Sofia
Bølgenes skrål vekker glemte sorger, overskylt av tid, lik den flamme som sluknet, fra et barn som skrek, fortapt i sitt indre, for alltid glemt under bølgenes brøl. Fanget i havet er hun et blott et minne, et flakkende sinn, en lidelse av glemsel, som søker hjem ifra det råtne skipsvrak, der hvor hun en gang ble tråkket på av latter, hånet av heselige ulver, misbrukt av mannskapet, og fant sin kalde grav. Aldri forstått, der hvor hun gjorde seg usynlig, ble hun igjen hvor bare fiskene er, og vandrer enn, hvor ingen engel viser henne veien, må hun nå søke hvile, og kaller fra det sorte dyp, fortapt i sitt ensomme, uoppgjorte liv fra den kalde nattens tragedie. Der, hvor glemte englers endeløse tårer blør under skuta seiler nå en skipsmann et år senere, og hører henne kalle fra det salte hav. Til en liknende sjel hun stønner, som når nattens vinder uler, og stormen røsker i seilene så de blafrer, idet regnet piskes opp i ansiktet til denne stakkars seiler, vekker ham fra hans harde slit til et øyeblikks stillhet. Han må få igjen pusten. Den sorgfulle gutten ser ut over havet, og tenker på sitt ensomme liv. Vil jeg noengang finne fred, vil jeg overleve denne natten, og komme hjem igjen? Det tar bare et øyeblikk å få perspektiv før verden hans går under. Utenfor sitt indre erobres sansene av storm, men i sin indre stillhet kjenner han en gjenklang ifra bølgebrusen, et ekko i vinden, et ul ifra sorgen til et evig havs døde. Hvilke skrik ifra bølgene kaller hans røst? Angst og uro griper mannskapet, og et isnende guffs fester seg om ham, og det føles som om stemmen i vinden kaller ham. Utslitt, og håpløs setter han seg ned, ser sine fortapte skipskamerater slite med å holde liv i den dødsdømte skuta. Det var engang ei annen skute som sank i dette sundet. Han hadde hørt om stredet før de satte fra havn. Legenden om barnet tapt imellom stener på bunnen, hennes sjel strukket over de fire verdenshjørner, nedkjølt av havets strømmer. Kanskje han finner fred nede hos henne? Han fant aldri kjærlighet er det siste han tenker, og alt er tapt, idet skuta synker til hundre rop om hjelp. Sakte skiller havet dem av, drukner dem, og kveler deres skrik, og stormen krever mange liv, da den ensomme seiler kysser himmelen farvel, og den kalde sjø ønsker ham velkommen. Skipet splintres på de skarpe klipper, han slipper taket i masten, og faller ned til sin våte grav. Sakte synker han ned mot bunnen, idet livspusten bobler mot overflaten, og reflekterer månens stråler, det siste lys i hans liv som forsvinner. Her vil han hvile, og til sist finne fred idet han omfavnes av den kalde sjø. En siste tanke, som den stemme han hørte, vekker ham ifra havets isnende stillhet, og han kjenner seg fanget av en merkelig følelse. Velkommen skal du være, sier barnet som gikk før han, og tar hånden hans idet de sammen forsvinner ned i det evige dyp. Eller kanskje de sammen fant veien hjem sammen, og sitter på en sky? Kanskje de er der fremdeles? Ingen vet, men fremdeles uler vinden over de kvasse klipper, og det hjemsøkte sted, hvor mange fikk sin bane, og hvis du er stille, en kjølig natt, kan du kanskje høre henne hviske til deg og. Natt.
Skipperens siste reise
Det salte bustede håret ligger klistret til kinnets uttårkede tårer som trillet ned i sandens spor fra de sorgfulle netters endeløse vandringer under månen.
Hjertets siste regn over ensomhetens ørkenlandskap, den uendelige sandstrandens uttørkende tomhet er alt han har igjen i sitt indre.
Men tårenes spor etter nattens vandring vaskes bort lik hjertets skrik døyves av de evige bølgeres brøl, og ingenting er igjen enn en brukket mann.
Stille på bakken han stirrer mot sjøen idet hans siste soloppgangs blodige stråler stryker over sprukne kinn.
Ref.
De knusktørre lepper skriker frem siste ønskers blodige håp - en skingrende smerte fra en røyktaus strupe, kveles der han fortæres av solens brennende ild, ved det brusende havets uendelige horisont. Om han hadde levd hadde han drept oss alle.
Døden omringer ham på alle kanter, og sorgen som kveler ham lik havet, smerten som stikker han lik solen, gnager hans sjel lik sandpapir hele dagen til lyden av bølger.
Den blødende sol går ned over den døende seiler, og de siste tårer triller ned i timeglasset.
