that rudimental necessity of the poet and the artist; if their craft is indeed the study of appreciation, yet they act with this periculous thing unlike a more common man. Imagination affords him with that full capacity of human understanding, which is set by the terminal and desinent boundaries of; linger, like nominal mice to some opulence of cheese, like babes with their own astrology of sidereal arcanum; like the dust of a homiletic and pruinose asterism. The Count might have told us to maintain our postponements in the likes of some sort of vespertine esperance, though I feel my own modification suits my personal tastes a bit better. Genius is the compound of a configuration of ignorance and imagination, and it is that ignorance that affords poetry it's spirit, the wonder that breathes the halituous and animastic stuff of the song, is resultant from this uncomprehendingly rendered magic, or anoetic and sementine alloy of imagination and ignorance. But ignorance, it is the congeries of poetry!

How many hours, by that facile comportment invested in my pen, have hence come to unfold in such a way as to leave me divorced from the world? How many days prescribed to my way of this, insular apomecometry, have conducted me into unfamiliar currents, which in their own copasetic celerity and diligence, have obscured me from my fellow peoples and my family? Nay, it is this paying my respect from afar, that has prepared me for more estimable argumentation on the behalf of my various cause, and of which has prepared me in more worthy a reverence then that which I might have occupied my parents and friends with, in earlier times. I give my thanks to whatever God has commanded me thus far, for I do not know him. If I knew him at one time, I have hence forgotten his name, which is now disregarded to the place wherein oblivion and internecion diverge; no longer possessed of his acts, but rather their meanings, I know now what matters; not the truth, for it has been broken under the meaning. Not the math, not the science, and most certainly; not logic. I now recall something Bacon said, that a taste of contemplation betrays the man for atheism, but a full experience of philosophy inclines the student to direct himself in various, Godly ways, and thus returns the man to some peculiar Theosis of his own.

I believe, in part due to the leporid accentuation of my own anthophilous and ecbatic campanology, that the ethical and religious verity of our life might be forever restricted, to that eclectic and hermeneutic life; that life disposed to interpret and imagine, rather then to define and conquer. The world is concerned not with the interval of it's incipient constituents, but those will undoubtedly be the things that change it. That we move with these vast philosophies which are but parochial extrapolations, we become that plaintive amaritude of which through it's odd unfamiliarity and bitterness infinitely impresses the world. The twilight and the twilight only reveals the poet in various, cosmogyral peregrinations. To what recesses of that terminal and inane world will you go, to verify that element of which has no place therein to begin with, as you might live that crepusculous and tramontane life of the poet? For certainly, human life constitutes a class of it's own, forever having no participation in that essomenic and eclectic parsimony and "amarulence" of logical reasoning, instead the enumerating of it's own cambial rings and various ornamentations will tend to suffice, will tend to fulfill; in a greater effectiveness, the plangent and inquisitorial appetency of human nature. The ends of it are of no concern to me, the in betweens which are our lives, our epiphenomenons, are more valuable to me.

We read poems and live with dogs, only to configure our proportions with society. The man whom has not been accustomed to very many loyal fellows will seek for himself a dog, into which the commensal nurturing he has adopted for it might come to compensate for the work and time that, once invested in unassailable relationships of the likes of the "Argonauts", tend to unfold in premiant manners. Standing at the edges; at the membranes of society, is that Poet. He is Nature's vendor, his work his service, his love his blessings, his greatest possession, the greatest gift. The proceleusmatic and trochilidine scenery, the encouragement of the little birds and squirrels, the epulotic and aperient luminosity, the poet's ablutions from that annealing of his soul; the illimitable vocabulary of that heaven unfolds in his immaculate cartographies.

To tell you the truth, I believe that the anoetic seminal is forever common in all things. I believe that the zenith of experience is in that. I think, that if Raw Poetry, Raw Hate, Raw Ignorance and Incivility, Raw Love, Raw Time, The raw and aporetic acrimony of Atheism, and Raw Desire; were to all confront each other in one noumenal ampitheatre, that none of them would find themselves able to resolve the other. The poet is that paraenetic and cunctative admonition of various supplicatory canticles; the dissepimental and peirastic consortium of our ablutions, of a various quality and type; especially those of the parallactical "semiotics" of our mythologies and poetic works, we behold what it is that I hold as the volitient and supernal "Empyrean" or heavenly orbicle, upon which the surface of that resplendent sphere: the neanic fleshment of it's confederate pantheon, of a various consort- nomothetic and inenerrable is this suppliant company of unstudied Nuts, Berries, Birds, Men, Children, holethnic Poets and Philosophers, and amicable Dogs.

I have often made reference of a certain "sui genereis" or inculpable sanctity of the personal experience and all that is relative to the observer as like some incipient plant of wont to nourishment, and I'd like to think there are some nucumentaceous and tribuloid and adelphous fruits and berries there, or what may be that enchorial and incondite faculty therein enclosed as some sort of superficial vestibule of sorts; of the benefiting correspondence to some olamic antiquity or prototype of which the Universe, in it's picayune and nut-gathering creatures, to through that stochastic, or random utility of our lives demonstrate a correspondence in our souls through some contingency or random occurrence that might osculate the insular honesty of our singular experience, the forsaken verity of our relationship; penetrating that hypogaean and halituous integument of the hidden truths of our daily activity, for whatever reasons. The inconsequent oddities of our subtle relevance, these are our more pertinent connections to the universe, these are that entomical and autotelic constructure of the firmament which is the verisimilitudinous, or "practically true" undercurrent of our purpose. The voice of God is Irony; for that is the residues of his patrimonial seminality and presence. We must begin to acknowledge miracles as what they are! For coincidence is impossible! There is some higher and more valuable sphere of intellectualism then logic; esemplastic and concatenative in it's utility, unifying and elemental in it's various nomenclature, of which when traced through it's jovial and insouciant genealogies can be observed to allow the past to communicate with the future, of which can be observed to prioritize a various language of poetry; as each mythology stands as a singularly great poem.

What might we name that feeling of irony, but "apotheosis?" If you comprehended the languages of the winds, and perchance of wont of inquiry remarked upon the fomenting emollition and relaxant "psithurism," of that subtle remark of the elaphine leaf blowing in the experiments of it's peirastic and tempestive bosom, and it's Ganesa's most sarcotic spindles of samite; might it come to answer you in the peculiar "ecesis" of it's Irony, and the visitation of it's species in you and the renewal of your carnal textures, if it might find itself able to speak that various form? But it speaks for the nature which does not speak, and of which the poet has abstained from, for whatever reason; for it is as if you have been acknowledged by some god to behold it. It's momentary concession is like an assurance from above; the testimony of those incantatory and vernal vespers like God's recognition of you in some thelematic and theandric instant.

That we might treat our personal lives as our venerated and inviolable "epinicions" or songs of a sepaline triumph; as sure as the idea of Ovid's "Metamorphoses's" various transformations and Hesiod's "Theogonia" and Aristotle's "Prima Materia" all corresponding intimately, proportionately with ourselves; in the complementing of these various "aeons" or "saecula" of our lives. We all wear Herme's "talaria," we all know in our volant and polemic conation, our brute instinct, that which impels to effort our various kinds that our lives, our selves our together as some salient epiphenomenon of a nitid, or circumferential and caducous crepuscule of which can be said to hold more of an intrinsic value then it's predecessor, which when observed extends forever into an ambient remoteness of character, value, and credential. That we, in the body of "The Knight in the Panther's Skin," perform several European humanistic ideals as the "courtly love" which in the unconditioned contradicting of itself in some sort of moral elevation and paphian and illicit presentment; which is the "Hyperion" of John Keats and the "Titanomachia" of our life, we so come to assume the duality of man, which is this conflict of hate and love. That it is in this ambivalence, or mixture of emotions, which allows to appreciate true and utter depth.

I would compose myself in that sidereal and proleptic palliament of the immanent "ostent or ornament" and icarian macarism, or supplication of my verses, as awaiting the sororal and patible diapason and consoling of some pactolian and pabulous muse, the lotic magic of which is the standard for eating amongst the Gods. All creatures which come as nutant and apopemptic before this "corposant" of "Saint Elmo's Fire" and The Mekong River's "Naga fireballs" and also Terry Pratchett's "octarine" find themselves with a vitality renewed; as the undulations of a natricine and testaceous talion, or some fast-moving water-snake of a person now aware of his being cheated. Certainly the poet's social utility is specific, as to allow him to become Nature's speech. Thus his personal service to the society is a curious one, as he is the ecumenical intercessor, the temerarious and lochetic vendition of all those particular knowledges of nature, to him all other members of society; the whole of the community come to fulfill their suppressed and optative strains, to understand nature. The Poet's job and most obligatory service must be that vulpine and furtive transference of nature's sentiment and opinion.

