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The Terrors of Infinite Realities

The day is midnight at noon and the skies are bleeding red yokes.
And the skies and sky scrapers are on fire ./cars on fire with no one at the wheel
and the government\corrupt/ tens of thousands of suicides and the wind is hot
everyone trapped within the belly of this machine and we are screaming. And the machine
is bleeding to death while the flags are all dead on top of all those poles.

In the quiet town of Eldridge, four teenagers—Alex, Jamie, Sam, and Casey—stumbled upon an ancient book hidden in the dusty attic of their school’s library. Bound in worn leather and adorned with strange symbols, the book seemed out of place among the mundane school records and old yearbooks. Intrigued by its mysterious appearance, the group decided to take it to their usual hangout spot, an abandoned cabin in the nearby woods, to explore its contents.

As the sun set and shadows grew long, they gathered around a rickety wooden table, the book’s eerie presence casting an unspoken tension among them. Alex, the group’s natural leader, carefully opened the book. The pages, yellowed with age, were filled with intricate drawings and cryptic text in a language none of them recognized. But what caught their attention was a diagram depicting a series of interlocking circles—what seemed to be different worlds connected by thin, dark lines.

Jamie, the tech-savvy skeptic, used their phone to take pictures of the pages, hoping to decipher the text later with some translation app. Sam, always the curious one, noticed a small inscription at the bottom of the diagram. It read: “Beware the crossings, for they reveal the unseen.” They shrugged it off as an attempt to scare them, but a strange chill settled over the group, as if the words held a hidden truth.

Over the next few days, they delved deeper into the book’s mysteries. Jamie managed to translate some of the text, revealing that the book was a guide to the multiverse—an infinite number of parallel realities, each slightly different from the others. Excited by the discovery, they continued their research, unaware that their curiosity was about to lead them into unimaginable horrors.

One night, while experimenting with an incantation from the book, the air around them began to shimmer and distort. A portal, glowing with an otherworldly light, opened before them. With a mix of fear and excitement, they decided to step through, finding themselves in a world that looked like their own but felt off—darker, colder, and filled with an oppressive sense of dread.

As they explored this parallel world, they noticed subtle yet disturbing differences. The town was eerily silent, with abandoned cars and empty houses. The sky was a permanent shade of twilight, and an unnatural stillness hung in the air. It wasn’t long before they realized they were not alone. Dark figures lurked in the shadows, watching their every move with glowing eyes.

Panic set in when they tried to return through the portal, only to find it had vanished. Stranded in this nightmarish version of Eldridge, they had no choice but to seek refuge in their old hangout spot—the abandoned cabin. There, they regrouped and tried to figure out how to reopen the portal. The book, however, seemed to have lost its power, the once glowing pages now dull and lifeless.
As days turned into weeks, the group struggled to survive. They scavenged for food and avoided the shadowy figures that roamed the town. During one of their expeditions, Casey discovered a journal in the library of this alternate Eldridge. The journal belonged to someone named Dr. Alistair Crowley, who had apparently been studying the multiverse and its horrors for decades.

According to Dr. Crowley’s journal, the shadowy figures were inhabitants of the “Dark Worlds,” parallel universes consumed by evil. He warned that once someone crossed into these worlds, they risked drawing the attention of these malevolent entities. The journal also hinted at a way to escape, but the instructions were incomplete, the final pages torn out.

Desperation took hold as the group faced increasing attacks from the shadowy figures. Each night, the creatures grew bolder, their glowing eyes peering through the cabin’s broken windows. Alex, feeling responsible for their predicament, pushed himself to decode the journal’s cryptic clues. Sleepless nights and constant fear took a toll on him, and he began to hear whispers in the darkness, calling his name.

One evening, as the group huddled together in the cabin, the whispers became too much for Alex to bear. Driven by an unseen force, he wandered into the woods, where he found an ancient stone circle. The symbols carved into the stones matched those in the book. In a trance-like state, he chanted the incantation he had memorized, hoping to summon another portal.

The air crackled with energy as a portal slowly opened within the stone circle. The rest of the group, realizing Alex was missing, followed the strange light to the clearing. They found Alex unconscious but alive, the portal shimmering before them. With no other choice, they carried him through the portal, praying it would lead them back home.