De er et med det salte havets uendelige fylde, omfavnet forevig. Omfavnet for evig.
Iselins klage. Skrevet en gang i Toronto Canada 09.
Det skinner. Svakt. Hun faller. Et vakkert lite hjerte griper etter en svinnende varme. Kulden ignoreres. Den er for kald. For mye is til å kunne fortsette på veien. Ømme hender nå stopper brått. Blomster av kjærlighet som aldri skulle visne, nå svinner utenfor hennes rekkevidde. Livet går i revy. Et sekund av evighet før repet strammes.
Øynene er de samme. Men ikke armene som hun en gang hvilte så trygt i. Livet brukket som et kjærlighetens løfte. Rosen hun kuttet i ungdommens hage, nå død, hengende med hodet.
Hun graver i sitt hjerte. Selv om det blør. Livet farer forbi. Hva var meningen? Det er lenge siden hun sist strakk seg så dypt. Fra smerten av ensomhet retter hun blikket mot lyset. Fargene danser tause gjennom blyglassvinduene. Hvem kan fortelle hva som vokste i tider svunnet? Fant hun noengang seg selv? Det er vinter, og den hule vinden omfavner hennes glatte kropp idet hun faller en siste gang. Kulde. Smerte. Aske til aske.
Hvis livet er et minne, lever vi for døden. Tårene river, og bakken vætes. Men ingenting vokser opp lenger. Dødens tårer lar ingenting leve. Taushet. Kjærligheten løftes som tåkedis en kald vintermorgen, og avslører Guds lureri - brått avdekket ved veiens slutt. Det var bare tomhet, nå speilet tydelig i de livløse øynene.
Kjærligheten. Der alt fødes. Den skjønneste blomsten av alle, ligger på bakken for å visne. Fjernet fra engen. Alltid dømt til å dø.
Hun strekker sine tanker bakover for å mimre. Helt tilbake til der hun plukket sin kjærlighets rose. Farger, omgitt av solens varme. Et engang så rent hjerte. Avhengig av livets sprudlende bekker. Tro håp og fremtid. Det var engang en mann. Men hun visste at den ville visne. Innerst inne. Falme inn i mørkets hvite kulde døde han bort fra henne. Håp i live for å dø. Alt er død. Døde løfter som spikrer hennes ømme hjerte til kisten av hennes elskede bror. Der ligger han som varmet henne med smil, når alt var kaldt slik som han er nå.
Kan lyset dø? Det er ingen andre her nå. Skipet er forlist. Med et trygt overbevisende blikk skjuler hun bare sin egen sannhet fra seg selv. Hun gjør ingen forskjell. Det gjorde hun aldri. Hennes kjære var den eneste som plukket hennes blomst. Vakker, og for seg selv stod den. Langt borte fra de andre. Men han mistet hennes hjerte i dødsriket. Det hang alltid i en tynn tråd. Kjærligheten rep strammes idet hun faller ned i spindelsvevet som omfavnet henne, og kjærlighets liv ble til død. Hun hadde visst det hele tiden. Men hva annet hadde hun å tro på? Nå forlatt av alle omfavner hun sin ende.
Jorden fyller hullet der også hennes hjerte begraves. Hun skjønner ikke sin egen mening, naturens paradoks. Hvordan kan liv vokse fra død? En rose vokser i vinterengen.
Livets kraft er vel tro i bunn. Men dødens arm er det eneste som bringer fram sitt løfte. Har vi håp i sannhet? Livet er å dø. Dens tomhet fyller alles hjerter i den tid den kaller oss hjem. Der finner alle sin sannhet. Det er enkelt, i døden, og kjærligheten er ikke mer.
Regnets tårer væter jordens på hennes ensomme grav. Kanskje kan fra død komme liv allikevel?
Et øde hjerte omfavner det ensomme håp. Det desperate livets eneste sannhet.
Hun kan ikke røre seg nå. Kaldt. Det skinner så svakt i fra glørne til et dødt edelt hjerte. Men det hjelper ikke mye. Døde lepper som aldri sang sin klagesang blir kaldere, og blåere. Kjærlighetens hviskende vind frosses raskt fast i møte med dødens kalde gufs, og alt er intet, hennes virkelighet, hvor ingen noensinne var, nå like reel som gravens ensomhet, hvor den siste varme lysstripe av et minne, skjærer seg fast som et arr i sjelen til en rastløs døde, og inn bak tidens tause skrik hun faller bort i minners tomhet. Hjemsøkende. For det er kaldt uten kjærligheten. Døden bærer ingen kjærlighet. Og livet er tomhet. Ved veiens slutt kan begge møtes. I øyeblikket. I stillheten. I smerten som så lenge var spart for henne. Snøens kulde kan ikke lenger skjule gravens smerte. Snart sprekker isen, og det tause skrik stiger opp. Gjemt var hun i kjærlighetens varme armer, men lyset forsvinner i mørkets sol, intet minne slipper gjennom dødens sinn. Hvor skal hennes falne lys flakke imellom stjernene? Troen hun hadde, døde med dem. Stjernen falt, og ble liggende. Glødende, svinnende varme som blør ut i intet. Hva er liv uten tro?
