Translated Poems to Hanna Räpster

Book I

By

Emerson Ehing

© Emerson Ehing, 2008

Dissection One

Translation is always extirpating. The meaning of a word is culturally shielded by our capacity of absorb a multiethnic understanding. The word walks by the human legs, crosses the oceans and the skies, and while it passes, it absorbs the culture, the feeling, the path of its own meaning. Hanna, as you predict or not, there’s no twilights in fantasy, but blackouts in reality. My poetry has been developed by many ways, therefore, you gonna find different kinds of writing, look: I write poetry, prose and novels using the Portuguese language. My musical lyrics I write in English. An abysm between both of us and our cultures has been trespassed via English usage. The oral tradition could not be speechless, obviously, but there’s a connection with each word with each language that cannot be disconnected: the feeling of a message, the feeling. That’s making us humanly humanized, part animalized part divined, to complete ourselves. Hanna, I live my life as a Shaman, and anything I do, is based on it. Each poem, each song, each feeling is a contact with the Great Mystery. For this book I choose the easiest translating poems. But in time, that’s going to be harder and harder. Just enjoy, just feel each poem as a single thing. Don’t ready continually, take poem to poem, the understanding is important. Some writings show us something, tell us a particular vision, but there’s a group of poems that just make us fell – and this is what matter. I do this to get alive, to feel the life not only with may brain and muscles, but with my whole soul, my entire being. This is the first of Four Books I’m going to translate to you during this year, so I hope you really enjoy it. Thank you Hanna…. Emerson Ehing – 03\03\2008

©Emerson Ehing 2

Index

Rigor Mortis

Pomas of Revenge

Passionata Record I

The Cry

Septuplus

Reliquae

I Die

Philautia – Our Loves\Our Hates

Psychomimetic Verses

The Dawn of the Day of the Rebellion

Passionata Record II

Any Word to the Creator's Eyes

Premeditated hallucinations, Exaggerating Doses

Of the Eyes that Cannot See Her

Capite Damnatus

Of the Passage of the Time

Opus Naturae

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Post Funera

Kuaray'ã

Ehing Soft Poem

Poem E.

Glue and Bits of Glass in Red-haired Hair in Blood Colored

Fou Love

Amrita

Amethustos

Hambieny

Horus

+

List of Books

Extra Material

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RIGOR MORTIS

(CADAVEROUS RIGIDITY)

The fingers of florins bloomed because they were illuminated, and the illumination played us with the shine of the ambition because we were illuminated. Butter pitchers melted to the delight of the twilight, because the flowers ejaculated light with illuminated petals. The wombs of the night opened up to the atrocity of the innocence; sang her the entire dream close to the ambition of the eternity. And the eternity adored her; because she was the lights that darkness needed. Gold were their sinuous movements through the spontaneous chaotic flight. And chaotic was her, with her innocence sparkle besieging the eternity. In their eyes thirteen seeds were planted, twenty-seven were sowed, forty eight sprouted; unknown forests surprised the decadent star. The twilight is the sex between the day and the night. The natural jewel shone satiating the darkness, because it was illuminated. And illuminated we cried in mourning, was she the seed and the fruit, the eternity and the twilight, discolored by the illumination.

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Pomas of the Revenge

Let us throw the horses in the turbulent sea, only the shadow of the cupola circulates in the ash, and the breeze:

savage perspiration of the animal that bleeds.

The guests fall asleep around the fireplace, and the terrified eyes of the horses,

stare us, seating, through the hung picture, in the bottom of the sea.

Waves of black shadows,

the paws hit the water, their veins expand,

but red balloons break out in the air.

The brilliant manes skim; the split skull of the boat

breaks it to the middle.

Navigate the men's corpses and the mice to the beach, where the horses wait for them,

ready for us to devour their meats; and the hunger abates the hopeless fear of Existing,

in the misogynistic redundancy of Continuing

& nor was the Sun, to shine first at the beach, but the bravery of the sea,

that made it...

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Passionata Record I Red & Red roses - Ruby-red & Ruby-red roses You remember - the abrupt sadden - the misfortune Interwoven pale marks & tearful You execute burning of the sonata - Fire y Water They compose the final rhythm - In the high Cerulean smoke, being spiraled, vanishing in the air You remember - Red & red roses You remember - the ruby-red sadden of Loving Without the sky and the earth there is no sea Rain ruby-red stars that interweave The sanguinary red of our Love The violent pulse of our Pain Sleeping souls that sadden

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- The Cry Fills itself with tear the cup The Eagle, there in the high Carries in the Wing A Piece Of Me I rise and I float for your powerful feathers Loaded Natural Darkness Suit me to look the Freedom with the Pagan's eyes I am the Storm And cry as the clamor of the rain, when I have to cry.