To their relief, they emerged in their own world, but things were not quite the same. They found themselves in an Eldridge that seemed untouched by time, as if they had traveled back to a version of their town from the past. Confused and disoriented, they made their way back to the library, hoping to find answers in the book.

To their horror, the book was gone, replaced by a note that read: “The crossings have consequences. Beware the ripples.” As they pondered the note’s meaning, they realized that their adventure had left a mark on their world. Strange occurrences began to plague the town—people disappearing, mysterious lights in the sky, and whispers in the night.

Haunted by their experiences and the knowledge that the multiverse was real, the group vowed to protect their world from further incursions. They became guardians of the secrets they had uncovered, always watching for signs of otherworldly threats. Their friendship, forged in the crucible of terror, became their greatest strength as they faced the unknown horrors of infinite realities.

:: 06.16.2024 ::


Fitfull Sleep

Into you I dive, finding comfort,
It’s good to be here, but I stop short.
I rush around in my own bubble,
In this hotel, a place of rubble.

Connected to wires, fed by tech,
But waiting here makes me a wreck.
Break me, danger, call for help,
I need to go, can’t do it myself.

Whoa, whoa, the sounds surround,
But the peace in the air is profound.
Burst out, bathed in new light,
Disconnected, I cry out at night.

A brain, useless, fed by sleep,
Angels of rest, my soul to keep.
Whoa, whoa, the echoes fade,
In this modern life, my heart is swayed.

:: 06.09.2024 ::


Your Touch

AS LOVE LIKE a flower
i look at you ~~
in a beautiful frame

SuN at Noon Never burns me
less lungs breathing
whO perfectly whO
is the winner / i saw an angel
and your touch made me cry
in this destructive world

and it strived for my heart
and it revived my head and heart

so I must be dreaMing b’cause i
don’t belong here ~~

i’m newly alOne it is
so special / dreamest

oNLY THE SuN burns o
VER BeauTI FUL ones
screaming SPIR
it

I was down in the dirt
and my head was in dirt
i tried to say

I tried say …
tried to say ~~~
tried to say __

it’s in our heads.

:: 06.09.2024 ::


Whispers of Dawn’s First Light

morningsun’s breath whispering anew
trushes’ voice dances firstnotes blue
praise the songs, praise dawn’s bright sigh
praise the leap from Word’s first cry

sweet rains fall, sun-kissed from skies
first dew’s kiss on primal grass lies
praise the sweet of garden’s wet kiss
wholeness blooms where He did pass

mine the sunlight, mine the dawn
born of Light where Eden’s beauty shone
praise with joy, praise each new rise
God remakes the day before our eyes

morning breaks, first light replays
Thrush speaks, dawn’s hymn conveys
praise for song, praise the new
praise the spring from Word’s view.

:: 06.07.2024 ::


So We Burn

UNDER every crack
the broken smile lives
Above the skies
a dysfunctional god

Our trades / the desires
Our sadness monetized
Our sex all in vain
Our politics remain

And what do we get
for our pain?
We trade desires
even though we die

So we burn
in the fire we’ve made,
In shadows we dance
as our edges fade.

Dreams turn to ashes,
whispers to screams,
In a world where nothing
is quite what it seems.

We walk through the embers,
lost in the night,
Searching for meaning
in flickering light.

Our hearts charred and heavy,
our spirits worn thin,
Still, we persist
in the furnace within.

For in every flame,
there’s a story untold,
A struggle, a hope,
in the heat of the cold.

So we burn,
not in vain, but in strife,
Forging our path
through the crucible of life.

We burn.

:: 06.07.2024 ::


HANDS OF THE REBELLION

Strong are her hands,
Darkened by summer’s touch,
Now pale like ghosts in twilight’s hush.

Could these be her hands?
Did they dip in scented creams
By tranquil pleasure pools?
Did they bathe in moonlit beams
In serenity’s quiet rules?

Did they drink from wild skies,
Resting upon gentle knees?
Did they roll cigars
Or barter in diamonds with ease?

On the feet of holy Madonnas,
Did they wilt golden blooms?
Is it belladonna’s dark blood
That in their palms now looms?

These hands, hunting and bruising,
Swelling like dawn’s first light,
Seeking nectar, mixing poisons,
Bringing the day from the night.

What dream seized these hands,
Stretching in distant lands,
A dream of Asia’s mystic ways,
Of Khenghavars or Zion’s days?