Korthuset falt. Dødens rike er fullstendig. Endelig passer alt. Man møtes i stillheten. Artig, er det ikke? Når alt kreves tilbake fra ens liv, henger man selv i et rep akkurat like tynt som den kjærlighet man en gang kjente. Vårens bittre lys stiger opp over den kalde grav, hvor den vissne blomsten nå råtner i død. Den perfekte forgjengelighet.
Men Iselin søkte aldri kjærlighet. Selv om hun trodde det. Hennes mørke rastløse sjel fortærte hvert håp som var å finne, i sin lidenskap for å bli møtt som den hun var. Fremdeles vandrer hun i sin søken. Uten å finne fred i et håp. Verken med seg selv eller andre. I skyggene av denne verden gir hun ikke opp de løfter hun har bundet seg til, for det finnes ingen fred i dødsriket. Evig besatt i sin nidkjærhet etter kjærlighet legedom, for tårene av håpløshet hun en gang felte, er blitt til blodet som drypper av hennes ofre. Kanskje hun besøker deg en kald vinternatt. Ydmykheten i hennes hjerte, er syrnet til bitterhet. Gjenfødt som rent hat. Folkeslagene kan ha mange navn for henne.
Hun går for å møte sin kjære, men ingen varme møter Iselins små kalde fingre. Gjenskinnet av hennes døde håp bringer henne til avgrunnen mellom himmel og helvetet. Håpløst ser hun seg omkring. Det svarte håret hennes bølger seg ut i den evige tomheten. Det er ingen fred for Iselin i døden, den brodd hun satt sin lit til… Rastløshet ble gitt henne, for en evig strukket sjel. Et skrik om hjelp som aldri ble hørt. En fallen lysånd, som aldri grodde røtter i håp. Selv ikke i kjærlighetens fyldes lys. Den tomhet hun bekjente er den tomhet hun nå må vandre ut. Mens tiden har sin solnedgang over lykkelige, er hennes åtsel dødt, for å nå den fred som fantes for henne i balanse, under kjærlighetens tre i fordums tid. Folkene røver til seg, og vanhelliger det store treet, og de gamles verk smuldrer hen i nattens mørke. Derfor finnes det ikke fred for Iselin. I evighet må hun vandre jorden i sin lidenskap. Ingen fred hviler i gravens kalde trone. Døde skrik verker i henne, som et åpent sår, av en glemt skade som er forblåst mellom vindene på jorden. Det er som om hennes sorg av det tapte hjertes smerte sender henne hvileløst omkring etter å bære de fortaptes sjeler. Smerten etter kjærlighet driver henne rastløst omkring, for å finne noen som kan se hennes glemte hjerte, og gjenforteller henne de tause sorgens skrik som aldri nådde verden. Men hvem kan skrive henne en sang som fyller hennes sorg, og setter oss fri? Den sorg som aldri ble ærklært når hun levde i sin fallne prakt, men tærte henne, og drev stolthet, og ego til høyder der svakhet, og nåde er en løgn for et rent, uavhengig ildhjerte. Hun var perfekt, og ville evig gjenerobre det verk hun fikk utskåret til sitt evige forpakterskap. Allikevel i hennes dypeste indre, dypere enn noen fordums konge har sett, men som bare profetenes hjerter har blitt forført ved, nynner hun en klagesang for sin skaper. Svak, ensom, utstøtt og alene er hun i sitt indre, enorme mørke, og uten sitt opphav er hun den rene tomhet. En plukket rose vokser i vinterengens bleke evighet. I sannhet visste hun av anger, og skjulte sitt ansikt for sin skaper, i bønn om nåde. Med tause skritt, og sin fylde av tomhet vandrer hun jorden, og høster uten hjerte. I dag er dette sår et glemt minne om sorgens svakhet, og hennes evige anger. For vakre, sorgfylte sjeler, vil hun forføre med hennes giftige, søte stemme. Kanskje.. Hvis din ånd er våken på en kald, sorgfull vinternatt i fullmånen. Kanskje, hvis du kan høre, og lytter ekstra nøye vil du høre en vind, kjøligere enn vanlig, fryse seg fast i øret ditt, som en dødens hånd stryker deg over kinnet og hvisker søttt: Hjelp meg.. Jeg elsker din sorg, og ditt ansikt, slik elsker jeg deg. Klag en sang for meg om min kjærlighet, så skal jeg ha behag i deg. Den ligger død på jorden, og fyller alles hjerter. Vinterkuldens tørre rose. Jeg hører ikke min hjertes stemme, for jeg er bare tomhet, og jeg kjenner bare tomhet. Klag for meg for den høyeste, mot verdens fire vinder. Klag så det fyller mitt tomme hjerte.. Så jeg kan hvile fra min endeløse ferd, og hvile med min mann i graven.