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Septuplus

While your shine flees in despair My darkness continues blooming

Petals, black petals forming a thick fog That turns me blind and without direction,

‘Cause nothing see.

I can fake what I am But I cannot fake what write

I can flee from where I am But I cannot escape from the mistakes of mine.

Suicidal universe generating mercy

Christ degenerated brings the ammunition Lying and occult in the grave of the glory

Degrading his new world of freedom

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Reliquiae absolutely glassy in your glance semi-close –itself blink dream We dance again Bewitched birds raising flight raising glass freedom engaged the hands made the bows dissipated the clouds and interlaced lights and bodies and arms In the volatile convergence

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of an encounter a change a sign of hope played the lips changes the fluids the house in the high of the hill collects the shadows at dusk and there is always sun Played the skin changed the souls precipitated heat waves they invade the perception – the longing and to sweet madness of be alive in glassy passionate connotations artifices and roses remain silent exhumed words tired declared voices the dead doesn’t dance the verse doesn’t speak

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no sense will be expressed nor mine nor your heart no letter will be read nor forgotten Neither one nor two but all your kisses ask you it has been difficult and empty to many miles of here in the tenor of a song

I will cross this country to feel cool I will return mounted in a silver steed and I will announce the apocalypse but before, I must go at your house I will play a song and I will take you with me forging a long solo and a scream of pain making way among silky sheets and thorns Harmonizing the rhythm force of the storm

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– I Die –

The flaming candle crossed out the darkness And silence becomes a hole in the whole Part of us – we’re apart You love me as I loved you while Love made us warm – Squeeze me Come around to see me – There’s Only you and my muddy heart I reborn to conceive you on I write you in soft colored wings I’ve been dreaming all your dreams When your blue-eyed-tear drops of missing My tongue glances the last diving whispering Flattering your heart while I utmost lay down My body – to Die – Dying I write you A poem Where our Whole love Has been Conceived on – Dying I wrote you A poem

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Where our Whole love Has been Dreamed on When I feel you’re not here to make me Warm, me and my foggy heart – I Die When I felt you’re getting out of mine The storm came to black me – I Die I’m in a black and frightening wretch rainbow My love, my love chest treasure’s gone – and I I Died

Dedicated to Hanna, with special friendship

©Emerson Ehing 14

PHILAUTIA - Our Loves / Our Hates Do you see? Do you feel? My heart? My pains? I don't wanna sleep I am afraid of my dreams The dawn is calm I don't wait for the dawn Actually it brings me Panic & Empty Maybe you have a plate tastier than mine but both of us are hungry - The desire is strong I don't want to wake up alone The thought will be cold The feeling will be cold And the No-existence will surround - As empty walls My soul & my heart You freed your spirit You made your choice I should return to the Illusion and to raise a new tent The tribe will meet And the spirit - the power - of the old shaman will be reborn Waking up uncontrollable fury

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& passionate eroticism Vacancies memories of the dawn Vast waving field of articulations Inoculated narcosis Voices of the opinion The fight would be in unite ourselves Easy would be the separation And the one that you did was to seek the easiest I should sleep now a little To reestablish the lost link will be difficult Because closing my soul bolt also my heart I won't be loving nor hating Nor living nor dying Just impelling flows of strange lives that are shuffled mine My suit cannot participate in this game The progress has other directions The horror, the sadness, the frustration They will participate in the return to the hell - The devil waits & my black teeth of wild animal Will smile at the anguish & the slavery No one sentence will fill out this emptiness I am not with you I am not alive - If I can say like this.

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Psychomimetic Verses

So lone Reverting

Once again Prone vibrations to immensity

And shadows inhaled by darkness Seeking a friend

In the search of the end

I was like this With my pains and happiness

In the insane game of the Chaos You participated also

Opaque opal of the bottom of the lake Lover of my poetry

Endless dream

Mining verbs Images that faint Your voices echo

Bouncing by the walls Go to bed to the dream

Dream about the other side The end

Rotating

Spreading to the infinite Incessant & involuntarily

As inhalant shadows The sound is black

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It is always The end

So lone

I was like this Mining verbs

Rotating Reverting

With my pains and happiness Images that faint

Spreading to the infinite Once again

In the insane game of the Chaos Your voices echo

Incessant & involuntarily Prone vibrations to the immensity

You participated also Bouncing by the walls As inhalant shadows

And shadows inhaled by the darkness Opaque opal of the bottom of the lake

Go to bed to the dream The sound is black and the storm

Seeking a friend Lover of my poetry

Dream about the other side It is always

In the search of the end Endless Dream

The end.

