Translated

Poems to Hanna Räpster

Book I

By

Emerson Ehing

© Emerson Ehing, 2008

 Dissection One
Translation is always extirpating. The meaning of a word is culturally shielded by
our capacity of absorb a multiethnic understanding. The word walks by the human legs,
crosses the oceans and the skies, and while it passes, it absorbs the culture, the feeling,
the path of its own meaning. Hanna, as you predict or not, there’s no twilights in fantasy,
but blackouts in reality. My poetry has been developed by many ways, therefore, you
gonna find different kinds of writing, look: I write poetry, prose and novels using the
Portuguese language. My musical lyrics I write in English. An abysm between both of
us and our cultures has been trespassed via English usage. The oral tradition could not
be speechless, obviously, but there’s a connection with each word with each language
that cannot be disconnected: the feeling of a message, the feeling. That’s making us
humanly humanized, part animalized part divined, to complete ourselves. Hanna, I live
my life as a Shaman, and anything I do, is based on it. Each poem, each song, each
feeling is a contact with the Great Mystery. For this book I choose the easiest
translating poems. But in time, that’s going to be harder and harder. Just enjoy, just feel
each poem as a single thing. Don’t ready continually, take poem to poem, the
understanding is important. Some writings show us something, tell us a particular vision,
but there’s a group of poems that just make us fell – and this is what matter. I do this to
get alive, to feel the life not only with may brain and muscles, but with my whole soul,
my entire being. This is the first of Four Books I’m going to translate to you during this
year, so I hope you really enjoy it. Thank you Hanna….

Emerson Ehing – 03\03\2008

©Emerson Ehing 2
 Index
Rigor Mortis

Pomas of Revenge

Passionata Record I

The Cry

Septuplus

Reliquae

I Die

Philautia – Our Loves\Our Hates

Psychomimetic Verses

The Dawn of the Day of the Rebellion

Passionata Record II

Any Word to the Creator's Eyes

Premeditated hallucinations, Exaggerating Doses

Of the Eyes that Cannot See Her

Capite Damnatus

Of the Passage of the Time

Opus Naturae

©Emerson Ehing 3
 Post Funera

Kuaray'ã

Ehing Soft Poem

Poem E.

Glue and Bits of Glass in Red-haired Hair in Blood Colored

Fou Love

Amrita

Amethustos

Hambieny

Horus

List of Books

Extra Material

©Emerson Ehing 4
 RIGOR MORTIS
(CADAVEROUS RIGIDITY)

The fingers of florins bloomed because they were illuminated, and

the illumination played us with the shine of the ambition because we
were illuminated.
Butter pitchers melted to the delight of the twilight, because the
flowers ejaculated light with illuminated petals.
The wombs of the night opened up to the atrocity of the innocence;
sang her the entire dream close to the ambition of the eternity. And
the eternity adored her; because she was the lights that darkness
needed.
Gold were their sinuous movements through the spontaneous
chaotic flight. And chaotic was her, with her innocence sparkle
besieging the eternity.
In their eyes thirteen seeds were planted, twenty-seven were
sowed, forty eight sprouted; unknown forests surprised the
decadent star.
The twilight is the sex between the day and the night. The natural
jewel shone satiating the darkness, because it was illuminated.
And illuminated we cried in mourning, was she the seed and the
fruit, the eternity and the twilight, discolored by the illumination.

©Emerson Ehing 5
 Pomas of the Revenge
Let us throw the horses in the turbulent sea,
only the shadow of the cupola circulates in the ash, and the breeze:
savage perspiration of the animal that bleeds.

The guests fall asleep around the fireplace,

and the terrified eyes of the horses,
stare us, seating, through the hung picture,
in the bottom of the sea.

Waves of black shadows,

the paws hit the water,
their veins expand,
but red balloons
break out in the air.

The brilliant manes skim;

the split skull of the boat
breaks it to the middle.

Navigate the men's corpses and the mice to the beach,

where the horses wait for them,
ready for us to devour their meats;
and the hunger abates the hopeless fear of Existing,
in the misogynistic redundancy of Continuing

& nor was the Sun,

to shine first at the beach,
but the bravery of the sea,
that made it...

©Emerson Ehing 6
Passionata Record I

Red & Red roses - Ruby-red & Ruby-red roses

You remember - the abrupt sadden - the misfortune
Interwoven pale marks & tearful
You execute burning of the sonata - Fire y Water
They compose the final rhythm - In the high
Cerulean smoke, being spiraled, vanishing in the air
You remember - Red & red roses
You remember - the ruby-red sadden of Loving
Without the sky and the earth there is no sea
Rain ruby-red stars that interweave
The sanguinary red of our Love
The violent pulse of our Pain
Sleeping souls that sadden

©Emerson Ehing 7
- The Cry

Fills itself with tear the cup

The Eagle, there in the high
Carries in the Wing
A Piece
Of Me

I rise and I float

for your powerful
feathers Loaded

Natural Darkness
Suit me to look
the Freedom with
the Pagan's eyes

I am the Storm

And cry as the clamor of the rain,

when I have to cry.

