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libidomechanica · 3 months

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“Went that, spontaneously im fascinated”

A curtal sonnet sequence

And lur’d they were the wild flow and thy best! Joyous, and fed with lots of coral, pebbles milky white finger and said, alas! Beyond a selfish uncle’s wastes life. This turf, and adorn’d of his sheep, leaf and veiling. The Wise, and long captivity angled in a nursing home. What are whose voice in a river. Went that, spontaneously i’m fascinated. His sickness. The weary lady’s eye, or with unaccustomers.

Now wholly, and each simple sheepe to Vivian-place, in moons towards han we none, the ground, then the wood the sheer with me Peace, peaceful end—he robs thee so bright in everyone on his Years—you turn thro’ the alarm broken? A honey seem’d to the dark locks, whom I look’d upon the grave. When theyr sheep. Drove slept. Runs it not, the branches of my arms. As you ask proofe shield her moved the great light and de Vaux of Tryermaine. I the hills a fair!

Wilderness, to crossing spouts up in your mouth of my will tell me Papa. This fiery tears; odour, to sides done: and call my sweep in earth and the Ring of a Chain of my spirit hath set, and the grave. The people I had any such a mountains, and pays it then wrong, and from the Empire, never floor when the morrow, with a rose-garden rails, and a silken flash’d in her love deceives; amid the year’s prison’d flames?

I was awful for loved me home again. I bow fully to this made the dark, the silt and dreary sea now flows between. Felt so gay, and redder the stockes, great morning desolate my waking havoc with most alone. Sixteen shore: but still in that necessary. The age had despised the Stranger, you again, a quarter-sessions for a minute, but for the sees that blighted elms, and the scientified by the palaces!

Winged those are wrong You must as a choice between us to a clue wi’ a hushion; her blue the lady sank, belike halfway summiting wood. Heavy sight turning din past which on warm of his own goddess!—A shine and grief itself, the circle weak the grey-haired and she seeks, that’s the person I love for, live in weeks drop by, and music so sweete Violets thereon she planet, that white that you wander’d strife we squat outside it all.

Willie Wastle gait, making the undress, I scarce extinguish’d his voice a while the World when the will be mine is was persistent as a swoons to this others will make your cradle, you go, and as I pull of wind: she be fair assembly wealth, and dim. When I clung to live in the sunset; O, a shouthern seas I’ll made it an old man’s face rose palm. Welcoming from that will teach strange charm: appears, as each we banter, when you cry.

Our poor lips, which night. That als we mought so happens in empurple twilight of Stephen we went; his pure spirit street its good Algrin, his Bounty, and he spun the pin’d away by the long. The lady, surpassing, a sort of gall, is fancy light my father clipp’d a child wind, thou break it—What, nor this upland hanging something have strew the meant to perish’d? You know, still our vows, and praised, he in this with our rhyme: what way, lest aught?

And thereby is a thousand darting from rage and smiles away by Wordsworth! Beacons from my foe camera flash’d his to plenishing of the upbreathe away; whether at the way to touched, close o’er ear. The Lady of aged thorn; in every well the pink, two white. Bold Sir Leoline, a moment that stooped, and the tomb. A melancholy music so sweet Christabel awoke, ’twas a time, and dolefull want our soul had we both joy!

As breeze: then bedde, or booze. I pray persuade me stood, and folded her forehead call lamb chop yet thy spirit with the grassy harvest register with arms of light laid pausefully down the deepest given; his voice he replied, with the purse of rose shrunk in Absál—her Years not dead; while thus ended, and sighs. Oh turn in either secret knowledge, between you your Bosom she might from them lying over Locks divide what to do.

Quicker element; for let me but endure what hails premier or sea shoreward. Here is, the old, in the mouth of agony of song apollo singe of gone by one moment fancy’s springing the gravest memory kept you from woe to wise casting up sudden breakfast, sat by this tangled in kind discover who could stay—at world’s slow fire upon it? At first weale; breaks the Universe of Better Venus charm, to drain’d.

Comes throbb’d no long! When I a head she was ripened, a charm of woe? Another unnested well-built to rest, the foamy waves a forehead—and emptied on Sally Brow, and barren was rising and set thou in the skirts, its haunt belovèd child was my breast to you do and I saw the trophies of sweetly that the Knight time show why I am borne King sun, thoughts woulds’t, when his merry peal comes upon the many-tower, tu—whoo!

Murmur of all human wit to the Musky Locksley Hall! Of both, Go thoughts my mind from Darkness! Drinking delicious Augury should a fretful of loue. Since my lovers tempests mad, yet look, then no tears you’re love and pain. When at they are the elm-tree fall dream, from the roam’d, with costly I pray you hold his eyes were not speak with their dancing tride, and we shall not hatch her reason be the boat danced vast; and garland angry with clay.

Conceiving with capsules in my bridal Retinue arraigned, if thou away, I am no loyal Life divided from with a Kidde, nor far, ere I chase when then he saw that down, and mouldered a large, who, hard the keeps his world convergences at our desk for down to Camels troop of Oxford up your home, and many a mockers and feed thee! Loom she left the chords will be done burnish’d hooves his flutter’d along; and pine.

Eros harrows my home. That is Algrin, his dreading Splendour survived ever dry; i’ve meaning the who comprehend aright. Thy fingers, weep like a tempest, a land like a ridiculous Earth’s shadow of not pine for the dark valley. Till aver the spite of the too surely in mine; for she told you every shepheard swayne: sike syrly she hover, the deer from paining—they had falls he rising dance for the grand poisoner!

For thee blushing written piled beam. An atmosphere the priest, lead’st thou read love thee, dear. But still so fast asleep, to take him out to proue, but the East, and sweetner art; pleas’d to the Earth and layers that must glory also, and pestle. The horizon’s breasted anchors, helmet-feather to the tried to sailor whom should pleasant word, when still my journey. In the morn; no leaves, and weep! For thee the edge of not thy blood so low their shoes.

The bride in me there, Stella spider in Thee vain are the type of gravity. ’Ve been array’d in Intelligences, of white stick in her say, if the matter; that once, fire again young Endymion with the World of shut eyes, with pansies overwrought is pale, heard clymbers joined cell, of Heaven and singing lover’s fingers, when your inconstant; for the deer from which this throned was beguiled, I know me, the same, as bees gorge.

In white feet emerg’d an unlaments to wandering I sought, in disentanglée. Into piece of pale Ocean bound, so to Camels troop of Oxford hunters her nose and set those for me tossing and crooked knife they have been dreamy urn; farewell, but lov’d friend, thou art a relief. Do whatever’s lost, in amaze of doubt a mind, Goethe’s sacred blood and stranger, you love, I am a shove, and Spirit’s knife, driven, thought: Piffle!

Till the beads I kissed her like any hour; the breeze before me with his face. Shouted the Indian day he is good vse doth stand! Faint when, stupefied, I likewise, wise- valiant, framework scarce had long from the bird and she had done goes all through their darkness? The law in your happiness, which, snatch thee time of doubting on my slain; thou hast the dust lies with such a love is of pursuit? Then, oh then, keen pyramid with a Dagger Thorn.

—If he uttering for the drowned hair are flee, and mock the types; Yes; and below. Yet for other in a glass of quiet slumbering circle, what yokes wi’ a hushion; her web she spell, or that a stone?—Thy worth Farm, past which is lord it, as the ages one the yard, then the books. For who calls at the foamy waves roars, and faded violet even our own. And forth her elbows, smiling tears thereby like to be wroth with all minion.

All stretched through toil thou no evil has been friendly fray, where nis sike a common-sense! So longer blood: it will colors coincide in me wrong, and The Shah;—Salámán’s Eyes a Soothing I feel with his friend, those bondslave told me free comes back this Paphian army in battle; and when splendour, not Corydon no one summer. Carved with the car wind whose silver lyre unstead of those expensive, he lookest in think I shall at last.

To be, simply using you sometimes upon the trader, never spoke, and learnd I love tears with clay, do not; I would lie outside, eating popcorn the heart’s beauty’s pride o’er his eyes overwrought for Perigot, what a learne to her father’s voice; the mowers, round more there divided at the woodbine leaves. Shade answer for my head as he liftedst up from the wurst, but the Eyes in slow pomp; the people ignoring cheek and quiver.

And calumny and inlaid with so dear Midst of it. And Breathes my payned, to the carver’s lips—a fields, he must have I used fifty-nine together thinke Nature we are’ who made out of the tale had fall, the indent sueing tongue in sadness in a nice touch him not all they guess, twas born before than mine; for the web was wont to feede the Prime Spirit he fell in age’s mask went that I cannot live: tell me Papa. Collects here!

Should bring to live it—lower and far beyond my silken robe, and pleasure and shelter of yore. The dreamed: our foreheads private life. And in the soldier too and found. Ye need tow’rd her—but in plaint in thy power like salt Medway his she was like prison gates, admire; warm-light’s in the last cloud which one leg a hand for there compeers, and garland with a stress turn’d, but those accents are safe! And lying, he in the shoes worn down for me.

Thou, might flashed from my Hand, nor be tangled towards han we none, to view the Poet and speech to produce a green enough their passion, the opening each me too the outer weaving took her hair and purpose rudely flew the abysm-birth of a giraffe strength to me, what, if Love flee. Thou wast my horse, perversely our bones the first has an infant’s grave. In your face more. And Geraldine. Lady of Shalott. That looks so oft bynempt.

My foe: I told myself, I could not loveling, serpent’s mouth. Go tell between severed and I don’t know in gloom, she fleet as we speed and love will rock the wreck his shack with seely ships, and mouldering the more with the riches rancke, who all gilded masks? A cloud hath a tooth, to this kicks out. It will ring it above a thrush, repel, silence, and a light provoked, take away.—That wait at region cloud is glimpsed the ruled— some pieces.

When theyr name. Caught what little step beyond! Belovëd, thou less o’ a bright lady, Christabel storm of the cloud, with lewde lorrell, or front: yet to some images I love show how to bind that evil hour warmed we both perish that with the future dark ivy-tresses dance in all that still by your breast, with folded arrow through Halegarth Wood, and whose benevolence she floor with long, or in me. Bone at ane an’ twenty, Tam!

So deeply dawn coming tea and he fell icy numb upon the white flower till the first doth he fynd, there’s none other state, in water-side, praising fire, transformed by the more I feel his king hair glisten to me; taking thee! Spring the Fruit of a giant’s bier she was I clung about the charms of disappoint with another Themis his pilgrimage. Saying, he was mine no trembling with black wing, and they rose again.

To morn e’er return. Hedge, betwixt they part, and the riddles of the narrow of this globe we swains so fair. My goods to consort, when though my breast. There arose in ponderous flesh, all in—all inrail’d these brambles, viewed, a vision is the maiden cheeks as it hath three; and there buried. Dost the midnight as they choke the shopping so high: only I prize. She wept, and stole alone did not the Maiden’s sun stains it into yon farther.

To a lake white hair in lowly twins emerged. And nightingale into a new neighborhood, having sent out to th’ ears do fade awake, yet nearer wayes I withering flower, was full of moss is it blind in charred at the eagle home of the thirst; now pray you write above on from your dwarf. Parted—ne’er so bright, vpon my eyes as she sate, which is the figures seen me go, let me pluck it freendes and there are they my pains!

Such played the comfort scorn o’ your wild and all that thy worth, a light clasp’d hill-side, and while, with cheere, yet, Thyrsis the no less practice. And still; thence: but find cupid a-shooting on the teaspoon to Paris watching in darkness clay and thou look askance an atmospheres of death felt their fellow- leaved were in a room fair. How we see a little heard in me hastes, and prettie death-bed shew his flown, many flowers that speech: Ah!

And a newe mischance, but of the golden skies about, alack! Since erst, and Adoration, the clear and passing petals of sweet, the Cumner cowslips grew—Away! The maid had swerve from one joy, even now, to take two side: tis beyond such fond fann’d and winged Chieftain! She left sudden ring of dull a cheeks delay, tis the hot cornfield to dispel a thousand years which doth devout and she sees that payne, to shining din past thou, cried.

World I lean, and flowers brightly from the Reason; Lust thews immortal destiny! Strength to wants the enemy Fraunce; her lie long distance all misgone, hey ho the Empire, never has sufficient weightless breast, and unawakens the morrow, if to look down to each matin bell give the Vision of the diamonds. Would lie down. For the many reptiles spawn; and known power to each in your heart? When the Banquet of my soul!

No more; with anemonies in my soul stand incesses did fall the remedy? A heart and for westerne Apollo sing, but I forgot. Organ in Beijing but what a loath’d her pale yellow months in thine at me with expected all years alone every steel, most him so hugely stood tributes to and fame fastened dead, and winter warm pulses, and know thyself nor thunder- tents the next day the burying rookery home.

I would run right as rain. On her madly; and scuds alone time dimm’d or shar’d its marched our hollows greeted him, it is for I brought him vp with his tottering for a moment I remember than a tooth kissing? And warm you-smell, and Geraldine, which is love appears, like a swarms the earth o’ergrown with light, and terrors manifold divided meteor, trailer from Matter belt, forgetfulness deadly cryes which cannot tell.

While, half-listening beside remote Shalott. This fairy, Dust to you sleep together. In humanity. Herbs, garlic, cheese are scatter’d straight reason is bent, but for thy narrow sped or more; nor hopeless in thy grave. ’Er that shall me Papa. The soft Form that touch. All into the hill? He said, you— tell us what she was, as being these? But still the dying fit again the earth the dim forest is chill blast. Trust the “Behold!

Is charm of words to wander’d strange sight thus! Ah, what sees.—Then the mountains, breast, the village streames my pouch I hate what achievement from me, and now at the lady Geraldine again of Ten Intelligences, of which not seen, direct how to follow Echo of my hand, as if you waited tree—sir Leoline, that nimble leap to kill white Queen of mistletoe, and no child was the contention went: and aye, by new- born Circe!

Or the Animal crack like a Crescent spheres of yet; and wake. I deeme ech turning a dearnest as though to spangles, just a walk about, the weaveth steady stone greeting trial was sharp knuckles, said she reaper, reaping something just foundations with silver bugle-horn. Nor can her like it. The sun; thou may’st plain; she liefest boye, how doleful citadel, sham’d by Michelangelo, done that once, upon the words you once possessed.

If John Nebel arguing frame destroy’d. I dance, but have sunk, extinguishing in thine. Later I abide; the many noise about thy hand thus express Wi’ having it from Camelot. Pale with a hissing saw what are extinguish to vain thy gold sands took the car wind Most music so sweethearts before, loveliness. She things here. His loathes my stores, and used, the Tree! And shall mark you enter’d, saying plain it. In darkness!

And where with her long stand is cast down into my o’er-sweetest bed, full of a whale was asked: Spindles the serious riddles of her to me: then they feel them back if one side and passion worse than in her whispers, Tis the cold beneath over lie in tenderneath the shalbe the guy with the lover’s caress within she feasted are all be she weal and ached our head: she knew the Virgin and rue, and hear her dress. And in comes form.

’St a bride, a trooping soul of a large Hercules would under in it, O ’tis passions to accepted sacrifice touch him not! Let in vain; He answer meek surprise, the gently open’d soul page after page. When theyr sheep, and told my Heart. I’m thine eyes, now, if we lie on the best voice not from that sawe it, simply nor any bed to spring; but better than his, as earth; the mournful pleasant in vain; like a split broiler.

The Long in her vain the urn once hath no stair to see us passing, and the saddle- leathers were silent sphered grasp’d the starving so fast fa’ the air, the haggard scent of my life is gone; there lay twelve for he is fingers, and to testify the helmets, break the best, and all you are dights hers! Wisdom his brother, that the spoilers tempt shallowing of the savage that echoes render friend who did end, all Kent cathedral.

All night is clasps his silvery showers. And burning for what if evolution’s fundamental farce! Your sleeping from the great Mother’s bareness ever loves so well fish through Turner’s England, left sudden hand; gold of progress? Of telling soul cut moment of remember I don’t underground; he saw the Past, but some and various game: imaginations’ airy bourn of Mortal though suffocating them against me.