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The Dawn of the Day of the Rebellion The dawn of the day of the Rebellion is arrived. And the shaman sings his verse of power for besides his despair. The dawn of the day of the Rebellion is arrived. And the song of the shaman is vast and courageous. The torches of the Wisdom were lit up. They cool down the atmospheres of the Reason. It is arrived the glorious morning of the day of the Rebellion, & the man's spirit is reverted in humanity. The final coming is arrived: the god's catastasis becoming animal. Save-us from the waves of heat It is too hot and we inflated Survive, Children of the Now Sisyphus that roll the Blue Egg Let us roll the mountain below Moves the faith of there for here Ideologies too much, ideas too much Let us survive from the conciliatory mind Multiplies the tree and the branch Let us survive from the jerk that cuts the last tree He looks at us He knows that all of us will die. Nevertheless, he lowers the head, he breathes, and it cuts. Is glorious the dawn of the day of the Rebellion. All beings thank the stranger. The Boat takes only a soul in safety. Is the spirit navigator of the conscience.

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Is the spirit of the new, and his conscience is gigantic. It is not noticed except in the moment of terror, when the wave swallows the boat. Castaway, the thanks to himself, facing the stranger now, he now recognizes the spirit of the sea. But he is not there. Why does stand back he, Great Mystery? Is the World that makes to move back You? It is the World that makes the man not to look. But Grandiose is the dawn of the Rebellion!

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Passionata Record II

Weave of white the Bitter of my Darkness Magnetize, dawn color that germinates in the field Only the love fertilizes – it comes! The rain and the caressing of our bodies Makes jealous and infuriates the Night The Encounter of our eyes - drawing of the life Lightning that perpetuates its thunder Anchor. Stop for one moment in mine to navigate Continue – reach me & drive me Be dawn and strong, like this, the smell of the light Magnetize, envisage the prospering of the Destiny Our Destinies, woven one in the other For the Goddess's miraculous desire We looked at the brilliance of the Nature now Superb & Sovereigns in Soul & Body.

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Any Word to the Creator's Eyes Any word to describe love Only the Glance - Only Feeling Absorbed - soul for soul Any word To describe Love The heat, sound, of your body, your spirit Brilliant soul that shines when I close the eyes Brilliant soul that is dazzling when I open the eyes I don't exist - Everything in me is part of you Do not cry lonely inside of the box Absorb me with you for us to be one Sky & Star to the Creator's Eyes

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Premeditated hallucinations, Exaggerating Doses

I lead the glass and the syringe from the table For there to register this hallucination, this desire They move the fingers, and the black paint dilates Diluted in the head's neuron connections It allows the astonishment of the effect-word I remove of the ashtray a piece of the memory I reject the mediocre torn picture of the soul Dies the hero in his heroic fable Forgets him, as if it didn't exist, his lover "That Bitch, motivates him to the suicide" Pronounced the angel in their beautiful dreams You "do with that he works for you that perishes for you" Continued the angel being delighted in honey Lied over there - the furious corpse That before crawled in paranoia Impregnated, in their immobile eyes The resigned mourning of an extra dosage Oh yes, the corpse by my side Before dead and crucified Lay now in a nest of grasshoppers Remains him the mud the sewer The mulatto's affront racist Leading my madness from the table I held her heart with a knife And I appointed for the stars Her spilled blood

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That was mixed mine Was sucked by the darkness There be! Dear death, dear lover You came to my encounter Completely cold and obsessed Cut me the throat Opened me the wrists And said that loved me Wanted to know of their dreams and madness I hid my life in dreams and deliriums So that you knew about that prostitute life That it is to be poet, selling the soul And the complete sanity, for a book.

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Of the Eyes that cannot See her No hour is as hideous as this, that lasts forever Any feeling is as merciless as this, that doesn't pass Neither anger nor good heart Remains us after all the finally to forget No memory is so embitter as this, that doesn't fade I play myself in the valley of wounded Those, for the love, expired Poor people that cry for anything No soul is so monstrous as this, that never stops loving No longing is as painful as this, of having you and cannot to meet you.

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Capite Damnatus. (Convict to Death)

I saw blink the eyes of my innocence, breaking up with the flagellated myths; I fall dead at your side, smiling, smoking a joint, longing for the stardom of the indecency. Careful vampires, stoned to the noise of the storm; it doesn't rain how it rains, however it rains blood, it rains cry, it rains the pities that you sustain, it rains spittle, sewer, rains the blood of the innocence. What do want to kill? What do want to betray? The perversity of my eyes will bring her unequaled misfortunes, unimaginable ecstasies. Why does want to cry? Why does sing without loving? Where is your sad end? Anything! To the low longings of the soul, sad is the slow instinctive walk, bring me cocaine to cover the wounds, leave me, the blood of your suicide.

