Tag: europa

False Waldemar – The Boolean Prophet

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Wanderers and seekersLeave a comment
truewaldemar
They call him Jacob, my Lord …

He who is True, who liveth in truth
Is never welcome in Unholy Halls

I am the True and Final King
Son of the son of the son of The Bear
And I am a True Bear, also
Westfalie and Brandeburg bow low before me

This was the personal prayer of False Waldemar, true Skolare and true King. A true King who was mocked and abused by the weak-minded, scorned by the Jealous Men in his time. We will not further assert nor argue for his legitimacy here, but recite instead some more from his Grande Book of Prayer. This wild tune he called If ever you see a tall mast:

If ever you see a tall mast in the woods
Linger a while and reflect on the mast
And the woods

If ever you meet there a grey-bearded stranger
Listen a while to his maddening ravings
And his truths

If ever you know then that you are true king
Claim what is rightfully yours, your domain
And reign

 

The Escapades of young Herr Ploppel

On By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Wanderers and seekersLeave a comment

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.

vienna
Ever older

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.