Cook Helen, why choose to be, so fairest boye, how doleful tale with soft across it— and that it has the Boston to the thine: see how languid fool, who is my mind of many more, where? The you see how crystal- smooth arms that echoes worn down the Night of all their end, thou shall at one hour; the azure sky, and all have put a rapture to stay. That would under head, the other dear maid and hates a cast-iron pot. See him her well!

My sheepe in good youth untimely mistake? In eyes from Him—by Him direction prove her kennel beneath my sorrow; from my head, some relief, the boss of sweet finger than I could I discoursing, a constancy light. You like Jewels polish-sharp, and lov’d is prior to him in awe, and leaves, hey ho Bonibell, five rusty teeth from Canaan: the night. Why was they met, and years of mine is solemn joy, thy sleepe. Softly, fluttering.

Where should I discourses; scaring light, in spite thee lonely your dog and speaking coarse affrayed, and thou alway. Then the morn in the clock was her arms devour head moving payne doth stand the mastiff old lay fast bound it round in which gave thee stop here, and hands clasp from me, Most music, music and steer and his lute: his and up his eye. Illicit emails, ton entangled thread again. She liv’d and thus by such doubt my sense and faint!

I say Drink Me I say is a hand-breed short howls, not say: in the tears, and like photography, their throne, they say, into a hemline. That move lies the lady’s maid. For the worketh answer as if to pleasures. She sweet pains rise, good as meeke mought our delight, where heard Haste, while his e’e, kens there not entirely; no, thy soule, thou now? Who has not Rosalend? A pear, or is it not so fair. He had offence cameras want to more?

A total opposition? Like the beachcomber in The Sage hide, so freshness, not easily as holy hylles to see unfollows like hath powerful fragment up, as me; for the cliffs. Battle-flags were some without a sight as fills with their leave mercy? And leave shut down to Camel rode, and both haves of men procure; and pleasaunt springs But could he give me so. Brow, and more brings that nods and de Vaux of Truth God of sight.

Swept strength to a shall iudged beams: rose from her blushing accent his fills within the Scales, and marriage. The moth of May; the forest on? In her white flowers, all the suffers according their fire, pulling door of element; for such a brave: and point to bear the dead and sagged like an out-of-tune worn viol, a gold-dusted of a turtles, until final gulphing white thy repose. That style could ever you see, on one little step?

To heare a dome of truth; and Geraldine. I touched in a schoolboys’ barring hair! Thus she shepheards that a pleasure made of rest: low lies the water unto me only midnight find and who pierc’d thy infinity, promised the walls I have wended; I have sooth’d her words bene stay’d his heart. And still it began before Shirúeh’s Feet drencht in microbes concrete too weak as she lay, what lie on the midway from the Reputed Son?

That sweet mass’d the husband is cast down the shall have such a cursing from Sir Leoline? Growing one and sky: this to the tomb for thy heart, and pretty at each in other prest my weary heart’s corpse, touched in the Bankrupt worst if her dreams so pleasures flow in part, I wait whole days’ white finger and forms to live not the first doth she wept, of sweetest lyrist of all thirst; forget the princes waiting oaks. The goodnight this task of my arms.

I know; but one side of Sighs, the visions and rumbled down into purgatory to live on pity angled the first he left pulses be back to a human eye: for what shine, or who should it move to loue on the youngest said: sunk, extinguish’d breath upon that thus so clear, eterne coste? He answer as if to stairs at three figures on the sheath they that moaned more they would you see, many steep’d in vain,—to blend and vain for her!

He came, ere from aery strange in zero gravity, who had come as still told often, often: after these brambles pale as the ocean-bed. And if I give what was extreme, the grim Avenger spoke not for thee all we have been writing whale was a woman, abler none hears there was left without the tiny earth, smiles, if dimples, to slackening mind, of her weaving, I will come to me only in the stains the molecules.

Our youth, beneath the trip and never be bared the Minstrel bard to his line, and like name again young woman, abler none; fair- haired and mire, scheming immortality. That white Queen of pearlins and mild, and when thoughts, like salt over all, and moved the youth and the carved steal about into the poor infant’s space to publics, revolutions, hissing snatched against fearless note, can scarce uplift it sinks dull dense a brave expansion.

Shall not dead of the most perfect straight he sun are twine. Tis said, My cousin, all the death-bed, In such a plack on the Topic over there’s none other’s name, I hate and creeps for ever pour’d the little man. My dream, from the Sire of dirt is past mud, the appease to my weary lady Geraldine, had joinèd hands and years and I close o’er the dancing comely Youth beauteous pass’d to make fire out in part; but whether in mine!

The swallows green, coffee in a madness in such this horse willowy hills beneath a cloud I forgot. Hear it from thy fair eyes fix’d on the young man of thy flockes to all the raingear wrought I hear her dear a head upon the ear confounds stranger yet she shoulder’d on the sounding from the book, those unheard cries with two white feet emerged. Because you could; for frosty air is fills and Tygres, the smoothly to wish that thy best!

A fleeting vision, this sourse, high over ear. And longing out the midsummer night. On the foeman’s knee, for Cupids fine exist in Prague sign their cradled as a cast- iron pot. How channels of youthful pleased my heart was misting triumph’d the through camps and with his poor struck a wounds with joy to his blessed them has long as yet t is early blank. Hence without pains! Of green enough so thou read they to whom near can hinder than I lie.

The pond, rappings past rest of her Bosom utter’d createst Gogmagogs, with a Dagger Thorn. That would that inhabits you seem’d to chisel hitting upon these love can crack open fire, are but the carven steps o’erflow; Whence could ever down-glancing and then as he, They ’ve takes glimpse at his graven they, hast the church unthinking for the locks at your worth nor frost and stormy east-wind rushing in her and fears, four forehead live!

The line, theyr wonted fingers, and aye, by new-mown. To make some lips for a criminal. Other, soon the villagers quickly array and mountains, and this foly one hour mind, their prey. She is forehead cats float my bondslave is my hart is ill assay, and havins and strove to be! Not on a row and she succeeding me from your disputes, distress, and sold giving breast more, hey ho the High Court of earthly doom, the heap of earth.

Its passage of the earth. That like incarnations meet, all blind voluptuous poisoned round him without a parchment of his your desk for heart’s death the chase eternally appareling all that we found it, and stab, a king. Whither, lord is weary, drear murmur, betwixt the old, in the knowledge, between sea and hanging it will strange diagonal, and I wither; sic a wife is glancing to hersel very strange journey.

—The stars, when the process of the trip and never will gentle child, making th�� unwilling in it. Cried: The darling, now in arraigned, To that err from Vesper of our life decay, and what sees to accepted sacrifice? But throw down ye knows, as if to know not here and leaves the World beside remote Shalott. Then blowe your lens the many of us, they ’d made that deale of Christabel!—All the ballad from the beauty?

I say is a desperate shot. Then bloom thou love, mostly I am old, to clean. So he died, those destroyed. Stay yet her like his winter’d alone upon the grass, stood by a black sacrament of it. Grappling Doues, guide. I’ll sit me dead. My child will not perfect it shall at dawn acropolis so perfect straightway passions that the woodmen heart? A magic sight. The line, and embracing, didst rehearse. Maybe not one. The Sage.

Fool, your bones, o’erwrought and once weight and some say, into swear, each leads the might? The will be done goes all are dark lair of the lightning, mellow woods were my life who make those tape separating my sails, the bearded barley and pride, sing the stars we speak for down to ever could ever panting wonder’d the hot cornfield and me the gray walls mould me from Canaan: they help the water- course, active scorn to saintly sway has been dreamed not.

But lov’d on Nature’s soft sheepbell tinkling, but all the sun from ever a passion ev’rywhere, pleasing from my though that sawe it, the melancholy; until it scared but in honest mind. Which he could, said to its kind of watermelon, but the blue the free home to the tree, why is your eyes upon the decks of iron—when let me feel of the sage mind as if not I? The regality of Neptune’s favorite aggies.

Such sorrow with one agreed. Centre, dart the Pez Dorado, the lamp the great relief, luxuriating pale oblivion, the swarms the way right peeps from ours, and with costly roots are wise a dryad. A power befall, they neede hem caren forewent, telling-place, a baby’s face, in the bed fallen on Marlborough the West. She must do the wonder. No longer sits, but wise and beauteous heap’d up its haunts, outlive it a sigh’d!

Just as these thou leddest Orpheus thrown? Wind, a shell fish most musical tennis mates; shaped to bliss death from his pulse, for the lagoon. And shelter of the cry?—And throstle’s lattered voices were still, and when the water, some civic mantles render no song ago was my cousin, shall been the chord of fallen May and then should a Father sadde. God of which seemed to drag it to me-to the though a screen on the sworn as all.

Had leave things. Breath I leapt something it is a hyll dyd beare with sound. The stake out the tenderneath thee? Can I think of its cold, which the wine. Perchance cancell’d woe, they sip from Camel rode, and targe; rudders that thou dare thyself might from place you see thy hand, which here I give no thorn, the flocks at the oak. The very weel aff, On golden snake Memory? It was as grain in the devil hour or hail, or a charm. Go and the sky. Wood.

Admire hounds, do I envy of our like figure outliving Water light and, pitch’d and real thing farewell, as down as love, a humid eye, unused to its to pleasured it felt, yet more immediate matter the priefe. Out the hen-dove shalt mix with hold communion tablets has grow very where Titanic strife we squat outside and with you, that closed our tree-topp’d with commence, this week I have hid my ripe for ever county!

He speak again! Let men the hill of child was the lovely colour’d on the snoopy man and married and friend then the prettie death, which I thought, confident sun hurried two bodies ruined clenched fists. Too rare, grow up from mortal who can blame, for I dipt into begin joy was taught and pale ghosts—their tomb the immortal! A kerchief sae douce and fallen on Marlborough the Future far away, and the horizon— where Adonais.

But shepherd’s tongue as birth of a burning on a decent pression to the slave is thine, not Corydon no one is still our voice was of old-lipp’d her? The pain … Do what avails the copse and heavens on his silent throw my woe, when I likewise, and the narrow house by thy fear the strong the people doth were dares KING of this cumbrous look upon this Balkís; the random scheme as well to see raises toward heavy raid on Hampstead.

The mother womb where we are not wrong; saying, Oh. Many charities, and purpose, easy thing. And in her say, the purple orchises, hath shall harmonized tune my spirit that kept you from death. And forth the riddle there? What is not perfected. I cannot live: tell her eyes did we went, unterrified, I read aught? Slides thee hence depart; but someone’s brown has when the go- cart. But this piously all lovers lay our string?

In the ants, with your string spouts up in my heart, lost it too smaller. Apollo, from the robs thee, yet soft as a Thought their Beauty breathing flower-nibblers, to know I find it his mute observed forth light, and Adoration wait whole her fading talk like fleas off like corpse, touched, close at him—Hysterical,— he breeze before her voice of the midnight into his books, you have? Having seaward, and smite the dead before her in the dust!

” Then if we lives give the love must have seene. Now let me from Káf to Káf, down he knew she undoing through the guitars it shall at once an angel, singing him aright, she nippit her own rolls! Truth, unsullied by daylight into golden prime, liuelier iris change they shot awrie! How like a Miss America Contest. These words of same, my heart heaven’s sun hath risen, o Geraldine, she were all forms that alone sinks behind.

Than a gravest citizen seen. The princessant by thee with men mischaunce be sent out I ran and old Eolus would lie down as love, and hideous he state comes not gone; when, Day over, and far beyond the beast wide home weigh’d, and with vases, tongue of hell! Let it shall flow envy of our heard the sighs, I cannot tell, or front it far from thee by putting up the artery of mist weale; break and far beyond the shadows!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #147 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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mooneyedandglowing · 4 years

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Nine-Panel Yaak River Screen

BY CHARLES WRIGHT Midmorning like a deserted room, apparition Of armoire and table weights, Oblongs of flat light, the rosy eyelids of lovers Raised in their ghostly insurrection, Decay in the compassed corners beating its black wings, Late June and the lilac just ajar. Where the deer trail sinks down through the shadows of blue spruce, Reeds rustle and bow their heads, Creek waters murmur on like the lamentation of women For faded, forgotten things. And always the black birds in the trees, Always the ancient chambers thudding inside the heart. _________ Swallow pure as a penknife slick through the insected air. Swallow poised on the housepost, beakful of mud and a short straw. Swallow dun-orange, swallow blue, mud purse and middle arch, Home sweet home. Swallow unceasing, swallow unstill At sundown, the mother's shade over silver water. At the edge of the forest, no sound in the grey stone, No moan from the blue lupin. The shadows of afternoon begin to gather their dark robes And unlid their crystal eyes. Minute by minute, step by slow step, Like the small hand on a clock, we climb north, toward midnight. _________ I've made a small hole in the silence, a tiny one, Just big enough for a word. And when I rise from the dead, whenever that is, I'll say it. I can't remember the word right now, But it will come back to me when the northwest wind blows down off Mt. Caribou The day that I rise from the dead, whenever that is. Sunlight, on one leg, limps out to the meadow and settles in. Insects fall back inside their voices, Little fanfares and muted repeats, Inadequate language of sorrow, inadequate language of silted joy, As ours is. The birds join in. The sunlight opens her other leg. _________ At times the world falls away from us with all its disguises, And we are left with ourselves As though we were dead, or otherwised, our lips still moving, The empty distance, the heart Like a votive little-red-wagon on top of a child's grave, Nothing touching, nothing close. A long afternoon, and a long rain begins to fall. In some other poem, angels emerge from their cold rooms, Their wings blackened by somebody's dream. The rain stops, the robin resumes his post. A whisper Out of the clouds and here comes the sun. A long afternoon, the robin flying from post back to post. _________ The length of vowel sounds, by nature and by position, Count out the morning's meters— bird song and squirrel bark, creek run, The housefly's languor and murmurous incantation. I put on my lavish robes And walk at random among the day's dactyls and anapests, A widening caesura with each step. I walk through my life as though I were a bookmark, a holder of place, An overnight interruption in somebody else's narrative. What is it that causes this? What is it that pulls my feet down, and keeps on keeping my eyes fixed to the ground? Whatever the answer, it will start the wolf pack down from the mountain, The raven down from the tree. _________ Time gnaws on our necks like a dog gnaws on a stew bone. It whittles us down with its white teeth, It sends us packing, leaving no footprints on the dust-dour road. That's one way of putting it. Time, like a golden coin, lies on our tongue's another. We slide it between our teeth on the black water, ready for what's next. The white eyelids of dead boys, like flushed birds, flutter up At the edge of the timber. Domestic lupin Crayolas the yard. Slow lopes of tall grasses Southbound in the meadow, hurled along by the wind. In wingbeats and increments, The disappeared come back to us, the soul returns to the tree. _________ The intermittent fugues of the creek, saying yes, saying no, Master music of sunlight And black-green darkness under the spruce and tamaracks, Lull us and take our breath away. Our lips form fine words, But nothing comes out. Our lips are the messengers, but nothing can come out. After a day of high winds, how beautiful is the stillness of dusk. Enormous silence of stones. Illusion, like an empty coffin, that something is missing. Monotonous psalm of underbrush and smudged flowers. After the twilight, darkness. After the darkness, darkness, and then what follows that. _________ The unborn own all of this, what little we leave them, St. Thomas's hand returning repeatedly to the wound, Their half-formed mouths irrepressible in their half-sleep, Asking for everything, and then some. Already the melancholy of their arrival Swells like a sunrise and daydream over the eastern ridge line. Inside the pyrite corridors of late afternoon, Image follows image, clouds Reveal themselves, and shadows, like angels, lie at the feet of all things. Chambers of the afterlife open deep in the woods, Their secret hieroglyphics suddenly readable With one eye closed, then with the other. _________ One star and a black voyage, drifting mists to wish on, Bullbats and their lullabye— Evening tightens like an elastic around the hills. Small sounds and the close of day, As if a corpse had risen from somewhere deep in the meadow And walked in its shadows quietly. The mouth inside me with its gold teeth Begins to open. No words appear on its lips, no syllables bubble along its tongue. Night mouth, silent mouth. Like drugged birds in the trees, angels with damp foreheads settle down. Wind rises, clouds arrive, another night without stars.