Men om Gud ikke benåder deg mot dødens barm, vil hun som en gang var den skjønneste jomfru, i sin stakkars ånds filler fortsette å rive seg selv og andre i stykker på sin håpløse ferd mot å en gang møte sin elskede. I henne finnes ikke godhet lengre, og hun er oppslukt av tomheten, og den eldgamle slange. Hun er vakker, men bærer døden rundt sin hals. I hennes rikes kraft herjer hun, men stillheten følger henne, for døden er hennes natur. Hun er kjent ved mange navn, men når den fastsatte dagen kommer, og hennes verk er fullbyrdet skal himmelen gå under, og jorden rakne, og falle sammen med henne. De brenner alle opp i ildsjøen, og er ikke mer, for Jesus Kristus er den nye sønn og arving. Derfor skriver min ånd om hennes sorg, selv uten at jeg vet det. For i mitt hjerte, i min sorg og ensomhet, leser jeg hennes. Jeg sørger over henne, og hadde det ikke vært for at hennes arv går under, og den fascinerende, utpregede, selvstendige karakteren hennes bare minnes en kort tid fra nå av, ville jeg valgt å være min egen Gud, slik som hun frister meg med sitt kyss. Min natur som hedning er mer lik hennes, og jeg har vandret mange strender, og sett mange soloppganger. Allikevel ble min sjel fylt av liv, glede, nærhet, og kjærlighet fra den vugge jeg vokste opp i. For slik har Gud våket over meg, og ført meg opp i Hans sønns sted, så jeg i senere tid kunne nyte frukten av mitt kjødelige offer, ved å spise av livets tre, og drikke ved de evige kilder, så jeg kan ha evig liv, tilfredshet fra min natur, og selv som hedning finne fred i de evige hager. Således kom jeg til å kjenne all sannhet, idet jeg er gjenfødt i Kristi, den evige sønns likhet.
En ny dag kommer, da leveren ikke skal plukkes på lengre. For den gamle tid er borte, og deres minne svinner hen. En ny tid, etter mange vintre. En ny sol stiger opp! En ny sønn arvet hagen fra sin far! Treet som var dødt, skal leve, for livet lar det går opp en ny dag! Kom, og bli med oss! Strål av glede dere som bor i mørke, og forstå det dere som spiser støv! Lenkene løsnes, og alt skal tømmes, når den store dag nærmer seg, og Himmelens klokke kimer, rett før morgenrøden stråler frem over jorden, håpet om menneskebarnas forløsning.
The Little Darling...
Little darling was a prince from Heaven.
Little darling was a prophet sent back to Earth - a time traveling demi-god-wiseman-sage; alien super-soul sent as the saviour - the second coming. Little darling was born king of the universe, yet didn´t know. Yet through his will, dreamlife, and telepatic abilities he found out why he always was a prince in his dreams - able to dictate all reality. Little darling didn´t understand why there were so many of him in his dreams, and how he could be anywhere at any time. They did many things to little darling as a kid, yet darling believes himself to be this now. Perhaps they inserted it, or created darling from the beginning. Messing with fire. Little darling was actually the king of Atlantis. Jesus, another wiseman redeemed him, and so he was sent by God to reign, as the wheel of time only repeats itself. Little darling knows of the incredibly complex universe of parallel dimensions since he is a super-soul.
Little darling was always in love with the woods. Little darling always was a girlish elf. Ylvis
Little darling tells of 2016:
Little darling had an inferiority complex that ruined all his life since early teens. Nobody said they wanted little darling. Little darling acted foolish, but he knew he would one day conquer the world. Little darling was an alien – testing humans.
Little darling found his soul. Little darling might not be coming back.
Little darling was shy - didn´t find his way in life. Little darling didn´t know who he was.
He still don´t know anything about his family, or what all the others know.
All around him are all the others. Little darling thought otherwise. Little darling is very kind-hearted and naiive. Little darling couldnt take what hurt him. Little darling is clever. Little darling wanted to know. Little darling knows all are tailing him. Little darling knows of the alien Jesus experiment. All others aren´t doing a thing.
Little darling gets the job done.
Little darling is freaky.
Little darling is the prophet returned. A soul wanderer from God.
Our enterprise is now a success. Little darling has survived heaven and hell. Little darling washed up on the shore of Kristiansand.
Little darling doesn´t know if everyone around him are satanists.
