Verhovnik Srecko
You're friends on Face***k
Lives in Mozirje
Thu 10:07 PM
You sent
hej mate what's your number?
na kero stevilko si dosegljiv???
Thu 10:26 PM
You sent
tone pecnik se je poslovil in sem se spomnil na tebe, ce se tebi tudi kam mudi? ampak ti si zilav a ne?
12:55 AM
Verhovnik
Še sem živ haha
1:25 PM
You sent
mal te pa manjka?
You sent
a mas telefonsko?
2:38 PM
Verhovnik
Imam tel. Kolk maš pa ti Starina Pošlji mi fotko tvoje družine
2:54 PM
You sent
pa kaj si ti neki perverznes al kaj?
3:16 PM
You sent
okey srecko. vse ok. salo na stran. in tu pa resno. moje ta mlade kace so se lih zvalile in sem mi plazijo cez tipkovnico. tk da ne morm vec kaj dosti pisat. se pa pol vidima, ja. cez 5 let.
You sent
nic ni slabega v tem in tudi ne kaj prevec dobrega. nekaj me pa dejansko skrbi, ampak samo obcasno, in to takrat ko kdo tako zalostno pogine, kot je bil zdaj poginil nas dober prijatelj pecnik tone pec papiga. in me pol malo zaskrbi kdaj pa sploh se pride cas. cez 5 let? cez 20let? ampak tole oktog 20 let nini ti tako slabo a ves. ker to si pa dobil po fotru. in po mami. in to pa lepo prosim odplacaj prej ko pride dolg se do vsega drugega. ker po dolgu, ki se ga izterja, se ne vidi toliko kot po dolgu, ki ga je clovek pripravljen dati is srca in od svoje krvi, po tem dolgu pa ja, se strinjam, se lahko prepozna velika sprememba, ki pa tudi ne more biti prevelika, je pa cena zivljenja. in pri tebi srecko je ta cena precej jasna. in zato ti morn rect - hvala. ja. hvala. mogoce pa bova sla na kafe cez 10 let? ampak takrat pa zares? ampak dolg se bo pa samo povecal?
You sent
nic ni slabega v tem in tudi ne kaj prevec dobrega. nekaj me pa dejansko skrbi, ampak samo obcasno, in to takrat ko kdo tako zalostno pogine, kot je bil zdaj poginil nas dober prijatelj pecnik tone pec papiga. in me pol malo zaskrbi kdaj pa sploh se pride cas. cez 5 let? cez 20let? ampak tole oktog 20 let nini ti tako slabo a ves. ker to si pa dobil po fotru. in po mami. in to pa lepo prosim odplacaj prej ko pride dolg se do vsega drugega. ker po dolgu, ki se ga izterja, se ne vidi toliko kot po dolgu, ki ga je clovek pripravljen dati is srca in od svoje krvi, po tem dolgu pa ja, se strinjam, se lahko prepozna velika sprememba, ki pa tudi ne more biti prevelika, je pa cena zivljenja. in pri tebi srecko je ta cena precej jasna. in zato ti morn rect - hvala. ja. hvala. mogoce pa bova sla na kafe cez 10 let? ampak takrat pa zares? ampak dolg se bo pa samo povecal?
You sent
in tvoj foter je imel prav da me je vedno malo postrani gledal skozi tista njegova ocala in skozi frizuro, ki jo imas ti danes. upam, da ti mama kaj ne zameri zaradi tega. tudi ce si ji povsem podoben, ona vidi v tebi izrezano podobo tvojega oceta. ampak je bila bolj sestra, betty, ki je bila bolj pretresljiva, bolj sportna, bolj ziva, nekako, ampak ji je umanjkalo marsikaj kar si pa ti dobil, in to ni bilo enostavno, ker ti si dobil odrezano drugacno rezino casa, in to taksno, ki se je ne da dobiti v vsaki stacuni
Verhovnik
Kratko Vame si prinesel dobre spremembe Začel sem razmišljati Hvala
Kje pa drugje – diši po zemlji in nebu?
Na pogrebih. Pogrebi so vedno bili in bodo vse lepši.
Vendar jih je vse manj.
In na koncu bo ostal le še en sam:
Pogrebec, pogreb in pokopani.
Danes ti, jutri jaz, potem pa še vsi oni.
Žalost je lepa.
Ampak vse one so pa presneto lepše.
In tako je potem ostalo še dolga leta in leta.
Ampak človek se je zdramil, kot bi bil spal,
tako pokopan že vsa tisočletja,
in samo za malo je odprl svoje prečudovite oči
in se niti ni zbudil, in je samo malo videl,
in je prav ugotovil – ja, one so lepše –
in se je obrnil, v ležečem položaju,
na drugo stran, in stran od sonca,
in v senco se je bil sključil, sklonil,
in z rokami lastno si telo objel v samoti,
in je spal, kot bi spal sam kralj,
in je smrčal, kot kralj, za dva ali kar za tri,
in je tako nadaljeval, in je kar naprej spal
skozi ves dopoldan in še malo
v dan naslednjega dne.