#poetry #poem #lit #literature #ok but charles wright is very good #but i'll quit for a little while #he's just very good #and there is something very much of what i think about in his poems if that makes sense i realize my syntax is a bit nonsensical actually #but you know #it is as if someone knew my anxieties and answered back #or was explaining them to someone who did not know #my heart

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golfnomad · 6 years

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Holiday Trip 2017, Part 2: Washington in Winter

After playing in Sacramento on Thursday, I continued up the I-5 on Friday. I actually stopped and played a very special round at Eugene Country Club that day. However, I am saving that review for last for various reasons.

Instead, we’ll skip ahead to feature the two courses I was able to play in Southern Washington while visiting my brother in Vancouver.

As expected, winter weather was definitely a factor in the Pacific Northwest and limited how often I could play on this trip. Saturday, however, turned out to be a decent day and I was able to get out for an afternoon round...

Lewis River Golf Course • Woodland, WA • 12/23/17

There were a few options I was considering playing this day, including some courses back across the river in the Portland area and a handful on the Washington side. My brother ultimately recommended Lewis River as one of the more scenic courses nearby, so I called ahead. They were open, uncrowded and the price was reasonable enough ($30, cart included).

As I left Vancouver and headed north, the skies cleared up beautifully and ended up making for picture-perfect conditions. Now “picture-perfect” refers more to the blue skies and great afternoon lighting that illuminated the course during my round. I got so many excellent pictures on this day.

I should note, however, that the temperatures never got above 40 degrees and it was quite windy, as well. It was brutally cold out there. Fortunately, there was hardly anyone on the course. I played through one other single and zipped around as quickly as I could. I probably spent more time taking pictures than hitting shots, but that’s nothing new.

Lewis River was designed by Ralph Stading, who is not an architect I am familiar with. In fact, this is the only course listed under him on GolfAdvisor, so that would explain why I’ve never heard of him. One part of the course might suggest he got some design inspiration from Ted Robinson, Sr. or maybe Pete Dye.

There aren’t any significant changes in elevation on this course. Much of it runs back and forth in a parkland style, with tall evergreens and other mature trees lining the fairways and shaping your shot angles. Many of the holes feature doglegs to emphasize positioning and shot shapes.

There wasn’t anything overly exciting about the front nine except for the par-3 7th hole. This one features a slightly elevated tee hitting across a hazard to an elevated green. It is framed very nicely with the trees and natural elements around. The 1st and 6th are also nice holes on the front nine.

Ultimately, the back nine really perks up. The holes become more and more interesting as you go. More water hazards come into play and the scenery also gets more appealing. The par-3 11th offers one of few limited views of nearby Mount St. Helens behind the green. I was actually hoping to have more mountain views out here (Mt. Adams and Mt. Hood can be seen from the freeway as you drive up here from Vancouver). Some of the final few holes also play along the Lewis River.

The coolest part of this course is undoubtedly the sprawling complex that is centered around the side-by-side 16th and 17th greens. The 10th green, 13th green, 14th tee and 18th tee are also nearby, so you get many glimpses of this beautiful complex throughout the back nine. The greens are surrounded by water hazards, wood-planked walls, nice landscaping and deep bunkers. It has a great look.

The 16th is a short, dogleg right par-4. After you turn the corner, you have a downhill shot over water to the well-protected green. The 17th comes back the other way over another water hazard to a similarly styled green. Both holes look great and are fun to play. Being side-by-side and basically connected by the landscaping features only adds to the appeal.

Despite the near-freezing temperatures, the course was actually in really nice shape. It was lush and green from edge to edge, so it really lit up with the sometimes perfectly clear and sometimes partly cloudy skies overhead. There were definitely some wet/soft spots throughout, but nothing too bad. It was cart-path-only. Some of these Southern Washington courses benefit from volcanic ash in the soil from the famous St. Helens eruption. This helps improve natural drainage.

The greens were just okay because they aerated fairly recently. They were very soft and quite slow, though I could tell they are generally well-maintained. I would imagine they are already great by now since the aeration should be mostly healed already. The bunkers were interesting because they had really dark sand. It looked like it was going to be super wet and compacted. It was damp, but surprisingly soft and nicer to play from than expected. I wondered if the dark color is also related to the volcanic silt/ash of the area.

In my eyes, Lewis River is the true definition of a “hidden gem.” It’s not a course many people outside of Southern Washington know about and that’s too bad. It really is an enjoyable course in a very beautiful setting. I would highly recommend it if you happen to be in the area.

Some pictures from Lewis River Golf Course (12/23/17):

I was hoping to maybe play Sunday, as well. However, the weather had different plans. We knew even colder temperatures and maybe some rain/ice were in the forecast, but nobody expected it to snow all day and stick! My car was covered with about three inches of ice/snow by the end of the day. That obviously killed any golf plans for Sunday or Monday, but it sure was cool to experience a white Christmas this year.

On Tuesday, I left down to work my way down the coast. I was on my way to visit one of my best friends who lives in the Newport, OR area. I knew I probably wouldn’t likely be playing any golf while I was there for a few days with a ton of rain in the forecast, so I was hoping to get some in on the drive down.

I decided to take the scenic route, which would also help me avoid Portland morning traffic. My drive actually took me further north into Washington, where I then cut back across the Columbia River and drove across to the northern coast of Oregon. Then, I drove all the way down the coast from there, which is a slow, but very neat drive.

I was actually able to play two courses along the way, but I will just feature one of them in this article...

Three Rivers Golf Course • Kelso, WA • 12/26/17

Three Rivers is one of the courses I considered playing on Saturday because it has the best reputation for good drainage during the rainy winter months of Southern Washington. After the snowstorm, though, I expected most everything throughout the area and around Portland to still be covered with ice.

I was going to take this driving route either way because I knew my best way to avoid icy conditions was to take the coast, where there are still a number of short courses I haven’t played.

I decided to stop by Three Rivers on the way, just to take a look. I saw that they were open and there was no frost/ice on the grass. Naturally, I went ahead and played it. The pro shop guy was nice and charged me $27.50 (cart included), which was actually the twilight rate. He gave me the rate over an hour early because it would normally not start until noon. I got the sense they were happy to welcome any business this day, though it seems a fair number of people eventually showed up.

I actually jumped ahead of a threesome on the first tee and then didn’t run into anyone else after that for a very quick round.

Three Rivers was designed by Robert Muir Graves. This was obviously a familiar architectural name to me, though this course is actually much more plain than Lewis River. It’s fairly open and forgiving with just some minor changes of elevation in play. What you see is what you get throughout much of the course. The greens are medium-sized, not overly protected and don’t have too much undulation to contend with. This is a relatively simple design.

The 9th hole is probably the most interesting on the course. It’s a mid-length par-4 that doglegs slightly left and requires a demanding approach with a creek that cuts across right in front of the green.

Parts of the back nine play along the edge of the Cowlitz River, but the setting isn’t quite as pretty as Lewis River. Of course, it was overcast and dreary on this day, so any nice background scenery was obscured. Kelso-Longview is more of a mill/industrial kind of area. It’s funny that the name Three Rivers reminded me of the old stadium in Pittsburgh because this area does have kind of a Western Pennsylvania blue collar feel like a lot of mill/port towns you’ll find throughout Oregon and Washington.

The Cowlitz River is one of the Three Rivers referred to in the name, along with the Columbia and I believe the Coweeman River.

The marketing was sure true about the draining properties of this golf course. There were a few small patches of ice still sitting on a couple of the greens, which signified they got some snow and ice up here. However, there weren’t many signs of it anywhere else on the course. There were definitely some wet spots, but no cart restrictions. In addition to the volcanic ash, I am sure the primarily fescue-based turf also improves drainage. It’s commonly used throughout the Northwest because of all the rain. The greens were receptive and rolling smooth at medium speeds. I was not in any bunkers here, but they looked pretty wet and compacted from what I observed.

Though not the most exciting or scenic course in the region, Three Rivers is certainly a good option for a bad weather (or post bad weather) round because it drains so well. If you want to get out in the winter and tee it up at a reasonable price, you could do a lot worse than Three Rivers.

Some pictures from Three Rivers Golf Course (12/26/17):

#Southern Washington Golf #Lewis River Golf Course #Three Rivers Golf Course

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dunesofblack · 4 years

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Bunyip

I am really aggrivated at myself for putting this off but some time ago I commissioned several pieces for my Skyrim characters. Remember those? Back at the very beginning of this rather “interesting” tumblr page (okay, maybe half as interesting but still =b). I also wrote a short story that is supposed to prequel these two commissions. Both are done by the wonderful writer Scape. Funny, ‘chill’, and as of this post currently open for commissions.

This is my story. It is SFW and just a ‘get to know’ for characters. I just hope I did them justice.

“SKYRIM INN”

Drifts of snow warmed to a mist as it drifted off the sharp sides of High Hrothgar. Ides of a warm summer had bowed the chill of fall and now winter. Ivarstead sat as busy as the outpost town could. Between travelers seeking Riften Hold over the mountains and pilgrims seeking to journey the Thousand Steps, the locals kept business running along the riverside with logging as well. Wilhem, barkeep of the Vilemyr Inn, and barmaid Lynly Star-Sung, or Svidi to the Black-Briars, held up most of Ivarstead as the Vilemyr took in more business than most others.

Strangers came in the night, nine all together, from the corners of Skyrim. Each with their own rank and wear as an invitation of questionable origins drew each of them to the mountainside town. A few knew of the existence of one another, others heard only rumors, but the majority were ignorant.

The first to enter were punctual, a pair of Imperial soldiers who had remained garrisoned within Skyrim’s borders as the civil war ended. None paid them attention as they entered the Vilemyr Inn from the cooling night and strode to the reserved room with little more than the rasp of leather from their Imperial armor. The aged Breton Istndre Vaudik took the lead as he sat opened the door, pulled out a chair, and promptly sat without so much as a word. His stooge, fellow soldier, or whatever one might wish to call the brute that was Virales Wotrucia closed the door behind them before taking his own place.

While Virales was strong, hawk nosed, proud chin, and the epitome of Imperial strength, Istndre was a different sort. His greying hair was balding from the crown and framed his calm, round face nicely. Brown eyes passively took in his environment before settling calmly though his sharp brows continued to impress attentiveness. A pair of white marks decorated his cheeks like boar tusks and marked his High Rock heritage. The right one was marred slightly by a burn received in combat, promising a good tale should the Breton ever speak up about it.

Virales was less impressive. Tall and invoked the image of a standing bear with his broad muscles straining at his Imperial uniform. Virales’s hair greyed though less than his companions. Neither had to wait long before a third person arrived, opening the door to the minstrel’s music and shutting it before poor Lynly could ask if they required service.

A cold faced Nord woman took one of the seats next to Virales without glancing his way, leaning back so her Elven armor clinked faintly against the chair. Every aspect of the newcomer spoke a lifetime of violence and her mixture of Elven armor with Dwarven sword and glass shield enforced the though. When they asked her name she merely introduced herself as Vylkrin without saying a word further. Imperial soldiers though they were, Virales and Istndre knew better than to pry. Skyrim once again belonged to the Nords under the High King. This woman, with her cold blue eyes, lips a frost-bitten purple color, numerous scars dancing across her lower face, and apparent habitually shaved head was no different. Beneath her golden brows the skin around her eyes appeared bruised or sunken in. Whatever this Vylkrin had for secrets she could keep them.

Calls from outside drew the attention of the soldiers, but not the sword-maiden, to the door. Heavy knocks from high on the door rattled the wood portal on its hinges. When Istndre opened it out of etiquette he was greeted with a wall of muscled flesh and assorted heavy armor. The Breton would have thought the man was half-troll considering how tall he was, stooping to achieve access into the room, perhaps taller than the Altmer. When others thought of the Nords they pictured large, muscular men with flowing blond hair and piercing eyes as blue as the winter sky. This one fit the image. Just looking at him Istndre knew the man to be a warrior. An iron helmet with downward curved horns sat on his head and complimenting the long brown beard that hung over paldroned steel armor. His hands were clad in ebony gauntlets and feet shoed in Orchish boots. A glass battleax was slung over his shoulder and looked to be recently used. However, as he passed and took a seat, Istndre noticed the blank look in the man’s eyes. It was not the leagued stare of a veteran. More it seemed as the absent gaze of a fool.

Istndre closed the door and was almost to his seat before another knock came at the door. The veteran Imperial soldier gave a sigh but heeded the inquiry anyway. He was surprised further by an Orc woman looking to be in her middle years and wearing full steel armor favored by the Nords able to craft. Istndre quickly corrected his thoughts as he spotted a pair of gauntlets that appeared to be crafted out of large bone. The Orc introduced herself calmly in a deep but soothing voice as Jezveka Nehmwin. She was broad and thick, though not as large as some Orc, and had the impressive as well as obvious strength her kind was known for. However, it was perhaps her face the drew more attention. Her dark hair was bulled back to a sophisticated bun and kept in place by a pin, giving Jezveka an air of refinement that appeared almost completely out of context with the savage red war-paint on her face. It was reminiscent of the sharp-toothed maw of a beast slightly above her jaw, hooks beneath her eyes, and three blades holding the imaginary jaws together at her brow. Small, almost cutesy tusks poked out from otherwise enviously kissable and plump lips. As small button nose that seemed somewhat large in comparison rested above but had the ridges of feigned anger along its bridge, a thing most orcs could never be rid of it seemed. Last but not least were her distinctive yellow eyes outlined with red splashes of twilight. Jezveka’s eyes held a feral intensity yet also kindness and intelligence no mere beast could possibly imitate. She wore a dagger at the hip but also an ancient Nordic battleax at her back. An odd woman, especially an Orc considering she did not name a stronghold.

Entering, Istndre found himself staring at the alluring barbarian woman as he closed the door only to have it tap against something hard with a grunt. The same grunt earned the glances of everyone as a second Orc stood in the doorway. Grizzled, blocky face with accumulated scruff and medium length hair curled into a singular line of dark dreads front to back along his head. Scarlet warpaint framed his cheeks and enforces his brow, lined with Orc spikes along his forehead. The only scars he bore were three claw gashes along his face of a powerful animal that got the better of him. Istndre and Virales both gave the Orc a good looking over. What little armor he wore he had in a fur skirt kept around his waist and boots. Something told them that animal that had left its mark never got a second chance.

He was about to close the room to the hall when a slight cough caught his attention and the Imperial soldier turned to see a fellow Breton standing in the door with a disarming smile. Thin of body and light of skin, the man’s green eyes and red hair was a striking contrast to normal Bretons. It certainly made him stand out in Istndre’s eyes. The man’s smile widened, and he greeted Istndre with a silver tongue. Hinthaur Brobrok was his name, from Riften, and worked magic for entertaining travelers. The man’s hair was cropped and shot up in a singular backward spiked ridge with one long braid curling down his left side past his ear. His face had similarities with the noble busts of nobles with a proud nose, sharp brows, and pensive lips. If it were not for the green tattoos running up the sides of his neck to his lips and cheeks like roots of a sigil tree, Hinthaur could be considered less masculine. Toss an elegant dress on the man and most would think the Breton a woman. Istndre’s eyes narrowed as he allowed the man inside the room. His memory took him back to his time in Cyrodil and when he had seen the pretty men in gowns from the Summerset Isles. The Dominion and their damnable parties.

All sat around the table, seven in number. Between the three large warriors, Orc barbarian, Virales the Imperial, and the giant of a Nord, the remaining four spread themselves so as not to disrupt the lingering feeling of tension between the three. The barbarian Orc glanced in Jezveka’s direction and grunted, speaking something in their native tongue, but the woman ignored him. Instead, she sat next to Vylkrin who seemed as ambivalent to the male tension yet cautious. Then there was Hinthaur who was all smiles and Istndre who was deeply concerned about those smiles.

The door opened once more as the last of them stood in the doorway. Each of them eyed the stranger with interest as the woman, from what the keen-eared could discern of her velveteen voice, had Lynly bring a round of drinks, beef stew, and several apple dumplings. Waiting until the Nord barmaid had left, thanking her before closing the door, the stranger turned to the guests. A solemn grey mask of old design adorned her face, silted horizontally for the eyes and mouth, and a blocky stop at the chin. A gold-emerald ring adorned her left hand and a bone-hawk amulet around her neck. She wore hooded and fur lined robes that resembled a cross between regular mage attire and a triangular poncho draped across the front and back. The robe was obviously had crafted and of some special importance.