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Of the Passage of the Time The reticent track of the Dawn permeated tenebrity & ungraceful candleholders aired intermediate sparkles In the unhealthy passage of the time Intransigent crypts seal the impossibility Vertebrae taken root in the ground Through where pass, they pass & the reticent track of the Dawn permeated and passed, tenebrous, dismal, tenuous sufficiently real No reality fills out her Go down stalagmites, and the reticence drip dark of airing It is written the sparkle in the tip of the pencil The flash is denoted in the tip of the pen Gives birth, to Intransigent Dawns Of suns that are argued You are the morning now, and has past every dream taken root in the ground In the unhealthy passage of the time.

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Opus Naturae (Work of the Nature)

Black encephalic flower To blossom in the cavities of displeasure All the wisdom played in the sewer Poor soul damned and marked. Black flower that fills out obituaries Black spring to bloom for ravings So that of the debris of the light Be born of the ovary, the small ruby-red angel On the silk that cleans the blood of the cross. Mass of thorns, uncertainty cuts Of the black semen that is slippery of the wounds The umbilical cord is the first fork Found in life The baby's first desire Wrapped up in purity.

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The Cave They recover the lines of the cave The eternity cries outside Because here, the time ended They are reduced the lines of the Cave The world outside doesn't disturb him He dances in a fire nest And his song is dream in the wall Fade the trace the torch the bonfire Only the drum is heard There inside there's a voice & the soul of the Indian Comforted in these shone waters Particles that dance to the Twilight The lizards are added in the warm sands They face faces in cut rocks Stage that door there in the end The sense of the indefinite ones that are sealed Close the eyes for Existing The wind - the breeze of the spirit For one moment the music ceased That bark out, the starving dogs That howl, the furious wolves That fall asleep, the crazy men Out there wakes up the reality The meat Shred in the tip of the prey of the wild animal Voracious jaws that abstract eternity

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Post Funera (After the Funerals)

Megalomania of outrages Mistaken senses Mistake in ugliness With the happiness of the insane ones They are beauty and mistake mistaken Crazy therapy, suicidal therapy Trespassy life, relief of the skull Against the insides the bullets Comes out for the pipe Of the rifle called society I see the wake of the crowd Locked up in a single coffin The gravedigger's ferrous teeth It is also the sentence of God For the feather and the inkwell It is not the death the punishment But the end of the inspiration It is not the death the danger But the fire that of the hell Fades inside of your heart.

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Kuaray'ã - Solar Shadow -

In the distance in an incommensurable emptiness, intensities erect subversives, sail, no sailor is in the boat.

Look! Mice to port. Inverted islands emerge, it seems there not to be life besides the horizon.

Seating, with our shins submerged in the water, we sighted the focus of the shadow to move, illuminated shipwrecked eyes, of lizard, without side,

absorbed in the contemplation of the vacuum, incommensurable empty, hypnotic headquarters of inconstitute creation, to create and to live.

No war feels for the cause. We are dominant predators.

And the one what will hunt now besides us same? Contemplate the nude men's soul, any weakness to stun him/her the senses - the wait for the freedom will know that it was offended - they capture the

skies and the more resplendorous rays. Let us undress the mountain and the desire of moving her. We repelled the replicant replica of hundreds that leave.

They divulge our roads to the hell. Let us free of flower, lamps ballerinas that you/they are connected in the

abyssal quiet of the urban night. Moving the red-haired hair of the disillusion, with the pending bunches on

the face of the terror. There space committees: the poverty and the commotion, both want the

arms of the destruction, the shelter of the terror - the no-being's bad weather. I hear the crook drag endless powder a limit that just exists in me.

They removed the sunbeams for me not to see the opening through where drains the light.

There is a leak in the roof, she answers for me. The sacred effigy faces, stares infinitely to East.

But the sacralidade of his expression are to my eyes, and I face to West. I break the peel of the Egg-blue - is terrible the being in which I come across:

It's me.

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Ehing Soft Poem The soft symmetry turbolada insidious broken in particles invisible inanimating the unimaginable exalting the impassive Indeterminating the inconceivable CHAOS Anarchical wings plagiarize my own revolt they repeat the mold no the color Windows & Blinds they are contradicted Illusions Y Obsessions they remain silent The soft symmetry unseaming the sheet of the destiny divide and split water & appetite rain Y particle Broken Devastating impetuous directions - That all are fine says the terror the shadow, the storm the skeleton that bends and extends the bones for to reach the paper the word, the life soft symmetry.

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Poem E.

