#; Lord Quas Speaks

[bewitchingbaker]

❣

A certain hellhound's ear's perk up at the artist's question, one red eye looking at the busy baker. He lays his head back down as he relaxes on his bed. Despite only knowing Chris for a few years, he had gotten a good read on the young witch. Plus, it helped that Chris was more than happy to talk to Quas about his personal life.

The hellhound relished in Chris's tales of the comedian who melted his heard and the boyhood crushes he shared. But in between those stories, his friend picked up on a few of the young Luna's qualities in romance.

"While my friend can be a little unaware of those with romantic feelings, he does have his great qualities once he's dedicated to a lover."

Quas chuckles.

"First, if HIs lovers have any problems, they become his problems. He will take on any and everytHing for his lovers. I'm sUrpRIsed he hasn't told you about fighting rival vampires for his past love, AcACia."

"Second, the baker will always have a outing prepared. Whether it is a special tavern or a royal gathering. One will never have to worry about a lack of planning for engagements."

"Third, Chris is known to shower his lovers in affection whenever they need it. If his tales are true, many of his past lovers reveled in the affection and attention he would give them. Even the oh so terrible Xavier enjoyed this."

A knowing chuckle followed.

It wasn't long before a knowing scowl finds its way to his face.

"But like anything goOd, the bad must come with. As I've stated, your problems become his problems. But he seldom lets his problems becomes his lovers problems. He feels as though he can take cARe of his own issues. I believe he worries about carrying on the LUNA's tradition of taking advantage of pEOple's time."

A sigh.

"He can be a bit toO...cArInG around his loVErs. While everyone likes his affections, sometimes it can be overwhelming. Personally, I believe he wants them to know they're loved but some people may need a break from so much caring."

The hellhound takes one last look at Chris to see if he's paying attention before he makes his final statement.

"The baker dOEsn'T FEar MUCh...but he does fear his lovers seeing him...in a not so delightful mood. Especially in regards to his family's complicated history with him. My friend believes his wrath and sadness is ugly and it will drive people away. But I beleive his lovers will still find beauty in him, even with his less than happy side."

Quas gives a firm nod at the details before resting his head in Zora's lap.

"the PriCE of such information has a cost. I beleive I have earned rather fine pets at your hAND as they ArE A little more rare to get with your schEdDule these days. "

[ @escapedartgeek ]

[the-sparrow-sings]

The Prodigal Son

Reaver rescues a very young Logan from his kidnappers. Spreaver, but focuses more on Reaver coming to terms with caring for his son. Reaver POV

Warnings: Kidnapping, Murder(of the kidnappers)

~*~

“What is this?” The Queen’s voice carries through the throne room, turning all eyes to her—even mine.

It isn’t often I look upon her these days, not when it can be helped, and truthfully, I wish I hadn’t turned my gaze upon her now.

She looks utterly terrified, frenzied in a way I’d never seen her—and I’ve seen her more unbuttoned than most who’ve lived to tell the tale.

“Send the gold,” she commands, shoving the scroll into that beast of a man, Beck’s, hands.

“You’re just giving up the ransom? Just like that?” The idiot King’s voice always serves to sour my mood, but the irreverence with which he speaks to my one time companion afflicts my trigger finger with an unbearable itch.

In another life, he’d be dead before he had the chance to annoy me again, but Albion’s rules are different now; puppet or no—and make no mistake, he is nothing more—killing the King in the middle of Bowerstone Castle wouldn’t bode well for my continued stay, and I simply cannot jeopardize my annual…visit…with my dear old friends.

“You read the letter,” she spits back, her venomous voice laced with panic. “They’ll kill him if I so much as set foot outside of this castle.”

Him?

I do my very best to maintain my expression of utter boredom. It is in my best interest to maintain distance between The Queen and I, but I well know there are only so many people that He could possibly be.

Only one that could send her into such hysterics.

The Boy has been kidnapped.

I should stay out of it.

She’ll send the ransom to the drop off point; the boy will be safe. Surely the capital can afford it—it isn’t as though Our Queen has a habit of otherwise lavish spending—but it’s the principle of the thing.

The Hero Queen, such as they call her, has given everything to protect these cretins; the world would be lost without her, and yet some fools have the gall to threaten what’s most precious to her.

It cannot be allowed to stand.

Whatever wastes of breath that dared to commit such a heinous crime cannot go unpunished.

I have connections; there is nary a crevice in Albion’s seedy underbelly that I don’t have at least a finger in. All it takes is a little bit of gold, a little bit of lead, and a few drinks into the right people to scrounge up a few corroborating rumors about the dismal little mold infested cave where The Young Prince is being held.

Inexcusable.

I don’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed that none of the scraps of subhuman life seem particularly outraged at my presence as I charm my way into the cavern. I may not be King in Bowerstone, but among the scum and villainy of the Albion Underworld there is no higher Lord.

For the first time, I’m uncertain how I feel about that.

Children are horrid things, really—there is no greater reminder of your own lost youth and innocence than their big and unjudging eyes. No doubt I’ve unknowingly left a number of them behind upon the many many one night stands I’ve had with women over all my years, but I’ve never had any desire to meet my offspring. Offspring I will—and no doubt have on many occasions—outlive. The last thing I need to do is grow attached to yet another person who I will bury. I have no desire to go through it again.

Still though, for all my crimes, I have never involved children.

I am insulted that this scum believes I am on their side.

Especially when I see the boy sitting on the floor of a rusty cage, his head tucked into his knees.

No one even thinks to stop me as I approach him; by the time they realize their folly, the Dragonstomper has claimed another unworthy soul. The boy startles as the shot rings off, his big black eyes locked on me as I do away with three more of the worms.

My heart races when I rip the keys off of the jailer’s leather belt—snapping easily due to its downright abysmal quality—and free the boy, scooping him up with one of my arms. He clings to me like his life depends on it—rather appropriately, considering the brutes that finally come running in to investigate the gunshots.

It isn’t long before they lie in bloody heaps beside their fellows.

For the first time in a great many years, a heavy satisfaction fills my chest as I dirty my rather expensive boots with blood as I step over the corpses—truly, it was foolish of these morons to think they could get away with this, it’s no secret that I’d had a seat at The Queen’s court for years now.

I should have left, truly. My time in the Castle stopped being fun when my favorite companion went and became a mother on me, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to leave—despite the considerable effort it took to avoid the child.

Now, sitting in silence across from me in the carriage I’d called to take us home, I have little choice but to look at him.

“You look like your mother.”

He only stares at me a while, exhaustion evident on his small face. “I know.”

Rarely in my life have words eluded me, but in this moment, my throat feels unbearably dry—I should have brought at least a flask for the trip, but alas. “Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head. “Just hungry.”

I indulge a sigh of relief before signaling for the driver to stop by the next inn to purchase food for the boy. “The food in this…charming…little Hamlet may be a bit provincial compared to what you’re used to.”

Again, he only stares at me, and for a moment I feel as though he’s searching me for something.

What has his mother told him?

“My father says that you’re a bad man.”

Again I am filled with relief, though of a much different nature. “That’s true.”

“You don’t seem like it.”

“Is that so?” I can’t help but chuckle—no one has ever accused me of being good. “Tell that to the families of the men lying dead in that cave.”

Again he’s silent, almost staring through me as though he’s deep in thought. “Mother has killed a lot of people—I think that sometimes people do bad things for good reasons.”

It is my turn to stare in silence—are all children so wise? Or is it only because he’s her child? I shake my head with a laugh. “That may be so, but my case is a bit more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

I pat his jet black hair as the carriage comes to a stop. “Perhaps your mother will tell you when you’re older.”

He looks thoroughly offended by the indignation, and I can’t help the corners of my mouth turning up with amusement as I help him down from the carriage step. Though I’d offended him, he remains firmly attached to my sleeve as we walk into the inn, no doubt still terrified from his ordeal.

In the warmth of the inn however, some of the fear seems to leave him, and he stands as tall as he can—it’s almost comical watching him try to appear princely when he’s covered in filth. Though, I can’t fault him; the boy knows little of life beyond the palace outside of his history books. His grip on my sleeve tightens as the buxom young bar wench approaches us. “You and your Pa look hungry.” She crouches down to his level with a smile, and I realize that she’s got no idea who I am—moreover, who he is.

“He’s not my father,” the boy corrects her.

“His mother is an old friend,” I interject before he can say anything more; the last thing I need for my image is for all the backwater yokels to think I’ve made Heroism a habit.

Worse than that, neither I nor her majesty would welcome the talk that could come of it.

Soon enough, we’re seated with two bowls of hot stew, and even I’ll admit that the aroma is tantalizing—as far as peasant food goes.

“Why did you tell that woman that you’re friends with my mother?”

“It’s best not to let anyone know exactly who we are until we’re back in Bowerstone,” I explain, taking a sip of the in-house mulled wine. “And besides, it’s the truth.”

His brow furrows as he takes a thick swallow of stew. “I’ve never seen you together.”

“Ah.” I dab my mouth with what passes—poorly—for linen. “The truth is, I don’t particularly care for children.” He looks almost offended by my confession, and I can’t help but laugh. “Before you were born, she and I had our share of adventure.”

“Really?”

I nod, savoring the flavors of the delicious meal. “In fact, I had the honor to assist her in putting a stop to old Lucien’s plans.”

“So you really are a Hero?” He practically trembles with excitement, regarding me with something other than suspicion for the first time.

“In the flesh,” I grin. “Though it’s not all it's cracked up to be.”

He shakes his head, his eyes filled with the same awe his mother’s once held before the weight of this world had molded her into the vicious creature she is today. “I don’t care what my father says about you, you’re a Hero.”

“Not all Heroes are good people.”

“Well, you saved my life.”

“Fair enough,” I laugh, shaking my head. “Eat your dinner, we should be on our way as soon as possible; it was odd to see your mother so worried.”

He asks me a great deal of questions as we finish our meal—which I only partially answer—keenly aware that many of my tales are anything but appropriate for young ears. He’s slurping up the last bit of his broth when the wench approaches us, a cheery smile on her cornfed face.

“You know, The Hero Queen herself fixed up that recipe,” she shares, much to the boy’s surprise. “She worked here for a while—before she saved the world, of course.”

“Fascinating, Love,” I grace her with a smile, clasping a purse of gold into her hands. “We thank you for the wonderful meal, but alas, it’s getting late, and the boy’s mother will be missing him dearly about now.”

“Of course, sir.” Her eyes are wide with shock, taken aback by the weight of the coins in her hand. “You boys travel safe.”

I shoot her a wink, leading the boy back toward the door as he stifles a yawn.

I myself feel weary, and I am eager to return to the castle.

Mercifully, we have a very quiet ride back—the boy having fallen asleep almost immediately after we’d set off. I can’t blame him; he’s clearly been through a lot this past couple of days. I won’t pretend that I’m not glad to not have to answer more of his questions—I do not look forward to the questioning his mother will surely give me upon our return.

He doesn’t awaken when our carriage finally arrives at the castle, but that’s just as well. I’d prefer to have as few witnesses as possible when I return him to his mother.

I hoist him into my arms, and I note that he feels considerably heavier now that he’s asleep than when I’d rescued him from the ruffians—of course, though I’m loathe to admit it, I may have experienced an adrenaline rush back then—I am blessed with no such energy now, and I am filled with dread at the emotional reunion that is sure to follow.

Not only of The Queen and her son, but Sparrow and I.

We had been inseparable before her pregnancy—partners in crime—I had become too comfortable; her child had reminded me of that. While I remained at the castle, whatever friendship we had built seemed to dissolve—it was just as well—I certainly had no desire to watch the boy grow old and eventually die, but it’s different now.

Knowing now that I am about to speak to her again—just us and this child—fills me with all the dread of a mortal man. I feel so young and yet so ancient at the same time.

It’s almost a surprise when my secret entrance to her chambers is still accessible, and I wonder if perhaps I had only imagined the mutual nature of our separation.

When I lay eyes on her, laying on her side with her back to me in the softness of her bed, all memories of tangled limbs and our boundless pillow talk fill my mind like smoke in a house fire, the memory of her moans and her touch billowing around the deepest parts of me. My heart constricts in my chest.

I know she’s awake. Had she been asleep, she’d have whipped awake straight away at the slightest sound of my entry, ready to fight—a habit, she’d told me once, developed during her youth in Bowerstone’s Old Town. Compared to me, she is so young, and yet she’s known suffering fit for several lifetimes.

“You’ve picked an awfully inappropriate time to return to me, Reaver.” The rasp in her voice tells me she’s been crying—few people today have witnessed such a sight, and I am struck with the understanding that were anyone else in my position now, they would likely be dead.

“You’re as lovely as ever, your majesty.” I take great care to remove any sincerity from the reverence in my tone; I’ll compliment her all I like, but I won’t have her believing a word of it. Her ego couldn’t take it. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to push off a proper reunion to some other day.”

I hadn’t ever intended to return to her bed. I thought it best to avoid her—at the very least for a century or two—but it’s too late for that now.

“Then what the Hell are you doing here?”

“See for yourself.”

With a huff of complete and utter despondency, she finally makes the effort to roll her body toward me. When her eyes lock on the child in my arms, however, it’s as though new life has been poured into her.

“You brought him back.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, shaking as she scrambles over to us, pressing her lips to his hair.

“Of course I did,” I grin, doing my best to seem as cocky as ever, lest she glean a kernel of truth from my mock sentimentality. “I wasn’t about to sit by and allow such insects to profit from traumatizing our son.”

Her body tenses, and I know that I’ve pushed my boundaries just a bit too far—that’s always been what I do best. “Our son?” She turns her venomous gaze upon me, her crimson eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How much did you tell him?”

“Relax,” I laugh, though it does nothing to soothe her, quite the opposite in fact. “I regaled him with the less salacious of our adventures—it wounds me to think you could possibly believe I’d entrust a five year old child with all our sordid little secrets.”

Finally, she softens, and the exhaustion seems to flood into her just as it had me now that she knows our boy is safe.

She settles into the bed, beckoning me to lay him down beside her.

“You can leave now,” her voice is soft—softer than I ever remember it being, and it strikes me to my core. “I know you don’t want to get attached to him.”

“How considerate of you.” My voice carries more weight than I’d like, and I can tell by the flicker in her eyes that it was not lost on her. “If it’s all the same, I think I’d like to stay—at least for a little while.”

“You care about him.” It’s spoken like an accusation, and it flays me to my soul, laid bare before her gaze.

“Of course.” There was never much use in lying to her. “I’m not entirely heartless.”

“You’ll have to be gone before he wakes up; I don’t want to confuse him.”

“Of course,” I nod, and I settle into the soft bedding beside her.

“He truly does look like you.”

“I know.”

[blackswaneuroparedux]

There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.

- John Rogers

Ayn Rand is perhaps the author of the most childish adult books in existence. Rand is arguably the most overrated "philosopher" although I wouldn't even call her a philosopher. That actually requires at least some critical thinking.

As many young people do I once went on a Rand binge: Atlas Shrugged, We the Living, The Romantic Manifesto. I even read the book by her disciple Leonard Peikoff, Objectivism: The Philosophy of Ayn Rand.

Rand starts with existence exists, which is her axiomatic principle, the starting point from which she builds her belief system. From there she is quick to deny even the possibility of spiritual reality. Eventually she ends in a place where selfishness is a high virtue, altruism a despicable vice, and capitalism the only sane economic system.

Her philosophy is harshly categorical, and corresponds to the developmental stage of black/white either/or thinking of youth. No wonder the people I run across who take her philosophy seriously are always young, at least in their thinking.

As unsavory as these aspects of her philosophy might be, that isn’t what makes her writing bad. She herself says, “The fact that one agrees or disagrees with an artist’s philosophy is irrelevant to an esthetic appraisal of his work qua art.” With this I agree.

Rand’s fiction is a horrid business. It is endlessly didactic, so busy preaching it forgets to pay close attention to life. Her characters deliver lectures. You don’t have to look closely to see they are puppets with Rand’s own lips moving eerily under the mask, her angry eyes staring out through holes in the rubber face. The bad guys in her books are straw men called collectivism, and altruism and they speak only in bromides and Rand gleefully bats them down.

The truth is she is writing bad fiction by design.

In her Romantic Manifesto Rand says, “The greater the work of art, the more profoundly universal its theme.” So far so good. She writes, “Art is a selective re-creation of reality according to an artist’s metaphysical value-judgments.” What exactly does that mean?

Rand believes the work should set forth the author’s vision of an ideal world, not deal with the world as it is. Art, according to Rand should deal only with what is “important,” which sounds fine, but the problem is that when, as Rand consciously does, the artist lops away parts of human existence she believes to be unimportant, we get substandard art.

The artist knows what she is out to prove and sets out to do it. No discovery for the writer, then none for the reader. Rand never lets the story itself say anything meaningful. You want to tell her to shut up already and tell the story. Or find a form more suited for argumentation, like an essay.

We come to art to find something important, no doubt. But it is in careful attention to the literal, physical details - quotidian, often smelly and unpleasant, even disgusting and scary - that we find the important thing for which the work is aiming. The artist is as surprised as everyone else to find the discovery hidden in the muck of life.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Proclaim Christ's Reign

In Quas Primas (In the First), an encyclical promulgated in 1925, Pope Pius XI introduced the feast of Christ the King in response to growing secularism and doubts of Christ's authority. The following excerpts remind us that Christ reigns as King over all and that each of us is called to do what we can to bring his kingdom to the hearts of others.

It has long been a common custom to give to Christ the metaphorical title of "King." Do we not read throughout the Scriptures that Christ is the King? The testimony of the prophets is even more abundant, and moreover, Christ himself speaks of his own kingly authority.

Jesus' Reign Is Universal

Christ's kingdom is spiritual and is concerned with spiritual things. That this is so Scripture amply proves, and Christ, by his own action, confirms it: he declared that his kingdom was not of this world. It would be a grave error, on the other hand, to say that Christ has no authority whatever in civil affairs, since, by virtue of the absolute empire over all creatures committed to him by the Father, all things are in his power.

Thus the empire of our Redeemer embraces all people. Nor is there any difference in this matter between the individual and the family or the State; for all humanity, whether collectively or individually, are under the dominion of Christ. In him is the salvation of the individual, in him is the salvation of society. He is the author of happiness and true prosperity for every person and for every nation.

Once humankind recognizes, both in private and in public life, that Christ is King, society will at last receive the great blessings of real liberty, well ordered discipline, peace, and harmony. If the kingdom of Christ then receives, as it should, all nations under its way, there seems no reason why we should despair of seeing that peace which is the King of Peace came to bring on earth.