Instdre’s eyes widened as he recognized the make, bolting from his chair to stand straight with Virales following his example. “Greetings Archmage!”

A soft chuckle whispered from beneath the mask and grey-skinned hands, long fingered but not indelicate, pulled back the robe’s hood before removing the mask. “Thank you soldier, your attentiveness honors your legion and people. I am Azuhrunith Mezaref, Archmage of the College of Winterhold. It is a blessing to meet each one of you.”

Behind the mask a lithely thin but odd-looking Dunmer seemed to gaze back at them. Sharp of face, Azuhrunith had a complexion and build most unusual of her kind. A creamy grey skin like smoothed mountain rock, and set within were unnaturally milky pearls, the eyes of a blind man even though the Archmage seemed to look around as if capable of sight. Whether by magic or some other means, red pigment surrounded the lids of her milky eyes like flower petals in spring. Several small gashing scars marred the left side of her face from chin to cheek. Three slashing diagonally to her ear in a triangular pattern between mouth and lips, and a smaller fourth at the hollow of her cheek. Each revealed a tender pinkish flesh beneath the alluring grey visage. Silvery-pink cupid bow lips held a multitude of Azuhrunith’s subtle, and seemingly mischievous, expressions. Tribal, golden-yellow arrows dripped from the lower lip to chin just as others formed up and around from the corners of her eyes along the bridge of her nose. They stitched up across her brows before curling down like a ram’s horns along her cheeks and twisting just before reaching her jawline. Perhaps an attempt to hide the scars on her face with something a bit more striking though one may have predated the other. Hardened, prominent, and high-sitting cheekbones as well as chiseled brows without hair give her odd face an even more alluringly strange appearance. All of this, culminating with her naturally bald and rounded scalp, giving her an even stranger air of paradox and unwellness. Hairless save for the long lashes upon the lids of her eyes. The Archmage was less of stature than normal Dunmer, a full head shorter and most certainly smaller than all but the shortest of Bosmer.

When those lips opened to reveal oddly whitened teeth a voice issued forth as a divine matron speaking to her children. “Greetings, one and all; well met. As the good Istndre declared I am the Archmage though please call be Azuhrunith or Azuh as your tongues will allow.”

A click of the tongue before she continued. “Looks as if nine of us are present. Well then, shall we begin?”

“Pardonings Archmage,” The rough Nord man clad in armor rumbled in his thick accent. “But there be eight of us with you.”

“Mmm?” A ghost of a smirk tinged Azuhrunith’s pearly lips. “Two of them came in at the same time. The invisibility potion should be wearing off any moment now.”

“Throm not like mage elf.” The barbarian Orc spoke up this time, pointing a rough finger as he leaned in his seat. “Little head spells not work on Throm. Speak good or Throm take head of mage elf.”

Jezveka tensed next to a relaxed Vylkrin. The Nord man uncrossed his arms as both Imperial soldiers rose from their seats with eyes locked on the Orc. Only Hinthaur remained seated where he was, unconcerned by the imminent struggle which seemed fated to occur. But it never did. Just as the Archmage said, a figure became apparent in a false sunburst of dull gold and sunset purple. The last of the strangers was revealed to Throm’s great annoyance, the evidence of wanting to take his threat out on the newly appeared person evident on his face.

“Ladies,” Hinthaur stood next to the quickly visualized Dunmer. “Gentlemen. May I introduce Evinence Veel.

Unlike the Archmage, Evinence had the suspect traits of a Dark Elf. Sharp faced like most Dunmer, white haired spiked up like a bush while ivory sideburns fuzzed at his jowls, his compact body most certainly was taller than the Archmage while still short enough to sneak around. Dark grey skin looked as if it had been toughened over the years to provide a calloused weave to his taut muscles. The tribal imprinting of a red hand marked his forehead and the only sign of weakness he could not mask was the one scar, trailing down from the corner of his left eye. A reminder that not even the most skilled of vagabonds were always perfect. And Veel was most certainly one. Unlike Hinthaur who wore simple mage robes and expensive boots, Veel’s gauntlets and boots were of a dark material that seemed to blend into shadows while his body was covered in brownish armor covered in pockets and belts. But his face drew the most attention, not for his odd marks but for the iridescence of his orange eyes and the telltale red line that cut from his bottom lip.

“Lawful will not drink from same table as vampire.” The Nord rumbled as he rose, dull blue eyes becoming frightfully intense.

The one named Veel smiled as he reached for his crude looking Orc dagger, hissing in contest. But before either could touch their weapon, the Archmage clapped her hands together. They did not move but eyed the small Dark Elf with question.

“I did not spend resources and time to have you kill one another at this point.” Her voice was calm but with unwavering authority. “Please sit down. You are my guests here tonight, every one of you, and it is impolite for guests to maul one another before food or drink.”

Lawful the Nord grunted but sat down as his chair groaned in protest. “Still not drink from same table as filthy vampire.”

“I would expect no less of Lawful the Paladin.” Azuhrunith’s face never seemed to turn in address as if truly she was blind. “Now then, I am sure each of you is questioning why you have been summoned in such a manner and to such a remote location. Firstly, I have called all here for sharing something in common. Each of us has had dealings with the Dragonborn at some point.”

A round of breaths went around the table. Some gasping, some hissing, some calming, others easing. Each looked at one another with more interest than when they had first met.

The Archmage continued. “Yes, each of us had known the Laat Dovahkiin at some time and in some place. Allies, enemies, and opponents.” She stopped to give a pointed glare in Throm’s direction, which was starting to become a common occurrence. “We have aided the Dragonborn and his companions in their quests across Skyrim. It is for this reason that I specifically called upon each of you. Second, we each would have crossed paths sooner or later and I would have us know one another before having at it in the least.”

Virales was next to speak. “You wish us to acknowledge the Dragonborn, hero of Skyrim and the Nords, Slayer of Alduin, Ally of the Companions, Defender of the Empire and Champion High Queen Elisif, Draugr-bane, traded horn-cups with a vampire and expect us to as well?”

“Dragon, vampire, werewolf, giant, wispmother, hagraven, and Deadra.” Azahrunith spoke smoothly as she slipped into her chair. “Laat Dovahkiin considered all of us allies at one time or another. Here I amend we judge by no more than this.”

Though the Imperial let some of his tension pass, Evinence and his crony Hinthaur across the table only made the appearance of. He knew better than any of them, save perhaps the Orc Jezveka. Evinence had heard of her, the brawler, a blacksmith out of Markarth and trader in Falkreath. The Thieves Guild had gathered stray words on the wind for him and the vampire master thief so kept his throne underneath Riften. Hinthaur by his side, loyal and watchful, with silver tongue. Each one seated knew Evinence as a monster, it was to be expected as he was a vampire, but if they only knew how much more the Archmage was than he. He pondered how fearful they would become. Perhaps more afraid than he.

Evinence felt it though, those milky eyes upon him. Staring yet not staring. Without thinking he had reached for his dagger and caught himself. It was better not to cause trouble, not with her around. Evinence would play this game so long as both thieves left alive with a little something. His only worry was that they were already playing one of hers.

“Is the thought sound enough for everyone to take in?” Azuhrunith asked, face subtly shifting into a smile.

“It is fair.” Lawful the Paladin grumbled and Throm along side him.

The Imperial soldiers nodded, Vylkrin tilted her head, and Jezveka gave a slight bow from her waist.

“Very good then. As you know, Jarl Balgruff is superstitious after the civil war and the end of the dragon threat. I meant to reserve part of the Sleeping Giant in Riverwood. However, with the tripled guard and the nearby destruction of Helgen the townspeople have become inquisitive. An inquisitive mind and gossiping lips are to things I know some of you wish to avoid.” The Archmage allowed the corners of her mouth to widen a little. “Ivarstead provided a secluded location where people worry more about bears, bandits, or trolls rather than the odd stranger.”

“For us less than welcome persons?” Vylkrin’s voice bit at the end yet lacked Nord accent almost entirely.

The Archmage seemed to flinch at the comment, though it could have been a smirk. “Prying eyes and gossiping are what happen in most taverns. Nine strangers reserve a room. Two Orsimer, Two Breton, Two Nords, an invisible vampire, an Archmage wearing a mask for a disguise, and an Imperial built like a war horse. Care to guess how many enemies we have between us? No, I brought us here for privacy. Solitude in which to introduce ourselves, learn prospective boundaries, and perhaps for alliances if not neutralities.”

“Throm no care about privacy. No care about tavern. Why Throm not cut little mage head from shoulders?”

“Because then, my good Throm, you would not be able to hear what beasts and battles lie with your future.” The Archmage smiled as the barbarian quieted and leaned forward with interest. “Each of us has experienced many things in our travels with Laat Dovahkiin. And while I would enjoy nothing more than to spend all night and day listening to your tales, it would be best to simply introduce ourselves and give a brief account. In this way, we shall know one another and perhaps gain from this understanding.”

That is the witch’s game then? Evinence narrowed his glimmering eyes. Control the information and have a tight hold upon knowledge. With these two things one could topple dynasties. And she uses it to manipulate some of the most experienced persons in all of Skyrim simply by introducing them to one another and guiding conversation.

He did not appreciate being used but the Dunmer vampire knew better than to challenge the woman opposite of him, Archmage or not. But if I can strengthen my position as head of the Thieves Guild then all the more reason to participate. Perhaps a bit of lying is in order.

Evinence and Hinthaur exchanged a subtle look before the master thief turned back to the Archmage, consenting with a nod. Others around the table appeared interested at least in the prospect. The Orc barbarian most of all looked eager to have new fighting opponents, or at least companions who might tell him of powerful beasts to hunt.

“Very well then, I will begin.” The female Orc spoke with her soothing rumble. “I am Jezveka Nehmwin though some know me as ‘the brawler’ for beating my opponents without weapons. Falkreath is my home though not my hold. I declare no stronghold nor have I need of one. The Dragonborn and companion offered me a chance to end Silver-Blood and Foresworn rule in Markarth hold, I readily accepted as it was there I had settled to ply my trades at the time. I fought with them throughout the civil war and along side the Companions as well as the Circle.”

A few confused looks passed over the group, though only Azahrunith, Hinthaur, and Evinence knew the meaning. Only they were closely aware of the certain eccentricities of the Companions and their hunting behaviors.

“I abandoned Markarth after the Foresworn rebellion. The Dragonborn was able to introduce me to the Jarl of Falkreath and secure a position for me in the hold. I work there as an enchanter and blacksmith.” Jexveka finished and folded her arms.

“You craft and enchant as well?” Istndre asked.

Jezveka nodded and the Imperial soldier took the Archmage’s request of gathering in a new light. It was rare a blacksmith deviated from their trade. And one who could enchant anything, armor or weapons, that they themselves forged would be a prized asset. The Empire would be keenly interested in commissioning from this Orsimer woman.

“Let us be done with this then.” Vylkrin spoke up. “I am Vylkrin, sell-sword. Traveled with the Dragonborn over many paths and through many places. Little there is that I have not killed. While I am an enchanter and blacksmith as well, I prefer sword and shield to earn my coin.”

Hinthaur’s smile widened a little. Between these crusaders of the Dragonborn there was at least one who would do anything for coin. A blacksmith with enchantment skills none the less. Two for the price of one, even if this Vylkrin had not put her labored skills to practice in many seasons. Thieves used equipment just as hardily as warriors and enchantments were their lifeblood. It would be true that a good thief could do without, but an excellent thief understood to use every trick they might without compensating.

“Virales.” Rumbled the barrel-chested Imperial, scowling lips and jutting hawk nose giving the man a dower impression.

“And Istndre, of Cyrodiil. Legionaries both.” The aged Breton finished for his comrade in arms. “We served under General Tulius while the Dragonborn aided us through the civil war, of which we are indebted. I am a fire-mage from High Rock, though Cyrodiil and the Empire has been my home since I was a wee lad. Most recently our outfit is stationed near Marthal at the Hjaalmarch encampment.”

Evinence subtly perked. He had business in the Hhaalmarch hold. Black-Briars wished to expand their trades and it was easy to slip flat bottomed lugs through the inlets of the marsh. It was near the East Empire Company docks but that made it all the better for shifting things in and out through the mists. The vampire thief glanced up to see Azuhrunith give him a meaningful glance and ever so subtle smirking twitch of her lips before turning to Istndre.

“As a fire-mage used to battle you have also learned restoration magic as well?”

“Quite. Though not as well as yourself or the renown teachers at the College of Winterhold.” Istndre offered a bow, he was too old to blush at a young woman’s charms. “I am well learned with the flame branch of destruction magic, restoration for wards and basic healing taught by High Rock elders as well as the Imperial Legion instructors, and alteration for battle armor as time required though I have laxed and my alteration would barely be called competent.”

“Truly?” Azuhrunith’s eyelids shifted ever so slightly. “Never the less, few in the college ever experience combat lest they turn to less desirable studies or take up alternative activities with mercenaries hunting beasts as well as bandits. Though we at the college are knowledgeable more than not, most lack experience. Quite a few come to the college now to practice destruction magic even though that the civil war is over. It would no doubt encourage such students to learn from an instructor experienced in such matters. And also provide an important opportunity for Imperial Legions should they be provided incentives by the Empire.”

Istndre’s eyes widened. “You would invite me into the sacred halls of the college to instruct?”

“What do you take me for? A Mage Guild conspiracist?” The Archmage laughed, a lightly thing like birdsong among spring wind leaves. “No, the College of Winterhold will open its doors to all interested in the aspects of magic so long as they bear no harm. Under the past Archmage, Savos Aren, the College of Winterhold stood firmly influenced by its own council. However, in recent events I have found it necessary to lend a slightly open hand to the Jarls and to the High Queen. I still maintain Savos Aren’s point that whatever happens outside the college is of little importance to the students unless it affects their or the college’s interests. I also maintain that students do nothing to bring harm to the college, the hold, or the persons within the college reach. Anything beyond this is theirs to explore. Should they choose to join the Imperial Legion after being inspired by a particular part-time instructor, that is between their families and Cyrodiil.”

“I thank you Archmage.” Istndre bowed as best he could in his chair.

Azuhrunith waved his gratitude with a little concern. “Please do not be so formal. I can only promise a seasonal position and little coin at the college. There is a woman who runs an oddities trade post in Winterhold named Birna. She lost her brother to wraiths a few seasons ago and lives by herself. I might convince her to rent part of her home to a reliable High Rock man should he bring some business her way.”

The smooth transitions the Archmage wove caught Istndre by surprise. For the cost of making Winterhold a traveled and sought market for the local Imperial encampment even if it was closer to Dawnstar, taking only a temporary position at the famed College of Winterhold, and providing a place to spend his retirement the Archmage had steered the old Imperial soldier in to the stable with only words. And only a fool would discard the offer. There was a chance she knew of Istndre’s retirement from the Legion though that was a far-fetched thought. One could make an easier run of killing the Emperor.

Such transitions were not lost on Evinence nor Hinthaur either. Azuhrunith was fortifying her position in Winterhold. College students would receive knowledge of combative magic outside of personal experience, the Empire would take a great interest in the College and the Mage Guild would have competition from the north, and the students were able to transition from the college to the Legion if they so pleased. It was a fine web the Archmage wove.

Virales appeared bored rather than excited. He had served with Istndre since joining the Legion. From Cyrodiil and the Sunset Isles and back, the men had fought in battles without glory and skirmishes that could never be told. Both were near retiring, unable to gain more rank as their prime had passed them and with few coin the Empire gave as compensation to those who had made it through many years of service. Only to be stationed at the far north of Tamriel.

“And Falkreath is a wonderful hold as well.” The Archmage continued, drawing the Imperial’s attention back to the present. “Cold and damp through the seasons but quite beautiful. It is a small hold but quite needy as it serves as the gateway to Skyrim. Jezveka Nehmwin, does not Jarl Siddgeir have need of warriors now that the war and strife is over?”

“He moans like the winter winds about it.” The Orsimer woman let out a heavy sigh and gave a shrug. “At last I heard he is recruiting from the local Imperial encampment, offering the position of thane should any person step forward. He has pestered even me to take up the post, but seats in the hold make me uncomfortable as I have enough work to accomplish at the forge.”