I have never found myself to desire the distress of your indecent eye, the cost of which to sustain that benempt oath; that I avoid the ungainly and inept countenance of my speakers. I have never written in verses or in prose that which I had pleadged to speak to the soul of a Man, on behalf of a Man. My soul speaks to God and God only, the inference of the presumptions of the indolent and lurdan of their "typhus-stupor" are not worth as much as my own contiguous drunkenness. It is forever I, devotee of a crenitic and saltant Bacchus, idolater of some olent and pomarious Anacreon, forever presiding the cleidoic and emollient balsam of my more salsamentarious ocean springs of "oenomel" and vintage like.... an erative and temulent vesper; I'd never so much as leave the dregs their undeserved companies, that I, residing my recrementitious sentine disallow that, my singular estuary is my inordinate and potatory mouth where the atramentaceous and bitter are in closer quarters with the lacteal and vestal-candied then ever they were. It is forever I! It is forever I, of stupor; of the intercessor of lethe.

But it is the trochilidine and amphicelous creature, of trivial nature, of which finds himself to abscond with those velutinous and ecaudate Angels, of who's selachian vastitude of the consuming are as upon the choreutic fleshment of his meager velleity and his lack of ambition these fruits of the "durian" which are these victual goods so far from the destitution of sap and other vitalic juices; The poet! He is God's pornography! The poet is the other half of the man. The illimitable vocabulary and paradigm, the naissant appurtenance and lexicon and idiom of the coppice and parterre, of the olamic nectary; of nature, the poet excels as such. But an ornamental, alas; the ornaments are the best parts, as I have intimately forsaken the doctrines of unity, venerating the Holy Diversity of the "personal experience"! It reminds me of Fluff, this poetry stuff! This amasthenic and palustral balsam of some trochiline and oscine flight! This dulcet marzipan! The commentitious and esemplastic organ, all truth forever this "Fenrisulfr" and "Burgess Shale" of imagination and laughter, and fiction. To be eremitical and vagrant is to sacrifice yourself on behalf of the experience, utterly and thoroughly alone and homeless; is to be seated upon The Chair of Idris the Giant. Christ would have done better to leave his gnomic water in it's original state, that he had purloined from the bowl of a palamate Ganesh and that it's vedantic and cabiric atmospheres remain as emollient and balsamical we should be improved of the insuetude of cautelous and jentacular living and higher art; the preservation of it's symbolic concordance is like a certain sustenance for the mind; the principle and element that it represents, it's rudimentary organ and aromatic root of "Animism". What an intoxication it is! An intoxication of the spirit, so that in the trenchant and vertiginous "apotheosis" of it's pileous and vespertine ailerons we are comforted and whisked away, into higher societies and tastes, into higher consumption.

The poet, he is but a curious little animal with a hat; that "Grecian Coryphaeus" of the galericulate and pardine and nidamental animals of the poetic class which are these sort of whispering and susurrant vespers, the acroamatic and recondite beauty of those spirit-leopards, the sardanapalian and effeminate nest-makers, the sinuous and lanate listeners of all the various spheres of immorigerous and vecordious barbarianism and incivility; the incruental hares of war, the immortality and Athanasia of the animal-writer's epiphoric and epenetic current, his drunken release, the paraclete and intercessors of warrior spirits; the only real law-abiders. The poet is that limnetic murderer yet to be attended with expressible blood, he who immolates the spirit in some pastoral gulf of the name of enthetic sensations, and all these bodiless feelings. The poet is the limitless vocabulary of the Earth and Sky and Animals; all those pulchritudes and copesetic and papilionaceous creatures which without a voice are these eidetic cosmologies unheard of by our more or less, unexperienced brothers. May we become him, the poet; that we may become these nomothetic and appellative devices and representatives of the unnamed, and speak on behalf and from the Earth and it's various vestibules and lives. What is the poet's species and print, but the voice and tenor of Beauty herself, the voice of God, Herself.

What is the poet, but the voice and hyaline and vitreous brain of Nature and the fine glasswares of her vestal and velutinous carnality of forms, and like "The Cup of Jamshid" he reflects that pomarious and hortensial worlds, he is the nucleus and kernel of all animal intelligence which is an esemplastic and concatenative substance in his depths, the energies of the thaumaturgic transmutation of those generative vapors of the hermetic sciences and alchemy; oh how pure those schools were, for they parallel the poet entirely, indeed he is the alchemical geography of the irenic and henotic concord of tellurian fermentations, the breaking down of the un-named and the un-explored, the great change from the subtle idiosyncrasies of the human nature which are marvels pandemic and ecumenical and without the lack of correspondence in the interpersonal; to the dense and plangent acclimations of Shakespeare and Emerson and Thoreau? That I know their most dulcet flesh is as mine is, yet the various spice and the olitory herbs of which they choose and or prefer to adulterate and change their natural flavor are as a different type then my own, that we own the same biology I hope we meet each other in some higher sphere of intellectualism.

The impediment to the following ideas had met me with an admittance of which I could not reproduce in the likes of tentation and thoughtfulness, but alas, I have hence taken the appointment to describe it here; there is a sort of curious juxtaposition I have observed within the higher class of the art community. The poet is in many cases this morganatic and calliopean thing, that is, afforded a certain generosity of comfort in the lowly title of which he is assigned, in that he has become the Earth's inferior correspondence in matrimony. He is the sacrifice to his own prescribed ritualism. Those afforded the opulent and pecunious, the gilded and wealthy styles of living, often proclaim themselves as these individuals well-schooled in the arts, and empires of gustative and argute discernments on behalf of all it's various subtleties and vicissitude; though the producers of these same arts upon which the gratitude of the agencies of the higher class might be said to be originated from are in several ways completely foreign. What is this? Why do the rich and satisfied, admire and adore the works of the poor, meager, and wretched, the deplorable and rascal of character, title, reputation, and family? What is more esoteric then the poor, then the body of vagrancy, then the nameless and stateless and the insular residents of the World at large?

The "Teumessian fox" of those ephectic and insessorial philosophies has hitherto inspired the bulk of those nimious and talionic reprobations; the cold-hearted disapproval of the tralatitious Holethnos of the man, which are those velutinous and pelurious poets whom are far from epilated and tonsorial in their unshaven appearances; that most choleric talion of their unrealities and irrationalities. If our more cordial motives are aimed at the qualitative usurpation of our Tribe's insidious notorieties and encompasses a wide breadth and a concordance of various intellects of a respectable stature, not unlike the "Calydonian Hunt" then we might in propitiatory likeness become the halieutic and peripatetic members of our company, never-minding the "Ataraxia" of the "Outlines of Pyrrhonism" by Sextus Empiricus, we might find all the body of our tranquil atmospheres as we fish with the "phatic lineaments" the seas of each other in good conversation and like the hide of the "Nemean Lion" be unkept by the quivering standards of other men. I like to think of that incicurable and pantagruelian spirit as my own, a particular Genius that is to be acknowledged as the synergy of an abundance of imagination and a configured ignorance. All relations born to it's final and cosmic judgments are made infinitely better. The purely logical being has submerged himself into emarcid and cimmerian dormition in the affirmative sanctioning of his own ill-gotten "pleonexia" and avariciousness and cupidity on behalf of wisdom, which imperfectly constructed, has conducted him to me as indivisibly ornamental. Poetry, Conversation, Philosophy; and the pulchritudinous rudiment of the liberating and emancipative fictions of a creative soul; these are the agents employed by that enchorial and ecbolic verisimilitude of the intellectual's creative womb to bear to the world the introduction of a Holy Progeny and the proverbial "Ephebus". All the empyreal stars, trees, peculiar peoples, histories, mythologies, and entomical cities that you have read about are but the appendage of this soul and partial to the breadth of it's resplendence.

What more intimate longing is conversation born from? That the rudimentary organ from which it is derived has evaded the manuscripts I have written hitherto, and has yet to benefit the materials I have fostered with my attention; I have been met with impediments by the compunctions herein to be exausted. To converse with someone is to meet them in a sublime Heaven, is to intermingle with their mental substance and substrate, a property which is more so then their body animated with the portents of liveliness. It is to meet them departed from the Earth. The elevation to this immaterial correspondence is like a religious pretext for any philosophy I might infer to you. To me, conversation is a religious right.

A good conversation is like the vigorous interactions of Soul and the tabetic and sanguine hypernea of that respectively exhausted spirit, that "Sacrosanct Halidom" of a scintillating and sidereous sanctitude; is there a more palmary "Aspersorium" then the discourse; the Paraclete, the Consoler, the Intercessor of this colloquial interlocution upon which the mutual empowering of speech is expressed? Odin receives the souls of all the fallen Heroes in Valhalla, therein he must make room for the poets as well. That the poet is the greatest conversationalist, should we not model ourselves after him such that we might experience the greatness of the congenial arts of his ambrosial and mellific; honey-producing eventilation, for ourselves- if not only that we might install it upon others? The conversations had by most are destitute of sap and other juices vitalic and salient, like the unused portions of roasted Durian.

That copious honeycomb of optative discourse has dried up, without any succedaneous and surrogate potentials of which to erect it again in it's ancient splendor, excepting of course on behalf of a good poet or philosopher. The "Dog-praising and behavior" of Diogenes of Sinope has embedded itself into me, that I respect more then most humans the veridical and honest animalism and the virtues of the Dog, my only difference is my equal love for abstraction, that I take my differences in the assumption that the Dog lives within the abstractions that the poets speak of, and belongs to them, and they likewise are rendered unto him.