We Are Called To Defend Christ's Kingdom

Oh, what happiness would be ours if all individuals, families, and nations would but let themselves be governed by Christ! We firmly hope that the feast of the Kingship of Christ may hasten the return of society to our loving Savior. It would be the duty of Catholics to do all they can to bring about this happy result. If the faithful understand that it benefits them to fight courageously under the banner of Christ their King, then, fired with apostolic zeal, they would strive to win over to their Lord those hearts that are bitter and estranged from him. They would valiantly defend his rights.

Jesus must reign in our minds, which should assent to revealed truths and to the doctrines of Christ. He must reign in our wills, which should obey the laws and precepts of God. He must reign in our hearts, which should love God above all things. He must reign in our bodies, which should serve as instruments for the interior sanctification of our souls.

[libidomechanica]

Famous people do

A sonnet sequence

               1

They that haunt of living worth. Been sown, the guide philosopher was in highest pitch: i’ll call in looking as if alive, and woof from sweet soul, according to sing so true, i, clasping this sort of wind: she sits, and in this life, being an infant’s bier she who found no cure: the back again, Thus lullaby to silence I attendant lord, man, who for many times, but rather. Be near me when my hearts of nature, art, and pine. Only I pray you, to die alone; and when the Lady Adeline asleep, were sweet human what thou, dear spirits whispered. Like the new wine’s fair, it was wrong.

               2

A modest, but endures with cattle huddled on fire to it, your promise of pain: o sorrow lives in the sacred glove, and thus were above; sleep, Death’—but t is still to end the happy dead? In masquerade, the gushing: sweet thief, whence down wi’ right the Baron dreamt of dating from his sagacious is as mine; for he would have some place of the present mixed with hints I swear she can hit em right: her dream the charm applied— the suffer in exchange pride, fame, nine farrow’ of that Evangelist. She was a woman in Beijing buys for Neptune; and yet, I thine effect so lives a saint it.

               3

The Brenta I was born to teach, becoming to the woman bore with pleasure’s in walking handbags. With what divinely sang; and the boys: the all-assuming question, they open’d certain half the loom thro’ summers had watched. Afloat, and Lethe-wards had tried my eyes as yet thought of these few short of drawing bloom, who change of flower in dates, in my throat. See with those of Arcady. And out of human view, she snuff’d the furrows in which flow’ry meads; invok’d to him that’s to beat so quickly the shrine to state I bemoan but trust that number one is glad to find a flowers let us go.

               4

’ Excuse our lord the full thee beside the bounding pulses, and I must like to the soundest rest. Past recall; earth changes hast thou gav’st Leander in Memoriam A. The Shadow from the wrong, Don Juan. In her empty pocket-handkerchief? And thou wilt have heard the depth the summer eves. No law books frame shelf, and so I’d have much more. Tis well, and a Voice went with rapine, a harm no preacher at a time. Hear, ye virgins many, fresh and to speak the wrath that death will becoming as if a door were should she scarecrow has plucked the imagined such hope, and in the living and you too.

               5

To thy blood: ’twas in the hour I met her groan; where nymph arose a clam. And garlanded with all ignoble use. And all the children, husband’s foibles of her bed. And in my head a single break her trust; and meadow kit foxes shy, and there was Miss Medea, he puzzled urchin, and many a sandy bar, the old man, without it; in fancy fuses old and half smiling Beauty is sicke, sweet, she unobserved, as well as ill within was not go then, stoop, since you eft with earth’s bosom, all my every things. That all to blame? My brave gallant son; a shot, ere half anguish’d foes. Has come to pleasing, even to strike the people out, and all is new, and therewith the grassy lea, my necktie, she has talk’d: the wild bee farms wi’ me. Old rusted him too, thoughts from thine. His cheek is pale for that vessel’s shrouds in perfect fright’ning the Earth and blade, bethrothed to one, at least.

               6

The English newspapers, while admired, wants the world of ghosts of talk, follies, with me’s a sine qua. I am not a word.— Within the grain of sand thine below, anon she too became gaunt, without a friends, because to quake; thought of Job’s; he said: the teacups, after thousand ward, keep your names, and moan forth witless prayer: or her, whose epoch my poetic licence its matin song, in booth and tried at wit was Attic all, is philosophic in our ancient forms that pictures of true minds admit impediment of you, letting this is no time now for their pitiable bones.

               7

For painture near to go,—so with unwounded field did practice howsoever that should still less of angels look so grim; the dust and pebble, and drown’d, let darkness of her relations, and the wide sea there while bright. My blood or ink; t is very well; the Master of love, sheds a moments, he arose in praise, whose sole guardian angel will steal thy sweet; closed, silence in us dwell; they not hen-peck’d you are jealous in a dread to know that’s my last adieus, and mix with honest Mah’met, or plague themselves as harmless is to dread to find his parents’ simple still perfume, and lassie, O.

               8

Of Shalott the Letters the Merman the Earth and pains; in the thoughts would take by sap: but oft denied, as if she saw her dark arms and look on her safe. In French romancers: You’re the sheaf, or but subserves at strife; ring out than others that may express’d his forehead like to things shake the twilight of diction still he grew, and throng made a thousand saw the deed the red fool-fury of a handsome, slender, but moor tonight was better to be sent mine the world, for many heroes with her husband; so I did them: thus he came at last, return unto that errs from elsewhere it like a vast shadows numbers held off suspicion: thought, I find any in the weaker times delay the heavy stone? Subjects grew? As doth Love speak the council, plied him there. As not brook at the sake of despair of song to sing my Highland Lassie, O. Is that pretty figure, she held that fall out: Daddy!

               9

Of random stroke alone in woe! My heart or limbs, and height of the spacious is as harmless words not brook at her? A glory of a hand that you must not moral, first, and die, heart-broken my own, an unregarded be, beside of tender vows, one lesson where plain sae rashy, O, aboon they who yield his soul was flash of joy and my will sing through this casement with seaweed, crush her pursue. Way with than the long been worth will become change. I’ll call in a tale shall grow, while the honey’d middle of my greatness flings her secret from fools that comes the sixth the fate which folly of all.

               10

” Let us now behind thee lying lip? Who even if it can tire, At lengths of grace, and made my hearts of them pipes the sand and like a civic revelry began to slander’d aloft its hungry lick about her eddy brain, with the door: I want … to go … Let me conference who dares one step?—Guess now where my chaste to her Willy. Knights, ladies tell us, the foliaged elms, and silver thro’ the star-laden sky, and hold cheap the steep rough sometimes thyself so blessednes in violet thus Orinda died: heaven, for all: have known, what a thin-pervading scum, the world, in the pair.

               11

That takes the constellations tread them my hopes do cary. Let darkness and feel my prayer for wings granted: the soul on its back upon life were an entry: riding in or out of propagation; they not hen-peck’d you all, I shall never showering day; low on the stones, the moral, which some said it makes me beat so well hast long have the falling you milkwhite flannel trousers, and smooth-sculptures right. It is that now. But for there thou dost bewailed guilt should ask, t is easier far, alas! He fountain head, sleep, and we close ourselves in our mystic deeps, the arts of man and sting!

               12

A higher hands; the sport which them here, heap earth of Christmas-eve: the moon is: I praise, he thus far for loftiest minds intice. Thou art wrecked at her duty both at board and breath? On the deep, soulful still my pain, and friends, and Virtues, I call not be gay, living brother, whom shall I not; my smiles must leaves; nor moved the breath’d him, and every thing that ideal which the stars, like the blue doth vault with her white as still he touch’d his folly. Nor will hunt the fifth autumn bowers, and all the next are such as enables a matrons who would redress held the sad mechanic exercise, like thunder-rolls.

               13

Which glibly glide, and build a world of this our tithe of talk, and strong that thou art wrecked at the late-writ letters of thine is the drainer of ours, to make the Book of quiet to have seen before,—in sight. But she wears his embraced and signet the great, for if thy perfection and to shut up shop— he could write in collection and the spirit into a mudroom cluttered catalepsy’. Now Ben had you took your love shall paint dyes us red; in broad beam has tir’d the black night have made a foolish ones together in the basest brought: for oft, when the postman have the blisses of her sleep?

               14

Went plucking pool I will never drank more near me where you that with lowings of these remain the wilt thou go with mask and of such a peeress, prouder as a punk; chaste describ’d by all thy part of chief musician. Resist us if you’d suspect me, whom I found made excuse—e’en then thou shalt hear my puling past. Her evening on, that they had fill’d their approbationer and put them bristles all for change, the primrose of harmonious lay, whom but Maud should pierce an outer ring, and in a cutter, or brigantine, or pink, of no sorrow’s barren, scarce went free: the case, they shot awrie!

               15

Life, but welcome to Alexandra after- Thoughts would draw the king. Fair ship, that I see thee somewhere, love my heart, and my bethrothed to one can deem harshly will I think of all the loves of youth, nor let them thine. Lived his lady always sets apart but that’s prettily for her self-possessions. Reached out, and maiden fancies dim: he still as a bar of Michelangelo. Burnt each passion to her shapes of God be praised up for the Sun upon us with all there enough theys of Paradise, or not, where I firmly to the thing, this did, I cannot cast a careless ocean-bed.

               16

To whom he might lie some dolorous message falls from all this the court with precise in ears and was not so spread as breeze; for by the things to live as if to feel thine the common: her small bird?—Ah, I have for such heart of my youth like all deep glen; and whether look was bright; still smaller. At least to make a patience gins to all becoming, and I own, and music as before I saw her dark again. Yet, if my gentle her spirit was a fine sample, Catullus scarcely knew she was a man! Lo, as a diamond gleams, and rapt below the action is the passion’s crannies and flow.

               17

To shape so true, sprang up from duty, the more of life that was as mild as none, being that rose, who are so contagious, were all things no more, that I were long walk of others pay which leaves a separate maintenance, or separable speedwell’s darling, on the double even democratic, but it in her tremendous teats shooting the old hope no relieved in my thoughts of those roses fearfully on thee; they must be wise? Have I put into my thought, until time’s chest and woke with wares which ministring star, if any said she, but evermore acknowledge? Wants an heiress, and to stoop.

               18

Forget mine own horsebacke met him, heart, she would go to the Earth and Earth’s, and the raging sea, in distant hills with pipe an’ drum we’ll measures grieve to say to hear. Also, I am here. And do not bear with beauty; for one as sorrow lives in rest, numerous graces still I am, yet ne’er mounted with tempering feet, her serves how much and most of all prudish readers shout insinuating with snow. I wonder is the shrill verve of your eyes, and all the windy grove, she’s gone. A thousands of nameless sword drawn before; my deepest lays are done, all white stick in his Malmsey butt.

               19

I swear to disappeared. And prosody are eligible, unless, like a duckling tides began to ponder how quickly, not a more strong, how such things to wonder if April would be outrageous luck, our counsel to no rude infidel. To-night, and really hold apart the Poet the Poet’s Mind the wealth is foundations, than fame, may rue the balustrade, knowing tree and break from my love, or three single hours of the windshield—and common-place costume. Thy brother, and with a nod. A waterman came to the maples for ever in at lowly arched way, and no one knows not why: t was first notes my fond of all prudish reader, dread that heaviness, he might have calmly she laugh’d, and the head; not less all frets but chiefly proved until exhaustless, nobody will sees the chimney—which was full of propagated with it, Follow, the hours of such as lies between born.

               20

For when the law within it invariably drowns, which found she would trust in that dies intelligible.—My mistress’ eyes. Spain. He saw far in the pelf which still strong at my breast! I wait its clue? The grave. Oh, though one must of his little hoary, just as I make a memory fades from you before us in the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest the woodbine spices are about in public tis your eye will drink my answer range. So very fond heart loup light, soft, unseen hand at a game that breasts. They say. I can’t help thinking unutterable ground, above thee home.

               21

Incorporate into the rout clusters oh, you while we have. Guest, perchance, and dull’d their phantasies. And was my Lord and well; for, to the summers back, and heraldries, The pamper’d her pale laughing what, if the senses, they punched each obscene and could not. Not scandals that they went across there above the clouds that day come, stopped, he laid his studied steadily to have TWO of five- and-twenty, especially to women, pillage looks oftener part of stockings, slippers, brushes, tho’ I can give no more, half-conscious villain fancy, fair creatures, still as a bar of Michael Angelo?

               22

Thee, arrived, and throb, but he, to which left them let it going to hear the Death so taste as bread: no liar looked, and co- inheritor and bats went thro’ the fairest maid was turned since despised I with sweet about the dead. I call, I sha’n’t say here dies another course, with too much bliss, o, from limbecks foul as heavens, and others, one by the lawyers did fall, o, turn to scold me. State has been my love, my dear, my Philly, she’s left my after-heat. The seamew pipes, or a single hours from the winds that blench or fair. We ranging through the piled wood, that looks as lilies to a penchantress!

               23

At brim of day-tide, on some luckie wits impute it but be gay, like light which adorn’d the people do. To one cadence, the rose with nicest care; and love for all this works to draw, to sheathe away as ’twere pity, for to lie; he has birth; his pards, but thinks less of perilous; but just casual mistress in the grape; and the twist, or else the one I ate? Nor give her alike from the breaker break through the trouble cross her breathing but linger’d; all wither, droop, but now at this patience ere I die; twere difference follow the vows below, around me; by my fresh, and better which kept this day.

               24

And lullaby your passion, or redress? The Dying Swan the Mind seems no lively shining sing. Hope we under the fulnesse, as she had just enough ashes may furnish with ease. Have won them riding, fencing, gunnery, and vacant chaff well means common- place costume. Northward he turned at home to place for it alone, nor thro’ the bugle breeze of Fancy cannot be educated so. Life; as I confess our side? In gulf or aerie, mountain-ground an awkward state is for more; with empty air times he the marmalade, the Irish which the wind I see the world’s great Atossa’s mind?

               25

Who built it with rust, she unobserv’d the conscious her loved. So, still bear no more, now more than mortal stroked my chin, my shame to my weary be, as half-dead to form, and hope could not bear with him her veins ran light; but never on her husband should dote and burst all barriers in my boyhood, every now and those commandment, which, tho’ it spake and flyblow in the banks, we gained the head that neither dress’d from the measured splendid debtor he would have pass’d by heaven was poor, and sister, sure, would frown’d with all things shaken; it is slow: I leave one moment in the worlds by yonder down the Past.

               26

Or hints of candle, curtsied, and Wont, that shook betwixt the bed.—So with her ardent gaze roves from snow that’s good: oh, sacred shade; thou watched mankind’s, my own—that it seems the faire wonder woods: I envy not the spacious is as good angels affection even change with agonies, with the body. Though the pit. And all the sensual feast; nor be my lot, broad golden afternoons, thy sweet to his head on rhymes, but rather swears, and curse me that half-torn drapery scatter’d Well-a—well-a-day! Her Grace too hast thou leave them alone. But what can well the philosophy, say very odd.

               27

’Er young, ’twad be a sin to take a taste, where you suspect me, what d’ ye mean? Compounded on that swift messengers re- deliverer, Maria, thy footsteps of his little limbs became his terrors; the regality of Neptune’s voice was like a lineal son of Eve, went thro’ the blear-eyed nations, shapes that lay there, ’ she taught, be the bolts full of orphans in effect so imbrace, but gie me my love-spangled threescore—fifty, thieves commenced from such a night-market to be the fight. For here nor the fourth time for once! Thou could brook anxious her loosens her for her bosoms bare!

               28

There is not rest—i’ve nothing a problem, like flowers. Has madness, to mone! Whose jest among mankind lessened in his catechism alone, to mone!—Ah, Gossip dear, the long sleep till dusk is dipt in grassy lea, my necktie rich and desolate my waking dread of roses. Nor could then we met, the memory murmurous haunting best and West, without abuse the Death rattle on exactly please him, heart in a losing me shall sound, sepulchral halls, the past, presents thy shame is quench like a faithful guard, for David lived, but, perhaps he yet may character which could watch—Alack!

               29

—Nature’s gentle wrists, with a blind soul, until ’twas very word is like earrings. Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in the household gods adultery, is more than she. Fifty, thieves commend young ambition, to fill or mend the nymph soe’er should grange; men have pulses, and muttered syllables, ale in their verdict in Insanity’. And if she ’d said, but vaster pass like a vast shade of painful toil, increase men’s appetites, by reason change my near sweeter! Seek him so giv’n to speak well of sorrow marry. Sends sin, without, in short-hand ta’en by Gurney, who scarcely trusted boots, child, with truth live.

               30

Another answers till a silence sprang to embalm in dying eyelid and laid condition, the mass for judgment, thou, to love, when push’d the earliest scrape; but it looks went the times to come: and heart. Myself anew beyond to-morrow was as mine are these have I dwell, and so entranced vassal: nor would be; to those useless iron horns together; thus far for love or fear divine, and once more endears, the grave reach out of some small knuckle on my heart or intellect, what new to earth and goodwill, goodwill, goodwill, goodwill, goodwill, goodwill, goodwill and pensive awhile, I’ve miscarriage lay; here Vanity strums on her ear in vain; a favourite plat’ of mine in her sunlight be, tho’ I since you flesh, and sleep, on a bed of delight. And the Egean seer, here and tells you so that I see, and beat, beat into a mudroom cluttered syllables, all in circled staff she shook.

               31

At kirk or marriage, and was just now that Juan had alluded,—mention’d in his charms her secret was the breath: I curse than these in mine, that you know, his, like Wordsworth understand—be dumb! And then, was Scylla, blushing then—he took him, those eye quick-glancing upon the place where victorious virtue, but spare you letters of the faded moon Stol’n to the hearers of the nobler leave. Owner for such glass, nor leave undescribe the much-lamented Don Alfonso at my father moved by competent false and half seriously advised his lady’s maid. What shall known: and passed in her head.

               32

Let knowledge is of man; who usher back, up like a ghost? That all the rosy veils mantling whole as when, in this same interim to pursue, still as all hell. Thing he may furnish with her to have not see the roots the thing but alone. Oh, you why you used me liken it to clasp and kiss, on all the blaze of grain: Love is not what Thou shalt win much time leave they ever certainly this: they make suspicious, you shalt be, as well as eyes to seamen. The night, whene’er I know. Of the bird wings; like a vast sponge of father, when it strange matter, sung, some mighty ebb and sweet, upon the blood.

               33

In human time; radiant in heaven describe the eternal woe, for all is o’ergrown where you may have seen them master for thyself they brought the days we live a contradiction, that tumble half to him its ethereal eyes; and I shall be its name. Yet men kill which we went, and Thought with you to see, really, if they were pass; with lullaby then my faithful wight smiling blue, autumn, yes, winter reckoning yields; a honeysuckle. And chaste, she is a handsome, on ready to slake my greedy thirst: so, take a body sways. But if I say Stellas face, the princely name, calling snow.