I like to observe the moon through the window of my room, because through it I can see how many moons I want to I like to observe the night through the wall of my room, because through it the night won't be nor cold nor uncomfortable I like to see me passing through the street inside of my house, because on it my steps are crooked and they take to place some I like to pitch in black the mirror and knowledge that my reflex won't be there I like to smoke a joint to relax, to lower Q.I, to feel the smell of the herb invade the nostrils, simply to be stoned I "like to be at home where 2 and 2 are always 5" I like to write in an exhausted and compulsive matinée, or it is the guitar or it is the word, the mind doesn't stop, simply no, it doesn't stop But I like to smoke a joint to relax and to dissolve in wine the ecstasy of the pain I like to observe the room, the action is null and inevitable, I have to go; I am going to the basement

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and I collect some memories, aged, covered in dust, dimmed by the paranoia of the addiction A jeans, an all star, a lover, a forgotten music, a tri-destilated poem, a condom, a speed, an acid, an amphetamine I look at Chaplin's picture; I eye him for three cocaine risks. There, from the high of the cliff, I blew the death towards the abyss, in a fine layer of small particles it left the death to fall, for no more to return I like to slide my fingers on the strings of my guitar as who slides the fingers on a beautiful woman's body I write because it makes me happy and anything beyond I like to sing as if my throat, stomach and lungs will expel the whole pain and angst. In the instant in that I also call the happiness and the pleasure, there distant, to come until me I want the happiness to be on our side I don't want to destroy your life Escape from my self-destruction Of my suicidal impulse Do protect me of myself.

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Glue and Bits of Glass in Red-haired Hair in Blood Colored Brave flowers Carnivorous fingers - Come for the end of the reason Opened eyes Valve Amplifiers - Come for the end of the reason locucionate the old tradition remounted in the toilet in ballad and haikai - I am going to the end of the reason In the monitor the prayer is written Scanned the sacred blood Fermented, as barley and wine Christ! – They pray to Pilatos Anti-bactericide are thrown, dispersed Making scream put on a tie bug - the century of steel makes to regret me

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let us hit fire in the plenary session twisted petals pulled nails, fallen - come for the end of the reason very dry hair colored plays glue and glass bit combs with the hands It is blood the tone that does me red-haired It is fury the talent that makes me indication Of the passage of a mad storm.

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Fou Love

Was so good to be with you Your love gesture I know that I miss Is clear the sad road unflowered, my flower my love, alive, still alive in a sacrifice to you I want your kiss your caress much more than your presence I want your attention your heart, the love that is love that invades that disfigures my love your love - of your love Ennoble the shine

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of our feeling without resentment slowly Love, kiss me don't let to regret me to live to your side would be so good the more I approach of you to live becomes love, love!, to live You become that: that vague feeling that is inside of me corroding me in melancholy and hope In the longing, crazy to meet, love Was so good to be with you Is so good to be with you simply existing as "a star falling, very slowly"...

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Amrita I painted your virginity with the ruby-red rose of the garden of the flowers of the death Of hemp & wine was the Dinner of Initiation Our dimmed eyes they crossed in the search for the Salvation Of the chalice of blue beehives spilled was the womb of the chrysalises eras Today, when putting of the sun ennobled by the gold light of the Twilight-morning we will absorb the sap of the powder-apocalyptic existence and we will enter in ordeal and we will sing in a sexual pulse I painted your virginity with the ruby-red rose of the garden of the flowers of the life and dancing to the lulling of the shadows of the valley of the death we compose together

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the song of the suicidal love I ejaculated in the flowers of the death I vomited in the garden of the hopes and singing to the infinite in the pulse of the boat my preys extended to the immensity leaving poison traces and of cure leaving traces of blood as the petals of the ruby-red rose brushstrokes for the exaltation.

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Amethustos She - As serpentigerous violet crystal It comes like Thanatophis until the epicenter of the cut Scales of morbípara skin shine In an acid and burning jet, she brings the death I observe the pleasure primal fully With that she devours us and he/she vomits Recreating unceasingly already happened For the no-being is to Be again, to Be Primal And resume his painful suicide As cozy deep wounds The exaggerating peace in the group to the fight All of us want to kiss her tongue But her name son-of-a-bitch Is splint in our throats: Life!