The face of God is unshaven and he goes by the name of "Pogoniasis". The real Monks never shave their heads in tonsure, but let themselves become like a feral animal in the comate and pileous gentility that the human body will come to produce when unkept by the standards of Man and acquainted with it's more honest forms. The Animal-Man is the poet, and if an animal might speak I feel it would come of wont to share a few verses with us, as they are more familiar with the Nature upon which the poet is but an inert commentary of sorts. Talk with your plants, talk with your dogs; your poets, your philosophers, your jesters- but forever hold your tongue before the more common; demotic and gregarian man and his concentric worlds. Do not trust his limited vernaculars, do not make yourself as a ignominious prodigality of sorts in this birthright of ours, of conversing. Learn many words and read many things, but more importantly write yourself and become a poet to fulfill the obligations that this zenith of the human experience within conversation has left for you to acknowledge.

That voraginous and telarian Napea of our spiritual meats; the Hellenic sphere of our history which like some ostial and nidamental conduit, conducts a various language of advice, and encouragement- of which we should begin to migrate to in the fashion of some nomadic pilgrimage, wearing our philosophies as an obedible and genesic Temenos of sorts, into which our personal and parochial existences correlate in a manifold degree with the nemoral intelligence that we have thusly come to encounter in those back countries of our history, as like the permanence of the Human's sedition with it's unappealing attendment.

Following a brief period of unfurnished verse, and conticent thought; I transcribed, in a certain ebullience of the opening of myself at last, a Koan, or rather an adage of my own sensibilities: it goes that "fashion must not derive from the cerement," as that less-then considered peculium, or that little deposit or stock of one's own, is most usually the meritorious instance to which upon, with some ludic inquietude as we dispose ourselves to taketh prideful and honored judgment, in later years- into which upon philosophy has encouraged the renewal of supplication, we elect as representatives of our life; what better, then those self-transcendent epochs of our- of our, own little-flames. Compunction, like the impartial man, opens me to know this- in the latest ranges of my defense, in it's potentiality being discovered. Thus, I am yet solicited to comprehend my friends and families as aforementioned proposed. That personal life is a symbol of the immediate, the irrelative to the age. We go there, to go back to the sky. There is a most dependable amenity of form that, immanent of the human dimension, pervades our various languages of judgment, circulation, and pretense. It is most certainly apposite of comicality, in the distinguished sense; how every family and it's members, by their own insular consonance, manage to determine themselves as being in that most contestable possession of the world's greatest dog, or progeny, or bodies of attendance of a various sort. Definition serves as the mark, or rather- the intercessor of the immediate, so it naturally follows that I depend upon it in the most punctilious accordances with my own choice of profession, as I am inclined to begin the aeolian tribes. There was a place in one time, when I was presented with a world into which the winds did not disrupt me, and the differences in puerility and decadence were ever present in my changing manners of expedience, as by wisdom. The difference is that, in children we are given a world as a temerarious God; made inspired by a certain artery of our corespondent nature in all we say that is understood, which is the entire world. But what is it that makes us so? Because of the proportions of our Answers and Questions, the former being the greater present in this state of living, we are to have admitted within our dispositions the presence of an illimitable and perfected retention of explanation and response. Though, in decadence- of the greater character then that manufactured by the industrial commitments, one has omitted from his prudent comportment the idea of the answer altogether. Instead, the occupation of his mind is questioning; and all he has retained in his generation of intelligence is but this infinite list of questions. May we all insure by that natural sphere our allopatric minds which are made insular and incapable of reproductions by the means of having to supply their own alimentation within intervals of famine, as being in the likeness of those called passerine birds: eolian and nomopelmous, to consume faithfully by the eager hallux all those many vitelline wisdoms of our Terma, the richest portion of our egg, of our secludedness; as the world, in all it's various space and aether, is forever our amanuensis or our scribe- which by the helminthic class is retained from a stranger death then I could know, from my canopic and eutectic station of poetry, of which is of wont to melt with a greater celerity before it's emporetical ingredients of the obventions of daily living and personal life, being relent and visceral. May we live preconditioned by the excess of the solicitous toes and the inchoation of the pollen tributaries, which are as manifold by the wind to see the worms in their own Cremona, Toledo, Etna, Montmartre, Cnidus, and Anshan. I heard by a more piquant Stentor the clamor of my backyard earthworms, then likely was that the public hears at the annual running of the bulls during the feast of San Fermin in Pamplona. So I thoroughly embarked, upon the request of my more disproportionate judgment a more substantial quantity of my own preferable stock of drug, which is cannabis: then as I am more accustomed to have of in indulging, and then walked into the other room to pet my dog. As I petted him, I realized that in the more simplistic, humble, natural, and authoritative perception of the dog I am as a member of it's pack, it's brother. It would, by the impediment of it's own protectiveness, resist a stranger, but not me. I have thus commanded a station in nature, and before my most loyal friend I began to weep. What of me? But a human, to interact at these manifold potentials with an animal, whom has not- and will never hear of religion, politics, talion. I recently removed myself of the institution of my school as well, and that one instant of realization felt to be of a more important species to me then anything I had ever heard in the schools before. I just think that in between all those inclinations for truth, fact, merit, reputation: one should, in the manner of a more gentle character, attain by the periapsis of a more ancient wisdom; the respect of something undying. I believe in the consecution of more resistant principles, derivative of the human and dominant in the poet, which is that which is nature's hypocorism: faith, honesty, loyalty, poetry, philosophy, art, expression, respect, intuition- and that they might prevail those angels of numbers; that the host of those whom hold me to be of a most comfortable agreement outweigh that proportion of those people whom do not participate in my own suggested employments. That the animals, which live as a greater number then humans, assure me of my correctness; for it is not mere verisimilitude that performs me. But if the world could but simply be understood in that, by nature of a poem's admonitive halitus, ponderous gradient of it's auxiliary and undulation;
inocciduous systole how we can premonish ourselves of some impending decampment of the client of our personal Homunculus which is epacmastic in it's function- the epacme; that diapedetic altitude of our intelligence by the judgment of the world in some various and ongoing sort of ambivalence- a common voice of personal sphere, that has become in many ways- excepting those simply unfamiliar- as the reciprocal investment for, by the invalid constancy of our polluting beauty with some manner of importance and degree, what it is that is this world: the world that is some importunate incline of moving peoples possessed by ghosts and angels in a strange acosmism, indistinct from which are those Gods they propose to conquer, and some to supplicate. That economy of the poet is above all else holopneustic and creolian; that is, being within the instrumentality of the open systole- which is the principle of both transference and communication in the case of the animated, and concurrently, with anything that is of worth to us. It is also an example of the semiotics of the reassociation of the various incipient and disconnected elements in nature, as those unlike departments of man and plant are as one in the component of respiration, as my aoristic diastole is, by concurrent accomplishments, the plant's sempiternal systole. The poet is also, being representative of the impartial philosopher, as the Midgard Serpent or Jormungand, grasping his own tail and at the same time circumscribing the earth. Thor, who is the sentiment of the body and of the body's necessity to ostentation will extinguish this serpent, but succeed him only by merely a few steps. I might survive in this Ophisim, as Gilgamesh found immortality in culture and poetry. But more then this, he is the whole of the Sphinx. Before, with concerns to the Sphinx, I invest in discerning it's nature, might we consider it's manner of activity being as that of passive reclination, or rather some recumbent survey overlooking the city. It is because the great Sphinx, by the manner of those poets, observes rather then performs executively. He had a various correlation with the sun, in Egypt, burning and driving life. In India he is called purushamriga and is performed as one of the vahana- or vehicles of the divine spirit; his strategic achievement of the gopuram was to include him as an apotropaic conduit, an Intercessor, a preserver. In Myanmar, the Buddist monks assert him upon the corners of their Stupa and tell of how he was created to protect, from an assortment of ogresses, a royal babe. In Thailand he is said to reside in Himavanta, a legendary forest. And indeed, all these qualitive similarities are in the poet fulfilled entirely, all this tutelary stock and such. The physiognomy, being effeminate, is so to illustrate the volubility and readiness of manipulation inherent of the abstract mind, or that state of thinking more commonly employed by the poets and children, though by simultaneous instances the retention of beauty and some assessment of a higher proportion are still at means to encourage them to consecutive generations. This ambivalence of worth and passive compunction is further demonstrated by the wings of the Giza Sphinx, effecting the expeditious diffusing of the divine agency. A final instant of this confusion of poetic nature is in the fact that the sphinx is a combination of Man and Animal, symbolizing thus the heterogenous complicity of the poem and the poem's nature of being indefinite and not easily appraised by those whom have yet to write poetry themselves, hence the monster of poetry before the common. As the statue is, by irrevocable intensity, inclined to the overlooking of the city- poetry, as revealed by it's most banal and used apparition throughout human culture is inclined to the overlooking of humanity, with it's flexed talons which represent, by a further extrapolation, the intensity of it's premunition.