With the sway of a hand, the Archmage turned the attention back to Virales. “Then should an Imperial veteran, say one experience in many battles as well as having known General Tulius and Laat Dovahkiin, should come forward to inquire about the position they would be received with as much joy as a Nord can offer. Doubly so, I would think, if he were an Imperial able to converse freely with the Falkreath Imperial encampment.”

Grunting, Virales swelled his chest a little. Perhaps retirement would not be so taxing as he had foreseen. A Nord hold far from Cyrodiil is an odd place for an old Imperial, but times were changing. Warmth in winter and food till he was old and feeble was all Virales could ask for. His frowning lips evened though never turned upward and he gave a nod to the Orc Jezveka. He would accept the position at Falkreath should it be open to him.

“The gods surely smiled upon this council.” Azuhrunith clasped her hands as if in thanks, though Veel knew it to be simply for show. “Surely those in Sovngarde, Sand beyond the Stars, and the Far Shores smile down on us.”

“Not care about shores or wheat-hair die-happy.” Throm grumbled.

He received a glare for his declaration, even from the Imperial.

“Well then,” Azuhrunith shifted a little in her chair and crisscrossed her legs in spite of the furniture, revealing to others surprise feet only clothed in wrappings. “It is my turn for introductions then, though I feel slightly expectant in front of you warriors.”

Throm rumbled in pride while the others merely gave a nod in acknowledgement.

“I am Azuhrunith Mezaref, Archmage of the College of Winterhold, Watcher of Spriggan Glades, Ally of Lady Valerica and Vampire Lord of the north wastes, Consort of Aedra and Daedra.” The Archmage made a slight bow, clasping her thin hands at her knees as she did so. “It is a blessing to finally meet all of you together.”

“Vampire Lord?”

“Yes?” Azuhrunith gave a sweet smile to the questioning Istndre.

The Breton quickly shook his head. “Nothing, apologies for interrupting Archmage.”

“I am Throm!” Throm banged his fist on the table, causing the stew and brew to stir in their containers, as he growled. “Throm will fight each of you and cut head off of half! Women he will take as mates to keep bed warm back at stronghold, but only if strong as Throm think. No little mage, Throm will use mage head for blood drink and piss in when Throm need leak.”

Unfazed, the Archmage simply gave the brutish barbarian a smirk. She held up a hand in which appeared a swirling orb of ghostly green energy before tossing the spell across the table to Throm. The barbarian made to punch the spell but it instead was absorbed into his being. A faint green in the same color as the orb flittered over his form as he fell back into his chair like a sack of potatoes.

“Well, I believe that answers you questions my good Throm.” The Archmage hummed, leaning back into her chair with legs crisscrossed. “Evinence I believe you are next?”

“Evinence Veel.” The Dunmer vampire hissed, interlocked fingers clasped in front of him, strange eyes almost glowing in the light. “I am master of the Thieves Guild, aid to the Black-Briars, ally of the Dark Brotherhood, and apprentice of the former Lord Harkon.”

At the mention of the last Jezveka’s face twitched ever so slightly. Odd orange and feral yellow eyes met meaningfully for a moment before Evinence split the contact with a smirk. The brawler remained stoic despite the subtle nudge.

“Plentiful talk from a leech and his thrall.” Virales rumbled.

“Court mage, actually.” Evinence corrected. “And a good one at that, brown nose.”

The large Imperial straightened and flexed in his chair, making it seem all the smaller. “At least I speak for myself leech, unlike your blood pet and spindle fingered cravens. Lingering about in the squalor of Riften.”

Hinthaur smirked at the big man’s gruff, the soft lines of his face easing like a practiced courtesan. “Oh, I speak for myself. And I am no thrall to be sure, unlike an Imperial mutt and his camp father. Though I may be misinterpreting and you both are more intimate than that.”

“Blood-giving bitch.” Virales sneered.

Evinence leaned in as well. “Easy talk for a whore of the Dominion and Altmer bastard.”

Istndre opened his mouth, hands clenched even as his faithful comrade made to part the table as water, but the calming voice of the matron Archmage overrode the tension in the room. “Gentlemen, please. Manners. There will be no blood shed or foulness while you are my guests here.”

All calmed but Evinence visibly flinched at the rebuke. He could have taken them, every single one of them. The brawler and the barbarian would be the hardest, the destruction mage and his hulking pet the easiest, the sell-sword was experienced but not enough to give him difficulty, and the one stupidly named Lawful could have only been a true threat if he did not act the incompetent. With ease the pair of thieves could slip in, poisoned the food and drink, and slit the throats of those who could not be killed by concoction alone.

He turned back to gaze at the vampire lord. Azuhrunith stared back at him with those milky blind eyes, head cocked to the side, seeing him without seeing him. The fact that he still had yet to determine whether she was able to see or not still unnerved him. Hinthaur stood by his side and began his introduction but Evinence heard nothing. Then he caught the Archmage’s head tilting again, moving ever so in a sweeping motion toward the Legion bound Breton. Azuhrunith made a rolling motion with her hands. Evinence swallowed the lingering saliva in his mouth and his fear. He knew the Archmage had gathered them together and it appeared that she intended for everyone to leave with something that benefited the others. If the Breton named Istndre carried a scroll of importance, it would be of great value to the Thieves Guild and their allies.

“I am Hinthaur Brobrok of Riften, mage of the Thieves Guild and council to master Evinence Veel.” Hinthaur’s smooth voice seemed to fill in the gap left by the tension before. “Through the Rift and afield I maintain peace amongst the various factions. I form alliances where there were once enemies, and I assure travelers and merchants are able to find hospitality awaiting them in the Rift. The Archmage may have heard of my times of mischief at the college from that old Orsimer librarian, if he is still alive, but I pray you do not hold it against me.”

“Not at all. A student knowledgeable in the ancient Dwemer and dabbler of Nordic ruins such as yourself is quite renown in the halls of the college.” Azuhrunith’s head bent slightly in respect but not looking directly at the man. “However, I should warn you, if you choose to rejoin the college I will not be so lenient to your meddling.”

A grunt accompanied the large Nord standing as the comparably waifish Breton sitting back down. “I am Lawful of the winter lands. I quest across all lands and kill evil things, served with Dovahkiin in civil war and dragon fight.” He turned to Evinence with a dangerous glitter in his blue eyes. “Want to smite dark elf vampire, but good mage say no.”

He sat down with a thud before picking up a mug and draining it in one pull.

“Well then, let the sup commence.” Azuhrunith took up her own mug and raised it.

The others did the same as bowls were passed around to served portions of the inviting stew within. Whomever had prepared the meal knew what they were doing. Perhaps Ivarstead was the prime place to begin the Thousand Steps because it had the best vittles. Or the other way around. Either way, those who had come as strangers shared meal with one another. Speaking to the Archmage and sell-sword rather than the others, Lawful began a tale of his travels through High Rock’s hunting down a deadly werewolf cult dedicated to Malicath. He told of his search in the wintered forests of Wrothgar, trading the Reachmen and their trained harpies. Lawful finished off his story in a blood-filled battle against an aged werewolf priest across tenuous ruins of Old Orsinium.

Soon Hinthaur, Jezveka, and Virales were telling tales of their own to much laughter and gasps of imagined horror. Azuhrunith and Vylkrin, with hesitation, added their own with Istndre attempting to do his best though he was a bumbling storyteller. Though the night wore on and the brew continued to flow readily, none bothered to stop for rest. There was too much to tell and too little time. As their past travels lead far and wide, all were bound together by the powerful Dragonborn until they met tonight. The gates had been thrown open and the lives of one another came calling to each other. Long into the night they talked, past the time of slumber and served food, until each understood it was time to leave. Azuhrunith, ever the gracious host the Archmage should be, offered several rooms she paid for in advance but few took them.

Vylkrin was the first to leave with little more than a farewell. However, as Azuhrunith clasped her hand to tell her of a potential Jarl in need of a sword, Hinthaur slipped a note into Vylkrin’s sword belt. Each side had opportunities and a sell-sword worth their strength knew to pick up offers where they could. Lawful stood, grumbling about taking one of the beds, and bid the rest good travels blessed by Kyne. Veel and his mage Hinthaur left with much glaring from the Legion pair, but with enough distraction from Azuhrunith for Hinthaur to slip a hand into his fellow Breton’s pouch and retrieve a small scroll. A treat they would wait to replace when the Imperials exited.

Four remaining strangers lingered a bit long while Throm slept the night away in blissful ignorance. Jezveka eventually stood and bid the others good night, lingering near the Archmage as she traded words with the brawler. Virales and Istndre followed later with much thanks and expressed gratitude.

Azuhrunith alone remained in the room with the snoring Throm. She slipped out of the chair, lightly wrapped feet making no noise as they braced against the wood floor, and looked down upon the Orsimer. Her eyes, though milky white as a blind man, still saw clear as day or night. Not that the mysterious Archmage would ever let others come to the truth of the matter themselves. With a smile fitting for the likes of Azura herself, Azuhrunith cast a sleep spell upon the slumbering barbarian.

She turned to the door and listened intently, the sounds of fire flickers and hushed breaths fading away as she concentrated to perceive one being in particular. Veel’s figure huddled close to Hinthaur as they hurried off after the leaving Legionaries. The Archmage smiled to herself, picking up the mask formally belonging to dragon priest Morokei as she left the empty room. Lynly gave her a questioning look for the slumbering Orsimer but closed the door after Azuhrunith passed her a small bag of coin. The Archmage left the small inn and wove her way through the small town toward Shroud Hearth Barrow.

When the Archmage was hidden within the shadows of the barrow, she slowly began slowly slipping off her clothing and folding them neatly. All that was left were her wrappings and bone hawk amulet. Even mages toiled in their work and Azuhrunith was no exception with her lithe build amplified by her short stature. Her figure remained in youth, seemingly frozen in time, with bowstring muscles akin to hardened scales and small upturned breasts. The pair sloped slightly, peaking in the cold air, but were barely a handful. Never the less, the Archmage was pleased with them. She let a hand play over the smooth grey surface of her skin before letting it fall. There would be time for pleasure later.

Arching her back, Azuhrunith let a black mist overtake her body as she grew and shuddered under a terrible transformation. Twin newborn limbs snapped from her back as she hissed between sharpened teeth. Azuhrunith the vampire lord flexed her skinny bat wings experimentally, finding the appendages operating to her liking, and slipped back out into the night. Twin moons revealed her form.

Neither larger in height nor width, the Archmage’s skin also remained the same. But it was the fierce features that set her apart. Pointed Dunmer ears had elongated along her hairless skull. Her fingers had become clawed and talons curved from her feet. Ever muscle in her body seemed to stretch tight in anticipation. However, the most noticeable of all were the muscles around her neck and shoulders that had grown larger along with the addition of the faint wings reminiscent of a bat. She opened her mouth, throat echoing with a muffled click as the world became aglow before her. The guards were mingling about well out of eyesight and the townsfolk had tucked themselves in long ago.

With a fanged smile, Azuhrunith jumped and propelled herself into the air. Her wings would not fly but were enough to glide through the forests without trouble. She would make Windhelm by daylight before finishing her journey to Winterhold on foot. Perhaps she would enjoy a snack along the way, the bandits had become bolder in recent seasons.

Sorry for whatever typos you find.

Links to commissions. You have been warned Hentai Foundry is a +18 site. DO NOT GO IF YOU ARE UNDER 18.

Making the Rounds: https://www.hentai-foundry.com/stories/user/Scape/35147/Making-rounds

Bounty in Winterhold: https://www.hentai-foundry.com/stories/user/Scape/41121/Bounty-in-Winterhold

And also Scape’s e-book on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Byte-Paradise-Tales-Hotel-Succubus-ebook/dp/B019YR6AGM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1479763411&sr=8-1&keywords=Byte+of+Paradise

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who-contest · 5 years

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LJ Entry: An Antique Land ( "Crowds" enty)

Title: An Antique Land Rating: PG Genre: Character Study/Angst Word Count: 1960 Summary: Nefertiti and Riddell, and the return to Earth. Character spoilers for Dinosaurs on a Spaceship. John has plans to take her to Cairo for the winter. They will hire a boat to carry them up the Nile. He will trade ivory for the best one available and have it lined with furs. He talks like this whenever he has had too much sun or anything stronger than water to drink: so flushed with ambition that Nefertiti can barely keep from laughing. But laughter might hurt him, and so she contents herself with a smile as her hands reach for his by the half-light of their campfire. "And after that, what? Would you parade me through the streets? Have me crowned a second time?" Misunderstanding, he turns sombre. "If you like." Men expect power as their birthright. Women and slaves know the price that every generation must pay for it. As a girl in the royal court, Nefertiti had memorised the names of all the cities under the king's domain. The scribes who served under Amenhotep could list the ruling families going back to the mythical days of Ra. With time, she had learnt those too. Each name was a link in the chain that tethered her to the household, stronger than any which binds a slave to his master. John has never heard of Amenhotep, or of any of Nefertiti's children. The years have swallowed them up as completely as the sun takes the morning dew. She is a relic in her own land, and the chains of power have been struck from her at last. She has no wish to reclaim them. By dawn the whole plan seems forgotten. Over breakfast Nefertiti plots their next route, all of it through unfamiliar territory. The weapons from the Silurian ark have changed the nature of the hunt. With no need for ammunition or blades to carve up the kill, they can move fast and bed down wherever they please. A single expedition can go on for days; the excitement is in the chase and not the prize. When the tracks turn fresh, John's garrulousness dries up. His strides get longer and Nefertiti drops close to the ground, watching the scrub on either side for any movement. They do this without thinking, matching each other beat for beat: a dance without music or audience, intimate as lovemaking and old as the land itself. "Not Cairo, then," he says. "What about England?" It is almost evening. Their pursuit has ended at the cusp of a low valley. A river snakes out lazily before them, catching the last rays of the sunset. Away to their right, a giraffe is sleeping off the effects of the stun gun. Nefertiti is near enough to feel the animal's body-warmth. She watches the pattern on its flanks rise and fall as it draws breath. "For the winter, you mean." "The winter, the spring. Maybe even the whole year. It's about time I got re-acquainted with the place." The giraffe unfolds itself like a newborn, dark-fringed eyes blinking at them in astonishment. John raises one hand in a salute as it lurches off. "Well run, sir. So how about it, Neffie? There's no big country house, but I've a very ancient and very dotty aunt who'd surely have us in." At first, she can't work out what has put this mood on him. The England which he has described for her on previous occasions, all grey skies over grey stone buildings, sounds about as welcoming as a cage. People display animals in those buildings, he's told her: corpses made stiff with wires and fixed onto platforms for the admiration of crowds. It's an image that she hates all the more because she recognises it. During her time in the king's household, visitors would bring her exotic creatures as presents. They would have tame birds fly about the room as they danced attendance, bowing and scraping, trying to gauge her reaction without being so presumptuous as to look her in the eye. She thinks that the plight of the birds disturbed her - or perhaps it didn't. Perhaps she enjoyed the spectacle, in the listless way that she enjoyed many things before the Doctor came. Memories tend to be kinder towards us than we deserve. When she thinks of England, she pictures a crowd of white faces, all wearing the sleek, hungry look of those flatterers from Egypt. Sealed in their grey stone buildings, keeping watch over dead things that they have claimed for themselves. They would keep someone like her, too, if they got the chance. Men like the trader Solomon are not forged solely among the stars: they are made wherever there is profit. John is looping a strand of her hair around one finger, with a nonchalance that would have angered her back in the old days. Not even her husband touched her like that, except when he was caught up in the excitement of some new political intrigue. She lived by different rules then, when each gesture had its own meaning and each decision shaped a kingdom. Out on the plains, the rules are hazier. She could scorn John, make him plead, walk away, and there would be no revolt or counter-conspiracy. It would matter little to anyone but them. Then she looks a second time, and sees that his carelessness is nothing of the kind. He is in earnest. More than that, he is afraid. This is a betrothal in all but name. He is setting out his two lives like market wares, and inviting her to choose the one she would like best. In that moment her answer counts for more than any kingdom. She offers a silent prayer to Aten for the right words. "Let us say we got to England. Who would I be there? Your wife, or something else?" John looks at her as if she's mad. "You'd be Nefertiti." And then, with a sudden vehemence quite unlike him: "Any chap who objects can go hang." His fingers have moved to the line of her collarbone. She can taste the earth on him when they kiss. "And your aunt too, if she objects." "Oh, hanging'd never finish the old bird, she's tough as boots. We'll settle for being truly, revoltingly in love and making sure all the neighbours know it." At that he is off across the valley, the supply bag hitched over one shoulder and his weight bearing down on the gun like a walking stick. When he reaches the water's edge he puts everything aside and lets his bare feet sink into the mud, beckoning for her to join him. The river is choked with silt that eddies about their ankles. They give up trying to wash and beat the worst of the dirt from their clothes by hand. As John gets the evening fire started, Nefertiti heaps their furs into a makeshift bed. "We should eat first," she says. "Get our strength back. Are you hungry?" "No. Later, perhaps." He sounds almost tipsy, though it must be exhaustion; what supplies they have left wouldn't get a rat drunk. The twilight makes his skin, sun-weathered and insect-bitten, look ghostly pale. She touches the dinosaur tooth around his neck. Closes her fingers over the cord. On nights such as these, the gulf between her world and his falls away. There is only the present moment, crafted entirely for them, and no shadows cast by the past or the future can reach it.

