False Waldemar – The Boolean Prophet

On August 5, 2019August 5, 2019 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 March 5, 2019March 7, 2019 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.

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.

Historical Regions of Kroatien (Elegy)

On July 5, 2018July 5, 2018 By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Wanderers and seekers1 Comment

Opening Hymn

Regions five
Received five visits

Regions divided
Regions collapsed

Krim did not accept
The Land of Broken Slavs

Regions Five

Alt-Kroatien

The Old. Who were you, Alt-Kroatien?

Old! Old! More ancient, perhaps,
than old Yoham,
oldest of his kind!

Old bones grow
and new flesh suffers,
hair shines white and
splendid,
but you are dull
and feeble.

Who were you, Alt-Kroatien?
No friend!

Dubrovnik

The Whore. Who were you, Dubrovnik?

Yes, sour city …

When Krim came to Kroatien poor
In times now so far gone
Did he visit
that old hag
Dubrovnik?

Who were you, Dubrovnik?
A cold embrace!

Dalmatien

A lion, three lions. Nothing compared to the mighty Bear!

The Wild. Who were you, Dalmatien?

Three false crowns
Two times three false lion tears

Oh, yes, you have teeth
Oh, and fierce eyes, too
But you are not royalty
Not splendid
Nor divine

Who were you, Dalmatien?
A rabid dog!

Istrien

The Humble. Who were you, Istrien?

Such pride below
false humility!

There are no songs of your
accomplishments,
as you achieved nothing
and your children can
not hold a true tone truly.

Who were you, Istrien?
Sentimental and stubborn!

Slawonien

The Worst. Who were you, Slawonien?

A poor fisherman
is he who has
poor harvest

The Sea itself rejects you,
Slawonien,
and your diet will forever be
awful offal,
watered ale!

Who were you, Slawonien?
A beggarman!

Closing Hymn

Regions five
Were five-fold abandoned

Regions in ruin
Regions of eternal rain

Krim firmly rejected
The Land of Broken Slavs

Sakhalin; a Survey

On June 5, 2018May 24, 2018 By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Everyday KrimLeave a comment

Introductions

These are the melancholy journalistics of a wandering Photografeur whose name is forgotten or otherwise lost. Let it be known: All lands are islands, disconnected and despairing. Let is also be known: All souls are lands of infinite darkness, save for the Light of Kirim.

Rejection

Red Krim, return! Have you forgotten us? He is surely a fool, he who still holds Krim close.

Remorse

sakhalin_slavs — Yes, but those were better days! Days of Spring and growth. It is our lot to suffer, for we are abandoned, child. Be not judgemental, for one day you, too, will abandon your dreams.

Rejoice!

sakhalin_sky — Arch-Angel Mykyle: Bless this land of Pikkyia! Bless this cursed soil! We are Children, you are olde – You are child-like, we are dead and dying. May the ocean carry us home! Arch-Angel Mykyle: Bless our vegetares, poor as they may be! Grant some salvation for these fields, these farms, this peninsular sadness …

Eternal Flame of Sudak – the Mongolian Retreat

On August 27, 2010August 5, 2015 By Targu Mures Historical SocietyIn Crimea JacobiusLeave a comment

“He is just and a person of letters. I regret ever to have upset him. We return now to our steppes. He is just.”

– Gengis Khan, 1222

The Mongolian hordes seemed unstoppable. Yet in the year 1222, the great campaign reached a sudden and unforseen end. The Warlord, Gengis Khan, had just before this reached the Crimean peninsula. The locals of these lands tell a tale that historians never have accepted: Gengis Khan was intercepted by a man draped in red in the city of Sudak. His royal guards dared not strike him down, as his being seemed ethereal, as if divine. He spoke to the Khan, who dropped his blade and shed a single tear.