It is that subtle device of a most succulent and mensal wine and most Holy vintage that is of it's own term insoluble, of which when I and Erato and Oberon the fairy king savor it's celestial flavors, we must be prepared to invest ourselves in the unraveling of it's subtlety which is not unlike the knot attributed to Gordius of Phrygia and like roasted Durian, which despite it's mephitic or foul-smelling nature, presents it's attendance of consumers with tastes of a copacetic scope like the Corinthian and baronial architectures which I utilize to in my esoteric tastes, beyond all the flavors of herbs and the Retsina of Greece infused with that Aleppo Pine, or even good Muscadet with a proper portion of a shellfish dinner; quench my undying, primordial and olamic appetency, to extinguish in a Vedic Spring the fires of my incompetence and edaphic ignominy and opprobrium of which garnished proportionately before the scaled faces of the parochian and telestic God of worlds former, prevents me from my Name in Human culture and that of which is so; that Antipater of Sidon commented upon the wild of the ophidian God therein which residing at the Ephesian temple of Artemis conducted him to that most veritable of classfications, that it upon the other 6 of the wonders encapsulated a fragment of our own dynamic self, that I know not these things but simply the shadow of their form; which is all the cordial guesswork of the Poet. From the Quassia and Picrasma's vermifuge, which with great effectivity is to be know, my bitter distastes orginate to in the depths of a trochiline and parian marble body or tamarind tang become like a sturdy mount for my Soul to affix itself to in the conceits and forsaken outposts of our day's populations and their reception to the nutriment of miracles that have been spoken of.

That I might vellicate from my own sanable and olent soul the silk and camel's hair which from it's habillements or rather an aureate raiment of it's Asian Camlet provides me with a material like the The Cordovan shoes of Spain which might endure a lifetime of my trial or the wool of Dimity which of our colloquial bedcovers provokes a distinct comfort and the amorous taciturnity of our slumber from the impatient world of our knowings and doings.

The Greek way of living, it was and is a model of the human experience. All other standards of human living seem to me as an testudinate and nomic strain, or a customary and impenetrable surface-bubble. What oceanic depths might we penetrate to, to uncover some assiduous nodality of a various language of our nature and truer heritage, to explore the depths of the creative faculty that has instilled within us this sense of longing, which up until this very moment I found myself unable to diagnose. My cartography of the animastic and noetic fetus of our Grecian and eupatrid souls can never be as complete as the "Periegesis of Greece" by Pausanias, but in my defense, I experience John Locke's tabula rasa and our correspondence with all those ever-senescent intellects as a matutinal and jentacular custom and renew to myself one empowering fact; that we must transgress our own punic and imperfect sanction and become our own Dardanus to found our own Troys. All other organs of our activity are but a nephridial and emunctory sewage acting within the absentia of it's depository.

That commentitious and epigeal nativity of Erichthonius, in all the faces of a fallen nature his is but an eidetic fleshment of some soil-birth, the cosmetic progeny of an entire geography and concatenation of exertions and trials of both man and beast, the heuristic sondage of that respective womb might reveal to us some Naxos, largest of the Cyclades upon which the convivial and potatory "Dionysian worship" was most prominent and salient and distributed to a fullness deserved entirely; that my spirit carries in it's appearance the onomastic seminal or signature of the good Pamphilus of Alexandria or Zenodotus the first librarian of the Library of Alexandria, I treat my words like a respect to that consuetude and punctilio, that we might manducate the Betel nut in a Holy Custom; and in that gracility of spirit replenish ourselves from the same grounds upon which our Cows are Milked and a trochilidine and lacteal and delphinine ocean of pity and humble galaxies fills our souls to relinquish ourselves to a range of sympathies beyond our own philistine and otiose busy-body.

All but that lively rudiment of a François Rabelais's humor and the constitutive and vital Bathism, Parenchyma, and saccate constatation of the Natural World which is the effodient and nomothetical poet are but these timorous and trepid impostors which before their own naked and immortal species flee; that in their caducary and taeniate Salpid with those two ends they take and expose the rictal vulgarity of that which they have fed upon which is the Padishah; the Sultan of Turkey, and the Shah of Persia which like some portion of blackstrap molasses have been divorced from their more saccharine and sapid nutrients. What is the poet, but Nature's meat? He burrows and eats nuts and berries, he challenges those who's most unclean diet offends that cornucopian and opulent plenum of a Godly sustenance before them as their birthright.

Their is before us always that nosocomial and sartorial adnascentia of our favorite writers, and the olitory and esculent verdure of our poets; and while it is certainly pleasant to have of them a great discussion, for insights to the Homeric poetry I look not upon the critical volumes of Aristarchus of Samothrace and Aristophanes of Byzantium, but within the confines of my own humble approaches. The good text of the Deipnosophistae of Athenaeus and the gustative empires detailed by the fine tastes of Mithaecus are but this enthetic and secondary nature when compared to the tounge of the one whom consumes the meals in question. No, there is no beauty but the beauty which gestates comfortably inside and it's sanctimonious judgements inspire the whole of the selenic maternity that is our God and of which flows like the glochidiate and pactolian milks of the Vedic texts, like a puerperant moon greater then a sun who's pubescent eons birthed a galaxy of life.

That I am forever residing fertile like the Amaranthine Flower as the tentiginous tentations of a first-taste compelling to our interests, that I bask in the esoteric nature of the pursuit of Gustave Flaubert's "precise words" and the eidetic and pavonian vortices of the all-enduring commitments he manufactured for his arts; and like that fine astrology of Dorotheus of Sidon's "Carmen Astrologicum" or the implicit semiotics of the Cosmogenic Theory of the four elements of Empedocles and his "Philia" and "Niekos" I volunteer myself for the agency of a divine intelligence to speak a word for the majesty of complementation.

There is not one dependable purity of which inhabits our universe, but we are by a certain nature bound to the referencing of the world and it's various aspects as self-transcendent and secular creations. Is not all love to be observed acting sometimes in place of hate, and is not a portion of odium and repugnance responsible for love's being love? But if all is a mixture, all is the same, and if all plays into all things, but one thing plays. All experience of the personal class yields for it's own sake the panomphaean and soterial "sui generis" and infinite uniquity of which comparatively all the world's history and literature are merely eidolons and umbratic posterior. But the shadows of our world are what most people claim with a satisfaction as real, unperceptive to the provoking vibration of what Emerson called the "Iron Cord" which speaks to me so as to suggest a certain degree of pulchritude in "cyclopean masonry" and in a Sophistry that would rival that of Gorgias of Leontini in it's moliminous tones that the world is my concubine and paramour and that the universe is my play-thing.

This philosophy invests itself as the pertinacity of a Pyrrhus for the weak of spirit and for the modern and more pecunious and peccaminous "Croesus" presents itself as an unbearable tormenting of some intellectual servility, which above all else must obey the craving to associate itself with authoritative; as opposed to higher, power. Such that they must acknowledge one thing better then another, and thus play in to the fool's municipal nomenclatures. It tells us that we might find God when we understand this; that we are our own Jasons and Argonauts of our own Colchis, each of us caught up in the searching of our own Golden Fleece herein compounded in our spiritual conquests with as much a manifold potential as Eris's "Apple of Discord" to start our own Trojan Wars even, and that as the benevolent and vassal Chrysolophus, the humble birds, the humble cows, the humble dogs, the humble Man we might approach our own Adytums to become oracles of ourselves and unravel ourselves hitherto the Favonian gales.

Be that immaculate Hercules that cleans his own "Augean Stables." Divert the twin rivers of supplication and humility through your sordid and dilapidated textures of a morality and godliness. The experience of yourself is the only experience worth having, and the raw meat of your favorite writer is reflecting perfectly in the plutonic and hypogeous undulations of your own dynamic experiences. Deep in the stuff of yourself you must take up residence to nurse your immortal embryos before you tend to your most esurient and famished organs, prepare the faculties of your ethics and imagination before you submit to the world's hungers; your diet must not be aimed to improve your body firstly, but you must appoint yourself to the concordance of higher intellects and higher societies, higher and higher that you might presume to be the "Contentment of Tantalus" and the enclave of a being fascinated with the being fascinated.

The body of my personal life seems of wont to pull me in at times in many a series of odd attractions and thusly become tumidly imbibed within the confluences of my curiosity, as to rather my love is your love, and my blues are your blues, etc. As if within the humble gracility of the natation of my own unchartered waters the Charybdis in the Strait of Messina might overtake me next to this; with more a sophistication of meter and musicality then the "Sicilian shepherd Daphnis" my life enraptures my senses, and the personal experience that I know provides me with more room for study then all the greatest literatures that I have read. I suppose Dante's "Divina Commedia" merely reflects my own tribulations and caliginous vestibules, and also that Apicius's refined tastes never explained to me the delights I felt for my own petty dining; that again to say that our own lives afford us an infinity of conversations and studies.

We might thank Athenaeus of Naucratis for his "banquet of the learned" never-minding that our own insatiable and optative desideratum for the Hellenistic "carbonado" which like the Indians of North America and their petty pabulum of "pemmican-dinners" appeals to a higher faculty of a more esculent and oleraceous gustation; a sort of jasperated and cervisial intellectual "triclinium" or Oenopion the king of Khios's "Oenomel", but we must rather devourer the hidden portions of ourselves to therein compensate for the works of him that survive no more.