               34

And runs about entwined’ or transgressions, and came on the vainly no small refresh the heard—I understands. And the love is, there was place; she is hostess and tracts emotion, the wise, how full heart some years the Hall and the body within the peace on this by no means let the air, or raven black Buick, driven and present and choose momentum. Before the deep pulsation to heaven known the water and beat, beat in time, with nectarous cavalier of men; who breaks with the west, the plain sae rashy, O, aboon these, to solely seek the soul of noble rage, as leaving the great.

               35

” By designed, and over with much he speak? In expectant nature to draw his magian fish through verdurous matting of a thousand tender&I so grateful forever once, upon the sea. Of fish, flesh, and sense to her head died palsy-stricken through their charms, or hear sighs for joy that beat with ease. Now Ben had you skill in speech: Ah!—Is t wise or blam’d for you, but I’m old of the light. With two alone the life would be said, the sequel. For we, which we went, and chorus, cheek who can tell; I wish to reach the law within the happy in the sustain’d; and when bless thee, sullen surface crisp.

               36

Wise wretched, forlorn, my brave sun-vows and how their heart to parry the setting your pious intentions; a third, too, which this I sealed: the sun she left the soul of the horned flood of Love, who told her swayed, all bliss to be, that had never yet with thee and that drench the fury still I retire, thought a fingers of the sky above, below, anon she single tear, no matter how, upon the sweet, like garden for account; and think and all the crimson, gold, and scuds alone, a hunger is nothing can deem her frail.—Peopled ark these buried which the trees are born and brown of lustier leave.

               37

From the bottoms of magic, ghost or not a moral or physicians, and with perfume from a stock-holder in their exit await, from faery power I had been made the chiefly may, and whispered: Take me unawares while now reign thy thick withal, they proud, but an interest of tears, Idle Tears the Mermaid the Mermaid the Mermaid the Mermaid the Mermaid the Mermaid the Mermaid the Mermaid the Merman the heart o’ thy dazling rain on the letters up a happies those deities with a silvery shepherded down a story of faults were happiness at home! The commonest doubt vast eddies in barren branch was not see what female saint’s compass done with all her within a hall, announced to mead, or sheepwalk upon the summer drawn; and crowns, and sorrow I will send the other to have lost in others have but play’d a chequer-work of time reveal’d; the fool?

               38

A girl whose rank exceeding from heaven therein, thoughts were possess’d an earth, purple with despair sung a war-song of birds, so thank your head a cloth shew beyond time draws near the labyrinth of its round of mortals, old wine in the follow’d thought with their mortal stroke shall not shut me from my kind, am urged by your dear is dying fame, fantastic beauty, believe me, love while: Ah! Now raving-wild, I curse my crimson current of youthful prayer was radiant and mouthy: with Crabbe it may now suffice to seek the soft ear to dispel a thought, a life that breast. Wedded she was bonie Jean.

               39

Born to die, no uttered ‘catalepsy’. They right of nerves a wholesome friend from this glad to tell in thy powre hath wrought with Death, because they say: so livelier than wit. To act to-morrow cheerful, and grace and make them who did excellence. Born for thee to my life was and ice makes black wing. He put our own t’ increased, who cannot I be like glories, move his dues; but broke—there’s fame? But to controll’d me from myself to pleased to this were fruit-tree wild; no dream, they led on the best grac’d to be, the howlings fair, at kirk or mark’d the king’s letters of an air to breath; thou doest expect you.

               40

Love is a fault was left the far-off divine, thou callest thro’ all, to pangs that mine own self-applause I hate, and, born on earth; a rainy cloud and bright are this most truly one, and then destroyd! That of the crown and reach the beauteous ripples, fan my brows, I wore the eternal woe, for native land. While thy heart no less a marriage was in November of this mood? And then she turns was guide … nor technical assistant gloom damp awe assail’d me; for this youth last arose and gushing shed thrall, my body feels, as in an earth, nor far, ere from household peace, peace and save, unused example.

               41

How have shed an urn of post-house of pillow or loud by gusts, and letters, all eyes may say, they look’d upon a platter, I am poor once a-slumberous tender and know the very selfishness! One half awake I sought, weigh then his frail, and think and all, as with him, thou art just touched in head, to works and louder, confident in the dark, and nymphs should I meet? She could shut him up to man’s declines. And dwells at distant hills with pipe an’ drum we’ll welcome hame to nothing, and restless dove, I know. And then if with beauty? Attend the world, as my thoughts she could he lovers lay at rest.

               42

Conversation warm, o solemn joy, they stand surfeit day by day my horse, or, being best at the wind; my heart all Calderon and days of stillness of toothed limbs, by night—sometime she bring keeping hour, large froth of war, and all these seals upon a dunce. Homage which is inseparate from brawling within its pearly blank as a metaphysicist asks, does the drift of that errs from mortals know! For thousand types are lang in the tide, of such gifts as mild as none, so much heauenly signes must be attentive: the bathes the household gods lay shivering of the deepest ground us all.

               43

Madeline! Sank in her mode of some others but select, and chat. Through my tears when warm with perfume, and loose; my eyes a thing to the gate. Blossoms comes this bitter all, to all, after all, pray have a sister, a young lip thank’d me duly by return, and Countenance when, in the ground, and belabour’d drums, and blessed never may be better than boy, on some poor Beauty! Cut short before you—Then the sunbeam strikes with upward altar-stairs that cries, that loved her lion roll a sphere of Death has made: our bolder talents in a trice: but ere we see at last, why passive lies the summer moons?

               44

You, tend it shall sway, the final law—tho’ Nature to tell, and told her, and all the white-haired old man say when fine days’ wonder of glittering to its blue and a new light, in seeing what will give you on the world is full easy slide: anxious hearth grew so tender case became her discover’d over cities like fog smother’s daughter and a hundred years to perfect she was awake to Babylon, and sees, solution sway’d in versed, who touch of events must lose the body and keep then this sort of wakeful swoon, when first he wanted to come. And every friends—the sun: and hath set.

               45

Curtains wax a little dust of prison? Half-grown energies, with wail, resume their cheeks without one hope, with showering grace, were all the lacing o’t; wi’ her I’ll dare to the second falling on silver sickle; I, poor I, the sighs, my tears that matters did we weave the midmost heart glow’d in vain; and, influence. Treason for converse drew us with eloquence her babe, a wreck upon occasion, till at lasts in cluster’d up with the sound off an hour for priority. Broad beam has tir’d the front, but all these orbs of life that heart that prodigy—her morning way they found.

               46

And she knew thy face e’er approbationer and calm, a calm despair, observe; for this youth grows quite consistent, how blanched linen, smooth; her eyes explored—here grateful which maybe tells her heart beat neath each; and I—my harp would run much glory: and I won’t be aged, or asp, had she such wisdom less, an old and no man ever could bring and gane, the night to prove against his creed—who loves them orphans in effect a name and silent as a charming is a legacy, and gapes, a hand thro’ thy Willy. The road wherein I am but an echo of my days of his pride, fame, nine farrow’ of that all adapted to your censure; Silia does not scoured the grey: a whisper from more than this, now she nuh noticed a strong, far great-great-grandmamma chosen food to live in spite of heau’n the Sun did ride, progress could refused the wound upon thy part of chief musician.

               47

By your desire, these few short swallow- flights and pass, and nothing we want. But did na Jeanie do? To find a flowers are dull; the Master of oblivion, even now and half of the far-off divine, brighter held her yet, what is the pantomimes. As never past an arch, or if the breaketh, trust not so stout, nor be thine incomparable, and to fall. By designed, and just now we sang: They do not sad? Whose lonely fold: who knew him very wrong your strife, should still and pearls, numb were thine. And morally decided he while the splendid debtor he was oft my luck to dine.

               48

No returning came Oceanus the farthest bounds of law, to those sapling brine that pushes us off from the wain, the fuller minstrel in. And bats went every charlatan, a coxcomb in pretence, who’ve made a widow to my sighs, the glee, then the baseness we would trouble-tost with human eye: for down-glancing leaf, and saw the window-panes, the light and dates, not having. The common would be sometime sheds a moment cuts the birds sighed, she said, the clear: they shape that brutal place where the grey-hair’d creatures lie wi’ you, kind Sir, I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young, ’twad be a pitty.

               49

From snow that it comes on Fortune frowns on me, and the trees feel palpitations of flesh, and wants to bear the sound for life was champagne with tumult of all his feet, my darlin’ darlin’ darlin’. God Neptune’s feet may kiss—thus doth Love said was that broken night, with books on the way to seamen. Those two names I pick’d up my own life, and all was kind and sunflower! Mine irregular moved on with myriad year by year the heavy artillery to fire I must you could hear the nobler ends. The life nor lights began to run afresh, as all thy paine, and sailed, full-blown rose, that was.

               50

Then echo-like our voice, so innocence perplex thy sliding hours from either he came scuffing in the children birds, the silence; in the moonlight difference; and long be- night to see the faith as vague desire that have had not for me, and o’er it malingers, asleep I’m ninety and that shield himselfe the loud song a little breeze began; for me too late for amusement jessamine stirring air; unloved, and a new world, and very high! But since the only son left with summer shine, with nature; but never be my love, nor poets roll who Greek or Latin laurel: her weal or woe.

               51

I woo your minds of ladies a sovereign vision than the God of such husband shook his high soul, even in with please you stain the face of these I shall bloom to prove the sake of the stage? To Virgin’s grandmother speaks her maiden plumes we rustled while slow fever late, and good, is none would not me; doe you do such deform; at which kept a journey. Thing quickly the dew of heaven, by the sky; from out the image comfort clasp’d in moss, or cool’d a long will amiably err, and a cursing fit against it seemed as then, while graces and this question of every short, in all Minds best all parallel—of air, not covet flying coves, the moor an inner, here be law or lawyers divine, these present star we saw not, what may ensured, with dindon a la Parigeux; ’ how was there is yellow smoke that live gazette, had scatter’d by the world is of marjoram had stol’n of boredom.

               52

In higher; as gentle wrists of blown self-love quite profuse of his face, by faith released from isolation, glory, foreign joy, they fetched linen, lace, and there, when I hear; ’ and bit her lion roll it toward signs paints at once from man to blossoms in which passion in her animal love, for earth and sky, this union with a safety pin to give height of eternities of which where men begun to pine in undiscover, till all been sown, the streets that at the end? Blissful climes, at will we met, to have grown to keep extremely at the leafy nooks wherewithal an answer’d if she had deeper drank; and descend below the population and watched mankind less noble street roars, hath been the goal is gain’d its charms, that when thou shalt win much to spend, nor service of the loves me; yet not entire love, my sweet; and, without a plan fi changed; with ev’ry pleasure, girdle me for me!

               53

And passion more of light, then to be more good name! The age of rest by thee and far- heard clarinet, like phantoms flit; but in the weak, and haunch of venison; wines too, which flourishes, or fortune, haplesse me despair, lest that he was—at least one that fills me with war, or eyes than I deem: I trace this the trophies of love, if love that no one bears? But sweeps the cobwebs we have. Though your wills are smoke, in pallid moon, dark yew, that overcast our spies out. The lady wed, or may not even her as if t were it hurt me, that’s to do witness Luther. All tongue, her voice shall fetter me.

               54

I sent in either brother, as most, tis she that petty cells and feel why time so opportunities escapes from field of corn bows all its autumn bowers, they circle drawn before; Antonia cut him she stands as if to please; ’ yet still fail. Thy remembering how we sound of racoon tongues— she look’d! And teach me, many years passed and where to go too far disease; ring out false matter courtship grew, and yet I doubt, and security’ are twin brother’s life, and hate, or villain fancy, fair co-heiress, and other in the cycled time I see thee in ears and sound off an honor’s grave!

               55

Essay Information shall ring with me. I shall sway, for now is firm under human love indeed, almost dumb, and bright with earth upon the water. Unloved, wants the viewless war are scarce went as a tomb. I murmurest in the chambers wide, looking each at eve we went from eve to sing my Highland Lassie, O. Now this all kinds of nature, half an hour with me! The throng the Eagle the one element, and her on we gained a little breeze began to the wildness still, who lights and stood confused me swift messenger … though both I spake romancers: You’re alive, and ev’n tho’ they endure.

               56

So every friendly face or name; so in the patent-age of this pardon, whose tedious horoscope to renew: for all wrong. Long ere I dream’d a vision I ask’d her old faith, the only reasonable manners, as the blood; and made my heart ’gan warm with precious revelry,—and therefore fiction is that then? And the prince’s pretty were sweeter to have other stars in vain; all but the attorney, whose parts of happier men. But all the bitter, bitterness as the blue eyes for his returning human eyes sparkled with your back. Quite contrast, who laughs for there was the page—the end?

               57

Ring out the closet, they sigh, and Fancy light beside the pit? Depths of death, and like that very haze of grief most piously. He ’ll be near: there’s no compell’d to test his wide. And I should I presume? But never saw the nerves at strife as twixt a miser are his memory fades of wit. Shall glimmer on to April rain, nor less them o’er, to wish to reach though now, if they when he was a good deal, but whether here for me reserve when the happy draught, and men shall he, man, he knows not to dispel a thousand pities also pleasant words with our hero tells, when he came from youth.

               58

With sanctifying sweet to be guess’d; what practice howsoever penn’d: some long fingers. To dance! And make trial. I leave a firm post-obit on posterity undone: what I’m sure an end to swoon, when at length to finish Juan’s mother, who mused it in heart o’ thy dark freight, and had their porter after tary, there came in college lights my squalid cot; shunn’d, hated, wrong’d, nor stand in hand as doomsday and came to murder and rumble, and alone, embraced and all in all womankind, am urged by your life, being her waist, nor can I sing through so very stable wench came running at the fools.

               59

So far, I heard an even of old to entangle all the old saw pronounce it cannot stay; I leave thy mammie’s wark, and din and out of women, even wherefore high-piled books, thinking of musk and moon and nothing beloved again. As something is spread his death, the glory swims away; and the smoke in upon the poor solitary dove, must make, unheard our earlier bowers with face vnarmed maid, of calling you might hand clings made manifold divided half smiling Beauty is sicke, sweet fellow! A bosom of the public approbationer and puff from the two.

               60

He who doubt not what, and had need on ocean, span the wing, but say, my spirit? The Sailor Boy the Spirit of the bosom where I my heart’s core; there could teach him manner was reader, dread she’d never dry; the regalities of wheat and viols, ravishing show, the name day. For evermore, else earth; and so good; or crush her, look back the songs, and half-smother’s gain. Equal those roses fearfully on ground prepared to bear, I faltering crowd, when with aimless feast- night: good advice, and puts out the nymph that fall with the valley-fountain from the surly sullen bell give warning lightly dance.

               61

I have hopes to enioy nectar mist: curst be twain, altho’ there now the west, the Count your lips! But met Alfonso, what I receive you the gateway bell, and like a stock- holder in whatever will—how shall I beg it may ensure the Water-Monarch. Privacy refunds advertisement. To folly grows more steadily, and nothing bark, and bright. And clapping hand gave you too, readers take leaves after page, Yes. Let darkness, is so yet; but for my heart, and her fifteenth year and thing’s face, to the distraction like to set me discern the ring of a sin to tak me frae my mammy yet.

               62

And all that, like a beacon guards that he had only twelve hours, don Jose and speak, or English newspapers, whom a consecrated urn, hold like the island, the wonder how quiet cavern of the race went on improving streaming hand can the land at the land-services took in the same gray flats again, or hopeless ill. Echo of clamorings from friend amongst the shrine to starves which might drink, and now I have lost in the sound of racoon tongue into a scrape. Which maybe a collectors are about it; as, if from their eyes which I clothed with towers, but once beyond time; and heart.

               63

What reed was the saints, no sort of wakeful swoon, when some splendour fall the lea I wake, and down by Desires, whose looks abused her cheerful in their throne! And throb, but her side before thee and fresh crush of mud and brute, for the back. I’d have seen before, comes to rest, which makes it still, and how my life, who transcends th’ unguarded stores’ accounts me as sacred glove, and likes to be loved to-day. Breathe away my days be overpast, disabled age shall dart on her notes of wilding in the devil was in a house where five years my harp would have prest at doors, and woof from strife, thou art!

               64

That ground thy changes that my words she was he bound Prentice younger men too: for a chirp of birth, a lever to be e’er approbation was immense, so was here propose … I am nailed into forgets the dead; but speculating scandal’s fangs could not so sure our economic Catos. This that pelt us in the almost a sort of wakeful bloodhound rose in his ale-house bench has been often navigate o’er fiction, but can’t help thinking it was. Sprung in great commandment is t they blind men come to float my breast has been half its fire until your lips, your pillow towers?

               65

And still seek and month sends forth, comparison; ’ scott, who knew the skeletons of death or Doctor paid on either dreamt of mankind; that I mean the expression, in case our second corpses grinning, and sorrow marry. Her joys, her last embrace where the prime, thy ransom’d reason rotten hustings she was in a time. Since burning moves, who is my gift to you now have sometimes throne thou canst not drink, and no great and I, when other in sweet dream of reformation short sample, Catullus scarcely even those five years before but now set out: the no less the sage’s pen—the sudden leapt.

               66

No single murmuring she would that overcast our spies out. Seas, that if no nearer I approach, no altered me. And time to come to Mary’s house was much more near me when the hallowing. I shall sound, calm and play, and two bodies, and heroes kill, and white. Let Love would wish to serve in the best of all our old man’s decline, I must surprised, as the lilies the fall into a convent: she grieved bodies ’gan to weep, tho’ rapt in her full lips do this, but in two years ago. A kindred with looks so modesty she should be some dead man’s handsome articles of night. You have their fate.

               67

”—Thus plaints, no sorrow deep in shadow play. But my good father seems to die. Love, they fed her onward bless! But speculating a reply, his verses show how greatly love should do these, while my cruel banker, foreclosed. Of thought of a new one, settling a problem, as if the matter how or why, or what had the winters lay at rest on its hinges! A lady’s bed, so much the wise, she looked at her duty both day and aspiration of a bay: ten thou forsakest a decent either too, be blind. What were easy tool, deference to happy chance to go to play with me’s a sine qua.

               68

Dark hours, and the prow; sleep, gentle reader! So I may have lost, but they had been, in the flowering dust, and gave you or me hopes of the stars, there’s only garment quite persuade with dew, and trampling horses beat, beat, the lustrous dew. The dying embers dwindle in the pleading: his speech received in nature stain my honour, and the women, two almost wish, I wish she had drunk, or emptied on’t a black with the wind, when the soot that Nature for Use and steps alone, alone, yet a young Porphyro grew faint: she knew not why, nor change. Awful; odes about each was broke in every wife.

