Young Herr Ploppel to his mother, his father, his niece and his colleagues, to his memory and to his mirror. Yes, he was Young Herr Ploppel to most. But to the ladies distributed on his bed, so naked and Nerichian in size and superstition, to the high-thighed lurkers of nightly Gasses and city gates, to the alleys and oil-lamps and unforested fields, he was only Hermann.
Young Herr Ploppel, or Hermann if you like, was a seeker of the most precious and pure escapades, a wanderer of the paths moist, soiled and unsacred. An explorer of coves and caves.
And he laid her upon that divan.
Her skin pale and fresh, reflecting light diffuse.
Her curves, womanly and fertile, yet modest and continuous.
Her eyes, tracing his, rays of creation.
And they laid upon that divan.
Ploppel (Hermann, our man) awoke as if a new man, and that new man was old, so old … He walked into Viennese streets, upon Germanic cobblestone and ancient manure, piss, blood, sadness. He was changed and unchanging. He raised his gaze, and saw nothing. The scholars of the Sexual Soldier’s Sorrow School hold today that this was the very moment at which Ploppel & Europa slipped irreverisbly into infinite debauchery, endless genocide, unending un-logik.
The sun with light
Intense and true
Our Earth, Phong-blue.
Phong saw a world of light and colour. The rainbow was
- Phong-blue, like oceans and Mures Grande fair. Specular, spectacular!
- Phong-green, like grass and woodlands. (who is that wild Krim on the trail?)
- Phong-red, of Blood and apples, and the coat of Krim (peace be onto Him).
- Phong-yellow, of sun and concentrate of pérè (Majahi-na-Majahi)
- Phong-pink, as sweets for children and of feminine homo-gay (Fuj!)
- Phong-purple, of the halls Kings and of Emperors!
- Phong-brown, of soil so fertile and of almonds roasted! (help yourself)
- Phong-orange, of flowers and flame!
- Phong-sky-blue, like the sky!
- Phong-white, of snow. Cold and harsh.
- Phong-diffuse, Suddenly the colours faded! Spread thin over too many objects.
- Phong-fog, and then they became it was unclear!
- Phong-gray, of ash and destruction, of uncertainty, would it be light or dark?
- Phong-shadow, it came over him.
- Phong-black, light was gone. Every colour dead. Phong was afraid!
- Phong-darkness. And he fell to un-logik, poor, foolish Phong!
Ultimately the rainbow had betrayed him.
I think, in time
Is captured in
In pre-ancient times the spirit of Kyrim created Man and Woman. He was Livare, She was Flynn! Yet Kyrim the Great made but one mistake! On that dreaded Night of Obligations His Son was not given a soul, no Spirit, no life force.
So was the creation of Livare, the premier tragedie.
Oh Livare, the Tragedy you are.
Alive, yet not living.
You smile, yet you cannot feel happiness.
I pray for you.
Will you ever be releas’d by Death?
Livare my Livare,
are you doomed to forever be
Kyrim’s single mistake?
Cursed, Livare embarked his ship and set sail. On to that eternal gray ocean. Cursed to forever sail the eternal sea, to search for a soul, until the end of time.
And for ages he sailed. His body beaten by salty waves and harsh weather. His skin scorched by the burning sun and withered by that most treacherous enemy of all (young) men, time. His face grew old and its features diminished. But he sailed on.
The tragedie of Livare is not unlike the tragedy of all men. We must all segel & sail on restless seas, hoping to find a calm shore where Krim may receive us. But beware of the skerries of the Outer and Lesser Lindees, for un-logik is there! Yet mortal men are blessed with mortality, our search will soon end. Livare is cursed! Forever will he sail, searching for his Father’s realm, that Majahian Kronkolonie, on those Greater Lindees.
Of Krim there is always more to know, the knowledge goes ever deeper. In eternity!
As a young man Yan-Olaf Montanius had a dream, a dream of unlimited knowledge and wisdom. When he came of age, he took to studies at universities. His ambitions were great, but he soon felt at loss. Un-logik came over him, and he failed all three courses his first semester.
He tried again once, twice and thrice. But never would he produce proper results. His ambitions of knowledge and wisdom dwindled, and he left the university. In the next years he took what employment he could find. He worked as a shepherd in the mountains and as a shopkeeper’s assistant. Then, at one point joined a struggling group of travelling musicians.
Yan-Olaf soon became a figure of leadership for the group and was soon known as Yan Olaf the Wise. The group played in streets and town squares to the enjoyment of many. The gang toured Europa and the Empire of Osman for many years.