Might we read the "Roman Antiquities" of Dionysius of Halicarnassus with an atmosphere of an incredulous and cunctative standard towards his notion that, history is the example of good philosophy; that the Greeks predominated the Romans entirely in the intellect and that some of them still thrive today. Rather, the Greeks still are alive today, that we might abandon the old pugilism and renew our spirits in the Epaminondas of our Messenian helots and go as far to consider the attacking of our Persian Empires as Jason of Pherae. That there might be some invisible conjunction or connexion of Mythology and the Truth, we might keep the lost "Heptamychia" by Pherecydes of Syros in our thoughts, that to face the hypogeal and olamic animals which reside at that truth we must keep a chunk of lead in our shoes, like Philetas of Cos as well.

I presume not to comprehend the conduct of the Heavens themselves, but rather the time from between now, and my death I have become them in action. In death The Heavens themselves are done, and they shut up into my absentia, as upon this proletaneous Earth I find myself but one of the Arundelian marbles, a Jequirity Bean or bundle of Angora Wool, perhaps even some bird of the procellarian class; as the petrels, and fulmars, and like to think of myself as a prospector of that ablutionary emollition or that relaxation that Theocritus observed in his vanessian and pastoral gulf of meager things, as the punctilious pinnace of History and God which during the fulfillment of it's meager voyage remains adherent to this; to seize the day, as Horace said, choosing to erect myself for a day's work in the nemaline and velutinous chamois of my Priapus and Endymion and by that ever-familiarity of the redolent fragrance of my thural herbs for means of both incense and sacrament, forever dining on the cheese of both the hircine and elapid species of animals; the goats and cobras, confident in the assertion of my gardens and vineyards and to dine upon my pettiness as a hardy meat. We stand directly facing a moral obligation, which tends to presume for us a question, or rather a calling of sorts; that we must choose to prepare our directions within the ambience of a more fulfilling ethical principle.

The compound of genius, which is to be acknowledged by any and every philosopher of the common strain as the most vital organ of life itself, indeed some unfolding element of change, of a veneration of forms, some retiary and labent constructure into which collects, or rather is deposited, various items in wont of interest; is something that must be taken apart, to be appreciated in the fullest standards of it's creation. True Genius equates the truth with but an adscititious and contingent and partial thing; it behaves accordingly with that dioristic phoenixity of it's childishness and curiosity and by a certain intemerate nature gravitates further and further away from the nucleous of rational thought as it develops. Imagination and Ignorance, together, define the Genius. That his pelagic ignorance of a configured quantity affords him a certain wonder, and that in his ephebic and testaceous imagination such a thing as that takes root with an ericeticolous commitment, and in that stuff of his is fit for some gala and epinician festivity by the end of it's unrestrained and belligerent rotations, that it is the final triumph of the wild and free human experience, and that it arises merely out of weakeness, and is comprehended by no artificial reproductions.

There is to be found no orectic and optative faculty, no expectation, and no fulfillment of any of the various degrees of appetency within this Genius, it is a supplicatory and humble creation which within it's domain of precatory and nival property exerts a continual benevolence and selflessness. It is this way, and it conducts itself in this manner because it is also an independent creature, of which yields nothing but a department of abundance and exorbitance for it's relations.

Those plangent compilations of a prothallial and testaceous nectar which are to be within all range of instances transplanted into us by some effluent and cantabile reverberation of sorts- the vitiable and anacamptic, the phantom and intangible substrate of their firmamental theology of which our human extremity is of a rendering incapable of the assertion of itself beyond the felt-laws which reside respectively there; transferred slushing-like as that virtuous child revolves his thoughts about, ushering out some times into our common incompatibilities of which come to betray the child for his own sincerity and morale, of his own intellect and expedient genius; the remotion of the pysmatic and inquisitive juvenility of his observations of this world, which formerly occupied his body like a personal and oceanic organ, protecting and rectifying in some enveloping of the intellectual viscera, are now pallid and etiolate and are crippled; no longer the acute membranes of his independant faculties and exceptions, but rather have become transmuted into a gross vestige of what we designate with a certain satisfaction, as adulthood; content with our cosmetic senses, we assume this migration of the sensibilities to be quite the convention.

That those whom we assume, or rather conclude to be "adults" are as some pusillanimous and trepid species; with no conception of the celestial agency of hebetic and placoidian investments and they do not operate on their own accord for some reason and thusly when beheld in their observable routines are as a vast body of tenial and animal exertions, a procrustesian and castrensial organization of sorts- by arbitrary and heedless animality it completes it's circulations and perpetuates it's echo and ebbing. The subduction of that Ossian of the genesial and ordalian experience of being a child or like a child, of being affixed to an imagination of infinite diameter and proportions, encapsulated within your world of ignorance and multiplicity and of the meeting with constant but remarkable obstructions and trials, is to be surmounted by all the more common aspects of our adulthoods.

The child is to me as that ocreate and ambulant Pygmalion(1) of which like the great Bellerophon, mounted upon a certain equine form(2), is consecutively met with the being capable of inducing it's most adroit and clement capriole into the penetrating of various agencies of the divine impressions of an irenic and altruistic benevolence, and nakedness therein. The Thracian kind Diomedes knew not the proper diets of his mares, that they would presume themselves most estimable to me with the inclusion within their bodies of but this particular metastasis. The child rides hither and thither upon the turgid and carolitic wings of his Pegasus; all animal and child existence blended so as to constitute but a singular resplendency and existence that I find myself of wont to intermingle and interpolate with at great lengths the sum of my humanity.

The remoteness and implacable appetency of the truth are resolved by that communication with one's natal soul, and it's subsequent and entheate blessings of an insouciant vigor. That it is the ecumenical and demotic benediction; a point of entry to some sort of devine and copasetic sanctum, that every human knows by an intimate and edacious coveting, and of which is a quintessential aspect of the compounded human experience. Their is this certain pigmentation of Arcadia to be found in the jessant and pactolian chaparral- the scenic property, and the scansorial and vernal Soul which adheres forever to that postulant pergola of the tralatitious and Vedic winds and vegetation of our Today; their depository or reservoir of a poetic, or spiritual liquidity. It is not to be mistaken for any determinate culmination; it is not to be restricted due to the partiality of the sum of it's many segmentations and gaps of a visceral origin and nature; rather it is what the Poet describes in his catalog and perennial diaries as the anacreontic and hellenic zenith of the composite human experience, to be absolved from the compliant and epilated Men of the City and their cosmopolitan reflection of an insignificance and altricial residue through this poetic transmutation of the spectrum of relationship; to write poetry is to commune with nature at the highest severity and allow it hitherto alleviate the ills of menial domesticity.

I do comprehend by a forward advancement of my thoughts, this Rosicrucian and Chaldean vestige retained in every individual mind and life; which are when observed within their elocutive and universal incompatibilities, of the benefitting of various implicit faculties of the universe- that the boeotian and ignominious men whom choose to epilate and partake of that tonsorial and occult turpitude therein of that adulterating of the natural form do ignore. We must begin to compose our lives in a manner hypogean and erumpent to the activity of drawing from the opulent repository of the feral antiquities of our character a source of inspiration which operates by an unconditional acceptance. Is it to be considered my fault that I observe not the strings of love, that are rumored to assert men in many different directions? That I am the plangent and puissant Gallio observing this thalian Sisyphus? An exigent religiousness of a Thyestean banquet would benefit the ills of this representation of Parkinson's law but a little; that the inimical otiosity lives there forever isolated from the breath of sapphic and venial and natural creations.

It is an interesting part of society, that faculty which is represenative of the class of poets, and poetic-thinkers; that they are like some epithelial and halituous and boreal current of the setting up of philomelian and hesperidean chronologies that work independantly from the accrementitial and psittaceous paradigms of today's ill-advised historians. History, and the historical mediums of both biography and chronology which when considered conjointly are as one consecrated and rudimentary appendage, extremity, or haematinic and pierian exponent of that etiolated pusillanimousness of the race of our humanity, appraised relentlessly and becoming patrician and celebrated in a degree like the caecilian and epigeal existence of our more insular identites when erected as in the composite manner of basilican and magnanimous stoics by many a series of refractory and unremitting augmentations, begotten of the inquistive dereliction of conventionality and the observations and turgid and dropsical sedulity of various poets; most probably for it's recognition as an esemplastic and concactenative genius of which affirms that there most exist some circulation of residual intellect from ages and ages former which animates the poetic faculty of ever single person and leaves no particular moment more important then another; and thus, no life more important then another; within the poetic genius this inopectic and maculate and contractile spiritual mantra resonates as an elastic theology within a truer comfort then you or me could ever know with our bodies and devices unaquainted with higher society. But the one whom does know this; he is made now to comprehend the distressing fullness of the normative and more hebate faculties of his life, and all the deals and machinery of his contemporary society as but this abapical and contumelious atrament and laodicean and iniquitous mutation of the greatness of the universal character; something to be avoided, as an excrementitious and mephitic stain.