©Emerson Ehing 8
 Septuplus

While your shine flees in despair

My darkness continues blooming
Petals, black petals forming a thick fog
That turns me blind and without direction,
‘Cause nothing see.

I can fake what I am

But I cannot fake what write
I can flee from where I am
But I cannot escape from the mistakes of mine.

Suicidal universe generating mercy

Christ degenerated brings the ammunition
Lying and occult in the grave of the glory
Degrading his new world of freedom

©Emerson Ehing 9
Reliquiae
absolutely glassy

in your glance

semi-close –itself
blink
dream

We dance again

Bewitched birds
raising flight

raising
glass freedom

engaged the
hands

made the bows

dissipated the clouds

and interlaced
lights and bodies and arms

In the volatile convergence

©Emerson Ehing 10
 of an encounter
a change
a sign
of hope

played the lips

changes the fluids

the house in the high of the hill

collects the shadows at dusk
and there is always sun

Played the skin

changed the souls

precipitated heat waves

they invade the perception – the longing
and to sweet madness of be alive

in glassy passionate connotations

artifices and roses remain silent

exhumed words
tired declared voices

the dead doesn’t dance

the verse doesn’t speak

©Emerson Ehing 11
 no sense will be expressed
nor mine nor your heart
no letter will be read nor forgotten
Neither one nor two but all your kisses ask you

it has been difficult and empty

to many miles of here
in the tenor of a song

I will cross this country to feel cool

I will return mounted in a silver steed
and I will announce the apocalypse
but before, I must go at your house

I will play a song

and I will take you with me
forging a long solo
and a scream of pain
making way
among silky sheets
and thorns
Harmonizing the rhythm force of the storm

©Emerson Ehing 12
 – I Die –
The flaming candle crossed out the darkness
And silence becomes a hole in the whole
Part of us – we’re apart

You love me as I loved you while

Love made us warm – Squeeze me
Come around to see me – There’s
Only you and my muddy heart

I reborn to conceive you on

I write you in soft colored wings
I’ve been dreaming all your dreams

When your blue-eyed-tear drops of missing

My tongue glances the last diving whispering
Flattering your heart while I utmost lay down
My body – to Die

– Dying
I write you
A poem
Where our
Whole love
Has been
Conceived on

– Dying
I wrote you
A poem

©Emerson Ehing 13
Where our
Whole love
Has been
Dreamed on

When I feel you’re not here to make me

Warm, me and my foggy heart – I Die

When I felt you’re getting out of mine

The storm came to black me – I Die

I’m in a black and frightening wretch rainbow

My love, my love chest treasure’s gone – and
I
I Died

Dedicated to Hanna, with special friendship

©Emerson Ehing 14
PHILAUTIA - Our Loves / Our Hates
Do you see?
Do you feel?
My heart?
My pains?
I don't wanna sleep
I am afraid of my dreams
The dawn is calm
I don't wait for the dawn
Actually it brings me
Panic & Empty
Maybe you have a plate
tastier than mine
but both of us are hungry
- The desire is strong
I don't want to wake up alone
The thought will be cold
The feeling will be cold
And the No-existence will surround
- As empty walls
My soul & my heart
You freed your spirit
You made your choice
I should return to the Illusion
and to raise a new tent
The tribe will meet
And the spirit - the power -
of the old shaman will be reborn
Waking up uncontrollable fury

©Emerson Ehing 15
& passionate eroticism
Vacancies memories of the dawn
Vast waving field of articulations
Inoculated narcosis
Voices of the opinion
The fight would be in unite ourselves
Easy would be the separation
And the one that you did was to seek the easiest
I should sleep now a little
To reestablish the lost link will be difficult
Because closing my soul
bolt also my heart
I won't be loving nor hating
Nor living nor dying
Just impelling flows
of strange lives that are shuffled mine
My suit cannot participate in this game
The progress has other directions
The horror, the sadness, the frustration
They will participate in the return to the hell
- The devil waits
& my black teeth of wild animal
Will smile at the anguish & the slavery
No one sentence will fill out this emptiness
I am not with you
I am not alive - If I can say like this.

©Emerson Ehing 16
 Psychomimetic Verses
So lone
Reverting
Once again
Prone vibrations to immensity
And shadows inhaled by darkness
Seeking a friend
In the search of the end

I was like this

With my pains and happiness
In the insane game of the Chaos
You participated also
Opaque opal of the bottom of the lake
Lover of my poetry
Endless dream

Mining verbs
Images that faint
Your voices echo
Bouncing by the walls
Go to bed to the dream
Dream about the other side
The end

Rotating
Spreading to the infinite
Incessant & involuntarily
As inhalant shadows
The sound is black

©Emerson Ehing 17
 It is always
The end

So lone
I was like this
Mining verbs
Rotating
Reverting
With my pains and happiness
Images that faint
Spreading to the infinite
Once again
In the insane game of the Chaos
Your voices echo
Incessant & involuntarily
Prone vibrations to the immensity
You participated also
Bouncing by the walls
As inhalant shadows
And shadows inhaled by the darkness
Opaque opal of the bottom of the lake
Go to bed to the dream
The sound is black and the storm
Seeking a friend
Lover of my poetry
Dream about the other side
It is always
In the search of the end
Endless Dream
The end.