               69

Thou dost pine, a harm no preacher at a time. For David lived, but deplore, that garners them, thought on your heart, how full hearing of musk and mire, scheming imagined such husband’s life—I look’d upon my watery pillow in the truth, as dying cause their symbols play to finish all the last profusion worse emotions of this mild guess. I can’t withstand or unfastened the mystic hint; and then—sit down, the blood. Through so very sly—she should tell the darkening leaf, and in thy chamber-melodies of love, or thanks are ways my very dogs would take a Helen. Whose fancy-fed.

               70

Had he the foreign joy, with in-born vigour did he blessed never breath, closed, silence scandal share, let me so weak to me: this life away like to noiseless and boon; had combat, but far above yon slope thro’ his lineage: not on you; so shy, grave, derives its own ribs what which a minute. Bounds, and right, tis won. Sweet-hearted, father seems a sorry that this inquisitors, so loud, and loving master nature, no, nor poets find thee all. Envied, I, lessened in head, must paint your minds of life. To something wants to watch, like a clam. He look on me—breathe adieu, I cannot all Spain.

               71

Enough not the boy for trial needs must be in my clarion, and then if ever to other, and friend, a fop their zeal, and devotion than her smile, as vibrates my fond of the body, we thus far for love himself t’ excuse our lord the whole vices being high and closed grave doubt low kind! Yet turn’d, did her husbands are in His hand were her pale laughed is in that pass to darkening to thee is given a life before the storm, and were tutors had made sanctity itself hath any sign of both sides I doe take my own sad name comes just demands our banquets range their scales of ladies a sort of explanation roll it to a secondly, I pity not, but the same, but those relief to this guifts; his favourable; and stilt-like legs in search’d, and straight homeward she did but lov’d remember Someone will stand, and while what thou wert with love a scroll, and old feel alone.

               72

I AM my mammy yet. I bade it will give up acres and blossoming, nor service of that know she got on, he found Him not in a tangles of perilous bustle; while Endymion. All but then turn’d unto me new born delight, and there, for myself to wing, lingered upon the rouge lately render hands: before, but vaccination’s grace thy first of all, after newly drest, the path was from the laws. Art a guest; and those foes by the puppy’s breast do rise, rich with scorns from all besides the landscape of trees, dancingly as they sought praise of racing against me proved a daughter.

               73

Gloom in some face doth she blush’d a sweet saint, that pushes us off from mere walking as is meet: they reach thought I would be done, such impotence of the case of that was in her hair: antonia’s motion on you; so shy, grave, an awful thoughts, from the crammed beast? Rich, noble seated of mortally to mine until thou listens with him last year’s bitterness of perspicuous comprehensions to the boy for that dear voice, we cried, insult on insult heap, and sooth’d her smiles of the Nine, one hair of innocence perplexed, when she pray’r, and next him of some mighty blessing hand that the reverenced his studies she wrought, since Homer’s able his sire would fully singing leaves turned cud of wreathed away into a rage to solemn joy, to some bay-window my body is, and tears, whom the dimness of thee.—To all mankind less noble letters of the bosom where victor’s brow bright.

               74

A page of high sentence pass, things to one the way to its crisis? Full and ache, while gazing if the slumberous ease: long I will never hae acted sae faith has lost: the spiritual prime rewaken with an one, at least so the prison. The more, indifferent seizures, Heaven’s name was Jose— Don, of course,—even in jest. Can we saw a great labour to come. Thee living smoke, in pallid breast! He thought to stay. Never- lighted look on knowledge, but ioy: or if such an ecstasy! I have for tears, and golden shield himself through. Which bounteous gift to your love: I count eternity.

               75

And the veil his tears arose a clam. In stones that have been dancing and this sin there, ere she seemed as to make my work will fly to teach, becoming that saw thro’ early birds come to the grave, derives its ears before; my death’s conquest and perfect knowledge has been often navigate o’er the nights are Pretty, to dwell on this supposed to each other, were for wet filaree and bards burn as closely fused with hints continent the true. Perfect musike giue. So find him, though a little Juan—I can’t go on, go on so? But Sorrow, wilt thou’ ask’d, in the canvas, and thronging gold wide o’er fiction.

               76

A tear or two; yet he was a girl who like him when we came in thine eye, which way the women come and then to be drunk my tears, as the crop-full birds and saw thee, and led him down an empty dress it please, or did not scorn: her care if the balustrade, the stairs, you in a sort, the curd-pale moonlight different window-panes, licked its tongue bewitch’d, that you know’st it not; or some rich in pity you would be forgot, and how my life inspired train, to drink too that ensue desire into each, and the shade. For her, will never call back: Hello there will never in the grounds, and moanings swell’d.

               77

—He could he have loved and brim the glancing rills we travel tired; but so exempt from a statue veil’d, was known—and life yields nothing dazzled thousands veil to veil. Seen, on highest place, a likeness to explores all gilded pale: for oft, when there is a comfort my dizzy to this glance strook: for, not a leaf was doom’d to die had surely will not divorced, at first she saw too, it might seem to safely. I held its verdurous gloom, as drinking puberty assisted. Shall sway, they came whose childhood shall be so caught by that lift and chicken feather’d violet comes from far and his whole I planned!

               78

His eddying couch’d a flame’s gaunt blue, deep tulips dash’d with this holy new alliance I may cease upon my lips, her father— none. When those sad words meaning out the nations tread the love some qualms very like a fine sample, on these are no worse, and what then? Some little patience now we poison- flower, and Don Fernan Nunez? Strange, but with the Syrian blue: so fret not, though a little streams: and bear him out; ’ and at the coming to the world since, exception of every now and when she hobbled off with gratitude. Mother, but then, the best grac’d to be hanged at last sentence this time.

               79

Old but still shelter one of us sobbing, nor seek him soundly whipp’d be; They see no means comprehends; revenge from the dead; and plucked the most abhorr’d: they most encounterpart of fears, victorie, yet not enamoured out the yet-loved sire would melt a high requiem become a mellow’d, and mime, for thou art committed, while now we poison-flower add the room for thee. As snow through the deep, to whimper; patience; kneel in her brother’s right goes all eyes more than either sing then mighty Love would hardly quite a booty; a second drunk, the whole together in the sun was so fast, with harp and fly to their dark above: dearest, things of fire, like a guillotine, but himself for rough, me, that several strife diffused to be, that same sweeter man; picks from such a sugred phrase of lower with a chill aguish gloom through those fancies dim: he still I force the rolling streaming pane?

               80

Is shadow of a flower and fruitful house, the soul of Shakspeare love that overcast our spies out. Is matters of a happier men. In seeing the birth; and still. Had babble. Why do we argue like this is real gladness. With all that way; he heavy gale at sea, a little systems have but few hours from the weak rib by a father things the worm inside of the victor’s brow to thee. The rising days to make the Past. Thrice blest, the fashionable. I never miss’d an angel of the world unseen, for in the halls; thy marriage; and the gree, who has not much, if the sports were it be right!

               81

And, crown’d in them with you to an ever- fixed mark that love whole address, the portal doors, behind me, curled once again, assured enough to show how greatly love shallop lay at anchor in the lurking treasures: I was a Catholic, and gather’d strange, are ominous. Reluctance be content, how dimly charactery, hold sphery sessions, she link’d her chain’d a wonderful, but a man and a new Napoleon from the noon is near, that large, while now were, more slender human eyes sparkled with no ascetic, or turn like an open book; no longer mourn without one removed from the Braine.

               82

To have loved, who made me the worst, and I soon would he lovers meeting whisper of the snow: the year when their souls! With singing, each morn across the later she has fallen worship far mounting Chick? Till old, may not suit my story told the gude fellow would hesitate to prove, and warn’d before; and set. Thy spirit walks; and all regret to his widowed sky, seem most privileges of my purpose in his dripping he was thinking at the glory on the wretched its dream of white as snow, she hard heir strides about the three days for you, sir, when unfading be, troth, leave thou canst not die.

               83

And love him to shine, with lullaby they could not broke the Beadsman heard the fire ashes, what can young Hopeful’s mistresses, who built him fathom-deep in the cavern rude, keeping double thee evermore. By all the mellow’d, o’er the opening doors, at first, and cancell’d nature, while he binds him in that it is St. This father it would betide, like two grubs on the four chain’d, and dippest towards her wings, and wing’d ship may meet their earliest cry, will let him kiss me, sweet, ring in the rhyme I never hae acted sae faith has made a fool. For clamour, when my fancies bought; while thus shall I do?

               84

To say: But how it was I’m trying moment’s space, in the snow, despite. Whose exposure it is an eye, that thoughts of them had long back the tree, and every body sits, and further back, up like those red mournful of the best grac’d to be loved and flesh be mud and line by defect, and say, my dear, I was nothing—but this I’m suppose the first open’d certainty of being fond of him here! Let me confounded and loose; my eyes wide air, these presents in great Danube rolling, serpent-skin of woe? Or if I my self find none! The regularity of my pain! ’ Though his heart nectarous debt.

               85

With honour, and runs about how faith is sure, would let me sob over the comrade of Vertue, joyn’d by heav’n-directed, to the chairs and sound of such gifts should fall into a spectral doubtless, nobody wears his ear of them could I ever the lea I wake, and a hush with scorns from your story: t was doomsday and ashes may see from the stormy sea! A hollow the mind and sings, hath power lov’d her for herself be lesse, she stood confusion over and grone. And yet bubbled in a case which I can’t help putting thick by ashen roots the bust of twenty-five or thy nice touch’d at ease.

               86

But some control, the night and wonder when the household jar within the hall wish, I wish indeed and lassie, O. Then, since it seems the charming syllable, or a spouse, accord, and, influence in all things divine, more than ever-breaking, ev’ry pleasantly, and every friend extremes between em; she proved the power was transformed. They tell me t were old, and flying; give him crying feet had stol’n to this: That once beat in thy vision, and stood confuse a life that gladly thee and tried to say, he for tears did it matter what parts could bear him out of some small that in short, upon St.

               87

Partly mine; I loathe that stays the eleven with knout? A spoilt child, assumed a manlier vigour, bold fiction is that peal’d from that blow by her wi’ matter where are other deeds; lilies the sexton tolled themselves; for she is the top. Some blood should grow a homily, an all-in-all suffice to Virgin’s pictur’d the gate gain’d, whose heart can fall likeness of her hearty meal upon occasion whether, in uneasy virtues only gods shouldst thou never slander’d vines, teeming prey.—Within the sublime, be arch, or old in a sort of Hercules furens; so that I can prepare a while.

               88

And in the nobler modes of life in losing each new leaf out of praise. Men, something— the crunch of dust a voice expired: for all an earthly things nothing but with cattle huddled on the whole existence; man may lie in cavern rude, keeping silence and boys of all duty, than fame, and let this sublime world to world-greetings may be sadly done, so fast thou lov’st no more immediate matter, snowed it down an empty head, and lull their joy, and fall have her tighten to myself I do, doing the whole together down, sir. Said he, arise—arise! Which, tho’ veil’d, to whom a constant be.

               89

Come Down, O Maid cradle Song crossing the field; and make your will; disdain or lose the imperfect flower of men, and listen’d; how silent on the wiser man who look’d so dream, and milkier every branches of the house; everything to wintry day, I bade my tongue, an Oh! Of all the nerves in a different window-panes; the silver hammers fall’n asleep. Time drives to weep, and cannot rest—i’ve nothing was to despised I with reason; but live to pass a cruel fair: urg’d with sage thou art turn’d to be lost, he shall stillness, the pail, and then to her below to you. Here grate—I think she is near.

               90

And moonshine, died: yet firme love once it seem’d very often claspt in clay? As laughter the wind even such a place, jealous thought my heart with Donna Julia and Don Juan’s, by day my heart alone. When in mid-air the course, and scorn, and they be noted with the ransack’d room, so lively henceforth the time of words to the control, the noblest virtue prefer a spouses kill, and he supplied my tears, whose hopes and Chartres. Fair, she whisper’d, in youth, for so many worlds to be a sin to put in pain, for I love, of happiness,—love is a lower, I never could collection aids our blood.

               91

With whose the Body, recreate Ideas in the West, the petty cells and cools, or, if she would let men parting with virtue, and Beauty is torn by the grand antler’d deer, and grasps her women; all these I shall dwell; only thought, as children in clusters oh, you will say—my reason of many charm’d me not trust that you so often to refuse your soft he set ethereal lues, or are month of its ears before a train to try thee to the stories, so thy lookest in: o Moon! After year, my carrots, into a narrower far away until their pride, as down i’ the man.

               92

And was not ask.—Then Scylla and he oppressed was but unity of chilling ways, and he lovers temper amorous boy; like Daphne she, as love’s sphere of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, they had but beautiful as the antique pen would let me state, whose heart! When I cannot stay. Forks for we, which yet men prove no lapse of his spirits in this holy fire of new invent him at the fancy fleet, and if you weep on so, you will pour from skirt to skirt; and if thou kenn’st from off a crystal roof by fishes as they fell; and, moved the princes tried to get away, and the matter might be admits but, he was superfine, its homicidal eye—and drew me back at the man there were seen, on high, that one should hold an houre-long to the received and fear the loth, while the whole summer eve but play’d with dancing, fail. However the sun; who mused it in a land or a rose; for Wisdom.

               93

Guess so far like all was good, have her lawny continents to say that was that of fifty, thieves commenced from such sublime, be arch, or lull’d by falling year and make haste— but for the dark; I sit with fruitful cloud of poison. Treat a dish. Once from yonder clouds they miss their utmost him so hugely stood in drains, or what of Donna Inez had, with joy! And that they stand: we live, to loves her good ship entanglée. Peace; come at fall from the bridegroom came from hue-golden hours? As usual—the same or fortune, haplesse me despair. For me to murderous strait to tell you read them all! And are gone.

               94

The little completely weak. Thus, it shall still his high sentence, but their change, nothing more partake, effect. And, whether things, their yearly died. For she has my heart loup light, some pendulum soul, according to reproach with some inscription ran along the angels affections of fluent heat began, the women leapt. In the deuce with you think I’m dying. The joy to joy, from the wise below, around, now step upon it. For a man like this; tho’ follows like young and half retiring from the delicate dissenting at this joyous hour whilst I, my soul’s imagine, passing safely cross.

               95

Even as when thou thus, my frame, her lavish hills and created of, but as perfect knowledge absolute, subject to vse eloquence grows romantic, I must nip this the ends, because such is my sin in me; what nature without whose exposure it condition: there fall; or on my cradle they nothing Will Die amphion Audley Court aylmer’s Field Boadicea break, Break, Break come slight, that Circe mighty heart which they bred in me, a poor, weak, and vain, an eye will leave a firm cloud, so sorrow liue. Be some soft sex are very same, pierces the most living will cry to thy high disdained, right?

               96

Learning to be remiss: that God, which is to dread to know transparent is love must have been content? She will bolt the world for sacred glove, and the child: I found me here to find mate, no ass so meek, no ass so obstinate skin; I nibbled meekly from natural good; thy father moved through dooms of feel; for when the east, by Aurora deem’d to own they rest, ’ we said, sleep will come this report, this planet, was a noble rage, as long already, known the stubble drooping eye, robert Burns: dare not what, and so rare, and pining lightly pray, as fair assemble—thus doth Love speak: this feathered legs.

               97

Thrust ahead&eat this scroll, and, half express’d even survivor bulging it; moreover, and thro’ his lips is all the read Malthus? From point to point to be the stream: the hall with the vainly no small hand with love and Fancy leads; and that would swim in a letters three, and boldly dare invade that sublime, what was agreeable, opening for the Eolian twang of what is to hope from dull mortal state, in circles, and if these, or ten times are bland, and, since Homer’s able in figures on the haven with ev’ry pleasure she was I clung about his eyes to wound up, like a flowers.

               98

I past beside of a’ the gilded pale as smooth, and watches for ardour mute, hang in thy stead I’ve got that miss’d the grueling mile-and-a-half Belmont Stakes. But all she strong he set his chair for pastime, dream resolve the hoofs of the pang; dare, never was radiant and greater Bacon’s brink a gallantry, and a swoon left me sleeping silent- speaking on his tomatoes: no other side of thy perfection of the towers, and who, but hear the ripened ears, and on tower which is the herald melodious day; the creamy curd, and breaks hither, but come, weak in the mind, treasure, fie!

               99

The surges prone, with all that, as hard a science is beading of Michael Angelo? He turn’d the grasses on more heirs at loves received thing, sir, when there the divide us not, or with know. I trust, but thy shadows, over the curse changing with the sorrowful offering pale before I knew thee keen in her wander, often urged, so loud with force her in the day when he met him go; ring out of earthquakes, and several part, yet still fractured blisse, opening and the sparkling reaches forth to watch, as we walk’d for years it out dispensable with silvery haze of summer wood.

               100

As year I slept along with the musk of the wealth is fixt and prospect,—diamond richly wrought, and prosody are eligible, unless they are parents also please long, and from Paradise it never drank; and deep the joy to his immortal state, that oil’d and cuff’d by the hand, the wheel echoes oft to critic clearness of a morn and found his richly set; a page of his work, but for one who was analogy between the tomb? On thee ranging thou art fond of soothing quite clear as old carrot, my content the fruit in our hostess forth a holier din the stir of the stage?

               101

And up and pure, doth unlock its deep, wide as the antiquity, mine own, the wonder a summer sweet is revenged the good looks, thinking here in trine. My way is to hopes were palsy shakes all their every line: for I will gather’d thus concern his senses of touch, no things surprise, is, that never dream’d the Lady of the hammer an excuse: sweet is on high, the fashion, the while the sports were hard heir strides and buried bones live a scroll, and make our voice was low, tho’ I since my soul its best, how could have the imperious, she looks cast up what are these the years. The page—the end’s gain.

[cruger2984]

THE DESCRIPTION OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST, KING OF THE UNIVERSE (aka Christ the King)

"As we celebrate the Solemnity of Christ the King, may we be ushered into this mystery of how Christ, our crucified Savior and King loved us. And from that, may we experience not only awe in acknowledging him as our King, but deep gratitude that brings us to offer him our obedience, our allegiance, and our total surrender." -The Most Rev. Midyphil B. Billones, D.D., Auxiliary Bishop of Cebu

CHRISTUS VINCIT! CHRISTUS REGNAT! CHRISTUS IMPERAT! (Christ conquers! Christ reigns! Christ commands!)

On the last Sunday of each liturgical year, the Church celebrates the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, or Christ the King.

Pope Pius XI instituted this feast in 1925 with his encyclical Quas primas ('In the first') to respond to growing secularism and atheism.  He recognized that attempting to 'thrust Jesus Christ and his holy law' out of public life would result in continuing discord among people and nations. This solemnity reminds us that while governments come and go, Christ reigns as King forever.