The poet seeks to deliver himself forever from the taciturn ephemerality and eventual and caducity of terminable and impermanent dialect, saying to himself while doing it, "What is this nameless and ignominious offense so unpleasant with my character, and with a lack of definition of that which I might devine to improve- and of that pudency of an indolent standard never befitting the venial and partial condemnations that you are rumored, to in various accounts, bestow upon your many enemies; to the celestial sensation, what blasphemy have I commited to have become this otiose and pandemic Sisyphus?" No approbatory encomium benefits your pet greater then a polemic host of the various appellations on behalf of the tastes which are universal, which like a derivation of some theology of the firmamental ancestry of our appreciative oblation, imparts in a manifold potentiality the fulfillment of expectation. I have hence come to understand the poet to be a distinctive concupiscence not unlike that dog's devotion to food, and an esurient "elan" and "oestrus" of rudimentary and spiritual vitality, this nomothetic and incondite alacrity; the pinnacle and zenith of an apathy and childishness, a peculiar sort of interaction between various opulent, fiducial, and tesselar beauties which together in their empathetic and emphatic concordance are perceived as being some gentilitious continent of capricious, natal, and vestal sense; for the most part drawing up no first-hand accounts of anything in particular- excepting for his own thoughts of course, but rather to ascertain the consolidation of a supposititious and impetuous expediency of thoughtfulness or meditativeness, he composes himself within the manners of some acclimation to plangent and ambulatory behavior by a conterminous pervading of his most venerated form, that is more then frequently doted upon by both himself and his contemporaries for it's nobiliary and clement activity within a host of pneumatic influences and exertions of truly intellectual character. That visceral and tenuous and emollient soul of the poet is to interminably be observed only in it's most natural habitation of some insouciant and gelastic and certainly perdurable ebullition, seated within a degree of comfort upon the clement legerity of a hesperian and aestival gale; those winds which we might swear to be imbibed with a life greater then our own. No temporal or telluric and colloquial conventionality persuades him to abandon the fecundity of his playful, lofty, and convivial atmosphere, as to acknowledge the existence of that sordid and pugnacious uglyness which seems to be so well-accepted by the non-writer; for the poet does not believe that an absense of beauty is possible, in anything; for he might be the only thing capable of being convinced of such a thing. I do not believe in uglyness, or pain, or displeasure. The genial and diligent amicability that like some vertiginous and torrid fusillade asserts the poet before your civility of a most equitable and impartial standard collects in the many pockets of a diminutive acerbity of the obstinance of the impediment of seriousness.

It is of wont to be effectively dispensed for the one whom wants it, and of which also is to be observed within this epacmastic consummation of the entheate and agapeistic state of some proboscidean and veridical placidity, of the derivation of the transcendental and immanent moments of a personal oscitancy of these testudinal and idoneous things I have become hence aware of to model myself afterwords, they are as some sort of a psittaceous and cautelous velleity which is establishing itself as somewhat of an intrinsic rudiment of my daily life in the conjunction with the appointment by some sophistic and protreptic God and of my soul's saltant and alembic migration of a various interactivity involved in the identifying of that trenchant and bitter thing of that which is the etiolate and emarcid and valetudinarian effect of the humorless living practiced by such an absent-minded and efficacious hebitude by the majority of my contemporaries, which is when perceived from beyond it's more familiar incipient and germinal form as not unlike the changes between the potatory and hesternal experiences of bacchic indulgance, and that illness which results tomorrow from it and which those persons being discussed are most likely familiar with at a contubernial and procrustean device of a lack of both self-dignity and a configured selfishness, and it's circulations herein(1); now apparent to me that by a certain chimerical and ludic and sartorial osculation of the fulfillment and triumph of the poetic form which is this sort of aestival and gnomic and riparian pronouncement of a various inchoate and connubial energy of this sort of agrestic proclivity;the fact that if I am to endure no more the nuptial and panglossian comity of these hermetic and orphic men I observe daily with my tepid amusement, I am too resign myself to the poetic form as some vituperative and petulant occlusion of any and all instances and degrees of that impenitent solemnity, of that vacancy of the child-like spirituality, which is unmatched in any given religion. The men whom know not the meaning of a ferial or meager or even light experience of the prandial class and by no speustic victual comprehend a real flavor; this is not for you: that you gustative and avaricious Empires are lacking of the ability to appreciate not a poetic subtlety or even any delicate effect for that matter; But what of you who implement not your most human and natural sense, that which the vulnerary and henotic haecceity upon which the universe rotates in it's enchorial and gregarious law and the ephebic and tenesmic "I" are as one; I am the pagurian and promethean pedionomus which acts merely with subtle and tenellous amplexations, to contemplate the gamic and empyreal confluences of the Parnassian and Tempean stars and sun; I am to digest the nectarous and nepenthean blood of their catamenial and Pyrrhic theology of proceleusmatic and chelonian oppilations. In the campestrial and castrensian exploring of all these various entheate and neanic nectaries, I have retained to myself the identification of their cosmogyral and guiding principle as this Lydian and commentitious plenum of eidetic and eirenic malacissations of both solemnity and maturity; God is really this nepionic and jyngine and panary creature, which is carried aloft by this anthophilian and apian buzz of which I dispose myself to consumption daily as if it were this perennial music which we are all welcome to but simply relish and breathe eternaly. If the world of Man is but this balneal and didelphian iniquity and his mind is then this scintillating body of elements, this group of exertions and movements; a singular, self-transcendent flame, then God is such to me as some rasorial and periscian dalliance of which interacts directly with my interests. To what is forever before me as being this galeate and selachian and sanguineous organ of the intellect; I am comprehending the force of which compels me to erect myself by it's hesperian and demogoric appellations. Such that it is such an esculent and comestible thing, it is most typical that it reinvents itself to me as an obrumpent and glochidiate adnascentia for either ephectic adepts of those macellarious and barbaric arts to assume for such an oleraceous complement or these wandering and vegetable sustained families of inocciduous and sidereal animal-tamers to discipline and be conducted by to a volitient and ostracean gentility of living; I see my Godess now coming upon me as some accumulation of commodity, and it relinquishes my fervor to this eicastic and psittacid state of existence.

But there is always that tralatitious truth of temerarious and peirastic spirit which, in it's panomphaean and analemmatic device, is then like that sebaceous and liquid as actinopterygian and halatinous and fish are so expected to be covered with- of their salsamentarious and pelagian habitations; such is like the onion that cannot be withheld completely, but there must be mediation always between it's cepaceous and gentilitious form and it's subject; coming from celeripedean means, it is deep, and at it's tenebrious and hypogeal center, or most rudimentary and gregarian compresence, it comes to betray us by being not unlike it was at the surface. But I am at my truths, gressorious and this walking and gelastic and cachinnatory philosopher, I understand that it is only like this, that the truth may be comprehended; that Democritus is in my blood.

There is indeed this most copacetic and inculpable region of one’s genius; though when interpolated by the unwilling to believe it becomes into some bestial and cannibalistic demon not unlike the dematiaceous and ogygian Gods and relics of religious antiquity, it’s potentiality of improvements are but a caliginous exhaustion of that which is concealed by that which directs without conditions; the hands most tender and not yet ravaged by withholding the soul transpire no goods in themselves and ignore this vegetation so sacred; their indistinct and etiolated nomenclatures benefit not the most hortensial and salsuginous of our Ancient Earth’s gardens. The entire cognitive apparatus concerns itself at an intimate level with this imaginative and infantile outlook, and by nature this sort of existence is upheld, though because the transition to a more feral and oragious state of living is often accompanied by various deformities of relationship, it is when retained by human nature instinctive but possible to be ignored for it’s eremetical and intellectual requisites. The human knows his most fundamental nature effectively and without the necessity of contemplation, but is inclined to ignore and even rage against it when more commodious exertions make possible greater empires of gustative and sensuous alternatives, with little or no intellectual excitation. I speak in manners which seem daunting to the majority of readers, and with little reason purport my temulent and and amphigean passages; but why should a man respect the more senescent and destitute of his mentative regions, like I suggest, and which like vast cities of a certain daedal construction comprehend through both the periods of activity and disuse great wear and tear? Why should one open up the vulnerable template of his being to the world, a world enriched in the having of so many devices of enmity and degradation? The poet, he who claims above all else the higher society, might defeat one’s critical objections. I pray thee seek one out to have of him a promulgating of these matters, at which we might have for ourselves a definitive answer- but I know from my own experiences that you shall have great difficulty and obstruction in the ascertaining of the task, for if there be but one thing to say of which the world is lacking, it is the class of poets. The poet is he who takes note of all things subtle or surreptitious, he is also quick to disregard the sensuous, for they are that aggregative mass of necrotic and cutaneous deterrent which he beholds in the minacious and oneiric fantasy which is of wont to drink him in like some stotious and bacchanal reveler to etiolate and esurient ethics(1); the architect and organ of various celestial and cosmic systems, the stuff of the prismatic nimbus he exudes through his work and with his understanding of words and symbols, he designs that which the soul has a fancy of engaging in with facetious and desipient manners, as in a childish state, as it's conductor in the faculty of recollection communes with figures of his more exoptable appetibility. He works with more elemental consituents then the world's elements, and as the myopic and parochial intellect of the scientist is resolved with microscopes and other such artifical means, one's spiritual vitality might be improved with but a simple quantity of the poetic form, which radiates within us all, and with one of Shakespeare's(2) sonnets, ameliorated of any and all deformity or imperfection, and made into the coryphaeus(3) of Godly performances we might associate ourselves.