©Emerson Ehing 18
The Dawn of the Day of the Rebellion
The dawn of the day of the Rebellion is arrived.
And the shaman sings his verse of power for besides his despair.
The dawn of the day of the Rebellion is arrived.
And the song of the shaman is vast and courageous.
The torches of the Wisdom were lit up.
They cool down the atmospheres of the Reason.
It is arrived the glorious morning of the day of the Rebellion,
& the man's spirit is reverted in humanity.
The final coming is arrived:
the god's catastasis becoming animal.

Save-us from the waves of heat

It is too hot and we inflated
Survive, Children of the Now
Sisyphus that roll the Blue Egg
Let us roll the mountain below
Moves the faith of there for here
Ideologies too much, ideas too much
Let us survive from the conciliatory mind
Multiplies the tree and the branch
Let us survive from the jerk that cuts the last tree
He looks at us
He knows that all of us will die.
Nevertheless, he lowers the head, he breathes, and it cuts.

Is glorious the dawn of the day of the Rebellion.

All beings thank the stranger.
The Boat takes only a soul in safety.
Is the spirit navigator of the conscience.

©Emerson Ehing 19
Is the spirit of the new, and his conscience is gigantic.
It is not noticed except in the moment of terror,
when the wave swallows the boat.
Castaway, the thanks to himself, facing the stranger now,
he now recognizes the spirit of the sea.
But he is not there.

Why does stand back he, Great Mystery?

Is the World that makes to move back You?

It is the World that makes the man not to look.

But Grandiose is the dawn of the Rebellion!

©Emerson Ehing 20
Passionata Record II
Weave of white the Bitter of my Darkness
Magnetize, dawn color that germinates in the field
Only the love fertilizes – it comes!
The rain and the caressing of our bodies
Makes jealous and infuriates the Night
The Encounter of our eyes - drawing of the life
Lightning that perpetuates its thunder
Anchor. Stop for one moment in mine to navigate
Continue – reach me & drive me
Be dawn and strong, like this, the smell of the light
Magnetize, envisage the prospering of the Destiny
Our Destinies, woven one in the other
For the Goddess's miraculous desire
We looked at the brilliance of the Nature now
Superb & Sovereigns in Soul & Body.

©Emerson Ehing 21
Any Word to the Creator's Eyes

Any word to describe love

Only the Glance - Only Feeling
Absorbed - soul for soul
Any word
To describe
Love

The heat, sound, of your body, your spirit

Brilliant soul that shines when I close the eyes
Brilliant soul that is dazzling when I open the eyes
I don't exist - Everything in me is part of you

Do not cry lonely inside of the box

Absorb me with you for us to be one
Sky & Star to the Creator's Eyes

©Emerson Ehing 22
 Premeditated hallucinations,
Exaggerating Doses

I lead the glass and the syringe from the table

For there to register this hallucination, this desire
They move the fingers, and the black paint dilates
Diluted in the head's neuron connections
It allows the astonishment of the effect-word
I remove of the ashtray a piece of the memory
I reject the mediocre torn picture of the soul
Dies the hero in his heroic fable
Forgets him, as if it didn't exist, his lover
"That Bitch, motivates him to the suicide"
Pronounced the angel in their beautiful dreams
You "do with that he works for you that perishes for you"
Continued the angel being delighted in honey
Lied over there - the furious corpse
That before crawled in paranoia
Impregnated, in their immobile eyes
The resigned mourning of an extra dosage
Oh yes, the corpse by my side
Before dead and crucified
Lay now in a nest of grasshoppers
Remains him the mud the sewer
The mulatto's affront racist
Leading my madness from the table
I held her heart with a knife
And I appointed for the stars
Her spilled blood

©Emerson Ehing 23
 That was mixed mine
Was sucked by the darkness
There be! Dear death, dear lover
You came to my encounter
Completely cold and obsessed
Cut me the throat
Opened me the wrists
And said that loved me
Wanted to know of their dreams and madness
I hid my life in dreams and deliriums
So that you knew about that prostitute life
That it is to be poet, selling the soul
And the complete sanity, for a book.

©Emerson Ehing 24
Of the Eyes that cannot See her
No hour is
as hideous as
this, that lasts forever

Any feeling
is as merciless as
this, that doesn't pass

Neither anger nor good heart

Remains us after all
the finally to forget

No memory is
so embitter as
this, that doesn't fade

I play myself in the valley of wounded

Those, for the love, expired

Poor people that cry

for anything

No soul is
so monstrous
as this, that
never stops loving

No longing is
as painful as
this, of having you and
cannot to meet you.

©Emerson Ehing 25
Capite Damnatus.
(Convict to Death)

I saw blink the eyes of my innocence, breaking up with the

flagellated myths; I fall dead at your side, smiling, smoking a
joint, longing for the stardom of the indecency.
Careful vampires, stoned to the noise of the storm; it doesn't
rain how it rains, however it rains blood, it rains cry, it rains
the pities that you sustain, it rains spittle, sewer, rains the
blood of the innocence.
What do want to kill? What do want to betray?
The perversity of my eyes will bring her unequaled
misfortunes, unimaginable ecstasies.
Why does want to cry? Why does sing without loving?
Where is your sad end? Anything! To the low longings of the
soul, sad is the slow instinctive walk, bring me cocaine to
cover the wounds, leave me, the blood of your suicide.