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Hambieny The present constellations are swallowed in an ecstatic whirl that seems not to end Before they took the wind in the palm of the hand and the man's masked virtue blew for very far away the ferocious teeth Everything that dream is a line in the cave I blow, and the whirl is incessant before my vision. Falls asleep, sweet creature of the good - to be Promiscuous royalties that fall Disastrous kingdoms that are decomposed The line doesn't put at the end of the cave The dream doesn't begin in the end of the edge Everything is a poem and an opening Of a door that never shines & never closes Let us hear the Stone So soon she tells the truth We filled with roses the alabaster Gaped with the autotomia of all of the things - Arrows dropped in the ground - Arches suspended and bent

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Silver granules that meditate and reach puberty Play your fragrances to the Air Decisive storms Compassionate When to know that comes That the storm comes My literature is a risk that goes of the beginning to the end of the cave And you don't know where it is the end and the beginning Is absurd the rotating by these confused spindles Ecstatic waves that depreciate the middle I travel heading for the infinite rarejar of my word I get lost in her - I am me the maze - no her In my jump to the abyss I play my poetry in the bottom of the cave For her to set on fire the rebel's eyes Me that am the bridge and the spirit among so many other the highest Rebel, painful, merciless

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Crestfallen to the child that passes Embarrassed to my innocence lack Mother, I wait for you I am strong as the whirl of stars waiting for you While I am swallowed by myself Go, spilling the roses of the alabaster along the road Be everything of yourself Wrap your storm in the lap - everything is blue here Then you take the wind in the palm of the hand Getting yourself of the fragrances in the air

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Horus Horus plays cosmic flute in a circle that meet itself at the golden lion’s mouth, the crystalline fountains and the mineral mines exhale the perfume of the cabaret, the absinth of anarchy. Mienne Belle Amie, come on! The profuse passion fire flames in a pitonical ecstasy, recondite, hidden on destroyer gaze. Dear rebel virgin, come on! With your splendorous nakedness, with your sensual curves, your perfume, aroma di Femina; bear the fire and the horns of God, fell the unicorn smell. The world is in coma, turned off, without the power that reigns the universe; Mienne Belle Amie, come on! Crave for! Snake skin, plasmal plume; my sun wants your hotness, my shadow wants your darkness, my eyes want your light. Come on! Oberon touches your milky breasts. The fingers slide over all your body stretch, meets your lips, kisses them in burning passion. Oberon visits your matrix, plucks out your clothes, kisses your thighs, and relishes her under magic Horus eyes. The flute introduces multicolored notes, solid and liquid melodies. I feel your touch to compose songs, your groans to take shape images in flatted ether. Join, my darling! Ejaculate your existence, I press you against my body, I feel you entirely. Yell! Bite me! Drink in my blood, dally with my sperm; I am your extension, your delirium oh my illusion, reanimate my feeling in the course of the coma’s world, with your body, with your spirit, with our occult love.

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This is a list of my Books

Suicidal prayers - Diabolus in Referendum Suicidal prayers - Infernus in Infinitum Suicidal prayers - Mortem Profectus Autopsy of a Crucified Apology of the Chaos Brave New Grave – Riot & Insanity Thanatos – The Collapse of the Consciences Nigreton Hypnon Ikhthys and the Scarlet Milky The Coma of the World Manifest Post-Mortem Second Manifest Post-Mortem Third Manifest Post-Mortem Gospel of the Dead Gospel of the Lunatics Cut Wrists A Rioted Brain is Rented - Seven A Rioted Brain is Rented - Two A Rioted Brain is Rented - Amazonian Destroyed A Rioted Brain is Rented - A Surrealist Writing & Memories of Charles Manson Passionata Record – Simeletric Roses Passionata Record – Golden Dawn Passionata Record – Amazonian Reconstructed Passionata Record – From the Little & Big Eagle Heresiarch - Chosen Poems

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Tumultuary - Selected Poems Me you & the Eternity – Love Poems Erebo and the Visceras of Our Sacrifice Sensorium - Sensations that repeat, histories that get confused Ectabana Xamanica - The Legacy of Opsycôre Ectabana Xamanica - The Color of Lagaryo Ectabana Xamanica - The Strange Forest Ectabana Xamanica - Disciples of the Evil The Guardian's Mask - The Pipe’s Bottom The Guardian's Mask - Jeremias The Guardian's Mask - The Deepest Seer Interrupted Lives Men & Machines – Homo ex machina Franarky - Anarchical Fraternity Dictionary Post-Mortem

Thanks a lot by your attention, Hanna.

©Emerson Ehing 47

Extra Material – The first chapter from the book

The Guardian's Mask - The Pipe’s Bottom

The Pipe’s Bottom

The Guardian’s Mask series Emerson Ehing

Prologue

There was a boy, begun to sleep...

His dream was heard

by the observer...

There was a boy, begun to write...

His words were read

by the narrator...

There was a boy, begun to live...

His life was lived by the dreamer...

©Emerson Ehing 48

This Book is an Allegory...