To those ephemeral and deciduous schools; specious and contingent the principals with with to our reality veritable and insipid doth retained to thy by necessity unblinking scrutation so argillaceous and indurate which improves me not as dematiaceous and caliginous and opiparous. To which looking upon a great painting or poem, to what supplication invents it's charm but a world's alternative resolving, to which when chanced said vacillating we should not be so and who's mere being so invalidates all peremptory sciences?

To thee denied by that so critical pace and that sabulous and orarian imbonity so pallid and etiolated a nature to within some oppidan and saccadic exile abstain from that amative and gamic energy, to you only all those lactescent and smegmatic things appear not, but to you the dulcet and odoriferous cheese witheld, these things to which poetry is as of a derelict store of good, to which I into which your dullness steaps, in some way of to which I know not how, took upon myself it's fullness and discovered all it's offering, to me to be but not that great seed imperdible, but with out to which an artist embarks, a useless good, to true a loss. To be of yourself the bard to which tauromachian and contrapuntal yourself resounds by what we have in accrementition; to in you create again yourself, be not of glabrous and boring character a' spinning a silk not sweet to how the mind is fit for tending to our ambitious hands, as it hylotomous and obnoxious terebration of what to me is of no worth; a soporific inducement doth consume yourself for it. Why then leniently treat my contested vice, and go on about a busy, busy work of cracking skulls, dead artists do you treat with that temulency and jactitation of your comprehensions; when even to yourself do not you know a thing worth saying into which the room of discourse you doth exact your temulency and embarassment, to fellow philosophers invoke offense by which you truly claim your character lost.

Upon which words are, all other things sit to be indefective, by them admit not one; and use them all to cleave towards a world now no longer acclimated to higher things, things of the worth of being seen at least, if not to simply say you did.

In the world I see, Poetry and Philosophy are without that verdant and sanguine portent of movement or life, becoming this emeritus trade at one time of the befitting of insouciant and estival gods, now which are so reproached by our impudence displayed as so very emarcid and pallid of it's conduction; torpid and enervated by such crebrous obdormition, they arise only once in a while as but eremetic phantoms, to but simply in some halituous and lochetic and cleidoic state survey by precarious and tentative standard the chances of their re-entry into the mortal worlds; and the entirety of everything before me is but this incesstant examination of my vivency and juvenility, which is in wont of arrestant inducements, but never on behalf of my platitudinous and acerbic disenchantments of it, serving but to cause to becometh an augean and venal and partial conformity to conditionality into which these various olamic and tesselar beauties are undulating and in a certain hypogeal and tenuous natation kept by the vastitude of neglect and of dilapidation; though I am this quixotic and sorcerous thing and equiped with a goety previously unknown of and unlooked at since the ancient world to which indigenous to it is, I make of my various conjurations the transitory effect of their conciliatory and visitant pilgrimage to our pallid and sanguinous yet sacredly animated world, reprehensible of the beholding of their form so consummate and vapid; merely the gate to which they aquaint themselves with that megatherial and hortensial obvention of nature-walking, as if they themselves in the strolling by and recounting of the Earth's most caducean and telarian and papilionaceous masterpieces become of them, and prove themselves as much as nature as they are the mediator of in recounting; I become thankful of this exaltation.

I dare say that the poet is he who is employed by the most prudent of considerations and is attentive of the gradient of his circumstance and the potentiality of it's relative interactions; he is verecundious and inoculative, and by further definition is ultimately capable of penetrating to the aposematic and recondite spheres of pneumatic music which is as a gas, and is then also capable of absconding with that nutriment, becoming of his own coriaceous hide and symbolic architectures as some integral part of that which he is in steady writing and contemplation over. The poet is one of the most important parts of Nature, herself. He is ultimately one with Her, and he knows her best, he who inspires.

The aura of the poet is sea-colored and in it's edacious and alexiterial musicality branches outwardly through and behind and over and beyond the continuity of time, making a concatenation of all time and all WoMan with itself, into a singular awareness. The peripatetic and pelagian poet is without the soiling of himself with ambagious and cunctative manners, he who is always drinking in his circumstance simply to communicate it, consummate in all ways imaginable; his profound sublimity in that amongst sequacious and pusillanimous men; condemned to the dependence upon their own surrogate and tutelary Gods, he is unchanged; adamantean and obdurate he collects as an ossification of divine property descended into his allegiant Achates; the language that he is made paphian and inexorable of; it being the acrimonious and parochial chrysalis into which he assumes the form of God in mode departed from our Earth, he emerges in his written catalouge as a perfect resentment of this World and it's people.

I obambulate in a manner so megatherial and elephantine, as with the bucolic and arcadian appetency without direction, in method as pertinacious and punctilious as the more farcical and anfractuous the sounds become, the closer I am to home; animated by a definite purpose, aspirant to simply look for rhythyms everywhere and in any circumstance repair their infandous and detestable absentia. Only in children can we observe this mode of life, or in philosophers; a man cannot live in this manner, he is retained by a confluence of various degradations of his character, and is not even in the desire of which to achieve this state, which is the most concerning fact to this scenario which I can come to.

Why is it, that the assumption of deletable and specious form in so many a thing is assured to us by the facetious comicality of the human mind's operation? That the sodality of ingannation is in the duplicity and dissonancy of the mind's various parts, that it treats all things by the sum of the contents of it's own rememberances, and so Dogs and Children, both aboriginal to faraway and fantastical and wild places, must not be absolved from this natural process. We know of them not a thing; but thinking that there simply cannot be anything which functions differently from our own concieved principles, we being to implant ours into them, reproduce ourselves in various places where we should not have ever even entered into.

If to in which my punctilious inclement of understanding the art of the evasion of dolorous condolences and the tellurian superficies to which of them reside in the surface vestibules of that odd-fellow conversastion we chance commute our instances, I am at once to allege impetuously that there is no more a succoring and consolatory halidom, no more a temperant and open forum of which to satisfy the various hosts of relations between us- and those inimical and worldly complications so vitriolic and appellative of the common man which accompany one detached from rustic living; there is to be found no greater property of that established insularity of ardent gratitude in another then that which is to us summative and retained completely in the genial receptions we have with all of our beloved Dogs. They, that is each of them, hail from some hyperborean impeccability and gentility of living, that at one analouge of our time's decadent reproach of all the Earth's various elements or another, man occupied as well, but lately absconded from with the dogs as some juxtapose and incongruous relic, correspondent to that life by which we fled for power, or for being decieved by the pursuit of power, I do not know. They are dislocated from their homes, but take to us as if we were one of them with steady repetition of our own optative strain of living, which might go to show how easily fallen into the hebetative and obtundent circulations of the ManWorld are. They might even attain our opulent and sordid cerebrations; that is, lazzyness, over-indulgence, and most recognized; the attraction to the abundance of warmth. That we take them and by the gerent forces of a certain languor of remordency breed them from their more natalitious and commodious divinity; introducing them into our daedalian transgressions; coming of inanimate recogntion and inert commentary by daily dulling, by a daily isolation from a higher society- we betray them. Our vein of the world is but an empire of gustation; it is cruel for it's epigaeous and vulpine approaches, it is by them at note to pull in those things around it that choose not to submit or simply are not aquainted with it's facination and worship of the sensuous faculties; and most of all, it directs itself in accordance with a rationale in submission to the lowliest of epistemological devices. But our children, those ones younge enough to be not yet intangled in our spiritual crisis; what of them?

I am of the disposistion to believe that the quintessential human experience is imagination, and most optatively, of the variety to which childhood puerility and fecundity are to be by many celestial gurgitations and ebullient and vertiginous motions like an oragious and numinous constellating of various prototypic but effeminate and thus easily conquerable methods of observing, that is to say, so many perfections of looking and understanding; which are repudiated from interacting with our conventions and judgements today in the hypogeous and pallid realities of adulthood. To be deprived of and enucleated from the generative causticity of childhood's outward affection towards our most "serious" of concepts is to be later as parochial and uncoordinated, never and never to be aquainted with the most exuberant of our life's facets, a certain lacuna prevents the mind from collecting itself as the proportionate intermixing of particular ecstacies into one self-transcendent, running tap of lethe to which we are provided retreat to, in the faculty of recollection, in our later tribuloid and atrabilious outlooks; broken down from years of disuse, the principal of our existence is made into some gross degeneracy of culpable ambition and deficient temerity.

Surely, animals might be able to detect the differences in man and his younge?

To be like a child, animated by a natal and gelastic vigor, is not to be ignorant and invested merely in puerile jocosity; it is to have apprehended the plenary and verisimilitudinous undercurrents of our cachaemic and morbid life; it is to have claimed life, or asserted yourself beyond it; to have recognition of the truth, that we are here to produce fiction; at least, thats how I would like to believe. To be like a child, is to be like the birds and Dogs, embossumed by an openability of benedictive and "aesculapian" influences; to be aware of the Earth's most emphatic and vespertine organs, to be unaffected yet by all the petty and inept deliberation of older men, who in knowing no more how to live, seperate themselves in layers from the nucleous of rustic living.