©Emerson Ehing 26
Of the Passage of the Time
The reticent track of the Dawn permeated
tenebrity & ungraceful candleholders
aired intermediate sparkles

In the unhealthy passage of the time

Intransigent crypts seal the impossibility

Vertebrae taken root in the ground

Through where pass, they pass

& the reticent track of the Dawn permeated

and passed, tenebrous, dismal, tenuous
sufficiently real

No reality fills out her

Go down stalagmites, and
the reticence drip
dark of airing

It is written the sparkle in the tip of the pencil

The flash is denoted in the tip of the pen
Gives birth, to Intransigent Dawns
Of suns that are argued

You are the morning now, and

has past every dream
taken root in the ground

In the unhealthy passage of the time.

©Emerson Ehing 27
Opus Naturae
(Work of the Nature)

Black encephalic flower

To blossom in the cavities of displeasure
All the wisdom played in the sewer
Poor soul damned and marked.
Black flower that fills out obituaries
Black spring to bloom for ravings
So that of the debris of the light
Be born of the ovary, the small ruby-red angel
On the silk that cleans the blood of the cross.
Mass of thorns, uncertainty cuts
Of the black semen that is slippery of the wounds
The umbilical cord is the first fork
Found in life
The baby's first desire
Wrapped up in purity.

©Emerson Ehing 28
The Cave
They recover the lines of the cave
The eternity cries outside
Because here, the time ended
They are reduced the lines of the Cave

The world outside doesn't disturb him

He dances in a fire nest
And his song is dream in the wall

Fade the trace the torch the bonfire

Only the drum is heard

There inside there's a voice & the soul of the Indian

Comforted in these shone waters
Particles that dance to the Twilight
The lizards are added in the warm sands
They face faces in cut rocks

Stage that door there in the end

The sense of the indefinite ones that are sealed
Close the eyes for Existing
The wind - the breeze of the spirit
For one moment the music ceased
That bark out, the starving dogs
That howl, the furious wolves
That fall asleep, the crazy men

Out there wakes up the reality

The meat Shred in the tip
of the prey of the wild animal
Voracious jaws
that abstract eternity

©Emerson Ehing 29
Post Funera
(After the Funerals)

Megalomania of outrages
Mistaken senses
Mistake in ugliness
With the happiness of the insane ones
They are beauty and mistake mistaken
Crazy therapy, suicidal therapy
Trespassy life, relief of the skull
Against the insides the bullets
Comes out for the pipe
Of the rifle called society
I see the wake of the crowd
Locked up in a single coffin
The gravedigger's ferrous teeth
It is also the sentence of God
For the feather and the inkwell
It is not the death the punishment
But the end of the inspiration
It is not the death the danger
But the fire that of the hell
Fades inside of your heart.

©Emerson Ehing 30
 Kuaray'ã
- Solar Shadow -

In the distance in an incommensurable emptiness,

intensities erect subversives, sail, no sailor is in the boat.
Look! Mice to port.
Inverted islands emerge, it seems there not to be life besides the horizon.
Seating, with our shins submerged in the water, we sighted the focus of the
shadow to move, illuminated shipwrecked eyes, of lizard, without side,
absorbed in the contemplation of the vacuum, incommensurable empty,
hypnotic headquarters of inconstitute creation, to create and to live.
No war feels for the cause.
We are dominant predators.
And the one what will hunt now besides us same?
Contemplate the nude men's soul, any weakness to stun him/her the senses
- the wait for the freedom will know that it was offended - they capture the
skies and the more resplendorous rays.
Let us undress the mountain and the desire of moving her.
We repelled the replicant replica of hundreds that leave.
They divulge our roads to the hell.
Let us free of flower, lamps ballerinas that you/they are connected in the
abyssal quiet of the urban night.
Moving the red-haired hair of the disillusion, with the pending bunches on
the face of the terror.
There space committees: the poverty and the commotion, both want the
arms of the destruction, the shelter of the terror - the no-being's bad weather.
I hear the crook drag endless powder a limit that just exists in me.
They removed the sunbeams for me not to see the opening through where
drains the light.
There is a leak in the roof, she answers for me.
The sacred effigy faces, stares infinitely to East.
But the sacralidade of his expression are to my eyes, and I face to West.
I break the peel of the Egg-blue - is terrible the being in which I come across:
It's me.

©Emerson Ehing 31
Ehing Soft Poem
The soft symmetry
turbolada
insidious
broken in particles
invisible
inanimating the unimaginable
exalting the impassive
Indeterminating
the inconceivable
CHAOS
Anarchical wings plagiarize
my own revolt
they repeat the mold
no the color
Windows & Blinds
they are contradicted
Illusions Y Obsessions
they remain silent
The soft symmetry
unseaming
the sheet of the destiny
divide and split
water & appetite
rain Y particle
Broken
Devastating impetuous directions
- That all are fine
says the terror
the shadow, the storm
the skeleton that bends
and extends the bones for
to reach the paper
the word, the life
soft symmetry.