These hands did not sell oranges,
Nor shine at the feet of gods;
They did not wash the diapers
Of blind, heavy children in squads.

They are not hands of cousins,
Nor workers with sweat-streaked brows,
Burned by the factory’s fire,
In the woods where stench endows.

These hands bend backs but do not harm,
Stronger than machines’ alarm,
Mightier than a horse’s might,
They stir like furnaces alight.

Their flesh sings the Marseillaises,
Never prayers in sanctuaries,
They tighten necks of wicked women,
Crush the hands of noble dames,
Hands stained with guilt and shame.

The glow of these loving hands
Turns the heads of meek sheep;
In their fingers’ tasty rings,
The sun sets a ruby deep.

A mark of the common folk
Darkens them like a mother’s breast,
The backs of these hands kissed
By every proud rebel’s quest.

In the great sun of loaded love,
They pale, yet marvelous they stand,
On the bronze of machine guns
Through insurgent Paris grand.

Ah! sometimes, O sacred hands,
In your fists where hearts tremble,
Lips unsobered by your command,
Chains clinking, clear symbols.

And it’s a strange shiver
In our beings when, sometimes,
We seek to unwind you, Angel Hands,
Even if it means making your fingers bleed.

:: 06.05.2024 ::


God is a Lonely Child

AFTER I finish my statement
as confessed I, my fear:
if you should ever leave me
i know we love each other very dearly
,more
than tears from clouds and how they
need sunbeams and then they make
Mayflowers in Spring

          my breath of gentle touch

how the heavy Moon is twilights’first
thrushes may awake a pleasant country
and awake some world)selves

                .La. da. Da Da Dada da

(how i would live without you in madness
or in mere death or both who is la guerre)
you could simply me. darling

    how precious this point 

of creative never known
how unspoken words were feeling
before words before the moon
before God wished Himself into a Father

and then even<
we love and crave smiles and hugs
and immemorial of whos and hows
and whens )
before
how each Soul and heartbeat touches me
which I kiss.

:: 06.05.2024 ::


Biological Machine Brain

AFTER I finish this poem and all
the alphabets are in bed

you can walk with me down the hill
where the stream is, lady
where fish dream they are stars

(now this blows my mind — but
there they are)

Looking within their eyes with a
suddenly unsaid voice they spoke
while smoking mexican grass

And the toads croak lightly
singing, “Run upon the stones
across our river”

I ran and stepped across all
the stones and crevasses
and I found myself upon the Mountain

And there came a poetess who sang,
“Come, hold my hand, along brittle
treacherous bright streets
of memory — ooh, come my heart,
you idiot, yealing like a drunken man!

We can be asleep, elsewhere our dreams begin
run upon my stones:

Ici? Ah non. Mon chéri, il fait trop froid.
I say again, “Here? Oh no. My drear, it is
too cold!”

The farm is in ice so Chevaux do bois!

:: 06.05.2024 ::


Blood As Art

You shed your coat in the stormy rain,
Ever wild, a phantom in the night,
And I watched from my shadowed pane,
An outsider, hidden from your sight.

Enigmatic, with eyes so dark,
And hair wild as the tempest’s call,
You moved like whispers in the dark,
Sensitive, yet beyond it all.

You stood silent in my door’s embrace,
With words like ghosts of weather,
Unseeing my heart’s bleeding trace,
My knees to ground, a broken tether.

Love’s games, a spectral art,
Your thoughtless words, breaking my heart,
Breaking my heart.

Morning brilliance in your eyes,
Cigarette smoke, a wraith’s caress,
Over coffee, art’s demise,
Baroque, Mozart, in shadowed finesse.

Tales of love, you wove with ease,
While I, a shadow, strummed my tune,
Taught me truths, elusive keys,
Daring, clean, beneath the moon.

Hid my soiled hands from sight,
Lost somewhere along the line,
Mistook you for a heart of light,
A soul more like mine.

Love’s games, a haunting plea,
Tearing me apart,
Your thoughtless words, haunting me,
Breaking my heart.

You shed your coat in the stormy rain,
Ever wild, a phantom in the night.


Perseveranza

FOREVER is not a given thing ~~

it is a memory

what is love but not eternity?

how love can build and destroy

cosmos alive?

as flesh wastes away

after death ~~

love stands strong astride

with intact personality.

:: 10.25.2023 ::