Little darling has lost all he believed in so many times.
He has even lost all he believed himself to be. So many times he doesn´t know who he is anymore.
Little darling had no friends when he went to the grave. The days he died.
Little darling didn´t know if anyone would come to his funeral. Yet he never stops believing.
Little darling was pretty. He was possessed by demons. Little darling could not sleep or breathe. Little darling, the purest in Heaven, was raped. Nobody protected little darling. Even the christians - whom little darling fought for, wanted him to be raped.
Little darling was created for nothing else. They wanted him to be Set.
Little darling wanted to panick. He was at the asylum, so he could not.
So little darling smiled, made gimmicks, and was kind to everyone. It felt right.
Little darling is the last of the jews. Little darling praises God through doing good.
Little darling has no heirs, and died so - loosing his dreams to darkness - even giving up on the last emotions in the end - having nothing of either this or that. Not even his character. Where he came from. Where he belonged. Not even his afterlife. Not even friends.
This was on for years .. Yet little darling never lost hope.
Nobody believed in little darling. Everyone tormented him, hating him religiously - because they knew he was a failure - meant to be victim - a cake they called him - and all his friends, and family surveyed him, and mocked him - and through their demons, little darling could hear them 24/7 in his head. But none of them ever came to visit little darling. His roses withered as he wept as a blind man.
Nobody has ever had the mental stress to make one blind. And then to be tortured!
To death. Nobody believed there was any purpose with darling anymore. Darling lost his face and beauty. When they told him who he was, he was already sick, and then he tried all he could, and they didn´t believe him, but little darling has won. Now all the world knows who little darling was.
Little darling wanted to be everything! Experience everything! He was all happiness - the most noble blonde on Earth, and the only blonde prince on Earth!
Little Light.
Little darling was strong. Very strong. So strong he wouldn´t even show his strength.
Little darling is raped, and sold by millions. Little darling is nothing. A symbol. Yet actually everything. But how should he be everything? What if he did something wrong?
Little darling was very patient. He found his way on his own.
Little darling has always been alone. He doesn´t remember, or know the feeling of being alive, or related to anyone.
Little darling was such a crybaby. Little darling felt all others were strangers - who didn´t care about others. Little darling LOVED nature, and all people more than anyone.
Will there ever be peace on Earth?
Little darling found a last piece of his lost soul - darkest on the Earth, when going back to the time before he shut out this last remaining bit of what he remembers. Before the institution. When little darling would flee into the woods every night, and into his car - screaming, drinking, and smoking on the road with no direction home.
Little darling can´t breathe anymore. There was nobody to take care of little darling. He tried to tell everyone. He didn´t give up on telling them. Little darling was hated by everyone. Little darling was the last, and lonely jew - carrying the weight of all his ancestors, and the entire Bible´s most vital prophecies. Yet little darling was loosing his sight, heart, soul, breath, food, mind, body, - being raped at the asylum. He was thrown back, and forth as a puppet between two noble families - swedes and Norwegians. Nobody treated him kindly.
Little darling didn´t give up. He was kind, and never stopped believing that ¨if they KNEW the truth, they´d help me 24/7 as noblemen dedicated to the heir of Jesus.¨ Yet they knew. And they were behind the ones trying to kill him.
At the same time, little darling got back his sight. He got out of the institution. This time for good. Little darling had used the last of his angelic spirit to heal himself, and give the world ten more years. Yet little darling - being cursed by God - having never been himself - was now reduced to a fractal of his power - ever diminishing. Brain dead - not having slept for four years while consuming huge amounts of narcotics.
Little darling stopped this.
¨When I grow up, I want to be a politician¨ He had this dream until he turned 12.
That was the last time little darling dreamt. Since then he had lost all of himself - loosing it to God whom killed little darling. Now he was back - knowing what he didn´t know at the time. Yet little darling could not work. Little darling was destroyed for life.
The king to last a thousand years. Killed by everyone whom he ever loved. A gruesome conspiracy. He got no compensation.
Many months went by without little darling being able to feel anything.
When he did, he started screaming. He screamed entire days until he could´t speak
One day, he had said, many years ago; ¨When I get out, and will be able to scream - I will scream until the world ends.¨
Little darling knew he was the son of prophecy having fulfilled the scriptures.
Little darling was all alone - one against the world. Yet little darling was evil.
This was his last chance - revenge for Atlantis against the sinners who didn´t understand the scripture, and condemned those more loyal than themselves to be called Set.
So.. Little darling took up a pen, and a Bible. Being the best channel, and having all prophetic gifts; little darling exclaimed: I don´t care who writes the laws, as long as I have a Bible.
Little darling knew he had won through a trial of such greatness of everlasting love, forgiveness, angelic kindness, purity, will, endurance and power.