In the multiplication of uncertainties; the esemplastic and henotic nature of morality and mentation serve to augment in continual fashion a revelation of salient contrast to our excommunicated and shrunken philosophies; that the sensation of belonging and indispensability and vulnerary amenity the most valued product from a combination of these things; is an essential aspect of human life and a certain "viaticum" required for the ponderous and prolixious unfolding of it's element of hermitage, and it is only provided to us in the forgotten and equitable natural domain.

To be involved with nature is to be involved with a most indomitable and esculent concordance of veritable and exquisite means of sustentation, that is to say, not merely of corporeal extensions, but also that it like florid and chryselephantine metals, reflects that which it receives through the mediation of some estimable and worthy equivalence, and so purports it's ideology without the failures of man's un-configured selfishness, that it also is the source of all the arts and inspirations in our race as well, so more fit for our government then a fellow man.

I, with the tender quintessence of discernment all whom live in isolation from the anserine and fatuous Men will agree to a comparative illustriousness yet ease of being made forgettable, study the various methods of inflicting dullness to which have been established in my rudiment and staple and unaffixed expectations by the terebrant and venous body of this newer society, and conclude them to be but shameless and impudent profanation of the sacred character of nature's most delicate organs of extraneity. I will admit to recognition never a more solemn and meritorious thing, then child and animal life.

My matutinal and jentacular experience or morning breakfast, for the most part, I prefer to have retained as like a pandurate and incanous shadow, maintained as obedible by a certain arcadian sensibility; that is to say, in wont to preserve that generous multiplicity of every single day's incipient and inceptive atmospheres of stellar, and vivid, and vital existence; to all experiences of the prandial and apopemptic class, which might serve well to institute a singular day of menial and banal opuscule; I hithero elude all strains of abundance. Instead, every morning and directly upon my awakening, I absolve myself to this enthean and palatine appetibility of novel thinking and writing, ignoring the day's initial and fremescent moments and my physical needs. It is by this manner of conducting myself, that I feel as though my respect to both myself and to my mind has been observed, hithero by praedial and stoic Gods. No genius wakes up to a mundane experience, but rather he embraces the new day by exersising more vital and esurient faculties then his contemporaries are inclined to dispose of. Is it not very wise to have the mind begin it's circulating before the blood and organs?

I am compelled by an entire species of truculent and temulent thoughts, that I might presume to divine by that orgillous and ophidian faculty the balsamical and emollient fragrance that cause one to, like some audacious and intrepid emperor; actuated by a certain accomptable valiancy and sagaciousness of veritable morals, to rise up to some plethoric feracity in the elysian and pastoral gulf of their philosophical contemplations; that palustral and hortensial animality of thespian and minatory Tragedy residing as the subboreal and hypogaean and inimical archetypes aboriginal of Hamlet and Othello; the knowledge of suffering which exalts it's professor, and which all poets truly exude in a substantial quantity. It is the animal-stench that exalts my motives.

The universe is, in all the manner of it's various superficies and activities, a stochastic and acataleptic system; if it is indeed an olamic and infinite thing interacting with some vicinal and partial intelligence. Is it when appropriated by our contentions, beholding humectant and corrosive or adventitious governance of it's element? All we can presume to know about it, is achieved through the faculty of Logic. We may apprehend merely the verisimilar and specious knowledges, founded in the rudimentary organ of logical and experiential recollections, Logic itself I should say pensile and adherent to the axiom; that it is the summative and culminative body of the comprehensions, applications, and discernments of various "Probabilities". That probability, and ultimately, that dubitancy govern the mundane worlds, imagination and the insouciant and jovial mentalities of children should govern the patrimonial and supernal laterality of the poetic composistions. Does all of this contention reduce human worth if I propose that Logic is in itself an unworthy thing when we have our poems? Are we condemned to uncertainty and endless curiousity at once, both togather?

There is, like the divine lambency of soporous and placid certitude, intrinsic and effulgent; this rudimentary organ which we call awareness, and which gestates in commodious and capacious manner within us all and from an anidian and embryonal state exalts itself as an absolution through the medium of a true genius. It is viviparous and convoluted with these amazing things we call axioms and principles, it is this sort of collection of non-experintial knowledges yet directs all contentions regarding the experienced.

Awareness is the objective of a certain type of meditation which aims to rectify all suffering through the oneness of a disillusionment of locality and separation, and like a testaceous and cleidoic integument, with some great efficience sustains it's object with a certain execution of benevolence; of this maternal and unconditional guidance, the intellectual absolves himself. It is autopoietic and effiminate, and without any need of sustentation or fuel or motivation; it is this entirely independant and reliable government that is ancient and at one time tralatitious to so many groups of individual and unsimilar kinds of things; it was the esemplastic Goddess. It's pure and naked existence is a refletion of the objective reality and is the experience of thinking IN the cerebration of God; our enatic and halcyon intellect, is what we should use to commune with this effulgence of altruistic and esemplastic energy.

It is mose celebrated for it's being stillicidious and pantagruelian, the corroborant and adagial and pluvial rains, the vastitude of truth that our race is condemned to, by a termless and unending curiosity to surrmount. All of the intricacies of my language, which I devote myself to using constantly, are but a nugatory and stramineous probity into the realness. They only approximate what the mind intimately is aware of, and thus, no poet or genius might ever reveal his bathysmal channel; with or without the intention to do so. The obscurities and creatures which reside unchangeable and ogygian in that, will and will forever remain unkept from the precarious standards of communication and experiment and scrutiny. The philosopher is he who embraces the futility of his existence. The philosopher is he who is not despondent or choleric when made aware of his inaccessible desires of the truth, rather, with a warrior's blood he exacts this attraction to great and inumerable challenge.

To your own salsuginous and dematiaceous felicity which in it's tumescent and elaboratory constructure is known, appear as capable of flight and capacious as by means allocatable and agible are so to you; send it upon thine mark acerbic being, to with which you of embellished a manner might your enemy in commendation and that speaking laudatory, you move closer to the virtue of fraudulence, be communicated to defeat. That real duplicitous and astucious behaving is an art, a being worth learning and natural good, that which is good being that which to it's maker cultivates appurtenance, that he might be good in his art he is an artist. Great tricksters then are artists, as by that which they do necessitates the displacement of things, to pragmatic and prudent that which his product is becomes, workable to his affairs, that artwork being the deception of capable and like vendible commodity to anarthrous substantive compounded, a minds and men being so.

By which celebrious and perspicacious the hypostatic organ of your muse, trepidatious and bibulous are all becoming as superfluous parity, to you to all things a sublimification in the annealing of the soul; by you may it becometh adustible or coriaceous to your muse, that it might be made to depectible and scarious likeness as to that dependable one to which we all know, but prey thee supply it's green by life's continuation tantivy and full, once again doth in thine self pull forth the soul untrained?


To me divorce my continuity and in my general form make to which yourself enjoys tumultuary and morigerous a becoming in me of your wanted lacerations, and you will then find yourself to cry; call me then cepaceous and amurcous into which my body of things lives hyperborean and murcid to your kind of a being; duplicitous ingannation and fraudulence made, but I myself am more then happy as that jumentous and sagacious man that I am to be truly known as being, and like feral reckoning am alert to the exertion of defense, thusly, I must admit the conchyliaceous and testudineous vindication to which I outwardly am of wont to protrusive have it, lest crashing about me comes forth the ill-derivative of attenuated fundaments. To be steady at the core as lutaceous and tellurian subjects, that is the camphoraceous and fabaceous truth; the hearty reality which like the lamiaceous and saccharine herb actuates our senses. To do this, I must advise; no impression to which I am optatively moved exists, but rather what I am is obstinate and calcitrant to defend it's own truth.

If to which your anandrious Adonis and child is approved by you of study and the voracious employment of fine schooling is coductive to him of distasture, shall you aquit him of his interaction with our Godly and naturaly adjectitious and adscititious thing, or upon rexamination conclude that for him virtue is a greater involvement then with happyness; that syndetic and vincular philosophy itself be of that certain anguinous and antecedaneous knowledge to which it's protector is the ampelideous and salsamentarious convergance of all of man's accomplishment, in wont of it to decadence be approved, do you regard it never thusly and in your desiderative conduct also the wasting of all human ties? This problem cannot be resolved by science, and is evidence of a type of logic of which to it science retreats in a deficiency of apprehension; the numerical relation of these things we have summarised to that extent of which our lives draw no commuting an experience but to which only philosophy, ethics, and morality might correlate or derive something. My point is this; that this reality is not a purely physical thing, to which the entirety of operations might not ever be affixed to rational prosesses; recrementitious and obreptitious a pure mind is so not begotten, argenteous and pactolian it's form only to when like the erymanthian and tegulated boar it might conduce impediment to it's herculean and borraginaceous adjective, in the way that to this addition, it is like a fine-tasting vegetation, though in it's cosmopolitan usurpations to be enjoyed is difficult, in wont to be hortensial and uberous by fine agriculture, or perhaps by the palate dependant upon tastes constellated to that ambrosia by a lately woven sophistication. The placid mind to which in no circumstance comes to commit itself to it's own destructions, is without any hope to in akward groping apprehend the Gods. On the becoming of your own unmaker, you are imparted as of God's redeeming principles, to judge the world by more then numbers and experiment, but to by your own morality and ethics and artistry display it outwardly as you are to have it; the tenable and hebetate world of parochial and conspicuous exertations