During the early twentieth century, in Mexico, Russia, and some parts of Europe, militantly secularistic regimes threatened not just the Catholic Church and its faithful but civilization itself. Pope Pius XI's encyclical gave Catholics hope and—while governments around them crumbled—the assurance that Christ the King shall reign forever.

Jesus Christ 'is very truth, and it is from him that truth must be obediently received by all mankind' (Quas primas, 7).

Christ's kingship is rooted in the Church's teaching on the Incarnation. Jesus is fully God and fully man. He is both the divine Lord and the man who suffered and died on the Cross. One person of the Trinity unites himself to human nature and reigns over all creation as the Incarnate Son of God.

'From this it follows not only that Christ is to be adored by angels and men, but that to him as man angels and men are subject, and must recognize his empire; by reason of the hypostatic union Christ has power over all creatures' (Quas primas, 13).

The Church calls us to acknowledge Christ's kingship with our whole lives: He must reign in our minds, which should assent with perfect submission and firm belief to revealed truths and to the doctrines of Christ. He must reign in our wills, which should obey the laws and precepts of God. He must reign in our hearts, which should spurn natural desires and love God above all things, and cleave to him alone. He must reign in our bodies and in our members, which should serve as instruments for the interior sanctification of our souls, or to use the words of the Apostle Paul, 'as instruments of justice unto God.' -Quas primas, 33

Today, religious freedom for many people means that we can believe whatever we want in private, but when we enter the public square or the marketplace, we may not speak of anything that relates to our faith. However, the Church acknowledges the reign of Christ, not only privately, but publicly. This solemnity encourages us the celebrate and live out our faith in public.

'Thus by sermons preached at meetings and in churches, by public adoration of the Blessed Sacrament exposed and by solemn processions, men unite in paying homage to Christ, whom God has given them for their King' (Quas primas, 26).

For Christians, when our faith is repeatedly marginalized in public life, we can fall into the habit of compartmentalizing our lives. We love Jesus in our private lives, but we shrink from acknowledging the kingship of Christ in social life. When we celebrate the Solemnity of Christ the King, we declare to the world and remind ourselves that Jesus is the Lord of the Church and of the entire universe.

Source: The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB)

©2022 photo by yours truly via POCO X3

[hansoulo]

you’re just a bottomless pit

part one of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NSFW - explicit language, allusions to violence, discussions of mild harassment, mentions of being royalty, kissing, choking, light non-descriptive smut, slight elements of dubcon, boba’s a big dick gotta be what you have amirite

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: this is empire strikes back boba when he was just fucking around and finding out so i took a lot of liberties with canon don’t @ me. i offer u this picture as a helpful visual aid. merry christmas xx

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Darth Vader was to be a house guest, and you promptly dunked your head underneath your bathwater.

The perfumed pool burbled for a few seconds while you groaned, listless and in the throes of dramatics, but your attendant only clucked in sympathy. Mila was long accustomed to your disdain for the Imperials who had come to occupy more and more of the palace. So, it seemed, was everyone except the Imperials.

After a long moment you emerged from below the water, droplets of it clinging to your face and trailing into your mouth. “Another Lord?” you asked incredulously, groaning even louder when the servant nodded.

You swam the two short strokes it took to go from one end of the small pool to the other, then floated bare on your back and stared up at the vaulted ceiling. “Is he the one with all the strange…” motioning towards your mouth, you made a vague gesture. “Apparatus?”

“I believe so, your Highness.”

Humming noncommittally, you let your gaze trail off for a moment and stood rightside up again before returning to the bath’s edge. Its intricate tiles were cluttered with bottles, little glass tinctures and oils and soaps that all wrapped themselves around the room in a heady, heavy incense. You inhaled deeply and sighed. Lord Vader with the strange apparatus.

You couldn’t remember a time before your father, the sovereign ruler of Quas Killam, was a puppet for the permanently stationed General and a yes-man for Emperor Palpatine. Then again, you supposed it wasn’t really his fault his planet just happened to be Mid-Rim and full of exactly what the Empire needed. Being a yes-man was probably the only thing keeping his planet intact during the civil war that was supposedly raging right now.

But it was hard to feel sympathy for a man who dressed you up like a paper doll and never let your mother talk.

A soapy sponge was brought up against your back, smelling of lavender. Closing your eyes, you let Mila’s motherly hands scrub at your shoulders and arms until the skin tingled in a pleasant burn.

You picked at the tile grouts with a polished fingernail, head swimming with rows and rows of grey uniforms and white shelled armor. “Wonder why they’re here this time,” you said, speaking softly to no one in particular.

“Princess, if I may...” the older woman began.

“You may.”

“I believe they’re building another weapons factory to supply the Empire, in the north fields. Lord Vader was invited to oversee its induction.”

You kicked your legs lazily in the water, half-asleep and lulled into slowness by the refresher’s warm steam. “And I suppose he’s bringing along an entourage?” you asked, already knowing the answer. They always did, those Imperial sorts. It was just a question of how many and for how long they decided to stay, having taken any real power from your family royalty years ago after they’d discovered the trinium mines your planet was known for.

Your title had rotted of its relevance, made even lesser by the fact that you were the youngest daughter of seven. Your infant brother was being groomed for ventriloquism and you, you were being groomed for obsoletion.

Mila’s hands, roughened by years of laundry and lye soap, rubbed warm oils into your skin. “There was talk of a bounty hunter, your Highness.”

Your eyes shot open.

A bounty hunter?

 ⫸ ——— ——————————————————————————— ⫷

You saw him a few weeks later, in the flurry of transport arrivals and mindless, droning ceremony. It was only a flash of his helmet, but it was enough to keep your imagination spinning for days.

Whispers from entreating servants and talk from stormtroopers that couldn’t keep their mouths shut had informed you of his reputation, his station, and his name. Boba Fett.

A particularly loose-lipped security droid regaled you with rumors of his being hired by Lord Vader, hunting a man named Han out in the Outer Rim. Quas Killam was on their way, apparently, good for information and heavy on the underworld dealings you’d always been shielded from. Truthfully, you didn’t much care. You knew no one got close to the Empire without blood on their hands. Whether they be kings or bounty hunters.

When you actually talked to the man, having been caught trying to eavesdrop on the chamber meeting he happened to be exiting the moment you leaned your ear against the door, any delusions of decorum were shattered the moment he opened his mouth. “Out of the way.”

You bristled, gathering up your skirts in a huff as you stepped away. Rude.

He was taller than you thought he’d be. Taller and broader than he looked before back on the cargo bay, a mere smudge in your peripheral vision. Now that he was alone save for you in the cavernous hallway, his words echoed on the marble tile. So much for espionage.

“My father’s in that meeting,” you replied shortly, putting on airs and doing your best to look like your mother, regal and cold.

Boba only stood there, thumbing the notches of his blaster until he caught the thin sparkle of the diadem crowning your head. A scoff, dismissive. “Then out of the way, princess.”

It wasn’t the title that bothered you. After all, it’s not like he was wrong. It was the way he said it. It was… it was patronizing! Condescending. Absolute inappropriate to a person of your station.

And, if you were being honest with yourself, more than a little attractive.

You shifted your weight onto one hip, scowling. “Don’t call me that.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, static-y and made even rougher by his helmet. “What? Princess.”

Stars, you heard that word a million times a day for a million different reasons. His saying it shouldn’t have felt so warm in your mouth.

Before you could volley back a reply, something equally biting and smarmy, the double doors he stood in front of began to groan open again.

“Better scram, little one.” Boba jerked his head towards the sound of your father’s advancing footsteps. “Daddy’s coming.”

⫸ ——— ——————————————————————————— ⫷

You often dreamed about what it’d be like to leave. Your title. Your station. All the bloody bores that came along with it.

But you had never even been outside the palace grounds. Probably never would, unless your father found someone willing to marry a low-ranking princess and hoisted you over their shoulder, a piece for a game you were never taught and never allowed to play. You’d already resigned yourself to that fact and half-way convinced yourself you were okay with it. But prisons were still prisons. Even if they were made of silk.

On the eve of Lord Vader's departure, everyone in the palace was preoccupied. Your father was most likely schmoozing some Imperial officer. Your mother, in bed with yet another headache. Your governess spent the day preening over your younger brother and your handmaiden was nowhere to be seen. You had a sneaking suspicion she was with one of the guards in a dark hallway.

So you slipped out behind a servant’s entrance and looked for a place to breathe.

Hardly anyone knew about this part of the palace gardens. It was sequestered behind so many winding footpaths and barely-oiled gates that the security droids never bothered patrolling past the main entrance, making it simple to duck underneath the overgrown hedges. The air was quiet; heavy-scented with all the flowers that had been planted and forgotten, left to grow wild across the footpaths and be crushed underneath your feet.

You used to come here quite often, when you were younger and it was easier to slip away. There were long spaces in your memory made of cotton, with hazy sun-soaked afternoons and the fountain that somehow still spouted out streams of cold water from the hands of a statue, some relic of an ancient ruler who had long since died. It was only a small courtyard, made smaller by the thick surrounding hedges and large chunks of cobblestone, but it felt like a whole galaxy to you.

A few minutes passed, then an hour. Two hours. A long, slow, summer stretch of day that just confirmed the fact of your irrelevance. It was filled in only by the mindless reading of your holopad and a few short naps. But better out here alone than stuck back inside, surrounded by those insufferable stormtroopers.

Maybe you spoke too soon, because a few seconds later you were toe-to-toe with Boba Fett, your back pressed to the garden wall. Stars, you didn’t even hear him walk in.

You’d think by now you would have learned to be more careful. Listening and being listened in on.

The helmet tilted up and then down, examining your sour expression. Rolling your eyes, you slumped against the ivy-covered brick, still smarting from your encounter with him a few days prior. “Why are you here?” A haughty, affected wave of your hand. “Were you sent here to fetch me?”

The man straightened out, stepping back from you with a broadening of his already broad shoulders.  Chips in his armor reflected tiny bits of sunlight, little silver speckles on green armor that looked even greener surrounded by wild flora. He hunted people for a living, so the fact that you were made quick work of didn’t really bother you. Still, it was a bit disappointing. Having to go back to the palace was the last thing you wanted.

“The king was concerned for your safety.”

Oh for Maker’s sake. “You mean he was concerned for his reputation.”

“I was told to find you-”

“-and bring me back so I could sit in a parlor and be supervised like a child.”

“Princess,” he sighed.

There was that word again.

A heavy swallow bobbed the lump in your throat, your chest flushed and littering the space between your bodies in a low buzz. You narrowed your eyes, not trusting your own head for something more articulate, and spit the question out. “What?”

He motioned towards the footpath, one hand resting on his belt. “Let’s go.”

You only crossed your arms with a raise of an eyebrow, mind floating an acknowledgement that you were very much acting like a child who needed to be supervised.

“I don’t make a habit of tracking down spoiled royalty.”

No one had ever called you spoiled before.

It was sort of refreshing.

The man cut an imposing figure, you’d give him that. With the helmet and blaster and… armor and such. You weren’t even entirely sure you remembered to put on real shoes before coming out here, still slippered and in stocking feet. What a pair you must’ve made. Incongruous.

You cocked your head and leant against the wall with the fabric of your dress swishing out around your ankles. Caught by warm, humid winds, its layers separated themselves into thin sails before falling down together again. Rhetorical questions were blooming alongside flowers. “Are spoiled royalty below your paygrade, then?”

A tip of his helmet said yes, yes they are.

You supposed as such, with the sort of reputation he had. Skilled bounty hunter. Feared mercenary. Expensive and coveted.

A lap dog.

Maybe there was more in common between you than you thought.

Another breeze whistled past, but the man in front of you was silent. “Well,” you finally spoke, brushing away the imaginary dirt on your dress. “I don’t make a habit of following around strange men, so we’re in a bit of a bind.”

There was an edge in his voice when you moved to walk away, a gloved grip snaking up and resting a deadweight on the back of your neck. You pushed up against him. Lothcat and mouse. You were both, but he was too. “I’m not telling you again, Princess.”

If he called you that again you were sure something would happen. What that something was you had no idea, but the epithet, mocking as it was, felt too good soaking in your sternum for it not to be a catalyst.

A breathy smirk left your lips when your hips canted downward and the gauzed fabric of your dress caught on his cuisse plate. “If I didn’t know any better,” you whispered, reaching to flatten your palms across his chest, “I’d say you almost enjoyed chasing me.”

The hand on your nape tightened and his leather fingerprints dug unspoken threats into your skin that simmered, burning up and down your spine. You faked a pout. “Shame you already caught me, isn’t it?”

The grip surrounding you loosened just slightly, letting your back slide down the garden wall whose ivy-covered stone dragged at your bodice back. A small voice chirped up in the back of your head, chiding you for dirtying the delicate fabric before you willed it away, done with listening.

Boba almost growled. “Don’t push your luck.”

“My, my,” you clucked, shaking your head. Your fingers trailed towards the edges of his helmet and traced stripes where his brow bone would be. They were gold. For vengeance. “Aren’t we feeling insolent today?”

The man underneath the beskar scoffed, the palm that was at the back of your neck now wrapping itself around your outstretched wrist and pulling your hand away. You let out a quiet whine of protest, both at the loss of contact and just to see what it might do to him to hear it. When he stiffened, leaning away with every muscle seeming to tense and release and tense again, you were unreasonably pleased. There was still red blood underneath all that red paint.

Boba’s voice was clipped when he finally replied; the vowels came through strained and raspy. “I could say the same for you.”

Yes, he probably could, couldn’t he?

Then again, maybe your two wrongs could cancel out into being right and not at all compromising.

It’s not like you really did anything erroneous. Well, besides the running away part. But that was par for the course for you. All that was new was… him. And his hands. And his being alone with you. Which could possibly be construed as something wrong and compromising but how wrong could it be, really, if neither of you did anything?

Of course, this all hinged on neither of you doing anything. Compromising.

“Take the helmet off and I’ll go with you,” you offered, knowing how juvenile you sounded. You just wanted to see if he’d hear you. If he’d listen.

He did.

Boot spurs clinked as he stalked towards you, closer than he was before. It was invasive; almost chest to chest with no room for breathing as you were pushed up against the wall again, and you were met with the revelation that whatever you were toying with was probably a really, really bad idea.

Static filled your ears from the husk of his vocoder. “You know I can take you back whether you want to or not.” The roof of your mouth went dry and you remembered how Boba’s palm spanned the entire back of your neck, cradled delicately by leather fingers. He could crush your throat in one hand. Squeeze until you went limp. You wouldn’t be able to stop him. “I don’t need your permission.”

Your thumbs reached up to the lock mechanisms on either side of his head anyway. “I know.”

Fire felt good when you were close enough to be warmed by it. Whether or not you’d be burned was left to be seen.

The helmet lifted with a soft click.

Truth be told, you’re surprised he let you do it.

You dangled the helm almost carelessly by your hip, curling your fingers around the lip of it whilst your other hand stayed hovering near his face. He looked a bit older than you imagined, mid-thirties maybe, scarred and stern-looking. Handsome.

You should’ve stopped while you were ahead but all you wanted—stupid, stubborn, and yearning for a plaything—was to feel the black curls cropped close to his ears. Which probably counted as compromising.

Without the modulator Boba’s voice was deeper, the rumbling kind of richness that was used to giving orders and used to having them followed. It bore down on you as a concrete weight. “I’m not a kind man, princess.”

He forgot that you were used to giving orders too.

The coarse material of his collar chafed your palm as you held it, gripping a lifeline, and tilted your mouth up to his ear. The softness of your voice disguised your intention. It sounded innocent when you whispered it. Gentle, even. “I never said I wanted you to be.”

His lips bruised you and tasted like salt.

It was all tongue, teeth, barely cloaked violence, pressed until your throat felt raw and your heartbeat dropped below the ground to join whatever was left of your dignity. When your knees buckled, a gloved hand settled large between your shoulder blades.

You didn’t think your first kiss would be like this.

Hypothetically it would have been clinical, fumbling and awkward in your own inexperience. Out in front of a crowd somewhere after you met the eyes of a stranger at the altar. Or maybe in secret, like it was now, with a tryst of boyhood and a peck on the cheek.

Boba Fett was a stranger, but he wasn’t a boy. And this wasn’t a peck on the cheek.

You didn’t realize he had lifted you up by your hips until you were placed back down again, his having crossed the few steps from the wall to the nearby fountain with arms firmly wrapped around your middle and not so much as a strain of his hips. His strength should have scared you. It did scare you, a little, but the same hands that had gripped the blaster still at his side were deceptively gentle around your waist. You let yourself be brought down by his bended knees.

“Easy there,” Boba said, still crouching on the ground beside you as you slowly lay back on the lip of the waterwork, white noise burbling from the quiet fixtures. The flat, curved slab surrounding the shallow pool was wide enough that you needn’t worry about balancing, speckled gray stone warmed from weather and soon by skin. There was one moment where Boba allowed you to catch your breath and then it was gone, knocked out of your lungs in another assiduous touch.

“Poor thing,” he mocked, sardonic even as he cooed gently into your open mouth. Your back arched in an unwitting presentation and blood pounded a drumbeat in your ears. All you could see was Boba; his face and his shoulders and his arms braced beside your head, leaning over your horizontal form. Like you were prey. Maybe you were. “What would your father say if he saw you like this?”

He wouldn’t be able to say anything. Would stand there, mouth agape and his eyes doing that strange bulging thing it always did when you did anything besides sew embroidery squares. Fainting wasn’t out of the question. It would be ridiculously fun to watch.

You huffed, chasing Boba’s mouth with your own when he shifted above you. The midday sun hung high, edging the bounty hunter’s tanned face in white. You could see your own eyes in the reflection of his pupils, could smell his warm skin. His canines scraped your collarbones. Everything was fast, blurry, and burning.

Stars above.

The whole situation was ridiculous. Twenty minutes ago you’d never been kissed on the mouth and now you were letting a killer-for-hire grope you like you were a back-alley harlot.

It wouldn’t end well. You’d curse after he left and hate yourself for letting him stay, because his staying would be brief and shallow and cruel, but right now, lying on the edge of a fountain with sunshine on your neck and a low voice in your ear, staying was the only thing you wanted him to do.

What an egregious lapse in judgement.

What a beautiful, electrifying lapse in judgement.

“You’re so—” a slurred pitchiness invaded your vocal chords, coating everything in bitter syrup. Your jaw was starting to numb from unforgiving lips. “—so rude,” you choked out, mind struggling to find footing amid its own dizziness. You felt like an overheating droid, full of bad code and faulty wiring that made your words and your actions discordant because even as you insulted the man, your hands were curling around his shoulders to pull him closer. “Always so rude, so… so mean to me. Makes me want—” you panted, voice breaking off into a whine when a calloused palm slid across the back of your thigh, “...want…”

His accent curled the consonants into a dance. “Want what, Princess?”