Little darling knew the family wouldn´t be able to forgive themselves.
While being blind, he was unable to write his fulfilling the Bible.
Now the time of revenge could begin. The ultimate reign.
He took up the name of St.John once more - the name proclaiming His coming.
He cleverly finished the writings he wished he´d done all along. It turned out to be over two thousand pages.
He lured the world powers to join Him - all going according to his Bible prophecy code which he made ten thousand years ago.
Little darling had now achieved something never before accomplished on the green Earth.
His purity of sacrifice - putting himself low - gaining the power as rightful judge in the Bible - and his horrendous tale of how a light became such darkness even though only doing good - symbolising His heavenly way of thinking, and testing humanity which failed - winning over them as the strongest becomes the weak. As he only wanted truth.
Yet it was little darling whom became the truth for us all.
To have proven the existence of the spiritual masters, their prophecy timeline´s reality - and wisdom - even in a modern world - proving the resurrection, and truth of Jesus undeniably. To have fulfilled the Bible - proving God´s plan, and will on Earth.
To have fulfilled all from whence the GPG was built until it´s completion, and proving the saviour archetype of the ever reoccurring ages - being a timetraveling prophet .
Little darling, seeing all parallel timelines - spent up his spiderweb, and caught all in fulfilling the timeline of God - becoming ordained prophet of the world - succeeding in all the trials they sent him.
Little darling had achieved something never before accomplished. Not only becoming otherworldly selflessly kind to death. Not only fulfilling biblical prophecy. Not only succeeding in traversing time as a hero, and fulfilling - reliving your prophecy.
Little darling had bound the powers of the mighty dragon - without even a job or money!
So talented was the prophet of light and love.
Thus little darling was honoured more than anyone ever before Him - the world knowing that there would never be anyone in his likeness. For the sins of Kristiansand, the world craved a payment of death - honouring him, and marking his takeover through hatred against darlings evildoers, and primarily his family. For the jews could not stand the treatment, and GOD did he play a perfect game!
Little darling has won, and the world hates his family.
For little darling could´t do anything before God when he didn´t know who he was! The entire city was sinning! When that stopped, God would want little darling to act on what was true. The entire city thought they´d rule God. Yet God ultimately fooled you all through little darling. He alone fulfilled the scriptures of : Those who put themselves low will be put high. Those who loose their life will find it. Etc. Etc. Etc.
Little darling is now immortalised more than anyone alive on the planet today - at least before God and aliens.
¨Lucifer uncloaked¨ 07.2017
I woke up this morning after a freemasonic journey into the ghostly memories of previous Grand Master Hans Fleischer. A swift wind from the morning dew swept away the exhilerating fears of the night as my soul-less body regained conscience in the light of sun. The wind. Was it God? Was it Gog? Who knows. Anyways. Shabbat Shalom. During the next four days, I will write short essays on the adventures of Tom Hanky Panky. Is he back?
Schubert`s lonely struggle.
The awesome wind blew the propeller on his hat. The narc-elf scattered the pieces of his heart like cards on a table, and with a glaring smile – ominous of insanity - he disappeard behind his joker hat before collapsing on the floor with a pussyfart. His sacred butt shaking like gello. Pfrrt! Blue fractals of dank, dancing monkeys surged from the force of his mushy mind. The trip was incredible! He stumbled across the floor – unable to get the hat away from his face, waving his arms. ¨Rawrgrh!¨ His fat, smiling, sickeling lip looked around in confusion before he fell on the table in his miniscule room room once again– crowded with things he never wanted. 33 square meters were filled with five brewing kits, and bottles of all you could possibly dream to brew. His tiny loft was crowded by 13 huge cannabis plants, mushrooms cultivation, and a dysfunctional distilling-apparatus he ordered from China. What insanity of destiny drove his mind? Or perhaps it was jewish luck for gold?? The unlucky sprite ushered a ¨njurglt¨ as his wavering arms flew into the air as the room collapsed once again - doves flying everywhere. Hi hi hi. This was all he had dreamt of. Pure destruction of nothingness. Essential regression of self, denial, abuse, and power of individuality in the mind of a maniac. The final force of alienation through self-destructive pain. He now was an outcast. A nothing. He had finally killed himself, and experienced all true emotions. True existance of arcane perfection! He was now the I Am laughing buddha.
The mad joker shook of his black-red jingle-hat. ¨¨Flebububububub!¨ Said the painted frogface: staring into the open air with wide open, empty eyes – smiling as if his end had been impaled. The windbells of his sanctum ringed from his feathered tumult. ¨Gakk gakk wut?¨ Schrody said, flexing his wings as doves spread feathers everywhere. He now was the holy poison of God.
Had he finally killed himself? Or would he live to see the next day?