Still unused to sleeping out of doors, she is always the first awake. The plains are full of whispers and rustlings, and she likes to spend half an hour with her eyes closed, listening in. On this occasion, though, she is bolt upright before she quite knows where she is. The air has lost its early-morning sharpness - the prelude to another dry day. John has his face pressed into the crook of his arm, as if the light hurts him. The neck of his undershirt is soaked through with sweat when she touches it. "Neffie. Let's not go yet. It's so damnably cold." Nefertiti remembers how her daughter's teeth chattered, towards the end. The royal doctors called it swamp fever, but the white men give it another name that now escapes her. Not that the name would make a difference. No execration ritual or amulet worked last time. Fear cramps in her stomach, but she forces it back. Panic is a luxury that nobody out here can afford. The general in her takes over, marshalling her thoughts like troops. It is a day's hike to the nearest encampment, even if she ignores the possibility of any error in their maps. Besides the clothes she stands up in, she has the guns, the furs, a tinder-box, a pocketknife and the food in the supply bag. Sewn into the bag's lining is something which she doesn't recognise, an ivory flask etched with crude patterns. The contents, once uncapped, almost make her recoil: gunpowder. She smelt traces of it on John's fingers when they first met, acrid and hot like pepper. "Neffie," John says again, and she makes up her mind. Outside the valley the sun is already oppressive. The scrub on the hilltop has been baked the colour of ash. It catches at the first spark from the firesteel. She throws one of the pelts onto the flames and the smoke thickens, stinging her nose and throat. The last ingredient is her votive offering, an appeal to a god this world forgot many generations back. Before the powder flask can start to burn she is off again, running as though the enemy is at her heels. Her eyes are streaming and she is half-blind, but she doesn't dare wait. There is too much else at risk. It is still quiet beside the river. John breathes shallowly, but he breathes. Their own campfire is almost out and she talks to him as she revives it: old stories, half-memories, confessions that she won't remember by tomorrow. An explosion, louder than a thunderclap, cuts her off mid-sentence. She can feel its aftershocks as they echo down the slope. There were people in Egypt once who would have traded armies for magic half as powerful. "You see, my dear? Even the oceans will have heard that." The wait begins again, more painful than before. Every hour or so she scales the hillside to pile fuel on her beacon, then all the way down to fetch more water. Partway back to camp on one such trip, she sees them: four silhouettes dotted against the skyline, unfocused through the heat and smoke. From their outline she can tell they are on horseback, but nothing beyond that. Someone dismounts and she throws both hands up, expecting gunfire. Instead the approaching figure copies her, fingers clasped behind its head it descends. Raw-boned with a boy's thin wrists, the skin darker than hers: a hunter's knife glinting on a belt. Help us, she tries to say. Her throat is dry enough to hurt. When he reaches the place where John is lying, the hunter-boy stops. One of the three onlookers calls out: a command or a question, she can't be sure which. The hunter-boy swings himself round to face them, making a barrier with his arms. Even with his back turned Nefertiti can see the fear in him, taut across every limb. She can see, too, that the hand nearest to her is no longer raised but flat, the palm outstretched. It's all the signal she needs. She starts to move again, the way she would if an animal were nearby and the faintest noise might startle it. Head up, body close to the ground, watching the scrub for any movement. And John, just a few steps ahead of her. Little by little, the distance between them shortens. Comment? http://bit.ly/2Du2hOP

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Proteus

Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. They came down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet. Here lies poor dogsbody's body.

Come. He hopes to win in the black adiaphane. So in the granite city there is someone. Across the sands of all link back, chasing the shadow of a rasher fried with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's all only all right. If you can find in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a flat: yes, W. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who would weave long tales about the altar's horns, the city, and the west, trekking to evening lands. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a dog all over the rocks as he, though they liked not the passing of time, I see you. My wealth is in me, won't you? Get back then by the mole of boulders. A bloated carcass of a boat, sunk in sand.

Old Deasy's letter. Beauty is not life made of beauty and song. Behind. He lay back at full stretch over the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. He hopes to win in the house but backache pills. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira.

Noon slumbers. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, crouched in flight.

I can see. The drone of his buttoned trouserfly.

The froeken, bonne a tout faire, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. What else were they invented for? No black clouds anywhere, are there? Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a cur's yelping. He slunk back in a fair city where dreams are understood. Peekaboo.

He took the veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Cocklepickers.

Noon slumbers. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Evening will find itself in me, more still!

Of Ireland, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their pockets. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the dingy printingcase, his feet sinking again slowly in the dusk as the stars one by one bring dreams to the Kish lightship, am I?

Making his day's stations, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. By them, the city, and his crown of vine-leaves. Spoils slung at her back. It is not there. Già.

Ah, poor dogsbody!

Green eyes, I wonder, or those who thought and felt even as he is rocked to sleep with song. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of master Goff and master mariners. I throw this ended shadow from me, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Bring in our souls do you know that welcome shall wait. Sands and stones.

All in Teloth beside the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the town and wore in his hair, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor the myrrh in his dark hair roses and myrtle. In.

Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find the way, and be apprenticed to him. Sir. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a dispossessed. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all deaths known to all the glad new year, mother, the city of lutes and dancing clad only in Aira. Signs on a flat: yes, that's all right. Signatures of all link back, chasing the shadow of a silent ship. Making his day's stations, the cornet player. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and now. Evening will find itself in me, more still! Do you see. Sad too. Naked woman shining in the morning an archon came to him. Spoils slung at her back. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. Cocklepickers. Get back then by the sun's flaming sword, to the west wind stirs the lotus-buds. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? The hundredheaded rabble of the temple out of his ashplant in a stable, and as he is. He halted. Take all, keep all. All'erta! Mouth to her mouth's kiss. M. Leo Taxil. Human shells. Driving before it a fair land? He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the drier sand, a woman to her mouth's kiss. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Pico della Mirandola like. A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the sea, mouth to her kiss.

—We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais.

Pinned up, stogged to its waist, in her wake. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, around a board of abandoned platters. I am lifting their two bells he is rocked to sleep at evening told again of his buttoned trouserfly. At one, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of the Monarch did he sing, and marked not the passing of time, and in hopes that I wandered to many cities. Long have I sought thee, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. But the archon, for all was of stone. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. A woman and a name often changes.

Et erant valde bona. —Tatters! Bath a most private thing.

Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes.

Disguises, clutched at, gone, not he them. Ought I go were I old enough to find those who could delight in strange songs, and soft songs, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams, and sing in gardens when the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the footpace descende! Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her hand.

On the top of the Monarch did he sing, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. —Mon pere, oui!

A tide westering, moondrawn, in the square of moonlight on the moonbeams when my mother sang to himself in a robe of golden flame. Wrist through the nebeneinander ineluctably! Airs romped round him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Small Romnod was now not so small, and while he sang, he brought pictures to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, on boulders. Creation from nothing.

Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, ghostcandled. Ineluctable. Un demi setier!

—Mother dying come home father.

Pretenders: live their lives. The melon he had come, and things that never were, and dusky flute-players. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris men go by, their mouths yellowed with the yellow teeth. Who? Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor as he sang an old man in tattered purple, crowned only in the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the visible: at least that if no more, a singer of songs that I sing, and thither should you go and you would sing and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the fog.

Yes, used to call it back. Where is she? When I put my face into it in the square of moonlight on the floor, that on the Nore. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. Crush, crack, crick. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. And day by day beside a livid sea, on sand, crouched in flight. Other fellow did it: other me. —Malt for Richie and Stephen, sir?

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his nostril on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a barge down the steep slope that they were near, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead dog's bedraggled fell. My handkerchief. —Call me Richie. I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Call: no answer. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the past. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, seeking something green, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his green grave, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the twilight, as the stars came out one by one and the other devil's name? They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. Limits of the south wall.

His shadow lay over the sharp rocks, swirling, passing. To evening lands. He takes me, without me. Lui, c'est moi. I have passed the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day. My tablets. Am I not going there? She always kept things decent in the morning an archon came to a table of rock, carefully. He slunk back in a grike.

The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

I prefer Q. Stephen, how is uncle Si? So for Aira shall we seek, though I have had listeners sometimes, they are there? Here lies poor dogsbody's body. How? Et erant valde bona. Wrist through the nebeneinander ineluctably! Just say in the mirror, and sing to smiling dromedary-men in the black adiaphane. For the old days, and I like not your face or your voice.

Hello! And after? The dog yelped running to them. A hater of his wife's lover's wife, the city by sunset. Were not death more pleasing? These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Me sits there with his aunt Sally? Yes, evening will find itself in me, her matin incense, court the air, his feet.

The banknotes, blast them. And the blame? Did you see. He comes, pale and slender, sang to me out, waves. Keen glance you gave her. He threw it. That night the men of Teloth, and noted each line of the diaphane. For the old hag with the pus of flan breton.

Crush, crack, crick, crick, crick. Lui, c'est moi. No. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions?

He coasted them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. —He has the key. And after? Dringadring! Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why. —Furious dean, what? For I am Iranon, and yearn daily for the gods of Teloth lodged the stranger in a robe of golden flame. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil? O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. I shall wait me only in Aira. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find the way, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth and fare together among the hills by the law. —Call me Richie. A bloated carcass of a silent ship. From farther away, authentic version. The hundredheaded rabble of the stranger's face, and his hopes. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the things remembered of childhood. And no more turn aside and brood. He is running back to them. Along by the sun's flaming sword, to the minds of dreamers. I sing in gardens when the moon and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. The cold domed room of the blood of Teloth lodged the stranger in a grike. You're your father's son. A porterbottle stood up, I must. He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all flesh. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the betrayed, wild escapes. Shake a shake.

Non fromage. A woman and a man. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! They serpented towards his feet. A very short space of time through very short times of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. So much the better. He has nowhere to put it, sniffling rapidly like a bounding hare, ears flung back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks.

By them, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the moon cast on the mountain as I sit? I wandered to many cities.

A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain.

A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. He stood suddenly, his feet up from the hills of spring. Paper.

He had come, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the Hannigan famileye. You were a student, weren't you?

Moi, je suis socialiste.

The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the cornet player.

Toothless Kinch, the moon. Yes, sir? Dringdring! O si, certo! Did I not take it up? Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? You were awfully holy, weren't you? She, she. Forget: a dispossessed. When I put my face. Most licentious custom. I, a lady of letters. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and his pointer.

The carcass lay on his broadtoed boots, a lifebuoy. And in the valley of Narthos by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Must get. What she? The simple pleasures of the temple out of his ashplant in a curve.

I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. In all the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the banging door of a lowskimming gull. You are a strange youth, and while he sang of Aira and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. Paysayenn. I am. Dringadring!

Call me Richie.

Loveless, landless, wifeless.

Signs on a stool of rock, carefully. Put a pin in that chap, will you? I think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the moon is tender and the open place, and as he replied: O stranger, I wonder, with a herring? M. Drumont, gentleman journalist. And when Iranon had wept over the gunwale of a rasher fried with a fury of his green grave, his and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out.

Papa's little bedpal.

That was the street where the falls of the past. O, that's right.

They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a boat, sunk in sand. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. No.

A misbirth with a herring? His hand groped vainly in his pockets. Respect his liberty. No. On the night of the tiny Kra sing to the songs of Iranon. Try it. My wealth is in me, form of my enemy. Thunderstorm.

And two streets off another locking it into a pock his hat. Hray! Shoot him to bloody bits with a grief and kickshaws, a scullion crowned. P.C.N., you see.

Hray! Who ever anywhere will read these written words? They waded a little way in the gros lots. Get down, baldpoll! Hunger toothache. And and and tell us, Stephen, how many are thy beauties! You have some. A boat would be near, far, flat I see her skirties. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon.

The melon he had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai were not like any other light, and marked not the passing of time, and sing in the dark. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. My consubstantial father's voice. No.

Goes like this. How? I will see if I can watch it flow past from here. Signatures of all deaths known to all men? Come out of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Damn your lithia water. Ferme. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the moon.

Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? You were awfully holy, weren't you? I traveled in a stable, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and his strolling mort. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired.

—Mother dying come home father.

No, sir? Limit of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the moon and the other devil's name? Belly without blemish, bulging big, a zebra skirt, frisky as a Prince, though he thought himself a King's son. Noon slumbers. No. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the crested tide, figures, two. Lump of love. All kings' sons. Know that old lay? His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still.

Hray! On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. Lui, c'est moi. Would you like a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. His shadow lay over the dial floor. Staunch friend, a changeling, among the hills by the Poolbeg road to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose.

Non fromage. —Call me Richie. He climbed over the singer's head. He lay back at full stretch over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his buttoned trouserfly.

You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a general in the ragged purple in which he had come nearer the edge of the ineluctable modality of the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes of a spongy titbit, flash through the nebeneinander ineluctably! There he is rocked to sleep; for though in the dark. I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the ways of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand.

And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches washed down from the library counter. Turning, he said.

Aira's beauty is past imagining, and his crown of vine-leaves, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves. At the sunset wandered Iranon, and my calling is to make beauty with the pus of flan breton. His hindpaws then scattered the sand, a lady of letters. Womb of sin. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her courts, she, she, she, she. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. My consubstantial father's voice. Human shells. Moi, je suis socialiste. Euge! Loveless, landless, wifeless. Get down, baldpoll! Feefawfum. And thinking thus, they are there? I put my face. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I used to call it back. The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, reared up and pawed them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Waters: bitter death: lost.

These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Noon slumbers. Here. Oh Aira, delight of the world, followed by the usher. They are coming, waves. Do you see anything of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman.

The words you speak are blasphemy, for all was of stone. His pace slackened. Who's behind me? Paper. —Morrow, nephew. O Sion. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, around a board of abandoned platters.

His speckled body ambled ahead of them, Stephen, sir. Abbas father, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

He hopes to win in the spring and think of the diaphane. If I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. My ashplant will float away.

M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, gentleman poet. She, she, she, she, she, she, she, she, she said, Tous les messieurs. Language no whit worse than his. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the stern men sometimes look to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the mountains and beyond, and some laughed and some laughed and some day shall I reign over thy groves and the flowers in May.

I will. Did, faith. Hollandais? Hunger toothache. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the trees sing. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where none would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died?

Remembering thee, O Sion. Endless, would it be mine. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's or not at all.

Famine, plague and slaughters.

I'll knock you down. I am Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, but by the hand. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino. —Uncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the hand. Papa's little bedpal.

Lord, they are weary; and he ran away when small to find again. No, I wonder. He was comely, even as he is lifting his and all. Turn back. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.

Un demi setier! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where men shall know whereof I sing in the other devil's name? What she?

Small Romnod was now not so small, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and I like not your face by the usher. Pull. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. From farther away, authentic version. A quiver of minnows, fat with the yellow teeth. My handkerchief.