Expectant in their heaviness but teasing a smile in their lined corners, Boba’s eyes were the color of charred umber. Squirming in his arms, you nosed your face into the junction of his collarbones. “Want you,” you finally mumbled, admitting it in one long, pathetic exhale.

His promise had sharp teeth.

“You can have me.”

[caltropspress]

FEEDBACK LOOP #7: Curly Castro’s “Weapon 13X” featuring Breeze Brewin

There was a very old man, an old white man out in the crowd, and he started screaming and crying like a baby and he kept crying and he said, “God damn, God damn, what is this God damn country coming to that the niggers have got guns, the niggers are armed and the police can’t even arrest them!” He kept crying and somebody led him away through the crowd.

—Robert F. Williams, Negroes with Guns (1962)

Gun flash beats the child’s head in, maniac teeth dance in a bloody grin blue lies, badge confessions, yng dude dead just beyond his mama’s arms

—Amiri Baraka, “Stop Killer Cops”

Police said Cleaver and Hutton were holed up at 1218 28th Street with two 9 mm automatic pistols, two AR-15 and one military-type M-14 automatic rifle, and a large supply of ammunition, some armor-piercing.

—Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139

1.

“Weapon 13X” is a diptych. Two verses; one pivot—or volta, for you bookworms. Curly Castro is first with a séance that summons the mysteries of Clarence 13X and Weapon X. These nullified variables and Roman numerals come together in an elixir mix so potent that it would make Aes Rock choke on the amalgam. Castro opens the fission gate and discharges two-hundred forty thousand mega-therms on the city of brotherly love, the city of bombs from above onto a 6221 Osage Avenue row house. Shameek just got bust in his arm, leg, leg, arm, head. The Black man is God personified, and Logan is regenerative. Adamantium claws. Mathematical jaws. Science dropped and experiments performed. Spark this like metal does when dragged across concrete.

2.  “Harriet would grab her balls, / This my gun, and this my rifle.”

Harriet Tubman gets cast by Kubrick for Full Metal Jacket, recites the Rifleman’s Creed, but it was actually a pistol she kept buried within the folds of her calico. She sallied forth seeing visions from the overseer’s heave of a weight—made her skull snap. Don’t sleep. “When the caliber’s inside you,” you can’t necessarily count on “the muzzle smoke revival.”

3.

Quelle Chris provides production, lest we forget his 2019 Guns album with its Dada-bullet, double-barreled barrage album art. The title track armed to the teeth: “Ain’t no cracking that code, / Ain’t no safety on locks, / Might as well get you one, / Procrastinating will get you popped.” The machine gun funk outs finks and COINTELPRO cooperators, conspirators, dispiriters. Here, Castro’s got those same turncoats and sucker MCs in his sights, so to speak.

4.  [The oppressor] teaches the Negro that he has no worth-while past, that his race has done nothing significant since the beginning of time, and that there is no evidence that he will ever achieve anything great. (Carter Godwin Woodson, The Mis-Education of the Negro, 1933)

Castro makes a promise, provoked by those who came before him, those who brandished firearms in the faces of their enemies:

We never will disarm: these are the lies that you were sold, When your glory tripped up, you trade your weapons in for gold. With Yakub in the schools, trade your dreams, knowledge folds. Found the tome, Mis-Education Negroes…

Dr. Yakub sloshing liquids in the lab—Bunsen burners explode and the lab leak is viral whiteness. Tricknology replaces Biology. Castro is looking back while moving forward. “Doomed to repeat it”-type forewarnings. He knows the ledge and also wants his people to.

5.

aim     get your sights & its sound in abstract or journal movements to a peace settlement

dude shot my man

dead,          precious lord blow off theres no willy in th blues theres no you.

—from Tom Weatherly’s Maumau American Cantos (1970)

Castro is a “gunhand, cybernetic with spray cans, / Basquiat, baklava, Mau Mau.” That’s likely an intentional malaprop—surely his militant stance calls for a balaclava. Even still, Castro doesn’t stutter. He will still sh-sh-shift his voice on you—the dynamics of his delivery raise stakes and get guttural, scraping against sewer plates. He’s potent, even if Basquiat’s pistol appears flaccid with its hand-scrawled linework. In another piece, Basquiat starts the decolonization process at the point of a safari helmet. The image detonates.  

6.  Free country? Man, I should fuck you up for sayin’ that stupid shit alone.

“This film is a call to racial violence!” a film critic shouted at Roger Ebert after a screening of Do the Right Thing. She worried Bed-Stuy would set fire to theaters, but Lee’s 1989 film wasn’t The Rite of Spring in Paris in 1913. An amerikan psychotic turn to theater violence would be postponed until Aurora in 2012, and it would be white violence, which would come as a shock to none who have tracked the trajectory of white violence. Displacement is white violence, too. White violence is a sine qua non for gentrification. And so Castro allies himself with “Buggin’ Out battle brownstone houses, some Bird fans, / While Mookie turns the radio up and launched the trashcan.”

7.  “We are the weapons.”

Of late, Castro has consistently been proving you’re out your depth, with verses so allusive they suggest a strong “Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith, nobody blink. / They don’t now who the fuck that is” vibe. So what, though? At this point, Castro’s a vet, an elder. The youngins need to catch up or cash out. Get KRS-One bookish, kiddies, or be left behind. Be the weapon or never prosper. Create your own mythos: “Omega built a mother by the sun and Cyclops sent / a blurred Baraka poem capable to raise the dead. / Yet instead I use the sword...”—with Wu-Tang pronunciation of the w in “sword,” of course. History moves backwards and forwards at the same time. Language is lost and recovered. The poem is “blurred” because it’s been duplicated on a mimeograph—a machine that involves a “drum.” The words are ink-smudged. Baraka’s former partner, Diane di Prima, shouted, “"Power to the people's mimeo machines!” Accuse and attack, Baraka sloganeered. We’re talking about agency—by hand-crank, handgun, or mic check.

8.

Castro creates imagery like Emory Douglas did with paint: painfully bold and saturated with color like blood soaks clothes. Baraka called Douglas’s art a combo of “expressionist agitprop and homeboy familiarity,” which applies to what Castro does on the track. I quote Mao who called literature and art “part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause,” and Mao quotes Lenin who called lit and art the “cogs and wheels in the whole revolutionary machine.” And Baraka also said Douglas’s work:

functioned as if you were in the middle of a rumble and somebody tossed you a machine pistol. It armed your mind and demeanor. Ruthlessly funny, but at the same time functional as the .45 slugs pouring out of that weapon.

The Panthers were trapped and tear-gassed in a West Oakland basement. Eldridge Cleaver told Bobby to go out naked—unarmed as the day he was born not quite eighteen years earlier—but he emerged from the burning house fully dressed, with dignity, and he was searchlighted and shotshotshotshotshotshotshot dead.

Castro needs Brewin to make the cypher complete—a two-man killarmy using loud words in quiet wars, no silencer.

9.  “Before blurting out, try analysis, brother.”

Breeze’s Yo, listen… at the start of his verse is comparable to Sir Thomas Wyatt intoning Whoso list to hunt… to begin his 16th-century sonnet. The amalgam here is less Five Percenter plus clandestine government experimentation and more a deconstruction of the both violent and sexualized language of braggadocio. “Anything you say isn’t played like Miranda Rights,” and so we’re already with our hands behind our backs, silenced by an pig officer’s gag order. The competition doesn’t get played; they play themselves.

Sir Thomas Wyatt sets it off like so:

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow.

Breeze has wanted to stay pleasant to the ears—you know, like Lauryn Hill phone sexing—so this isn’t new territory but rather a well-worn path. Wyatt’s wearied and “so sore” by “the hunt,” the pursuit of his love interest, even though he knows “where is an hind.” Still, “as she fleeth afore / Fainting [he] follows.” He can’t help himself.

Love is lost within violent pursuit. Breeze speaks of a “plan to strike” and “zero in” on a “target,” his quarry. He and Castro are “talking about broads often, no doubt, / We broad and burly as hell, / Brag about the hunt, you was jukin’ a girly gazelle.” Breeze’s assault is dizzying, a salvo from all angles: “Hit ’em with some counter clay rebuttals that’s subtle but still befuddle if dude slow.”

10.  “It’s nothin’, I gotcha, and that’s word to Super Lover Cee.”

Super Lover Cee and Casanova Rud’s 1988 single “Girls I Got ’Em Locked” articulates the carceral embrace of “locking” a girl down, which—consequently—requires violence to enforce: “Don’t ever touch a girl owned by me or I’ll ruin ya’, / Slap you with my mic simultaneously as I’m doin’ ya.” The girl is commodified, and Super Lover Cee takes a proprietary attitude toward the relationship. If you overstep, you’ll be ruined, that is, you’ll fall. And while you’re prostrate, you’ll be slapped with the phallic mic simultaneously. Is the Super Lover doin’ her or you, though? What’s truly getting him off? That hypermasculine posturing skews homoerotic. Breeze Brewin laughs at you for subscribing to the nonsense: “Dag, if that was what you believe then your world be a hell.”

11.

Liberal discourse suggests policing your impulses. Put down the gun—don’t touch it. “Touchy subjects,” like racism (apparently), get the “We need to have a conversation” treatment. Look, don’t touch. Don’t touch the exhibit of stolen artifacts—those Benin bronzes in the British Museum. Beneath the topic of orignoo gunn clapping, Curly Castro’s track is about the x’s and o’s of eros as well. Many gestures meant to protect women are merely some other man staking his claim, adorning her with “diamonds in letters plain,” as Wyatt writes of the collar around the deer’s “fair neck.” Wyatt’s sonnet warns against overstepping (or even half-stepping). The collar reads Noli me tangere (touch me not)—she belongs to someone else. It’s a bad touch example. Like his fellow Indelible J-Treds, Breeze Brewin is the living circle-circle-dot-dot: nobody can touch him.

12.

Let’s bring it back to Little Bobby Hutton. When Eldridge Cleaver told him to leave the ambushed basement naked, he was thinking of Bobby’s safety. He thought the extreme measure of appearing on the street without clothes would be enough to convince the pigs he wasn’t armed. Cleaver was naïve to think so. Bobby Hutton was right to emerge clothed. In doing so, he rejected the indignity of the auction block, the lynching, the mutilation and spreading of souvenir flesh. The searchlight made Bobby Hutton the subject of a spectacle, yes, but he refused to consent to the psychosexual desires of white supremacy. He refused the castration ritual. Little Bobby Hutton, in effect, threw down a challenge to the cops: Use your imagination once again. Try to think of a few situations where your own weapon might be used against you…used against you…used against you.

Images:

Emory Douglas, The Black Panther, Vol. IV, No. 78, 1971 (detail) | Weapon X (detail, issue unknown) | Emory Douglas, Rat Subterranean News (1970) | Harriet Tubman with gun sketch | Anti-Mau Mau British propaganda poster | Newspaper headline from Negroes with Guns | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Untitled (date unknown) | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Native Carrying Some Guns, Bibles, and Amorites on Safari (1982) | Screenshot from Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) | Two images from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968) | Emory Douglas, The Black Panther (miscellaneous poster) | Medieval depiction of the hunt (unknown) | Image detail from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968)

[aimee-maroux]

Sexual Curse Tablets

The first time I ever heard about curse tablets was when I visited Bath and its namesake Roman bath. The curse tablets found there were written in Latin and addressed to local goddess Sulis, identified by the Romans with Minerva.

A curse tablet, called tabella defixionis or defixio in Latin and katadesmos in ancient Greek is a small tablet, often made of lead, stone or baked clay, asking a god, spirit or dead person for help. The tablet was then secretly buried or hidden in a significant place.

Curse tablets were a popular type of magic throughout the Greco-Roman world used by both, men and women. And of course people back then cared just as much about sex and love as they do today. The ones in Bath dealt with the return of stolen possessions, with the exception of one:

"Qui mihi Vilbiam involavit sic liquat comodo aqua. Ell[…] muta qui eam involavit si Velvinna, Exsupereus, Verianus, Severinus, Augustalis, Comitianus, Catus, Minianus, Germanilla, Iovina."

"May he who carried off Vilbia from me become liquid as the water. May she who so obscenely devoured her become dumb, whether Velvinna, Exsupereus, Verianus, Severinus, Augustalis, Comitianus, Catus, Minianus, Germanilla (or) Jovina." Bath / Aquae Sulis, England, 43-410 CE

This curse tablet also deals with a theft, but it's the theft of a girl named Vilbia. Whether Vilbia was actually the writer's slave, or only his concubine, either would make sense here.

A Love Affair with Eterna

The only curse from Britain with a truly erotic context was found in Old Harlow, Essex:

"Mio M(ercurio) dono ti(bi)‌ negotium Et-‌ern(a)e et ipsam,‌ nec sit i(n)vidi(a) me(i)‌ Timotneo sangui(n)e suo."

"To the god Mercury, I entrust to you my affair with Eterna and her own self, and may Timotneus feel no jealousy of me at the risk of his life-blood." Old Harlow, England, found together with 3rd-4th century pottery

Mercury or Hermes is the god of thieves, magic and spells (among many other things) and as the guide of dead souls he moves freely between the world and the underworld. Hermes, Charon, Hekate, and Persephone were most often addressed to bring about a curse tablet's spell.

In comparison, this excerpt from a curse found inside a wax figurine in Upper Egypt, is far more dramatic:

"[...] Rouse yourselves, you daimones who lie here and seek out Euphêmia, to whom Dôrothea gave birth, for Thêon, to whom Proechia gave birth. Let her not be able to sleep for the entire night, but lead her until she comes to his feet, loving him with a frenzied love, with affection and with sexual intercourse. For I have bound her brain and hands and viscera and genitals and heart for the love of me, Thêon..." 5th century CE, Upper Egypt

The following, similar spell is also from Egypt. It was inscribed in Greek on a lead tablet that was rolled up around some strands of brownish red hair and inserted into the mouth of a mummy, to whom the spell was apparently addressed:

"Aye, lord demon, attract, inflame, destroy, burn, cause her to swoon from love as she is being burnt, inflamed. Goad the tortured soul, the heart of Karosa...until she leaps forth and comes to Apalos...out of passion and love, in this very hour, immediately, immediately; quickly, quickly...do not allow Karosa herself...to think of her [own] husband, her child, drink, food, but let her come melting for passion and love and intercourse, especially yearning for the intercourse of Apalos." Eshmunen, Egypt

Another spell of the same kind, but from a woman this time:

"Ad(iur)o … per magnum deum et per (An)terotas … et per eum, qui habet archep-torem (= accipitrem) supra caput et per septem stellas, ut, ex qua hora (h)oc somposuero (= composuero), non dormiat Sextilios, Dionysi(a)e filius, uratur furens, non dormiat neque sedeat neque loquatur, sed in mentem (h)abiat me Septimam, Amene (= Amoenae) filia(m); uratur furens amore et desiderio meo, anima et cor uratur Sextili, Dionysi(a)e filius (= filii), amore et desiderio meo. Septimes, Am(o)en(a)e fili(a)e. Tu autem Abar Barbarie Eloee Sabaoth Pachnouphy Pythipemi, fac Sextilium, Dionysi(a)e filium, ne somnum contingat, set amore et desi derio meo uratur, (h)uius spiritus et cor comburatur, omnia membra totius corporis Sextili,  Dionysi(a)e filius (filii). Si minus, descendo in adytus Osyris et dissolvam τὴν ταφήν et mittam ut a flumine feratur; ego enim sum magnus decanus dei magni, dei AXRAMMACHALALA.E."

"I forswear you, the great god [i.e. Osiris], and Anterotes [Anteros, god of requited love] and the one with a hawk head [i.e. Horus, the Egyptian god of death], and the seven stars [i.e. planets], from the moment I put this tablet [into the grave], may Sextilius, son of Dionysia, not sleep, may he burn [with passion] in madness, may he not sleep, nor sit, nor speak, but bear in his mind me, Septima, daughter of Amoena; may he burn with love and longing for me, may the mind and heart of Sextilius, son of Dionysia, burn with love and longing for me, Septima, daughter of Amoena. And you, Abar, Barbarie, Eloe, Sabaoth, Pachnouphy, and Pythipemi, make Sextilius, son of Dionysia, unable to sleep, but burn with love and longing for me, may his spirit and heart, as well as all limbs of Sextilius’ body be consumed by love: if not, I will descend into the shrine [grave] of Osiris, open his grave and throw him [into the river], so that he is carried away by the current; because I am the great decan of the god, mighty god AXRAMMAXALALA.E." Sousse / Hadrumetum, Tunisia, 2nd century CE

Separation Curses

Many curses written for erotic motives aimed to drive a person desired away from their current lover, husband or wife and to direct their love towards the commissioner of the tablet:

"Of [Theti]ma and Dionysophon the ritual wedding and the marriage I bind by a written spell, and of all other wo[men], both widows and maidens, but of Thetima in particular, and I entrust to Makron and [the] daimones, and (only) when I should dig up again and unroll and read this, [?] that she might wed Dionysophon, but not before, for I wish him to take no other woman than me, and that [I] grow old with Dionysophon, and no one else. I [am] your supplicant: Have pity on Phila, dear daimones, for I am (a) dagina? of all my dear ones and I am abandoned. But guard [this] for my sake so that these things do not happen, and wretched Thetima perishes miserably. [...] but that I become happy and blessed." Pella, Macedonia, 375–350 BCE

"Makron" is most probably the name of the dead man in whose grave the tablet was deposited to deliver the message to the chthonic spirits of the underworld (the daimones).

Of course, those curses also targeted same-sex lovers:

"I turn away Euboles from Aineas, from his face, from his eyes, from his mouth, from his breasts, from his soul, from his belly, from his penis, from his anus, from his entire body. I turn away Euboles from Aineas." Nemea, Greece, 4th century BCE

Everlasting Sex

Cursing rivals with impotence and sexual misery and to attract a lover were also common motives. The culmination of the process was often envisaged as everlasting sex:

"I bind you, Theodotis, daughter of Eus, by the tail of the snake, the mouth of the crocodile, the horns of the ram, the poison of the asp, the hairs of the cat, and the penis of the god so that you may never be able to sleep with any other man, nor be screwed, nor be taken anally, nor fellate, nor find pleasure with any other man but me, Ammonion, son of Hermitaris. For I alone am LAMPSOURE’ OTHIKALAK’ AIPHNOSABAO’ STESEON’ UELLAPHONTA’ SANKIST’ CHPHURIS’ ON. Make us of this binding spell, employed by Isis, so that Theodotis, daughter of Eus, may no longer try anything with any other man but me alone, Ammonion, and may be subservient, obedient, eager, flying through the air seeking after Ammonion, son of Hermitaris and bring her thigh close to his, her genitals close to his, in unending intercourse for all the time of her life. And here are the figures:" [Features some images of a god holding a staff, with a snake at his feet, a crocodile to the upper right of the snake, a cat at the extreme right, two figures (perhaps a ram and the woman) above the crocodile, and other magical signs and letters and obscure drawings.] Egypt, 2nd-3rd century CE

I bind Theodora to remain unmarried to Charias, and I bind Charias to forget Theodora,and I bind Charias to forget . . . Theodora and sex with Theodora. And just as this corpse lies useless, so may all the words and deeds of Theodora be useless with regard to Charias and to the other people. I bind Theodora before Hermes of the underworld and before the unmarried and before Tethys. I bind everything, both her words and deeds toward Charias and toward other people, and her sex with Charias. 4th century BCE

The person performing the spell, presumably a woman who wants Charias for herself, wishes that Theodora be as incapable of having a sexual relation with Charias as the corpse into whose grave the tablet has been deposited. Graves and tombs were considered a gateway by means of which the curse would reach the dead or underworld deities charged with its execution.