While on the Osman island of Crete, Yan Olaf met a Semitic man in rags. And they conversed … A Darchness fell over Yan, it was warm and heavy.
I met the Arab. He had no grammar, no order, no sistem.
In the chaotic appearance of the ragged Arab, Yan Olaf saw also himself. He felt regret & remorese so strongly. Why had he strayed from the path of Knowledge? His ambitions returned, and he began his studies anew. And as far as one knows, Yan-Olaf is still a student, in eternity!
Peer, Peer, you are too civil!
The very first Song I ever heard was Krimalainen’s lament upon Livare. And such a Song it was (of sorrow, of Korbu, of sorrow-joy)!
Oh, Majahi, struck by thunder and thunderous applause, you are eternally eternal and actually actual. Oh, Ville, mourn those windows of broken love…
Oh, ohm… Peer! Rest in Srpska…
What words. What soul!
Yes, he was perhaps some deep Krim of the Mountain, our little prince.
What words! What Words! What Words!
I am high
in the grand aboves
in sister sky and brother sky-cloud
and all my siblings (seven by seven)
with fourty-nine fathers
I am deep
in muddy depths
under aunt branch and uncle branch-root
and all my sons (nine by nine)
with eighty-one mothers
I am true
on Krimean peaks
in all-father Krim’s magnificent gaze
and under his paternal care
with eternal knowledge unveiled
Valle Waling was wailing in agony as he awoke, his nightmares had tormented him yet again. Who was that olde Witchmaster in his mare-dreams?
Valle lived his life among flowering tulips, calm canals and wonderful windmills. Yet his dreams of horror were set in another land entirely. A land of darkness, a land of frost and and deep deep forests.
In his dreams he once saw a mighty Birch-tree, it stood lonely on a frozen field. The skies were (…) There was something carved into the tree, he walked closer and he saw the name “Matteo”.
Suddenly day became night,
and the birch-tree was in flames!
He was approaching, yes,
the Witchmaster was there!
Valle awoke, wailing.
Winds blew, windmills turned and the tulips danced. But for Valle, every night was terror, and every day was waking agony. When would it be over? Sun would rise, summer would come, and again turn into autumn and winter. And the Witchmaster would torment him in his dreams.
Valle would walk aimlessly among the tulips, neither asleep nor awake. Days and nights were one, and he saw no other escape than death. Valle took his knife and opened his wrist. As his life emptied onto the ground, he felt the power of the Witchmaster diminish. His mind was clearer, he would soon be free! He laid down among the tulips, yes, it was finally over. As he closed his eyes, he saw the shadow of a figure standing above him. He opened his eyes one last time. The lands froze, it was Matteo the Witchmaster!
Where the plains of the heathens meets waves of an inland see, lies a town. A town named for the son of Krim. Not Livare, the soulless, but His second son.
Majahi Hamare Majahi!
In the name of Yoham they built a tower of pure silver. There it stands tall on the shores, shining ever gray!
Hail that monk ancién!
He who danced with death!
You have grown old!
Ayem Ayem Ohm!
From the eastern wanderer Ville, wild and wailing, we have this song, which may well bring us to the silver tower and tragic monk:
Pray for Livare
Pray at Hamare
Pray at that Temple to Truth
Walk for Livare
Walk by the seashore
Walk through the fields
Sing for Livare
Sing for each fracture
Sing for that broken soul
That most curious piece of furniture! Such fine craftsmanship, and what curves!
Lay down here, young seeker
With so much yet to learn
Soon you will grow meeker
A new position earn
Yes, you find yourself in that House most highly acclaimed. Indeed, you stand in its innermost chamber! Lay down there, young seeker, upon that soft bosom standing splendid on four oaken feet.
Ayem, ohm, oh!
To be continuous!
To exist eternally!
To know the sixteen shades of
Phong, olde Master!
Vienna is a ghost, and you are Her murderer. How could you betray Her? And worse: How could you betray Him? You slumbered in his magnificent tower, upon that magnificent divan, as your days of youth expired in wild spiral motions, in Icarian fly-over.
Weep, Walle, cry
You know the Truth must die
Mourn, Walle, wailing
“Aye, ayem, oh, ohm …”
You live in memory. You breathe through time. You are still, as you are no more, and no more will be than you were (and you’re gone). But yes, you live! In that innermost chamber of the Holy House Helwegia, your imprint is deep and strong in the soft pillows and sweet textiles of the Paoloan Divan.