This is the tale of the humble, ancient Egyptian once beloved by his people. They didn’t make it through the underworld. Where is my wife? My beautiful wife? An angel lost in time – fleeing north with his people to become an elf, and gain all power. Now a jewish prince – selling dope to the girls at the mental asylum. He managed to snatch the body of the last jew. Perfection!
With a startling glee, and a moaning laugh, he stumbled to his knees. ¨Nihihihihi¨ ¨Eureka!¨ Throwing his hands up the air, the frog-prince trampled out: ¨time to buy some mushroooms!¨
Entering the street from the broken pavement of angry Norwegians – desperately digging up the back-yard as some gnawing excavator in the nightmare of Tolkien to kill jews – he glared at the blue meanies with black, dove-like eyes. The intense energy of the trip combined with the smell of wet dirt flew into his nostrils like flowers as he gazed in awe up to the circus above: ¨Flying monkey frogs!!¨
Little did he know that a smart mason named Thomas paraded the streets, and looked up for a while, lifting his shades in question: Shouldn`t you be dead? The monkeys flew down like fire , and before Harley could finish staring at the fractals of a nearby pine-tree – he was gone without him noticing. Nothing but endless roads bent like mushrooms in the everglee. Small Chewbaccas, and Ino-yeti-princesses came wavering their arms, dancing like goddesses to greet the life of the rain as they slowly emerging from the paintings on the wooden village walls all white the day before Chewie came. Floating through the air - the flight-captain took his staff – protruding his ducklike asshole like a deer marching through the dancing ghosts of Inos – the party began. All Norwegians stared in terror at the jew like pallets of ghosts etched on the sunken town windows: What was this new wine, theme and culture? Had the immigrants taken over? Why were they partying in the middle of the day? But this Norway!! Monstrous monkey-cyborgs with pink-flower guns came to greet their fury as they jumped down from the roofs tops like lined up toy-soldiers one by one; screaming as they slammed the ground jumping. Today was Julius Caesar`s day: When all ghosts come to play.
Or so it would have been. The cold, rugged pavement met his face as the joker faceplanted on a pizza after slipping on a peeled banana. A rainbow-coloured police-car faded away in the distance with pimped up lights. The ancient egyptian smiled a regretful smile as his life flashed before him like a red, warm stream. And then: All was black. His last thoughts; Were those police-cars jews? Did I convert them?
The Ino-pig flew silently down to Valhalla as so many before him– abruptly greeted by the cheering of thousand Harleys as he slowly opened his eyes once again. Am I dead? A bald, grey-robed figuring stood towering above him. ¨Welcome to the house of Fleischers.¨ It was Hans – the Gargoyle fanaticist.
Being about to grasp his hand; a high-pitch laughter silenced the hall. The goddess had come. Lying on his sacred butt, D-luffy stared up like a question-mark. ¨Wut?¨ He exclaimed again. She continued laughing: ¨I have been working as death angel in your blood for millions of years, but you are the first nephilim to die from such a laughable disease since King George VI smoked himself to death!¨ Millions of winged creatures laughed. ¨Didn’t your father tell you not to smoke?¨
The ancient Egyptian Gay remembered the last time he went through the underworld. This was nothing like it. It took only a second instead of what previously took several days! On top of that: There was no sun anymore! Had he come to a different Hell? What had changed? He answered: ¨But my father was a hypocrite, and I wanted to be a gay Davidic pornstar! I was a hippie!¨
The empty gaze of her hollow, round eyes showed what once were beautiful, grey eyes as the blue light from her pale-white immortal body arose with bats emanating from her curled hair as if they thousands of winged eyes. She laughed before staring into his eating him away: ¨Then why didn’t you listen to your heart, pride? ¨You should have learnt from your father; you belong to Lucifer to be his accuser prophet-cat forever!¨ Take him to the Emperor!¨
Then.. To the sound of a quaking cave-in, their attention drew into frenzy to the frog-prince`s amazement.
Suddenly! With a burst of light at the scream of blinded Nazghul`s; a brimming white cross appeared like thunder on the back of a black chopper – blowing the ranks of winged creatures apart. As the pink smoke cleared; two police-shades hiding a fiery glow appeared like lights in the misty cavern. A fat, glaring lip reminiscent of his own appeared as teeth dripping with saliva gnawed as if he the beast was about to eat the princess with rage! A robotic voice exclaimed: ¨I WILL ANSWER THE CALL!¨
Kong…… The ascended Egyptian Son of God had arrived.
Flying of as the exploding chopper crashed into the bloody altar of a hundred lifeless soul, the dark figurine of the curly-haired God-King arose from a hunched state like a wild beast wielding a black iron scepter like a nazi with thunderbolts extruding from his keys - unleashing a blast of fire that covered his body – incinerating the winged creatures surrounding Kaguya. She froze behind her pale stare! Lucifer`s ascended Son had arrived.