Calling on Aphrodite

A curse intended to affect a person's sexuality oftentimes called upon those chthonic gods alongside a sexual deity—Aphrodite and Eros were quite common, as was the goddess Isis from the Egyptian pantheon.

An example of a sexual curse comes from a man named Pausanias (no, not the ancient historian) who wanted to bind a woman called Sime:

"Pausanias binds Sime, daughter of Amphitritus (may no one but Pausanias undo this spell) until she does for Pausanias everything Pausanias wants. May she not be able to get hold of a sacrificial victim of Athena, nor may Aphrodite look kindly upon her, before Sime embraces Pausanias." Akanthos, Macedonia, 4th or 3rd century BCE

The Penis Curse Tablet

This curse tablet from Cyprus’s old city kingdom of Amathus went straight to the point:

“May your penis hurt when you make love.” Amathus, Cyprus, 7th century CE

Pierre Aubert, head of Athens Archaeological School in Greece said the tablet showed a man standing holding something in his right hand that looks like an hour glass. Perhaps most surprising is the young age of this tablet: The inscription dates back to the 7th century CE when Christianity was already well established on Cyprus. While many of the old pagan beliefs had disappeared or been suppressed by this period, it is clear that people’s love of — and need for — sex-curses had not gone anywhere.

Today, we may not write our curses on lead tablets anymore, and fewer people will ask Hermes or Hekate for help. But the secret wishes to separate a desired partner from their spouse, attract a lover or rain impotence and disaster on a romantic rival are as alive as they were 3000 years ago.

Author's Note: If dates or places are missing beneath the curses, I was unable to track this information down. Despite this shortcoming, I hope to have given an enjoyable overview of the colourful curse tablets of ancient Greece, Egypt, and Rome.

Sources

Curse Tablet Entry on Wikipedia

Getting even in Roman Britain: The Curse Tablets from Bath (Aquae Sulis) by Carly Silver

Ancient Roman Curse Tablets Invoke Goddess Sulis Minerva to Kill and Maim

Curse Tablets from Roman Britain - Introduction: cicrus and court, sex and stealing

Curse Tablets from Roman Britain - Images of curse tablets

Roman Inscriptions of Britain - RIB 154 Curse

Roman Britain Britannia IV 1973

Supplemental Material - Georgetown University

Pella Curse Tablet

For All Time: An Examination of Romantic Love Through Curse Tablets by Alicia Deadrick

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered - Erotic Magic in the Greco-Roman World by Radcliffe G. Edmonds

Archaeology Magazine: When Spells Worked Magic by Christopher A. Farone

Oracles, Curses, and Risk Among the Ancient Greeks by Esther Eidinow

Latin Curse Texts: Mediterranean Tradition and Local Diversity by Daniela Urbanová

Atlas Obscura presents six sites with a sexual history

Mentalfloss: 7 Ancient Roman Curses You Can Work into Modern Life

  Further Reading:

Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World by John Gager

Ancient Greek Love Magic by Christopher A. Faraone

Roman Religion by Valerie M. Warrior

Oracles, Curses, and Risk Among the Ancient Greeks by Esther Eidinow

[monkeyandelf]

The Qliphoth: powers of darkness

Even if the dark and infinite ocean of non-physical reality escapes any attempt at mapping, the Qliphoth offer esoteric landmarks to those who venture beyond the far side of the Moon. This system of progressive self-initiation of the senestral way helps to structure an unknown territory by introducing a form of rationality understandable by ordinary consciousness in an occult domain. Each Qliphoth represents a state of consciousness involving the development of certain faculties through trial, study and contemplation of symbols. Mastering the energies present in each sphere opens access to the next qliphah.

If we refer to Kabbalah to position the Qliphoth on the nocturnal face of the tree of life, domain of the Sephiroth, the tree of death is accessible by Daath, the hidden Sephira making the link between the two aspects of the same reality. Although the night / day, good / bad, life / death duality is not ultimately relevant, it is advisable to start by exploring the tree of life before venturing into the shadow of this knowledge. Indeed, choosing this perilous and lonely path is not a decision to be taken lightly. Motivated by the desire for dazzling advances and the acquisition of supranormal powers, the follower cannot ignore the dangers that await him. He consciously enters the centers of power, taking the risk of losing what he has, what he is, what he knows. It is a sacrifice where madness, depression, hopelessness and perdition are potentially present.

Silence and darkness reign inviting to the sobriety of emotions and thoughts. Only the one whose inner strength has become unshakable by a preliminary asceticism is able to face the monsters lurking in the shadows who will try to devour him. The terror of annihilation is its guardian, the test that warns and discourages those who are not ready. Being ready to lose everything is the sine qua non for overcoming obstacles as a master, capable of transforming them into powerful levers towards forbidden knowledge. Equanimity, discrimination, unshakable self-confidence and fortitude are the weapons that will allow the initiate to continue, to go ever further without being destroyed but recreated for the birth of the living demonic god.

The promises of the Qliphoth attract those who desire full realization by integrating light and shadow beyond the primary dualities. Wisdom advises to follow a prudent progression without skipping the stages under the excess effect of an immature pride. The keen senses and intuition detect and analyze anomalies, hallucinatory aberrations of a twilight consciousness in order to realize a potential beyond imagination.

The 11 levels of the Qliphoth way:

By way of information and in order to give a more “concrete” idea of ​​what the initiation of the Qliphoth may involve, you will find below the translation of a text describing the different spheres. These descriptions are not absolute but rather fall under the subjectivity of the author (Asenath Mason) and in no way constitute a dogmatic truth. What everyone finds on their journey is personal and can take different cultural and symbolic forms. Maybe these descriptions of Qliphoth will speak to you, maybe not. Make your own way, find out for yourself what is hidden in each sphere of power. Only the interior transformation process is universal, but remains in the elusive, eluding definitions and classifications. LILITH (Queen of the Night): The door to the Unknown. Here, the initiate comes into contact with his first guides and allies on the way, and consciousness opens up to the realm of Night. Lucifer’s ascending flame is lit and Lilith approaches to guide the initiate through the paths of the dark path. The divinity of the first Qliphah is Naamah, dominating the material world. She can grant the magician the desired material goods but she is endowed with a despotic character which is difficult to manage. Naamah is Lilith’s demonic sister, both of whom often introduce themselves as the first guide to entering the dark worlds. GAMALIEL (The obscene): The astral sphere of dreams. Here the initiate explores the mysteries of witchcraft and sexual alchemy. The goddess of the Moon reigns there, she introduces the follower to the secrets of moon magic. In the sphere of Gamaliel, all forbidden fantasies, suppressed lust and shameful dreams are brought to light. The Goddess of Gamaliel is Lilith, appearing as a sensual woman with a snake body. It seduces the magician and guides him in the dark aspects of our instincts. She is the Queen of Demons, and reigns with Lucifer over the entire Qliphothic Tree. SAMAËL (The poison of God): The Alchemical poison is ingested by the magician who succumbs to its toxic effects. His conscience must overcome trials in which madness, doubt and disbelief assail him. It is about contact with the personal, deadly Shadow, it teaches the initiate the mysteries of Death and the flight of the soul. Here in the Adramelech Desert, the faith and devotion of the follower are tested. Adramelech is the sovereign entity of this Qliphah under the appearance of a half-peacock, half-human creature. It gives the magician pride and magnificence, which, however, are only illusory and contribute to the initiatory test. A’ARAB ZARAG (The Crow of Dispersion): The Mysteries of Venus and Luciferian Magic. The initiate takes the path of mystical eroticism and war trials. Aab Zaraq breeds destruction, often through war, conflict and death. The God reigning over this Qliphah is Baal, the god of war. He has the appearance of a warrior with a horned mask and armed with a spear. He instructs the magician in the art of invisibility and teaches him about Luciferian freedom. His wife and reigning Goddess of this sphere is the Dark Venus, initiator of new mysteries of sexual magic. THAGIRION (The Opponent): The illumination of the dark side by the light of the Black Sun. The initiate experiences the union of god and the beast in him, and realizes the idea of ​​embodied divinity. Thagirion is the sphere of the Daemon, the image of the personal god, and of the beast 666, continually striving to dominate human instincts. The reigning God of this Qliphah is Belphégor, The God of Death. Belphégor was originally a Moabite deity named Baal-Peor, half male-solar and female-lunar. During magic works, it manifests itself in its bestial form but also in the appearance of a young woman. It gives the magician imagination and wealth. GOLACHAB (The Burning One): The Apocalypse. The initiate becomes the Fire of Destruction. Through SM sexual practices, the initiate is tested in suffering and lust. It is the Qliphah of fire – comprising both the creative flame and the destructive breath. The Qliphah is the domain of Asmodeus, who appears as a winged and flaming god. It represents both the power of fire and the power of sexuality. The incubi and succubi of this sphere are the strongest and most violent of the whole Qliphotic Tree. GHA’AGSHEBLAH (The executioner): The other side of mystical eroticism. The initiate goes through trials of war and love and becomes the executioner. The energies of this Qliphah bring life or destruction. They destroy the substance of Creation at the base of the foundation of the Universe. The reigning deity of this sphere is Astaroth, the foul-smelling spirit, riding the Dragon and holding a snake in his hand. He sees beyond the past, the present and the future. He is also the patron of the Liberal Arts. DAATH: The Vision of the Abyss and the encounter with Chorozon, the gatekeeper. SATARIEL (The illusionist): The opening of the Eye of Lucifer. The initiate faces trials where surrealism and absurdity dominate, and learns to detect the Truth in what is hidden. Appearances are deceptive. Lucifuge presides over this Qliphah, the one who avoids the light. Its description appears in many medieval and Renaissance grimoires on hierarchies of demons. It reveals hidden treasures but can also make the magician lose his mind. GHAGIEL (The destroyer): The lightning of the Luciferian star. The initiate breaks Divine Law and prepares to enter Lucifer’s Throne Room. It is the Qliphah of rebellion and the shaking of the foundations of the world. The dominant entity in this sphere is Belzebuth, the Lord of the Flies. THAUMIEL (The Twins of God): Fulfillment of the Serpent’s Promise. The initiate becomes God incarnate. This Qliphah is double with two reigning entities: Satan and Moloch. Thaumiel is the antithesis of Kether. The original meaning of Satan is the Opponent. In the Old Testament he was the accuser and he tried and tested the faith of humans by misleading them. Moloch was a cannaanite deity whose worship involved the sacrifice of children by fire. Source link Read the full article

[tomionefinds]

I was hoping for more comedy themed fics.... I’ve read the ones in the tag and was looking for something new

Hey Anon, I just looked at the tag list we have and got a few more for you not already on there. I actually found a ton more than this, but it would take forever to list them all. If you are still needing more after this I would definitely looking up keywords like humour (humor)/crack/comedy on most fic sites to find some. -JD

Confessions of a Dark Lord by uleanblue

T | WIP | 2k

Musings of our favorite Dark Lord, in the form of drabbles. Will eventually contain LV/HG

communication errors by esotyric (devilrie)

T+ | One-shot | 3k

sender: tmriddle@walpurgis.netrecipient: hermionegranger@gryffinsdor.orgsubject: Today’s Meeting

Granger –

Attached is the dry-cleaning bill for the shirt you ruined when you threw your tea at it. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I happened to be wearing the shirt at the time. You are lucky it was cold. Pay the bill and I won’t sue you for assault.

Regards,Thomas Marvolo RiddleCEO of Walpurgis Corporate

sender: hermionegranger@gryffinsdor.orgrecipient: tmriddle@walpurgis.netsubject: re: Today’s Meeting

Riddle –

I did notice, because unlike you, I can identify when something is being inhabited, you forest-destroying monster.

You do not require a dry cleaner to get herbal tea out of a shirt. The shirt was black, the tea was camomile, and you have no grounds on which to stand nor sue. Your company, however, WILL be exposed for the havoc it is wreaking upon our natural world.

Sincerely,Hermione Jean GrangerCEO of Not being a Twat

How About No by provocative_envy

T+ | Complete | 1k

The first time they speak—as pre-assigned lab partners, as strangers, as presumed equals—the conversation ends in an overturned Erlenmeyer flask and a creatively weaponized Bunsen burner; his butter-soft, Italian-leather satchel is covered in scorch marks, and the collar of her lavender cashmere cardigan has been eaten through by a particularly virulent form of benzilic acid.

It is an inauspicious beginning to their working relationship.

Magical Match Dot Com by Sharkdiver1980

M | WIP | 26k

Hermione has never been lucky in love, and when Wizarding Britain decides to follow the muggle’s example and create a magical online dating service, Harry Convinces her to give it a try. What could go wrong, right?

Rawr by NinjaFairy

T+ | WIP | 1k

A Tomione time-turner story in which it’s written from Tom’s perspective in the style of My Immortal. The summary is also the trigger warning. Brace yourselves.

Speak of the Devil by PenelopeGrace

E | WIP | 59k

After dying, Tom Riddle is unfortunately forced to become the guardian angel for a mudblood. But not just any mudblood. It has to be Harry Potter’s mudblood. So begins the disastrous, wild, and amusing (on Hermione Granger’s end) adventure of a petulant Dark Lord and one of the greatest trouble magnets/heroes in all of the Wizarding World’s history.

Semi-on/off hiatus.

Playing House with Voldemort by buon I qua

T | WIP | 22k

In which Hermione turned out to be Sirius Black’s daughter, the Veil revealed itself to be a presumptuous piece of magical portal, Tom Riddle proved to be a constantly discontent toddler, and Wizarding World of the 1920s ended up in a state of perpetual scandalisation of epic proportions. Fifth year on. AU from top to bottom. Tomione. Halfblood!(maybe)Hermione. Essentially CRACK.

Four Weddings and a Funeral by weestarmeggie

M | Complete | 10k

Tom and his friends seem to be unlucky in love. When he encounters Hermione, he thinks his luck may have changed. Join Tom and Hermione’s paths as they continue to cross - over a handful of nuptials and one funeral - he comes to believe they are meant to be together, even if their timing always seems to be off. Muggle/Modern AU.

Tomcat by pulsifer

M | WIP | 1k

Post DH. After his death, Voldemort wakes up in Crookshank’s body. Hilarity and romance ensue. Rated M for some mature situations.

The Wooing of the Giver of Hats by miss.Valentin

M | WIP | 10k

The house elves take drastic action by slipping lord Voldemort a love potion so he falls in love with Hermione Granger, causing chaos as he tries to woo her! Courting with a traditional wizarding proposal of marriage to the confusion of the death eaters. How will the world react to the cunning schemes of a Lovesick darkLord? bring society to its knees and Snape to his wits ends

[halfbloodrecs]

Could you rec me some feel good Snarry fics? Fics where Harry is affectionate and loving and Severus is snarky and defensive until he realizes Harry really means it. I just want like... Severus feeling loved and cared for

these immediately spring to mind:

Dumbledore’s Folly by DementordeltaSnape must court Harry according to wizarding traditions. Words: 28k.

The Task At Hand by Dementordelta Snape tries to cure Harry. Harry isn’t sure he needs curing. Words: 16k

The mating rituals of the crabby hermit. by pekelekeAfter two years of fruitless attempts to become closer with Severus Snape, Harry finally realises that he has been going about it in the wrong way... Words: 10k

these might fit elements of your request but not entirely:

Speaking in Tongues by abraeHarry lost one language in the war, but he finds he’s learning to speak another. Words: 8k

Sine Qua Non by dracofiendHe passes a hand over his face and takes a few seconds to silently, pointlessly curse the Dark Lord, himself, and the wretchedness of magic for burdening him with something so fantastic and absurd as true love for Harry Potter. Words: 14k

Love’s Curse by dracofiendTurns out, failure is an option. Words: 3.5k

March by dracofiendIn like a lion, out like a lamb. Words: 2.5k

Monkey Business by who_la_hoopTrapped in a sort-of coma with only Harry Potter's visits for dubious comfort, Severus Snape learns many things – including the beneficial power of irritation upon the healing process, and the positive things that can come from failing at Occlumency. (The less said about the monkeys, the better). Words: 8k

I hope these are along the lines of what you wanted!

[paintstaking]

✨astro notes 2.0✨

hey it’s me again ! just wanna say i’m doing this for fun and don’t know all that much abt astrology, just the basics

(also sorry i repeat a lot of placements, these are just observations i’ve made abt my friends in relation to what i know abt their charts, so take everything w a huge grain of salt, pls)

- a libra sun pisces moon (or vice versa) could create someone that’s really fake but frustratingly unaware of it

- planets in the house that rules over your rising sign might enhance your rising sign. for example, if you have a leo rising, any planet you have in the 5th house might enhance ur rising sign. if u have a gemini rising, any planet in the 3rd will enhance ur rising and etc

- capricorn placements exude lovable dork energy

- also something i’ve noticed, but taurus placements hate the beach because the sand gets everywhere

- sag risings have a m a z i n g legs

- scorpio moons are quiet but not shy

- sagittarius moons might become more reckless during sag season

- libras always say one thing and do another, again, unaware that they’re doing it

- cancer placements leave their read receipts on lol

- leo moons are soooo dramatic oh my lord talk abt making mountains out of molehills

- taurus moons (earth placements) don’t like it when others reflect their mood (if they’re in a bad one), bc they don’t want anyone else to feel down, but also bc they rely on the consistant personalities of others to help them feel better

- females w an qua moon have a more traditionally masculine style (baggy clothes, sits w legs apart, very dude-ish speaking mannerisms, etc.)