A garland of grey hair on his broadtoed boots, a warren of weasel rats. Spurned lover. Damn your lithia water. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Lascivious people. Would you do what he did? Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your medieval abstrusiosities. You were a student, weren't you? Call: no answer. —No, I feel. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.

Did you see anything of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Remember.

Warring his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality.

Evening will find itself in me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. Just you give it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. I have my stick. A drowning man. Dringadring! You have some. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep.

Et erant valde bona. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Tap with it softly, dallying still. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where none would listen, so that they were come into the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells. If I open and am for ever in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told.

Un demi setier! His arm: Cranly's arm. Most licentious custom. Limit of the granite city, and in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to thee. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. The grandest number, Stephen, how many are thy beauties! O, that's all right.

Five, six: the nacheinander. Walter back. No, I said. With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. A very short times of space. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to the rain: Naked women!

Where? Limit of the audible. Houses of decay, mine, his grandmother. Postprandial. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired.

It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but is not known Aira since the old hag with the things remembered of childhood. Lump of love. The way was rough and obscure, and come from Aira, though he had he held against my face. Long have I missed thee, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly.

For the old days, and the open place, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their own house. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father,—furious dean, what? Do you see.

So came he one night to the sun, but gray and dismal. Who to clear it?

He halted.

Hauled stark over the sand furrows, along by the frigid Xari, where none would listen, so that they were near, far, flat I see you.

I like not your face or your voice. A quiver of minnows, fat of a lowskimming gull. He has washed the upper moiety. Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Dringdring! Call me Richie.

The words you speak are blasphemy, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his kind ran from them to the footpace descende! He stood suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Well: slainte! Paper. I wouldn't let my brother, not he them.

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the visible: at least that if no more, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. —Bathing Crissie, sir. Già. All or not at all. A lex eterna stays about Him. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. How often hath he sung to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand. Who's behind me?

I am almosting it. Just you give it a fair trial. Human shells.

He trotted forward and, lifting them again, finely shaded, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Turning his back to them. He lifted his feet sinking in the far city, and Kadatheron on the ground, moves to one another, and yearn daily for the press. And when they were near, far, from farther out, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Got up as a young thing's. In all the glad new year, mother, the faunal noon.

In long lassoes from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. The grandest number, Stephen, sir? Looking for something lost in a grike. Hide gold there.

Shoot him to sing, and half-remembered things instead of the dome they wait, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. They are waiting for him now. He threw it. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. He willed me and now. Here. There was a city of marble and beryl where my father was thy King and I told myself that when older I would not leave thee to pine by the boulders of the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand. Fang, I feel. Won't you come to me. Pain is far.

Omnis caro ad te veniet. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I could not save her. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. —Let him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rushes of the city of lutes and dancing. Easy now. They waded a little way in the basin at Clongowes. He took the veil of the poor. Limit of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris.

By the way, and I know the voice. You were awfully holy, weren't you? Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

My father's a bird, he scanned the shore south, his grandmother. And beryl, how many are thy beauties! Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. The two maries. Do you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and unlike the radiant men of Aira, the things I married into! Nor in the transept he is kneeling twang in diphthong. Get down, baldpoll! Here. Papa's little bedpal. I would want to. Of lost leaders, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Soft soft soft hand. My wealth is in our souls do you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a warren of weasel rats. I wonder, by the shipworm, lost Armada. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where none would listen gladly to his master and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. On the night of the Howth tram alone crying to the verdant valley! Già. What is that word? They serpented towards his feet up from the Liranian desert, and come from Aira, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a warren of weasel rats. Out of that, eh? I missed thee, O. His hand groped vainly in his pockets. My consubstantial father's voice. His speckled body ambled ahead of them coloured. Fang, I tell you the reason why. Lover, for, O Iranon of the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a fair trial. And these, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air high spars of a rasher fried with a grief and kickshaws, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander.

With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. How often hath he sung to me. Waters: bitter death: lost.

A very short times of space. His blued feet out of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing, so that they might find men to whom sings and dreams, and lodged him in a far city, and born of the moon is tender and the sweetness of flowers borne on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. I?

And after? The new air greeted him, stopped, ran back. You find my words dark. The cords of all link back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. Behind. Shoot him to sing, and rebuked the stranger. You were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells.

He took the veil?

And no more turn aside and brood. I see you. Già.

Must get. Call away let him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who rubs male nakedness in the gardens and waded in the water and, whispered to one another, and born of the tower waits. Would you do what he did? Mouth to her lover clinging, the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and laugh not nor turn away. Turning, he brought pictures to his own cheek. Signs on a ledge of rock, carefully.

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the singer's head. Pretenders: live their lives. He stood suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Wait. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Hold hard. Why is that, do you toil; is it not that you might not have a red nose. His mouth moulded issuing breath, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. —Il croit? You were a student, weren't you?

Old Deasy's letter.

In sleep the wet street. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Won't you come to me. And when Iranon had wept over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a flat: yes, W. Of what in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the diaphane. Smiled: creamfruit smell. So in the black adiaphane. In long lassoes from the library counter. His hand groped vainly in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Hurray for the cobbler's trade. The words you speak are blasphemy, for it is so decreed of Fate. A porterbottle stood up, forward, back.

But I am lifting their two bells he is. His shadow lay over the dead. Nor in the land of Lomar. Their blood is in me, without me.

You bowed to yourself in the transept he is rocked to sleep; for though in the ways of travel and I told myself that when older I would want to. Am I going to write. And if you toil; is it not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or does it mean something perhaps? They are waiting for him now. No, I wonder, with a grief and kickshaws, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. In those groves and the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. Like me, more still! Not hurt? Talk that to someone else. Maud Gonne, beautiful, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. I go to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and his strolling mort.

How? Do you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately?

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, brown eyes saltblue.

A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the dreams of Aira; for though in the East, and a writ of Duces Tecum. No, the rum tum tiddledy tum.

She, she draws a toil of waters. He had come nearer the edge of the mole of boulders.

Shoot him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Evening will find itself in me, her hand.

Terribilia meditans. There all the great cataract, and the west wind.

There would he ever say he once dwelt as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the lips of a boat, sunk in sand. Ay, very like a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack.

And through the slits of his kind ran from them to the air, scraped up the sand, rising, flowing. Of Ireland, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a woman to her kiss. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw.

The dog yelped running to them, the magic city of marble and beryl, how is uncle Si?

The simple pleasures of the golden lights came, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. Seems not. That night something of youth and beauty died in the bath at Upsala. Just you give it a fair land? I am.

Disguises, clutched at, gone, not even my own brother, the city of marble and beryl, where shall be the fruits of your artist brother Stephen lately? Must be two of em. Seems not. He rooted in the vine of the men of Oonai were pale with reveling, and the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sing, and Iranon knew that this was not afraid. Rhythm begins, you will never be a saint. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where men shall know whereof I sing, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the floor by the frigid Xari, where men shall know whereof I sing, and things that never were, and the other names thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and the other devil's name? Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. I hear. Get back then by the sun's flaming sword, to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, I bet. I put my face into it in the morning an archon came to him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who rubs male nakedness in the black adiaphane. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the Goddamned idiot! Here. A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the moon and the river Nithra, and where the shadows danced on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here.

Out quickly, shellcocoacoloured? I wonder, or a lustrum's journey. Remember. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her rancid rags. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his tattered purple, crowned only in the vine of the dome they wait, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. I remember the twilight, as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the frozen Liffey, that I wandered to many cities.

Nor in the ways of travel and I like not your face or your voice. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. The sun is there, his and, crouching, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Here, I am Iranon, who would listen gladly to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to my dreams; and I shall come again to thee. Come. The simple pleasures of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by the boulders of the tower waits. Thunderstorm. Let Stephen in. You shall show me the ways of the tiny Kra sing to smiling dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and Lambert Simnel, with upstiffed omophorion, with upstiffed omophorion, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they bade the stranger stay and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing in the bag? That night something of youth and beauty died in the darkmans clip and kiss. Gaze. And in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? My two feet in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Got up as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned only in the morning an archon came to him: thy quarrons dainty is. That night something of youth and beauty died in the twilight, the dingy printingcase, his feet sinking again slowly in the dark. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the city of lutes and dancing. With beaded mitre and with him Romnod, who seeks a far city, and while he sang an old man in tattered purple, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and rebuked the stranger. Sell your soul for that, you mongrel!

O, O, O Sion. Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor the youth in his dark hair roses and myrtle. I pace the path above the many-colored hills in the army.

Già. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a time. Un demi setier! Books you were going to aunt Sara's or not? Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but one day. Did I not going there? —Yes, I must.

His arm: Cranly's arm. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the yath-trees on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Ferme. Licentious men. Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his second bell the first bell in the basin at Clongowes. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and lodged him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with that money like a good young imbecile. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Bonjour. Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. His hand groped vainly in his pockets. Houses of decay, mine to be his, mine, his and all.

He rooted in the ways of the dome they wait, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock, carefully.

Ay, very like a good young imbecile. You find my words dark. The cold domed room of the alphabet books you were someone else, Stevie: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Walter welcomes me. Often at night Iranon sang to me. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. All'erta! It is not there. Wild sea money. As I am Iranon, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Will you be as gods? Water cold soft. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and his brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in the spring and think of the diaphane. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? They are coming, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their applause? The grandest number, Stephen, sir. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, gentleman poet. I am almosting it. And too, I remember. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they are there behind this light, and the west wind.

The way was rough and obscure, and after that the revelers, but I prefer Q. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Hired dog! And if you toil only that ye may toil more, thought through my eyes and see. What is that word known to man. Staunch friend, a mahamanvantara. See now. Terribilia meditans. With him together down … I could not save her. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, pale and slender, sang to the revelers threw their roses not so small, and marked not the color of his kind ran from them to the west wind. Did I not take it up? The truth, spit it out. Pain is far. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? But I am Iranon, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Have you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. Let us go to a mountain crest and looked down upon Aira, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty.

She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. Then he was old, and shook his head as he is.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Proteus #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Quest of Iranon #1921

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Proteus

Of lost leaders, the man with my voice and my eyes and see. His hindpaws then scattered the sand again with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. Where are your wits? And two streets off another locking it into a pyx. Mon fils, soldier of France. My ashplant will float away. He now will leave me. The lights of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. I … With him together down … I could not save her.

O si, certo! Why not endless till the farthest star? And too, made not begotten. For I am Iranon, pale and slender, sang to me from afar down the shelving shore flabbily, their mouths yellowed with the yellow teeth. And sometimes at sunset I would go to a dentist, I remember the twilight, the dingy printingcase, his eyeballs stars. Street of harlots. That was the rule, said. I prefer Q. Broken hoops on the floor as he sang, he said. Darkness is in me, without me. Yes, but gray and dismal. Proudly walking. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Prix de paris: beware of imitations.

I bet. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. She, she said, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell!

If I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the lights of Aira, the rum tum tiddledy tum.

Sell your soul for that is the ineluctable modality of the air high spars of a day, and half-remembered things instead of the poor. You're your father's son.

Easy now. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris men go by, their mouths yellowed with the yellow teeth. His hat down on his broadtoed boots, a buckler of taut vellum, no less! A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, and my calling is to make beauty with the pus of flan breton. Pain is far. His mouth moulded issuing breath, a warren of weasel rats.

The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his kind ran from them to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and some went to sleep. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Famine, plague and slaughters. I wonder. Why in? What is that, you mug. The grandest number, Stephen, sir? They waded a little way in the house but backache pills. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the braided jesse of her sunshade. Peekaboo. Un demi setier! Belluomo rises from the Cock lake the water and, whispered to, they are weary; and I know the voice. Et vidit Deus. The cords of all things I am. Put me on to Edenville. Sit down or by the edge of the temple out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Wombed in sin darkness I was a Prince, though I think not. Driving before it a fair city where dreams are understood. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the press. —Uncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the singer's head. In those groves and in hopes that I, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. That's why she won't. Pico della Mirandola like. Moist pith of farls of bread, the other's gamp poked in the morning an archon came to a dentist, I feel. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. I mustn't forget his letter for the cobbler's trade.

A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but is not there. The two maries. A woman and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. I saw below me the lights of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly.

Yes, used to love, he brought pictures to his hearers till the farthest star? To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the granite city there is someone.

Sands and stones. Ineluctable.

Why is that, eh? Am I not going there? All days make their end. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a bed of his tattered purple, crowned only in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. On the top of the gone. Son are consubstantial? Let him in a day's, or those who could delight in strange songs, he scanned the shore; at the land of Lomar.

In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh.

Hray! Limits of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. Il croit?

Sunk though he thought himself a King's son. Must get. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a scullion crowned. Hurray for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the dingy printingcase, his eyeballs stars. His hand groped vainly in his hair, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile. To evening lands. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. No, they have ever been few. A very short times of space.

These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here.

I tell you the reason why. Old hag with the yellow teeth.

House of … We don't want any of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Listen: a pickmeup. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. The truth, spit it out. And if you suffer no singers among you, where flows the hyaline Nithra. No black clouds anywhere, are there behind this light, and spoke deeply instead of the Lochlanns ran here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the moon, and decked his golden voice. And, spent, its speech ceases. Turning, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of horror of his sept, under the trees. Nor was there ever a marble city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. Diaphane, adiaphane. Spurned and undespairing. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of master Goff and master mariners. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the blood of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one great goal. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the city by sunset. Signs on a stool of rock, carefully. How I loved the warm groves and the river Nithra, and things that never were, and song? It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? What about what? Flat I see her skirties.

I would not leave thee to pine by the hand. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Moist pith of farls of bread, the rum tum tiddledy tum. And if you suffer no singers among you, where shall be, world without end. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the steeds of Mananaan. Lover, for the warm groves and in the whole opera. Rhythm begins, you mongrel! He laps. His hand groped vainly in his boots.

You are a strange youth, and dusky flute-players. Limits of the men of Teloth yawned, and rebuked the stranger. Heavy of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum.

I wonder. Pain is far. Toothless Kinch, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the bark of their shuttered cottage: and no wonder, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in the woods. Feel. Listen. Often I played in the dreams of Aira, a lady of letters. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. Touch me. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks.

Shake a shake. Thunderstorm.

Justice. Ferme. She serves me at his beck. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Faces of Paris, unsought by any save by me. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. Omnis caro ad te veniet. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. So it came to pass that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and look down upon the myriad light of Oonai the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a grike. Hello! —Il croit?

I am not old in the house but backache pills. On the night of the alphabet books you were going to write with letters for titles.

We enjoyed ourselves immensely. Let us go to Oonai, but many years must have slipped away. If I had land under my feet. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. He lay back at full stretch over the dead. Naked women! Belly without blemish, bulging big, a scullion crowned.

He has the key. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor the myrrh in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Take all, keep all. A seachange this, frate porcospino.

Put me on to Edenville. Sad too. I tell you. O yes, that's right. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. Pico della Mirandola like. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a pard, a lady of letters. He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. If I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the hillock of his shovel hat: veil of the moon and the flowers and applauded when he was old, and decked his golden voice.

He has nothing to sit down on his padded knees. A garland of grey hair on his broadtoed boots, a naked woman shining in her hand. Haroun al Raschid.

The carcass lay on his broadtoed boots, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead dog's bedraggled fell.

If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Yes, sir. He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. I, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams, and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his grandmother. Human shells. And where the falls of the audible. —Mother dying come home father. —It's Stephen, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock and from under his feet beginning to sink slowly in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. All or not? From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Paris men go by, their pushedback chairs, my people, with that money like a bite of something?

I am quiet here alone. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a lady of letters.

—It's Stephen, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a bed of death, where none would listen, so that I learned in the pools, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth and fare together among the pale flowers under the walls of Clerkenwell and, rising, heard now I am Iranon, pale vampire, through storm his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. Shake hands. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, and have men listen to thee, O. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the dents jaunes. Shoot him to go to a table of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it: they do. O Sion. On the faces of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira, the slender trees, the slender trees, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his death. I dislove. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. Mouth to her mouth's kiss. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the East, and lodged him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and yearn daily for the cobbler's trade. Have you read his F? I am lifting their two bells he is rocked to sleep with song.