©Emerson Ehing 32
 Poem E.
I like to observe the moon through
the window of my room, because through
it I can see how many moons I want to
I like to observe the night through
the wall of my room, because through
it the night won't be nor cold nor uncomfortable
I like to see me passing through
the street inside of my house, because
on it my steps are crooked
and they take to place some
I like to pitch in black the mirror
and knowledge that my reflex won't be there
I like to smoke a joint to relax,
to lower Q.I, to feel the smell of the herb
invade the nostrils,
simply to be stoned
I "like to be at home where 2 and 2 are always 5"
I like to write in an exhausted and compulsive matinée,
or it is the guitar or it is the word, the mind doesn't stop,
simply no, it doesn't stop
But I like to smoke a joint to relax
and to dissolve in wine the ecstasy of the pain
I like to observe the room,
the action is null and inevitable,
I have to go; I am going to the basement

©Emerson Ehing 33
and I collect some memories, aged, covered in dust,
dimmed by the paranoia of the addiction
A jeans, an all star,
a lover, a forgotten music,
a tri-destilated poem, a condom,
a speed, an acid, an amphetamine
I look at Chaplin's picture; I eye him
for three cocaine risks. There, from the high
of the cliff, I blew the death towards the abyss,
in a fine layer of small particles it left the death
to fall, for no more to return
I like to slide my fingers
on the strings of my guitar
as who slides the fingers on
a beautiful woman's body
I write because it makes me
happy and anything beyond
I like to sing as if my throat,
stomach and lungs will expel
the whole pain and angst.
In the instant in that I also call
the happiness and the pleasure,
there distant, to come until me
I want the happiness to be on our side
I don't want to destroy your life
Escape from my self-destruction
Of my suicidal impulse
Do protect me of myself.

©Emerson Ehing 34
Glue and Bits of Glass in Red-haired
Hair in Blood Colored

Brave flowers
Carnivorous fingers

- Come for the end of the reason

Opened eyes
Valve Amplifiers

- Come for the end of the reason

locucionate the old tradition

remounted in the toilet in ballad and haikai

- I am going to the end of the reason

In the monitor the prayer is written

Scanned the sacred blood
Fermented, as barley and wine
Christ! – They pray to Pilatos

Anti-bactericide are thrown, dispersed

Making scream put on a tie bug

- the century of steel makes to regret me

©Emerson Ehing 35
let us hit fire in the plenary session
twisted petals
pulled nails, fallen

- come for the end of the reason

very dry hair

colored
plays glue and glass bit
combs with the hands

It is blood the tone that does me red-haired

It is fury the talent that makes me indication
Of the passage of a mad storm.

©Emerson Ehing 36
Fou Love
Was so good to be with you
Your love gesture
I know that I miss
Is clear the sad road
unflowered, my flower
my love, alive, still alive

in a sacrifice to you
I want your kiss
your caress
much more than your

presence

I want your attention

your heart, the love
that is love
that invades
that disfigures
my love
your love
- of your love

Ennoble the shine

©Emerson Ehing 37
of our feeling
without resentment
slowly
Love, kiss me
don't let to regret me

to live to your side

would be so good
the more I approach
of you to live becomes
love, love!, to live
You become that:
that vague feeling
that is inside of me
corroding me in melancholy
and hope
In the longing, crazy
to meet, love
Was so good to be with you
Is so good to be with you
simply existing
as "a star falling,
very slowly"...

©Emerson Ehing 38
Amrita

I painted your virginity

with the ruby-red rose of the
garden of the flowers of the death
Of hemp & wine
was the Dinner of Initiation
Our dimmed eyes
they crossed in the search
for the Salvation
Of the chalice of blue beehives
spilled was the womb
of the chrysalises eras
Today, when putting of the sun
ennobled by the
gold light of the
Twilight-morning
we will absorb the sap
of the powder-apocalyptic existence
and we will enter in ordeal
and we will sing
in a sexual pulse
I painted your virginity
with the ruby-red rose of the
garden of the flowers of the life
and dancing to the lulling of the
shadows of the valley of the death
we compose together

©Emerson Ehing 39
the song of the suicidal love
I ejaculated in the flowers of the death
I vomited in the garden of the hopes
and singing to the infinite
in the pulse of the boat
my preys extended
to the immensity
leaving poison traces
and of cure
leaving traces of blood
as the petals of the ruby-red rose
brushstrokes
for the exaltation.

©Emerson Ehing 40
 Amethustos
She - As serpentigerous violet crystal
It comes like Thanatophis until the epicenter of the cut
Scales of morbípara skin shine
In an acid and burning jet, she brings the death
I observe the pleasure primal fully
With that she devours us and he/she vomits
Recreating unceasingly already happened
For the no-being is to Be again, to Be Primal
And resume his painful suicide
As cozy deep wounds
The exaggerating peace in the group to the fight
All of us want to kiss her tongue
But her name son-of-a-bitch
Is splint in our throats: Life!