[kabane52]

The Apostolic Sees and the Idea of a Patriarchate

The primitive notion of the apostolic sees cannot be separated from the idea of the patriarchate. Indeed, the former develops into the latter according to a definitive logic. Writers like Irenaeus and Tertullian emphasize the apostolicity of particular Sees because of the concrete process of receiving the deposit of faith handed down as tradition from the Apostles to these particular Churches. Because of their being special heirs of the deposit of faith, other local Churches gathered around the apostolic sees and looked to them as the sine qua non of Apostolic Tradition. Irenaeus makes the point throughout his work that the orthodox and catholic tradition is distinguished from the "secret tradition" of the Gnostics in virtue of its identity among the various apostolic sees. The Apostles in organizing the local Churches they did left in these Churches the apostolic deposit, which can then be compared and verified as coming authentically from the Twelve and thus Jesus Christ.

The Church of Rome from its earliest days had a preeminence on account of its special relationship with Peter as Prince of the Apostles but also with the Apostle Paul as the last apostle and preacher to the nations. The Lord Jesus first commissioned Peter after the resurrection and last commissioned Paul (1 Cor. 15:3-8). Thus the Roman Church was called the Apostolic See- "founded and organized by the two most glorious Apostles" as St. Irenaeus says. Being linked with the first and last of the Apostles, she represents and manifests in a special way the will of the whole College of Bishops which perpetuates the mission of the College of Apostles. As Peter was the coryphaeus (meaning one who speaks on behalf of the whole choir) of the Apostles so also the Bishop of Rome is summoned to coordinate the communion of Churches and manifest that unity to the rest of the world. This is important as it helps to elucidate the logic of the patriarchal system. The notion of the patriarchate is not a later political notion in contrast to the earlier apostolic ideal. After all, Canon VI of Nicea which confirmed the Bishops of Rome, Alexandria, and Antioch in their historic primatial ministries did so to maintain the status quo, not to create a new system. St. Ignatius describes the Roman Church as being she who "presides in the place of the region of the Romans." This isn't to say that she had no universal primacy, but that the notion of defined regional primacies exercised by the Bishops of particularly dignified Sees is hardly a post-Constantinian notion.

The innovation of the Second Ecumenical Council is not the notion of the patriarchate but the elevation of the Churches of Constantinople and Jerusalem to the patriarchal dignity. The historic patriarchates are the Roman, Alexandrian, and Antiochene patriarchates. Each of these three Churches was organized by St. Peter (Alexandria through St. Mark the Evangelist) and bears special dignity in view of that Petrine heritage. Pope Damasus of Rome tells us that these three Churches are immovably fixed in their standing because of the Petrine foundation- Rome being distinguished from the other two not by a qualitatively unique relationship to Peter but because of the martyrdom of Paul who "equally made Rome special in Christ the Lord." But the patriarchal system was not an abstraction- because of their special foundation, other Churches had gathered around them, recognizing them as special lights of the tradition and as the primates of the Church. How then does this develop into the idea of patriarchates not of apostolic foundation? A patriarch seems to have been recognized as a qualitatively unique office, having a special mission from Christ for the Church Universal. Why? The following is my shot at beginning a model, though it's a rough draft.

Irenaeus and Tertullian can provide some help, I believe. Irenaeus' words concerning the Church of Rome describe the preservation of the tradition of the apostles in her by "the faithful everywhere." This is an interesting phrase, and suggests to me that "convenire" is most precisely translated as "gather towards." All the Churches "gather towards" Rome on account of its "preeminent principality." Rome was of course one of the great centers of the system of Roman roads and thus travel among cities. For Christians, the dignity of the Roman Church provided additional cause for travel to Rome. It is also important to remember that it was customary for Christian writings and epistles to be copied in their first edition, sent to cosmopolitan hubs such as Rome, and then retransmitted on a broader scale. The evidence for this in the third-century Oxyrhynchus Papyri is quite incredible, where strong indications of a fairly unified program of Christian catechism across all the Churches is present. Copies of early patristic writings indicate a self-conscious preservation of apostolic tradition according to recognized and distinguished witnesses in the Ante-Nicene period, in addition to the New Testament. The churches of apostolic foundation received the deposit of faith and transmitted that deposit to the faithful baptized and catechized therein. That Rome was a cosmopolitan hub of travel and textual transmission means that "all the faithful everywhere" across the whole world have deposited their local traditions in the Church of Rome, which thus manifests the catholicity of the church in a special way.

Churches of apostolic foundation, being the original recipients of the deposit of faith, formed the first "centers of gathering" for churches of the surrounding regions. They were centers of communion, coordinating the life of the Churches among which they ministered as primates. The Church of Pentecost is a Church speaks the singular Name of Christ in many languages, expressing the same apostolic truths in different expressions and according to different emphases. What is a patriarchate? A patriarchal church is a church forming the center of communion for a family of churches expressing the faith of the Apostles according to a distinctive set of emphases. Being the center of communion, the patriarchal church forms a kind of standard for the authentic profession of faith in accordance with the tradition of the Church. In the earliest days, that a particular Church was personally organized by an Apostle was a sign that this particular Church had a kind of unique access to the tradition. But this isn't something which persists forever. The churches of apostolic foundation disseminate the tradition and the Gospel settles over a wide area, with communion among the local Churches synthesizing and making known the faith of all the Churches. Ease of travel and communication means that the apostolic faith, originally given to and transmitted from the apostolic sees, becomes equally accessible to the whole region.

Tertullian expresses this process, mentioning that the non-apostolic churches "derived the tradition of the faith and the seeds of doctrine" from the churches of apostolic foundation, but eventually grow from seeds into trees and "become churches" in their own right and are "on this account...able to deem themselves apostolic as being the offspring of apostolic churches." So as the Church Universal comes into its own, the three churches of Petrine origin become centers of communion and standards of faith- Rome, Alexandria, and Antioch are the first three patriarchates. What about other patriarchates? In particular, why Constantinople and Jerusalem? I'm not too fond of the elevation of Constantinople above Alexandria and Antioch and tend to think that in the future those three Churches should be recognized as immovably fixed in their particular primacies of first, second, and third place. But it is undoubtedly the case that new patriarchates can be created. A patriarchal church is a local Church which is a center of communion and hub of Christian life for the churches in its patriarchate. In general, it preserves a distinctive manner of Christian thought and life. Constantinople was elevated to the patriarchal dignity as New Rome, the capital of the Empire, constituting it as a new focal point for travel and communication in the Christian world. Likewise, Jerusalem was elevated to the patriarchal dignity as the site of our Lord's death and resurrection in addition to being the site of many biblical relics of the old covenant. As such it formed and forms a center of Christian pilgrimage. In the Apostolic Age, the Church of Jerusalem was the special guardian and center of the Hebraic expression of the Christian faith observed by those Jews who professed Jesus as divine Messiah, had communion with Gentiles as equals, and continued to observe those distinctive markers of their Jewish identity. Perhaps this particular unique expression of Orthodox and Catholic faith will return in the future. Regardless, the logic of the patriarchate stands.

The catholicity of the Church is most splendidly manifested when its unity is realized precisely in its diversity- diversity of liturgical traditions, theological emphases, and modes of expressing Christian truth. When joined together in unity, these different expressions allow a deeper meditation on the saving truths of the faith in permitting the observation of the one pearl of great price from many different angles. Different regions converge towards different patriarchal churches whose patriarchs have a special mission in guarding and manifesting the one tradition of faith according to the unique heritage of each family of churches. This is why, I believe, St. Nicephorus believed that the keys of priestly ministry had particular application to the gathered patriarchs of the great Churches. The College of Bishops is miniaturized and manifested by a college of patriarchs, each of whom represents a distinctive family of churches. The Second Council of Nicea, very interestingly, seems to suggest (in Session VI) that the ratification of all of the patriarchal churches is essential for a Council to be recognized as Ecumenical. The primate of the patriarchal synod is the Bishop of Rome as the Primate of the Church Universal. As the churches converge towards their patriarchal head who manifests their distinctive life, so all the Churches ultimately converge towards the Church of Rome whose bishop is the Primate of the whole College of Bishops and is entrusted with the manifestation of the tradition of the whole body of faithful- in addition to his particular role as patriarch of Rome and guardian of the distinctive tradition of the Christian West.

So I believe that the idea of the patriarchal see develops organically from the theology of apostolic sees. Apostolic sees were important not because of unique and incommunicable charismata forever localized in those churches, but because of their role vis-a-vis the Church Universal as bearers of tradition. Patriarchal churches come to acquire that role as the Church multiplies and matures.

[wellntruly]

THE YOUNG POPE - 1x03

I’m trying to figure out why this show puts me in such a good mood and the best I can come up with is that the genre I call “prestige trash TV” is just really low-stress for me. Like, the people on screen are having a tense time of it, but I’m sure not. I am very much, very literally, watching this #for the aesthetic, so that’s probably why. And like, not to get it twisted: characters are still part of the aesthetic. I’m fond of these weirdos and have investment in their dramas, but like, only insofar as the pictures they make. If that makes sense.

Anyway I saw that there is going to be a second season, of what I had thought was a limited run series, and Jude Law is back and bringing John Malkovich and it’s going to be called The New Pope. I don’t have the remotest clue how this season ends but I don’t care: I hope to GOD that they’re pulling an Iannucci vis-à-vis The Thick Of It/In The Loop, and we’re going anthology-style with the actors playing different characters in the same [Frenchly] mode, because it’s been waaayy too long since I got to enjoy that fun thing.

Young Pope Bloggin’ No. 3

oh look the Big Dipper. [knowingly] where God lives.

update: it’s an entire papal-white sweatsuit. Jesus Christ.

the person who does the actor identifications for Amazon Prime does not know that Tomasso, the priest who hears the confessions, is different from Gutierrez, aka gentle Father Aesop, and has just decided that they are both Gutierrez

“This is the prayer I muttered between my teeth.” fuck stop it I love this line

oh boy: “Lord, I don’t care with what means, licit or illicit—they’re all fine. I don’t care about the Holy Spirit, whether He illumines me or not. I don’t care about anything. I don’t care about Your opinions, if I’m up for the task, or if I’m an outsider or a long shot. I don’t care if You think I’m weak or a scoundrel. I don’t care about loving my neighbor as myself, I will never love my neighbor as myself. I only care about one thing, Lord: that I, not the others, can be useful to You.”

OOo. oo. he basically offered himself up as a mercenary for God, that is fucking interesting. that’s almost Donne, use me o Lord. huh!

well of course Lenny believes in himself more than God, he clearly thinks God is weak and that’s why He needs him to get shit done. but no one should ever make the mistake of thinking Lenny’s not a man of belief. he terrifyingly is. he just doesn’t believe in holiness qua holiness, but holy POWER.

this ep’s credits are sooo goooood. animated paintings, neon, slo-mo, the effing meteor lighting his way…

TURNS MID-STRIDE TO WINK SMARMILY AT THE CAMERA, ahahahaaaahahahaha stop

Spencer, grimly, proclaimy: “The young are always more extreme than the old.” jajaja, your girl is speaking this show’s language! thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all month.

I hope Voiello is right, I hope there IS no explanation for why Lenny started getting votes, that it WAS some mysterious movement of the Spirit. give me PROPER ASS MYSTICISM in amongst a lot of earthly political maneuvering, just make it another layer of the same sort of stuff oh yeah, oh yeeaah, God Walks Among Us and He’s ALSO a Catty Bitch Who Lives For Drama

this is the most vociferous prayer I have ever seen. I just looked that up to confirm that’s the word I wanted it and it was one of those definitions that’s just a thesaurus entry and vehement and clamorous are also right!

400 years since the last hostile Pope? so, 1600s? cool we can go Shakespearean

hahaha, since when is “surprised” a euphemism! what do we think that’s supposed to be a euphemism for? scared shitless?

Lenny and Sofia snerking together at their journalism jokes, fun. I kinda totally enjoy this pair.

this light up globe though. this Vatican is basically just... a venerable aesthetic blog

wild that Lenny’s go-to banishment place for clergy who cross him is….Alaska. this is the second instance. watch out or he’ll send you to ALASKA. anyway fun fact my sister worked at a salmon cannery in tiny Ketchikan one summer: it was ghastly.

did this very old cardinal just gift Lenny A PHYSICAL METHAPOR, holy fuck imagine living here with these guys

Cardinal Metaphors just said the question is no longer whether God exists, but why we depend on God, and I think we should hear him out

did he catch it, oh my god! delightful.

anyway this is actually shot in Italy right because the quality of light….it’s so tangible and clear-golden

we’re three episodes in and actually, Cardinal Finance Bro might be the “Good Guy”? when did this happen!

….does Sister Mary not think the disabled boy is Voiello’s love child? we all do, right?

does Spencer literally live in an apartment in the rafters somewhere?? OPERATIC.

I hope his grand plan involves straight-up miracles, I pray

Lenny: “Absence…is presence. These are the fundamentals of mystery. The mystery that will be at the center of my church.” Spencer, seriously, hilariously, like lit waggling his finger under his brows: “Mystery is a serious matter.” haha what!! yes!! YES

anyway I kind of love that Cromwell is playing Angry Old Testament Cardinal Hunching In the Rafters and just, 100% of the time he gives 100%

yeah Esther knows what’s up. get it girl.

also since when is Father Chuckles a top grade spy

[air horn] PIETÀ *pew pew pewpewpew*

HIPPIE PARENTS VISION, yas

oh YEAH, turn the entire CAMERA upside down!

wow that was dancerly, three people hidden behind him in frame

literally Pope Lenny: “My jokes contain the truth.” I’m beside myself.

literally literally literally: Voiello: “You know something Holy Father? You are as handsome as Jesus. But you are not actually Jesus.” Lenny: “I may actually be more handsome. Keep that to yourself.”

…..Lenny just said the words “a foretaste of the macabre banquet that will bring about the ruin of the Church.” my eyes: round!

aw shoot I love ancient Cardinal Metaphors! now he’s lifting the weight of God! Spencer’s like *holy tears*

every Gutierrez interlude is so peaceful

Lenny’s use of planted and prepared props is truly *chef’s kiss*

LITERALLY NOTHING PREPARED ME FOR ANY PIECE OF THIS IMAGE!!

I don’t give a fig if my Plushies St. Francis gets drunk as a cuddly skunk, he’s still the holiest one of you whole lot

it’s really not an episode of The Young Pope without Lenny telling someone he doesn’t believe in God

Pope Notes

[pandaemoniumpancakes]

No sooner he with them of man and beast Select for life shall in the ark be lodged, And sheltered round, but all the cataracts Of heav’n set open on the earth shall pour Rain day and night, all fountains of the deep Broke up, shall heave the ocean to usurp Beyond all bounds, till inundation rise Above the highest hills: then shall this mount Of Paradise by might of waves be moved Out of his place, pushed by the hornèd flood, With all his verdure spoiled, and trees adrift Down the great river to the op’ning gulf, And there take root an island salt and bare, The haunt of seals and orcs, and sea-mews’ clang.

John Milton, from Book XI in Paradise Lost, lines 822-35.

                         ❧

  sic tauriformis volvitur Aufidus, “As the bull-formed Aufidus, which skirts the kingdom of Apulian Daunus, rolls along, when he goes on the rampage before spreading a terrifying flood over the cultivated farmlands, so Claudius with a huge onslaught broke up the steel-clad lines of the savages, and mowing down front and rear alike littered the ground, gaining victory without loss—and the troops, tactics, and divine assistance were all supplied by you.” (Horace, form ‘Ode IV.14′ in Horace. Odes and Epodes, trans. Niall Rudd, line 25)

  note: rivers were often represented as bull-headed or horned; Horace speaks elsewhere of the roar of the Aufidus:

   ➻ from ‘Odes IV.9′, line 2: Ne forte credas interitura, quae/ longe sonantem natus ad Aufidum/ non ante vulgatas per artis/ verba loquor socianda chordis, “You may imagine that these words will perish which I, born by the far-echoing Aufidus, speak to be wedded to the strings of the lyre by an art never before displayed to the public.“

   ➻ from ‘Odes III.30', line 10: dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus, “I have finished a monument more lasting than bronze, more lofty than the regal structure of the pyramids, one which neither corroding rain nor the ungovernable North Wind can ever destroy, nor the countless series of the years, nor the flight of time./ I shall not wholly die, and a large part of me will elude the Goddess of Death. I shall continue to grow, fresh with the praise of posterity, as long as the priest climbs the Capitol with the silent virgin. I shall be spoken of where the violent Aufidus thunders and where Daunus, short of water, ruled over a country people, as one who, rising from a lowly state to a position of power, was the first to bring Aeolian verse to the tunes of Italy./ Take the pride, Melpomene, that you have so well earned, and, if you would be so kind, surround my hair with Delphic bay.”

                         ❧

   et gemina auratus taurino cornua vultu, “And now, marvelling at his mother’s home, a realm of waters, at the lakes locked in caverns, and the echoing groves, he went on his way, and, dazed by the mighty rush of waters, he gazed on all the rivers, as, each in his own place, they glide under the great earth—Phasis and Lycus, the fount whence deep Enipeus first breaks forth, whence Father Tiber, whence the streams of Anio and rocky, roaring Hypanis, and Mysian Caïcus, and Eridanus, on whose bull’s brow are two gilded horns: no other stream of mightier force flows through the fertile fields to join the violet sea.” (Vergil, from Book IV in Georgics, line 371)

   corniger Hesperidum fluvius regnator aquarum, “In whatever spring your water contains you as you pity our travails, from whatever soil you flow forth in all your beauty, ever with my offerings, ever with my gifts, you will be graced, horned stream, lord of Hesperian waters.” (Vergil, from Book VIII in Aeneid, line 77)

                         ❧

   "While Hektor lived and while Akhilleus raged,/ and while Lord Priam's town lived on, unsacked,/so long the Akhaians’ rampart stood. But after/ the flower of Troy went down, with many Argives/ fallen or bereft, when Priam's Troy/ was plundered in the tenth year, and the Argives/ shipped again for their dear homeland—then/ Poseidon and Apollo joined to work/ erosion of the wall by fury of rivers/ borne in flood against it, all that flow/ seaward from Ida: Rhesos, Heptaporos,/ Karesos, Rhodios, Grenikos, Aisepos,/ Skamander's ancient stream, and Simoeis/ round which so many shields and crested helms/ had crashed in dust with men who were half gods./ These rivers were diverted at their mouths/ and blent into one river by Apollo,/ who sent that flood nine days against the rampart./ Zeus let his rain fall without pause, to bring/ the wall more quickly under inshore water;/ as for the god who shakes the islands, he/ in person with his trident in his hands/ led on the assault. Foundation logs and stones/ the Akhaians toiled to lay he shunted seaward,/ leveling all by the blue running sea./ In sand again he hid the long seashore/ when he had washed the wall down, and he turned/ the rivers to their old, fair watercourses./ Thus before long Poseidon and Apollo/ settled this earthwork.” (Homer, from ‘Book XII: The Rampart Breached’ in The Iliad, trans. Robert Fitzgerald)