an angel quietly in the monastery sits

as i sit here be­tween these sharp bro­ken crys­tals of my tears
i re­mem­ber how you lashed at me with your courage and wit
and gave me thun­der­ous mo­ments, a whirls around of my shame
where shame would be born, where hap­py­ness reigns.
where gen­tle love­li­ness en­twines with aches and these yearn­ing lit­tle hurts

i ad­mire the chem­istry that i par­take in, with the pow­er of my frailty
as you a chemic won­der, charm­ing one af­ter an­oth­er, and with your wit
com­pas­sion wreck­ing hav­oc and shut­ter­ing con­ven­tions
sin­cer­i­ty to al­ways lead you in a mo­ment from dan­ger
grace­ful­ly as you shine so nat­u­ral­ly, as if noth­ing hap­pened

and bold­ly go on, where no psy­chol­o­gist has gone be­fore.
in your in­no­cence and kind and help­ful spir­it, gen­tle with fum­ing twists
the fe­male over the ther­a­py, the charm over the func­tion­al­i­ty.
a tru­ly heal­ing med­i­cine, as we fight and wres­tle. with none of society’s con­ven­tions

en­tire­ly with­out tools knives or equip­ment of any kind, me­an­der­ing
through philo­soph­i­cal friv­o­li­ties you pro­tect your­self
from my all too sen­sa­tion­al soul. and still you dare, to ven­ture.
still you dare to call my your friend, a kind man.
as that wicked and crim­i­nal mind, at least in a sen­su­al de­spair
fell with­in so many light and pu­trid sins

shriek­ing as the birds al­ready rose up
flocks daz­zling strokes a thou­sand and sec­onds al­ready of a mem­o­ry.
leaves still dance where every­one left. and you and me to sit there
at the ther­a­py of the end of the world.
a crim­i­nal and a de­vout catholic of mod­ernism
kind to per­mit a breach, a crack in the crevice of or­di­nary con­ver­sa­tion

she seat­ed, she smiled, she laughed, she opened her eyes
all that as a heart alive, a breath­ing deer, a straw­ber­ry faery.
and noth­ing that re­mained of con­structs, timid ug­li­ness.
you sat there in pale sin­cer­i­ty. aris­to­crat­ic as the tem­pler vir­gins.

there is no greater a pure smile cut into your chest
with flow­ers weep­ing over the floor where i buried my­self
as i said and hide un­der your chair for the wretched and de­formed de­mon lives.
coura­geous a sol­dier, with­stand­ing every con­ven­tion
yuo med­dle in the caul­dron of the witch­es, you are a elvin of which
grat­i­tude must see you bows and curt­sies as to the most roy­al.
duchess of spon­tane­ity, en­tire court of sen­sa­tions.

more then mad i am sen­si­tive
and more then ther­a­py i need­ed charm
more then sloth i need­ed quick­en­ing fresh beau­ty.
more then drought and stale lis­ten­ers
i need a crisp muse.
and you are a charm­ing, quick­en­ing fresh beau­ty, a crisp muse i do need.

from the emp­ty walls where are my arts.
from my hol­low sen­tences, ill vers­es, dis­eased man­i­fes­ta­tion
glut­to­nous drink­ing from fe­male a brow, a cheek, a smile, a dress.
oceans of med­i­cine in which my shut­ter­ing soul may dwell
in which, in life, and if so life sen­su­al enough, in beau­ty may me com­fort
as the ugly every­where rant and con­de­scend with sim­plest arms
a nu­clear bomb on top of my head, a pun­gent sting, a pain of pun­gent stink­ing po­ems alas
but you have nev­er, ever caught me, in your anger or your tem­pers
in your dis­ap­proval or dis­may.
you have nev­er caught oth­er the the lyre and touched that string.
where a lovers love was hid­den at an an­gels finest and most se­cret and deep trea­sured whim.
 
 

—aey­lyeaelle ell­he de el­len­deh

Flom­mist Aey­lyeaelle Ell­he De El­len­deh is a ne­oro­man­tic and neosym­bol­ist artist and philoso­pher, stud­ied sculpt­ing at The Roy­al Acad­e­my of Dec­o­ra­tive Arts of Antwerp Bel­gium, He de­cried ac­tu­al­ly hav­ing fall­en in love stand­ing be­fore the Psy­che of Leighton in Lon­don, hav­ing cried over the Sleep­ing Beau­ty by Suss­mann hell­born and hav­ing spir­i­tu­al re­li­gious af­fec­tions for the Sphinc Mys­terieux by Charles van der Stap­pen. Dec­o­ra­tive sculp­tor and Au­thor of a neosym­bol­ist mythol­o­gy on Kant­ian per­cep­tion, on the imag­i­na­tion, in­spi­ra­tion, art, deca­dence, es­thet­ics and pas­sion, hate, mis­an­thropy main­ly. Heav­i­ly in­flu­enced by Huys­mans A re­bours and Schopen­hauers refuge in art as Sades will to free erotics. He in­vent­ed the Eif­fel tow­er sev­er­al times the size of the cur­rent one in paris to launch trains into space in an art nou­veau way. He in­vent­ed can­dles on re­mote con­trol. He in­vent­ed a game of chess with over 200 pieces per play­er and in an en­tire­ly clas­si­cal and de­scent set­up. With a line of Bish­ops, an Army, an­gels, boul­ders, with tow­ers that need to be de­fend­ed for­ward to launch the boul­ders, with a court, and a high­er court with Elvin, Elvin King, Em­per­or, Em­press and vam­pire of melan­choly and a vam­pire le­gion. He is a self de­clared mad­man and of­fi­cial­ly de­clared in­sane by the state of Bel­gium deu to his ro­man­tic up­risals. De­sign­er and ar­chi­tect of the fu­ture city of Anae­htheana, which is best de­scribed as the most beau­ti­ful and lux­u­ri­ous place ever de­vised, with the con­crete bridges done again in mar­ble, a wild zoo where the high­way is now. And a for­ti­fied vat­i­can in­spired wall for a le­gion of Joans of Arc he is try­ing to call. Among that, he is call­ing upon all ar­che­types cur­rent­ly in cos­play goth­ic and mu­sic to build, among oth­er things, a Vam­pire Lane with goth­ic schools, goth­ic mu­se­ums and goth­ic lounges and palaces. And an Angh an­gel fortress. It is his one and only and fi­nal mis­sion to re­place all com­mer­cial bill­boards with ro­man­tic and aca­d­e­m­ic paint­ings. Etc … Copy­right © 2019 Aey­lyeaelle Ell­he De El­len­deh.‬

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