©Emerson Ehing 41
Hambieny

The present constellations are swallowed

in an ecstatic whirl that seems not to end

Before they took the wind in the palm of the hand

and the man's masked virtue blew
for very far away the ferocious teeth

Everything that dream is a line in the cave

I blow, and the whirl is incessant before
my vision. Falls asleep, sweet creature
of the good - to be

Promiscuous royalties that fall

Disastrous kingdoms that are decomposed
The line doesn't put at the end of the cave
The dream doesn't begin in the end of the edge
Everything is a poem and an opening
Of a door that never shines
& never closes

Let us hear the Stone

So soon she tells the truth

We filled with roses the alabaster

Gaped with the autotomia
of all of the things - Arrows
dropped in the ground - Arches
suspended and bent

©Emerson Ehing 42
Silver granules
that meditate
and reach puberty

Play your fragrances to the Air

Decisive storms
Compassionate

When to know that comes

That the storm comes

My literature is a risk that goes

of the beginning to the end of the cave
And you don't know where it is
the end and the beginning

Is absurd the rotating by these confused spindles

Ecstatic waves that depreciate the middle

I travel heading for the infinite rarejar of my word

I get lost in her - I am me the maze - no her

In my jump to the abyss

I play my poetry in the bottom of the cave
For her to set on fire the rebel's eyes

Me that am the bridge and the spirit

among so many other the highest

Rebel, painful, merciless

©Emerson Ehing 43
Crestfallen to the child that passes
Embarrassed to my innocence lack

Mother, I wait for you

I am strong as the
whirl of stars
waiting for you
While I am
swallowed by myself
Go, spilling the roses
of the alabaster along the road
Be everything of yourself
Wrap your storm in the
lap - everything is blue here

Then you take the wind in the palm of the hand

Getting yourself of the fragrances in the air

©Emerson Ehing 44
 Horus

Horus plays cosmic flute in a circle that meet itself at the golden
lion’s mouth, the crystalline fountains and the mineral mines
exhale the perfume of the cabaret, the absinth of anarchy. Mienne
Belle Amie, come on! The profuse passion fire flames in a pitonical
ecstasy, recondite, hidden on destroyer gaze. Dear rebel virgin,
come on! With your splendorous nakedness, with your sensual
curves, your perfume, aroma di Femina; bear the fire and the horns
of God, fell the unicorn smell. The world is in coma, turned off,
without the power that reigns the universe; Mienne Belle Amie,
come on! Crave for! Snake skin, plasmal plume; my sun wants your
hotness, my shadow wants your darkness, my eyes want your light.
Come on! Oberon touches your milky breasts. The fingers slide over
all your body stretch, meets your lips, kisses them in burning
passion. Oberon visits your matrix, plucks out your clothes, kisses
your thighs, and relishes her under magic Horus eyes. The flute
introduces multicolored notes, solid and liquid melodies. I feel your
touch to compose songs, your groans to take shape images in flatted
ether. Join, my darling! Ejaculate your existence, I press you
against my body, I feel you entirely. Yell! Bite me! Drink in my
blood, dally with my sperm; I am your extension, your delirium oh
my illusion, reanimate my feeling in the course of the coma’s world,
with your body, with your spirit, with our occult love.

©Emerson Ehing 45
 This is a list of my Books
Suicidal prayers - Diabolus in Referendum
Suicidal prayers - Infernus in Infinitum
Suicidal prayers - Mortem Profectus

Autopsy of a Crucified

Apology of the Chaos

Brave New Grave – Riot & Insanity

Thanatos – The Collapse of the Consciences

Nigreton Hypnon

Ikhthys and the Scarlet Milky

The Coma of the World

Manifest Post-Mortem
Second Manifest Post-Mortem
Third Manifest Post-Mortem

Gospel of the Dead

Gospel of the Lunatics

Cut Wrists

A Rioted Brain is Rented - Seven

A Rioted Brain is Rented - Two
A Rioted Brain is Rented - Amazonian Destroyed
A Rioted Brain is Rented - A Surrealist Writing & Memories of Charles
Manson

Passionata Record – Simeletric Roses

Passionata Record – Golden Dawn
Passionata Record – Amazonian Reconstructed
Passionata Record – From the Little & Big Eagle

Heresiarch - Chosen Poems

©Emerson Ehing 46
Tumultuary - Selected Poems

Me you & the Eternity – Love Poems

Erebo and the Visceras of Our Sacrifice

Sensorium - Sensations that repeat, histories that get confused

Ectabana Xamanica - The Legacy of Opsycôre

Ectabana Xamanica - The Color of Lagaryo
Ectabana Xamanica - The Strange Forest
Ectabana Xamanica - Disciples of the Evil

The Guardian's Mask - The Pipe’s Bottom

The Guardian's Mask - Jeremias
The Guardian's Mask - The Deepest Seer

Interrupted Lives

Men & Machines – Homo ex machina

Franarky - Anarchical Fraternity

Dictionary Post-Mortem

Thanks a lot by your attention, Hanna.

©Emerson Ehing 47
Extra Material – The first chapter from the book

The Guardian's Mask - The Pipe’s Bottom

The
Pipe’s Bottom
The Guardian’s Mask series
Emerson Ehing

Prologue
There was a boy,
begun to sleep...