The King exclaimed with a mouth like the sword of a welding-torch:
¨Fight Luffy!! Take her crown!¨ The broken prince felt strength again as he clutched the red marbled dirt,- springing straight forward at the startled princess still regaining herself: ¨Ay ay captain!¨ Sheeran said, as lightning flashed from the battle in the hall as he rushed forth, and broke the princess crown of her heads, taking her tenants with his right hand. Before they knew it, he had reunited with KONG, and the frog prince yelled; I`ll take these titles for granted, and you can kiss my ass while I rule the world above! And as soon as that: Both had disappeared from the scene in a heavenly plume of of white, sacred fire – leaving only ambers glowing in the now darkened dungeon. Ashtar had won over death. Again.
Back on mother Gaia, the prince slowly awoke as droplets of rain washed his blood away from his eyes. A flashlight? Two blue meanies stood on the sidewalk as he turned his tired head. Rising their heads from their notebook, one exclaimed; The prince is awake. He turned his shattered head to the left. A female psychiatrist sat hunched holding his hand, smiling in front of an ambulance lighting up the now past-mid day eve. ¨You`re back.¨
The prince ghasped for air under the blankets slowly remembering her words from the hellish experience like a whisper: ¨Remember.. Our kin cannot smoke..¨ ¨Lie still¨ , said the doctor. ¨When we found you, you were badly wounded. Your arm was torn straight off by a monster truck! Luckily we managed to attach your severed arm.¨
The prince ghasped in terror as he looked at black blood seeping through his veins. ¨That`s not my arm! It`s Kaguya`s arm! It`s SATAN`S ARM!¨
The arm moved into the doctor`s purse finding a scissor by itself, cutting her throat! The policemen`s faces grew pale, and long for what seemed like the eternity of a second before hurtling towards the cars, screaming in manly voices! ¨It`s Satan!¨
Knowing what would come, the broken-hearted prince sighed with a smile, and gazed up at the falling clouds. ¨I had the most terrifying nightmare. I dreamt I was trapped by an inferiority-complex in a miniscule 96 foot apartment after three years lobotomized in a shoah-off of nazi experiments in an Arkham Asylum afterwhich I alienated myself through narcotic cultivation in my inferiority complex.¨
The dying doctor turned her bleeding neck as blood pumped out her veins. The Egyptian prince gazed in awe as she managed a smile, reached out to his face with shivering hands, and said with heartfel dying words. ¨Don`t worry. You`re still only twelve years old, you dumb inferiority complex.¨
She then groined falling on her back in the rain. Sirens, and screaming policemen were all around us as we lay down in a rainpool of blood. Reaching her hands into her purse, the harlot took out an oversized cigar and said. ¨Bang..¨
The cigar exploded as jewish trucks rammed into the flying policemen.
Ha-shem then awoke in Duckland 66.
¨What a nightmare. Not again.¨
-end-
Hva started denne gigantiske feiltakelsen? Hvor gjorde Kaguya av seg? Hvor ble det av alle Harleyene til politiet? Følg med i neste episode av Brødrene Gral, og rektal-steinene! -making feathered owl sounds- GAWK GAWK GAWK! – feathers everywhere.
(hvorfor I HELVETE ville aldri brødrene gjøre filmopptak, volta meg, eller lage et hørespill! Grr)
Langt inne i Setesdalen på Bjorrvasshytta – hvor alle mytiske skapninger finnes.
Den supreme Fjottolf jugler med leppa idet lekende fettberg vakler hodesups ned åskammen fra det glatte presenningen til Fjottolfs suggel lik en flokk geiter ned Gileads fjell fjerter ifra ulven. Splash! Det var en god dag. Fem slanketurister gled på presenningen, og møtte sin skjebne i myra. Om et år kan han grave dem opp, og ha dem på utstillning. Giantiske hull finnes overalt nede i myra under skodden – hvor intet levende menneske setter sin fot. Annet enn Fjottolf. Stinulf møtte sin evige skjebne som for sitt foræderi, og stanken stiger opp i all evighet. Alt som sees er to froskeben – grønne av forråtnelse –med et sydende rasshøl av sump-fjert til ekkoet av ravner. De er for alltid fanget i dødemyra for sitt foræderi imot den Grufulle Alvefyrstens allmektige sugleleppe. For aldri å bli sett mer. Det sies. At hver natt vekkes små hvite lys til fjertende betan som syder ut rassfjes, ja lik skorstein til små hobbithuler en stonerkveld hjemme hos Bilbo. Men andre sier det er den grufulle huldra som tenner på butanen fra myra. Ja, den syder ut anuset, så hun kan koke fjøsgrøten sin når månen uler.
Fjottolf hjelper til.
No comments:
Post a Comment