Chapter One

Calmly hearing the roar of the bomb, the small peddler went to an old Indian that cried at the square. He sat down to his side and he offered him a handful of herbs that shone. The Indian smiled and he caught his pipe slowly. The stealthy eyes of the peddler observed the beautiful tribal drawings cut manually. He asked, with certain air of fascination, on who would have made such beautiful work. - You! - The Indian answered, absorbed in the smoke that rose to the skies. The peddler laughed heartily, and rolled. He cried from laughing, when he returned to himself, the Indian was not there, but he had left the pipe. The boy analyzed the subtle lines that composed the workmanship. Almost unintentionally he looked at the interior of the pipe, and he saw his face contemplating inside of that small darkness. He was pale of fright and immobilized of terror. He could not believe that their forms were inside of the pipe of an old Indian that cried and that he never had seen before. He caught one more handful of herbs and then he dreamed: A dreams catcher rotated and drew animal forms; below, close to a vase with cacti, was a wood and metal silex totem, to locucionate voices, approximated his ear of the object and for seven times he heard his name. He looked again upward and he saw that old filter of the dreams now was new and the light that enters for the window contemplated almost blinding their eyes. He went the door and reached an enormous mirror, he drew an Indian that drew drawing him, in the boy's hands that the Indian drew was the pipe, being still cut and prepared. When he woke up, the small peddler noticed that he used a leather jacket with eagle feathers and a hawk eye. In the eye of the hawk: shone the tears of the Indian that formerly had given him the pipe. Noticing that they were their own tears, the small had decided to find his tribe, in a distant and deep trip, inside his soul. Definitively, he didn't have to smallest notion of that. He only woke up when fell of the bed. Afraid, he looked at the nude body and came to notice that he was still dreaming, but a light one, beautiful and powerful eagle feather hovered on the ground, silencing the doubt of his dream. The mascatel cloth on the table was rolled up to the pipe and it protected him. The hands slowly raised forces towards the feather, but all of a sudden, as a figure, before playing her, it was taken the resplendorous feather and agile life and with its tip, it drew a circle below the filter of the dreams. The ground inside of the wheel was ruby-red and gold wavy and abrupt silver, the black also there was and it was the own circle. Years ago, when he buried one of their crystals of quartz, the peddler had seen, inside the translucent eye, the same image of the feather. He heard the triple clink of a bell and was shocked with the image: An old one used bloody clothes and bows of animal skin. With braids in the hair and lips, ears and painted eyes in black, it left the interior of a tree as if before it was the own tree, staring him in a gesture strange to all attention. A buzzing of a fly - the old woman appeared to his side, extending him a rose

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and a hand. Inside of the rose minuscule rings that were suspended in the air sprouted. Of their broken nails, worms appeared and they fed her. She closed the eyelids and disappeared. The extended rose, fell inside of the circle, inside the crystal. He decided to exhume the crystal, three years passed from that vision. To the feet of a great pine tree dug him exactly in the point where formerly he had buried it. When he held firmly with the left hand, an intense vibration traveled the extension of his body. In his interior it rotated the eagle feather, forming the circle and his room. The filter of the dreams also rotated and minuscule rings went down rotating and sparkling strong and beautiful light, as floating particles of a ray, arriving to the light ground and slowly. The peddler focused forward and he saw the same image, the old woman and the Indian, side by side, she extended the rose and the hand, he held the pipe and the quartz. He heard a beat in the window; the peddler quickly hid the pipe. It was the drug dealer that announced a new product. He resembled much a punk, anarco-capitalist, parading with his moicano, living exactly at the expense of his antictone: the capitalism. The son of a bitch entered and quickly, shaking piercings and buckles, removed from the pocket some coated papers when he came across the crystal of quartz and the rose that moved itself symmetrical, he sighed heavily and retracted the muscles, he removed petals similar from his pockets. He asked the peddler: "how did you draw your road, Indian?" Perplexed, the small dried the perspiration of the forehead and "my road is drawn as the transported sand, the dune moving for the intrepid action of the wind" said and from the pocket removed a handful of sand, it released the particles perpendiculating to the rotation of the same, to the ground. – It is possible that the Great Spirit is here, my skin falls and the light of the post don’t want to shine, that shadow that accompanied him for the window: it was the braid of the old woman that came undone. – I think you should stop with the drugs – retorted the trafficker. – To stop with the drugs is not a piece of advice given usually by a trafficker – said the ironic peddler. – To stop with the drugs is a piece of advice given by a trafficker that doesn't want your money and doesn't also want you dead. Get dressed, catch yours weapons and don't say anything. Then the peddler got dressed and prepared their weapons while in the dispersed sand for the ground the trafi wrote – "Stop with the drugs: to smell, to smoke, to inject and to vote for never again." The Indian traveled in his tent when the trafficker entered and sat down around of the bonfire, he put the hands in the fire and in the smoke they observed a double of you reading this word; when we were ready, for the Real triumphal lunge against the Unknown, the little Indian rose and said: "the extended rose, falls inside of the circle and the feather of the eagle maintains its victory, inside of the crystal". The tent of the Indian was inside of the flat of the trafi. They had to call the firemen three times for the insistence of the Indian in doing a bonfire in the room, there was an enormous hole in the middle of the weeds, inside of the tent, dispersed for every part, thousands of seeds, cacti, red and blue plants ornamented small tribal drawings that there emphasized the blood in the choir of the cables of the tent; crazy poems logged sporadically and read stayed silent & they disappeared in the measure in that he used them as silk for tobacco. He sat down again and had been interrupted when trying to light the fire. They noticed that they were not inside of the apartment, was the desert that extended and demonstrated in its exuberance amplitude for the horizons. The movement of the coyote whipped the silence and nor the wind interrupted the movement of the feather of the eagle, the fire didn't glitter in the enormous crystal of quartz fixed in the center of the