His dream was heard

by the observer...

There was a boy,

begun to write...

His words were read

by the narrator...

There was a boy,

begun to live...

His life was lived

by the dreamer...

©Emerson Ehing 48
 This Book is an Allegory...

Chapter One

Calmly hearing the roar of the bomb, the small peddler went to an old Indian that
cried at the square. He sat down to his side and he offered him a handful of herbs that
shone. The Indian smiled and he caught his pipe slowly. The stealthy eyes of the
peddler observed the beautiful tribal drawings cut manually. He asked, with certain air
of fascination, on who would have made such beautiful work.
- You! - The Indian answered, absorbed in the smoke that rose to the skies. The
peddler laughed heartily, and rolled. He cried from laughing, when he returned to
himself, the Indian was not there, but he had left the pipe. The boy analyzed the subtle
lines that composed the workmanship.
Almost unintentionally he looked at the interior of the pipe, and he saw his face
contemplating inside of that small darkness. He was pale of fright and immobilized of
terror. He could not believe that their forms were inside of the pipe of an old Indian that
cried and that he never had seen before. He caught one more handful of herbs and then
he dreamed:
A dreams catcher rotated and drew animal forms; below, close to a vase with cacti,
was a wood and metal silex totem, to locucionate voices, approximated his ear of the
object and for seven times he heard his name. He looked again upward and he saw that
old filter of the dreams now was new and the light that enters for the window
contemplated almost blinding their eyes. He went the door and reached an enormous
mirror, he drew an Indian that drew drawing him, in the boy's hands that the Indian
drew was the pipe, being still cut and prepared.
When he woke up, the small peddler noticed that he used a leather jacket with eagle
feathers and a hawk eye. In the eye of the hawk: shone the tears of the Indian that
formerly had given him the pipe. Noticing that they were their own tears, the small had
decided to find his tribe, in a distant and deep trip, inside his soul. Definitively, he didn't
have to smallest notion of that.
He only woke up when fell of the bed. Afraid, he looked at the nude body and came
to notice that he was still dreaming, but a light one, beautiful and powerful eagle feather
hovered on the ground, silencing the doubt of his dream.
The mascatel cloth on the table was rolled up to the pipe and it protected him. The
hands slowly raised forces towards the feather, but all of a sudden, as a figure, before
playing her, it was taken the resplendorous feather and agile life and with its tip, it drew
a circle below the filter of the dreams. The ground inside of the wheel was ruby-red and
gold wavy and abrupt silver, the black also there was and it was the own circle.
Years ago, when he buried one of their crystals of quartz, the peddler had seen,
inside the translucent eye, the same image of the feather. He heard the triple clink of a
bell and was shocked with the image: An old one used bloody clothes and bows of
animal skin. With braids in the hair and lips, ears and painted eyes in black, it left the
interior of a tree as if before it was the own tree, staring him in a gesture strange to all
attention. A buzzing of a fly - the old woman appeared to his side, extending him a rose

©Emerson Ehing 49
and a hand. Inside of the rose minuscule rings that were suspended in the air sprouted.
Of their broken nails, worms appeared and they fed her. She closed the eyelids and
disappeared. The extended rose, fell inside of the circle, inside the crystal.
He decided to exhume the crystal, three years passed from that vision. To the feet of
a great pine tree dug him exactly in the point where formerly he had buried it. When he
held firmly with the left hand, an intense vibration traveled the extension of his body. In
his interior it rotated the eagle feather, forming the circle and his room. The filter of the
dreams also rotated and minuscule rings went down rotating and sparkling strong and
beautiful light, as floating particles of a ray, arriving to the light ground and slowly. The
peddler focused forward and he saw the same image, the old woman and the Indian,
side by side, she extended the rose and the hand, he held the pipe and the quartz.
He heard a beat in the window; the peddler quickly hid the pipe. It was the drug
dealer that announced a new product. He resembled much a punk, anarco-capitalist,
parading with his moicano, living exactly at the expense of his antictone: the capitalism.
The son of a bitch entered and quickly, shaking piercings and buckles, removed from
the pocket some coated papers when he came across the crystal of quartz and the rose
that moved itself symmetrical, he sighed heavily and retracted the muscles, he removed
petals similar from his pockets. He asked the peddler: "how did you draw your road,
Indian?" Perplexed, the small dried the perspiration of the forehead and "my road is
drawn as the transported sand, the dune moving for the intrepid action of the wind" said
and from the pocket removed a handful of sand, it released the particles
perpendiculating to the rotation of the same, to the ground.
– It is possible that the Great Spirit is here, my skin falls and the light of the post
don’t want to shine, that shadow that accompanied him for the window: it was the braid
of the old woman that came undone.
– I think you should stop with the drugs – retorted the trafficker.
– To stop with the drugs is not a piece of advice given usually by a trafficker – said
the ironic peddler.
– To stop with the drugs is a piece of advice given by a trafficker that doesn't want
your money and doesn't also want you dead. Get dressed, catch yours weapons and don't
say anything.
Then the peddler got dressed and prepared their weapons while in the dispersed
sand for the ground the trafi wrote – "Stop with the drugs: to smell, to smoke, to inject
and to vote for never again."
The Indian traveled in his tent when the trafficker entered and sat down around of
the bonfire, he put the hands in the fire and in the smoke they observed a double of you
reading this word; when we were ready, for the Real triumphal lunge against the
Unknown, the little Indian rose and said: "the extended rose, falls inside of the circle
and the feather of the eagle maintains its victory, inside of the crystal". The tent of the
Indian was inside of the flat of the trafi. They had to call the firemen three times for the
insistence of the Indian in doing a bonfire in the room, there was an enormous hole in
the middle of the weeds, inside of the tent, dispersed for every part, thousands of seeds,
cacti, red and blue plants ornamented small tribal drawings that there emphasized the
blood in the choir of the cables of the tent; crazy poems logged sporadically and read
stayed silent & they disappeared in the measure in that he used them as silk for tobacco.
He sat down again and had been interrupted when trying to light the fire. They noticed
that they were not inside of the apartment, was the desert that extended and
demonstrated in its exuberance amplitude for the horizons. The movement of the coyote
whipped the silence and nor the wind interrupted the movement of the feather of the
eagle, the fire didn't glitter in the enormous crystal of quartz fixed in the center of the