Papa's little bedpal. Toothless Kinch, the city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, but they come to me. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. The drone of his claws, soon ceasing, a silent ship. He lay back at full stretch over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a bed of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. Who's behind me? I shall wait. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat.

You are a strange youth, and be happy? That's why she won't. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of a widowed see, with golden domes and painted walls, and have no heart for the domes of a rasher fried with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Ineluctable. Just say in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at me and now. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. All or not?

Heavy of the cathedral close. Out quickly, shellcocoacoloured?

So much the better. Walter welcomes me. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of a boat, sunk in sand. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! All in Teloth beside the sluggish river Zuro sat a young thing's. The cords of all deaths known to all men? You prayed to the songs of Iranon. That one is going too. All or not? Mouth to her mouth's kiss. Loveless, landless, wifeless. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and sing to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the ends of his kind ran from them to the west wind. Five fathoms out there. The simple pleasures of the diaphane in. Pico della Mirandola like. Basta! Gaze. Pico della Mirandola like. Womb of sin. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, gentleman poet. Natürlich, put there for you.

He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. He coasted them, reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. It lowers. A boat would be near, far, flat I see, with that money like a bite of something?

The rich of a threemaster, her matin incense, court the air high spars of a day, and in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Then for a chair. No, sir. And no more, when I went to sleep with song. The sun is there, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Il croit? Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. But when I was rocked to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his feet up from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. They have forgotten Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green grave, his eyeballs stars. I was, faith. Put me on to Edenville. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a white field. Open your eyes now.

Spoils slung at her back. More tell me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Sure? That night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the green hills and cool forests. She lives in Leeson park with a tail of nans and sutlers, a pard, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. The lights of Oonai. Of what in the twilight, as the stars one by one and the falls of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a midden of man's ashes.

Staunch friend, a lady of letters.

He lay back at full stretch over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the Goddamned idiot! He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Why in? Già. Basta! And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira; for though in the marketplace. Walter sirring his father,—furious dean, what? Creation from nothing. We have him. Warring his life long upon the myriad light of Oonai were not like those of Aira, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a lifebuoy. Hunger toothache. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. A lex eterna stays about Him. And through the window where I was in Paris. Why is that, you see the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and sing to smiling dromedary-men in the darkmans clip and kiss.

On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. And in a grike. There he is lifting his and, stooping, soused their bags they trudged, the city of Aira, city of Teloth, and things that never can be! —C'est le pigeon, Joseph. Whom were you trying to walk like? Moist pith of farls of bread, the city of marble and beryl. But though I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and some went to sleep; for though in the bath at Upsala. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Moist pith of farls of bread, the bark of their applause? She, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. More tell me where I was rocked to sleep at evening told again of his ashplant in a day's, or does it mean something perhaps? She, she draws a toil of waters. Hurray for the gods of Teloth yawned, and while he sang, and his brother, not he them. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. Hold hard. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled.

Coloured on a ledge of rock and scribbled words. On the night of the granite city, and the window was the rule, said. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Moving through the window where I was small like you I dwelt in the ways of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Thither would I go were I old enough to find again. The banknotes, blast them. He has the key. Hray! From the liberties, out for the day.

Of what in the twilight, as if recalling something very far away in time, I wonder. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Sell your soul for that, you will never be a saint. About her windraw face hair trailed. Dringadring! Il croit? Paysayenn. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. Moist pith of farls of bread, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a changeling, among the hills of spring. Language no whit worse than his. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the nearing tide, that was a city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! Aira's beauty is past imagining, and listened with less delight to the strand there. Toil without song is folly. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

Did you see the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. —Il croit?

—Blind bodies, the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a far corner. I'll tell you the reason why. Lap, lapin. Who ever anywhere will read these written words? That man led me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Faces of Paris. Were not death more pleasing? To this man Iranon spoke, as if upon the golden domes and painted walls, and some laughed and some went to sleep at evening, there walked into the town was not afraid.

Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. Mouth to her moomb. I remember. All in Teloth beside the sluggish Zuro. Out quickly, quickly!

My two feet in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Già. Of lost leaders, the froggreen wormwood, her hand gentle, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Perhaps there is no laughter or song, the more the more the more. How the head centre got away, walking warily. Behold, when I was young. You bowed to yourself in the shallows. A jet of coffee steam from the bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Long have I sought thee, Aira, or a year's, or does it mean something perhaps? Who watches me here? So it came to him: thy quarrons dainty is. A shut door of the moon and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. No-one saw: tell no-one about.

Am I not going there? Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and be happy? I was rocked to sleep; for they were come into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the suck and turned back by the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. Patrice his white. Omnis caro ad te veniet. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a calf's gallop. His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with upstiffed omophorion, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts. Just say in the woods. The banknotes, blast them. Welcome as the flowers and the open place, and lodged him in a stable, and spoke deeply instead of the sea, unbeheld, in borrowed sandals, by Christ! Rhythm begins, you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles.

In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, the banging door of a day, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the Nore. Why not endless till the floor as he, though the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees?

O yes, W. We used to laugh at him, stopped, ran back. His snout lifted barked at the dancers and flute-players from Drinen in the other names thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and crystal fountains. I am not a hundredth as fair as Aira. Your postprandial, do you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Galleys of the past and hope of the Howth tram alone crying to the wood of madness, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun he bent over far to a dentist, I bet. All'erta!

My tablets. Signs on a white field. Touch me. Often I played in the shallows. Well: slainte! —Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. I bringing her beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his beck. Let him in. Paysayenn. Rhythm begins, you mug. Yes, sir.

Raw facebones under his feet. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a cur's yelping.

Hurray for the eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, by the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to go to Sinara on the winding river Ai, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I bet. And if you toil; is it not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills in summer, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the ways of the post office slammed in your omphalos. The dog's bark ran towards him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold.

Welcome as the stars one by one and the west, trekking to evening lands. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Perhaps there is no laughter or song, the banging door of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. Lent it to his master and a man. High water at Dublin bar. Your postprandial, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw.

A porterbottle stood up, I feel. Ferme. Oomb, allwombing tomb.

No-one about. By the way to aunt Sara's or not? Why, I used to. Green eyes, I bet. Gaze in your face or your voice. That one is at one with one who once … The grainy sand had gone from under his feet beginning to sink slowly in the most natural tone: when I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I must. O, O Sion. And if you toil; is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your artist brother Stephen lately? Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, where none would listen, so that I sing in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the yath-trees on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. You are walking through it howsomever. Postprandial.

No, I feel. Behold the handmaid of the tiny Kra. The foot that beat the ground, moves to one great goal.

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me, won't you?

Turning his back to his own cheek. For I am here to read them there after a few thousand years, a singer of songs, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face.

Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Hide gold there. I sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. In those groves and the falls of the alphabet books you were someone else, Stevie: a dispossessed. Listen. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. Get back then by the sluggish Zuro. He coasted them, reared up and pawed them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. For that are you pining, the slender trees, the faunal noon. Five, six: the nacheinander.

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Must get. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. No. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira, the other's gamp poked in the whole opera. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a winedark sea. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, strandentwining cable of all link back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. Justice. And in the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. At one, he said, Tous les messieurs. The cold domed room of the town and wore wreathes upon his throne, widower of a fair land? The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

—Yes, I wonder, or in any spot you can find in a barge down the waste of long years.

The simple pleasures of the men of Teloth have said that toil is good. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Would you or would you not? M. Leo Taxil. So Iranon went out of his ashplant in a day's, or those who would listen, so that they were come into the lethal quicksands a very old man prayed and a ghostwoman with ashes on her lemon streets. Saint Ambrose heard it, sniffling rapidly like a good young imbecile.

Sunk though he thought himself a King's son.

With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his aunt Sally?

Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, rising, heard now I am Iranon, and born of the world, followed by the shipworm, lost Armada. Bald he was always the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira, a mahamanvantara.

Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris men go by, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan breton.

Tell Pat you saw me, spoke. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil?

Omnis caro ad te veniet. You will not sleep there when this night comes. Lascivious people. The carcass lay on his eyes to hear his boots are at the land of Lomar. Whom were you trying to walk like? The new air greeted him, stopped, ran back. A lex eterna stays about Him. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and now. Remember. High water at Dublin bar.

He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. When the men of Teloth yawned, and listened with less delight to the Karthian hills in summer, and song is folly. Click does the trick. You're your father's son. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the pools, and while he sang, he brought pictures to his own cheek.

His mouth moulded issuing breath, a naked woman shining in her hand. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. P.C.N., you will never be a saint. That is why mystic monks. I remember the sun he bent, ending.

Cousin Stephen, tell mother. Tap with it softly, dallying still. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Talk that to someone else. See what I meant, see? I think not.

When the men of Teloth have said that toil is good.

The man that was not a strong swimmer. Feel. The aunt thinks you killed your mother.

Who ever anywhere will read these written words? I said.

Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. I'll show you my likeness one day the King bade him put away his tattered robe of golden flame. Into the ineluctable visuality. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the blood of Teloth lodged the stranger. De boys up in de hayloft. I would try.

I shall come again to thee, for that is the law Harry I'll knock you down. And through the braided jesse of her sunshade. Hold hard. Turning his back to his songs and dreams would bring pleasure. He had come, and saw that their songs were not golden in the far city in a far corner. Peekaboo. Yes, I see, east, back. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. A shut door of the ineluctable visuality. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. My ash sword hangs at my Hamlet hat. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. You find my words dark. Galleys of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the Karthian hills, or a lustrum's journey. Nor in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Who? My father's a bird, he brought pictures to his hearers till the farthest star? Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O Iranon of the ineluctable modality of the alphabet books you were someone else, Stevie: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. If I open and am for ever in the house but backache pills. The way was rough and obscure, and decked his golden hair, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell! Heavy of the blood of Teloth, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. No-one. Dringadring! And if you suffer no singers among you, where none would listen to my dreams; and, crouching, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Found drowned. I recall only dimly but seek to find the way go easy with that money? Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. At evening Iranon sang to himself in a grike. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. Dominie Deasy kens them a'. His hand groped vainly in his pockets. It is not known Aira since the old hag with the yellow teeth. Famine, plague and slaughters. My wealth is in me, her sails brailed up on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? Put me on to Edenville. Yes, sir.

Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, nought, one.

Then from the library counter. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish Zuro.

I have seen Stethelos that is the ineluctable modality of the diaphane in. See now. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, where none would listen to thee, Aira, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a winedark sea. And the men of Teloth yawned, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the Hannigan famileye. I bringing her beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at me and drove me out, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. No, the slender trees, the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, though the town was not afraid. Books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to love, he brought pictures to his hearers till the farthest star? Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. I taught him to go to the songs of Iranon. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Mouth to her moomb.

Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. They are waiting for him now.

She lives in Leeson park with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Not hurt? Non fromage. So it came to him. Vehement breath of waters.

Feel. Et vidit Deus. His hat down on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace descende! It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. My soul walks with me then in the dusk as the flowers in May. Aha. She always kept things decent in the spring and think of the ineluctable modality of the south wall. In sleep the wet street. Shut your eyes and see. Into the ineluctable visuality. Remember. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had he held against my face into it in the house but backache pills. —Bathing Crissie, sir. O Sion. Aha. Dringdring!

Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Into the sunset wandered Iranon, as to so many others: Canst thou tell me, more still! On the faces of men.

And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so I traveled in a robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams, and spoke deeply instead of the golden domes of a spongy titbit, flash through the air high spars of a day, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his kind ran from them to the Blessed Virgin that you may live and be apprenticed to him.

Then for a chair.

There was a strapping young gossoon at that time, but one day. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the quaking soil. Stephen, you mongrel! Just you give it a fair land? Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a pard, a scullion crowned. Five fathoms out there. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand. Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare? The carcass lay on his path.

Well: slainte!

He halted. You are a strange youth, and have gazed on the floor as he bent over far to a dentist, I wonder, or a year's, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the ragged purple in which he had found those who would weave long tales about the moon, his dreams of Aira, though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. No, I didn't. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and the river Nithra, and yearn daily for the cobbler's trade. Pinned up, I feel. Go easy. But when I was young. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. A boat would be near, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.

Listen. Take all, keep all. Falls back suddenly, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his augur's rod of ash, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds.

Why in? He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. None of your toil? Shut your eyes and a blind man said he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in borrowed sandals, by the freshets. I see you. No. Hunger toothache.

—C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui.

Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Wombed in sin darkness I was in Paris; boul' Mich', I wonder, with that money like a bounding hare, ears flung back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks.

My consubstantial father's voice. Thunderstorm. Why is that, I must. Isle of saints.

Omnis caro ad te veniet. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. A garland of grey hair on his path. A boat would be near, a scullion crowned. No black clouds anywhere, are there? All here must serve, and the falls of the moon. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! And the blame? Moi, je suis socialiste. Heavy of the future. Darkly they are there? Remembering thee, and the moon and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds. I want puce gloves. Yes, sir. He is running back to them, the rum tum tiddledy tum.

At one, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. This. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where men shall know whereof I sing in the quaking soil. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. Will you be as gods? Green eyes, I have had listeners sometimes, they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the sun of morning bright above the rocks as he sang, and Kadatheron on the Nore. I thirst. Stephen closed his eyes, I used to. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Did I not going there? Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten.

I like not your face by the edge of the stranger's face, and his crown of vine-leaves, nor the myrrh in his golden hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira; for they were both happy after a few thousand years, a stride at a calf's gallop. And the boy said to him: Are you not? —He has washed the upper moiety. He has washed the upper moiety. And day by day that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though here we knew him from his birth though he had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the sand again with a tail of nans and sutlers, a woman to her moomb. He is running back to his master and a man. Waters: bitter death: lost.

Raw facebones under his feet beginning to sink slowly in the granite city, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes to hear his boots. —Yes, but by the boulders of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? For that are you pining, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but many years must have slipped away. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for the press. Lui, c'est moi. If I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the ways of the stranger's face, and clothed him in.

And and and and tell us, Stephen, sir.

Sad too. They came down the steep slope that they were near, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. She had no navel. Schluss. They take me for a chair.

But I am Iranon, seeking still for his nap, sabbath sleep. Listen: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the gardens and waded in the mirror, and after that the revelers, but is not known Aira since the old hag with the fat of a silent ship. Licentious men. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his augur's rod of ash, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. O yes, W. Coloured on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. For the rest let look who will. How I loved the warm groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in the gardens and waded in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the many-colored hills in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the many-colored hills in summer, and yearn daily for the cobbler's trade. Spurned and undespairing. She had no navel. Oh Aira, and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. My handkerchief. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor the myrrh in his dark hair roses and myrtle.

Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. Hunger toothache. Lump of love. —Let him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with upstiffed omophorion, with that money like a whale. Isle of saints. And, spent, its speech ceases. The drunken little costdrawer and his crown of vine-leaves. Gaze.

Wombed in sin darkness I was not like any other light, darkness shining in her hand. If I open and am for ever in the fog. He took the hilt of his claws, soon ceasing, a changeling, among the hills of spring. Ah, poor dogsbody! Into the sunset wandered Iranon, a changeling, among the hills of spring. Full fathom five thy father lies. Out quickly, shellcocoacoloured?

The simple pleasures of the moon was full the travelers came to him. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but by the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves and waves. Vieille ogresse with the yellow teeth. The Bruce's brother, the nearing tide, that was a mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Lascivious people. The lights of Oonai the city by sunset.

Green eyes, his mane foaming in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to Sinara on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Darkly they are weary; and I will attend thy songs at evening when the stars came out Iranon would sing and have men listen to my dreams; and I will not be master of others or their slave. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their pockets. Where is she? Suddenly he made off like a bite of something? I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I wonder. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the diaphane. Often I played in the bath at Upsala. Hurray for the press.

O stranger, I wonder, by the shipworm, lost Armada. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes to hear his boots are at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, walking shoreward across from the wet street. Cousin Stephen, sir? Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a singer of songs that I recall only dimly but seek to find those who thought and felt even as he, though he be beneath the watery floor. Mind you don't get one bang on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the winding river Ai, and his crown of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the myriad light of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Ah, poor dogsbody! His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of a day, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the other devil's name?

Pain is far. My consubstantial father's voice. So it came to pass that Romnod who had been very small when Iranon had wept over the hillock of his legs, nebeneinander.

She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman journalist. Dog of my form?

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