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circle, the sand didn't separate from herself, the night was a mantle for too much deep and neither the time nor the space could be noticed. There was the bank of the square, the bomb to fall continually without playing the soil, because the space was not there. "The old witch arose in the boat and disappeared, the tearful lion undid the braids of the own mane, so that the sun rose" observed the peddler when he looked to East. – A nightmare will come to end with your pains, because you will face them for the vision. Maybe it is possible that it carries the flag of the victory to the next dream, when it will use the mast as lance to get hurt. You know your mirrors, desirous of the victory of the life, you disperse the last hour for the vastness of the timeless unspace – rebelled the Indian before the cathartic coming of the final transposition, jumping of the abyss, to arise. – I must, so to speak and to do, present inalienable to stay in my realities; the agitated sea of the information wants to devour me, but not only I navigate the wave, as I create additional slopes that you/they end in the sea, then I am the wave, the reality, the road, the sea - it retorted the peddler stoned that faked to play guitar while the lunatic trafi unwrapped adulterated palaces in chemistry, that he intended to sell, but... The boy removed the feather of eagle of the leather jacket; he looked sincerely at the abyss and released the feather. She arose slowly and disappeared. Hovered the silence. – And so, trafi, where is the Indian? – Nanny, lokô. Fucked off. Suddenly, the Indian fell down of his unspacial abyss; was possible to hear until the cracks of the ribs breaking. The fella fell faint, all crooked, skinned and holding the feather of the eagle. – You’re crazy, dude. I think they vomited me from the paradise. – He babbled, still staggering, the Indian that arose to the ground. They laughed and they prepared a tea of herbs. They went back to the tent to dismiss. – Hey, fella. We will engender the search the link the enigma, your hallucinated rhythm will dictate the speed of the drums, we will leave for this door and we will go up the Hill of the Holed Stone, in that cosmic rift we will deposit our ideals, we will wait for the flight of the bird on the clouds in the Sunset, clumsy to our lack of common sense and accuracy, ennobled by the shine of forty magnificent treasures that surround us. We will follow Woodpecker King's trail, and we will dive at the Enchanted Green Pond, I have in my pocket polishes and map, you have oh mind and soul, we will leave uninterrupted to explore the inconceivable, the frightening, the Real. We will be enclosed of stranger would calm, an ablator silence that sucks us and interpolates. Shit, fella! You should leave with us. We will hug the sun the cloud the storm! – yelled the trafficker almost having a thing of so much emotion. It was when the Indian got up and he gave a slap in the face of the old of the worms that spied in the door. She let the map to fall. The peddler quickly sought the map in the pockets and just found the tasted worms and vomited of the nails of the old. When the peddler was played to catch it, all of a sudden the map became a crystallized rose and was broken. The old let out a stabbing and deafening scream of pain undoing the braids that were rolled up in the neck of the Indian. He shook the shoulders and shredded the arms of the old woman with a razor that had removed of the inferior part of the drum. When she fell smelted in blood, she became a tree trunk all of a sudden. The worms quickly entered for the small cavities found in the rottenness of that old wood. The Indian caught the trunk in the ground and set fire as if it was a torch, a greenish fire whistled as a fly and it let to escape small gold rings of smoke. The peddler rose lonely with the loss of the map, it shook the ashes of the body and all of a sudden he remembered the pipe, he had reminded that in the tribal lines of that workmanship there was the memory of a road, of

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a trail that took to her same, but he could not remind where was the pipe. "When I was small, and saw small angels falling down of the trees, my yellow smile misunderstood the teeth of the tiger". Everyone heard these words of the peddler, neither the fire nor the air seemed to understand.

Explicitus est hic Liber