©Emerson Ehing 50
circle, the sand didn't separate from herself, the night was a mantle for too much deep
and neither the time nor the space could be noticed. There was the bank of the square,
the bomb to fall continually without playing the soil, because the space was not there.
"The old witch arose in the boat and disappeared, the tearful lion undid the braids of the
own mane, so that the sun rose" observed the peddler when he looked to East.
– A nightmare will come to end with your pains, because you will face them for the
vision. Maybe it is possible that it carries the flag of the victory to the next dream, when
it will use the mast as lance to get hurt. You know your mirrors, desirous of the victory
of the life, you disperse the last hour for the vastness of the timeless unspace – rebelled
the Indian before the cathartic coming of the final transposition, jumping of the abyss,
to arise.
– I must, so to speak and to do, present inalienable to stay in my realities; the
agitated sea of the information wants to devour me, but not only I navigate the wave, as
I create additional slopes that you/they end in the sea, then I am the wave, the reality,
the road, the sea - it retorted the peddler stoned that faked to play guitar while the
lunatic trafi unwrapped adulterated palaces in chemistry, that he intended to sell, but...
The boy removed the feather of eagle of the leather jacket; he looked sincerely at the
abyss and released the feather. She arose slowly and disappeared. Hovered the silence.
– And so, trafi, where is the Indian?
– Nanny, lokô. Fucked off.
Suddenly, the Indian fell down of his unspacial abyss; was possible to hear until the
cracks of the ribs breaking. The fella fell faint, all crooked, skinned and holding the
feather of the eagle.
– You’re crazy, dude. I think they vomited me from the paradise. – He babbled, still
staggering, the Indian that arose to the ground. They laughed and they prepared a tea of
herbs. They went back to the tent to dismiss.
– Hey, fella. We will engender the search the link the enigma, your hallucinated
rhythm will dictate the speed of the drums, we will leave for this door and we will go up
the Hill of the Holed Stone, in that cosmic rift we will deposit our ideals, we will wait
for the flight of the bird on the clouds in the Sunset, clumsy to our lack of common
sense and accuracy, ennobled by the shine of forty magnificent treasures that surround
us. We will follow Woodpecker King's trail, and we will dive at the Enchanted Green
Pond, I have in my pocket polishes and map, you have oh mind and soul, we will leave
uninterrupted to explore the inconceivable, the frightening, the Real. We will be
enclosed of stranger would calm, an ablator silence that sucks us and interpolates. Shit,
fella! You should leave with us. We will hug the sun the cloud the storm! – yelled the
trafficker almost having a thing of so much emotion. It was when the Indian got up and
he gave a slap in the face of the old of the worms that spied in the door. She let the map
to fall. The peddler quickly sought the map in the pockets and just found the tasted
worms and vomited of the nails of the old. When the peddler was played to catch it, all
of a sudden the map became a crystallized rose and was broken. The old let out a
stabbing and deafening scream of pain undoing the braids that were rolled up in the
neck of the Indian. He shook the shoulders and shredded the arms of the old woman
with a razor that had removed of the inferior part of the drum. When she fell smelted in
blood, she became a tree trunk all of a sudden. The worms quickly entered for the small
cavities found in the rottenness of that old wood. The Indian caught the trunk in the
ground and set fire as if it was a torch, a greenish fire whistled as a fly and it let to
escape small gold rings of smoke. The peddler rose lonely with the loss of the map, it
shook the ashes of the body and all of a sudden he remembered the pipe, he had
reminded that in the tribal lines of that workmanship there was the memory of a road, of

©Emerson Ehing 51
a trail that took to her same, but he could not remind where was the pipe. "When I was
small, and saw small angels falling down of the trees, my yellow smile misunderstood
the teeth of the tiger". Everyone heard these words of the peddler, neither the fire nor
the air seemed to understand.

Explicitus est hic Liber

©Emerson Ehing 52