Žalost je lepa.
Ampak vse one so pa presneto lepše.
Kje pa drugje – diši po zemlji in nebu?
ECCE HOMO
Sorry, this needs to repeat (I'm a Cockatoo)
Pardon madam, se ponavljam kot Papika (od Anton Pečnik)
(ko ze disi po pomladi)
Kje pa drugje – diši po zemlji in nebu?
Na pogrebih.
Pogrebi so vedno bili in bodo vse lepši.
Vendar jih je vse manj.
In na koncu bo ostal le še en sam:
Pogrebec, Pogreb in Pokopani.
P, P, P, Pappiggaaaaa!
Danes ti, jutri jaz, potem pa še vsi oni.
Žalost je lepa.
Ampak vse ône so pa presneto lepše.
In tako je potem ostalo še dolga leta in leta.
Ampak človek se je zdramil, kot bi bil spal,
tako pokopan že vsa tisočletja,
in samo za malo je odprl svoje prečudovite oči
in se niti ni zbudil, in je samo malo videl,
in je prav ugotovil – ja, ône so lepše –
in se je obrnil, v ležečem položaju,
na drugo stran, in stran od sonca,
in v senco se je bil sključil, sklonil,
in z rokami lastno si telo objel v samoti,
in je spal, kot bil bi spal sam kralj, v tihoti,
in je smrčal, kot kralj, za dva ali za kar tri,
in je tako nadaljeval, in je kar spal
skozi ves dopoldan in še malo
v dan naslednjega dné.
Žalost je lepa.
Ampak vse ône so pa presneto lepše.
Kje pa drugje – diši po zemlji in nebu?
Dedicated to all friends of Anton Pečnik and Milos (sorry to hear): Matjaz Mlakar Mihaela Ranc Gregor Mlakar Iztok Hirtl-Baldi Simona Kerš Sebastjan Grilc Verhovnik Srecko Neva Neva Kamenik Andrej Kwaky Kovačec Tatjana Dragićević Rahela Mačič Valentin Svetec Marja Škvorc Tomaž Pačnik Pop Bar Ajda Prislan Meta Pešl Šater Irena Šumah (itd) *
od Papige do Papige, prav vsem, prav malo, in onim drugim malo več, in enim, nam, en manj, en več, ampak nič več in niti nič manj, za vsaj malo več, vsaj malo manj. Zdaj pa ponovi! Hvala Anton Pečnik za vse Papige kar jih je kdaj bilo zivelo in jih se bode.
I NAVALITE SUTRA! <3 DA SE JEDE I DA SE PIJE OD ZIVOTA JEDNE PAPIGE SA DVIJU SLOVA. TACKA UNTERSCHRIFT
The great beast that was content to let humanity play for ten thousand years has been stirred by the glint of forbidden metal travelling where it must never go.
That is why the rock has already cracked.
That is why there are now two.
Eventually I did hit my tiny bony toe against that well-positioned rock on the floor without wearing proper shoes - and without explaining it in too much detail you could possibly imagine how bad it hurt and how much I needed to hold back to suppress the scream of pain. Not only that.
As you said, the compositions of organic matter could invoke the states of emergency at any moment that wasn’t necessary and no one got hurt yet. Not yet. Fairly true considering the events trying to convince you otherwise.
But I can tell you only this: that rock has cracked. And now there are the two.
Maybe your urologist might have a second opinion: so let’s check. But in my opinion you’re good to go.
Are we good to go?
What can we really bear?
And if bearing something, really, why not asking the permission first from this great beast of time upon us, as asking this violently furious ultimately unstoppable force of a bear: do you dare?
The bear may reply, may not, and you may hear his reply, or better not. Done and over with that.
"Mijaouw", mijaouwed my feral shadow cat uder the feet of something tremendously huge and unbearably present in this room, this space, that can move planets aside and step into dominion. "Stay aside, for the bear, and care, deeply - care."
I curled myself in a spiral that the other has been curled into before, but aside from the other hand, there was nothing left, no less, no more except for the ring. And that's worth every story.
image courtesy of i n d e e d . i s // ring a courtesy of the most skilfully kind Anja OriAn, the tamer of steppen wolves (with the chosen addition by Leigh J. McCloskey)
Stelarc has taken the symbol of the suffering artist (the ear) and turned it into a symbol of networked, indifferent connectivity. He has borrowed the relic of a man who cut off his ear in a moment of profound emotional distress and implanted it into a philosophy that seeks to erase emotion. The shaman isees this as a spiritual theft. The feral shadow cat sees it as a prey for the night of the March 26th. Who will win and who will perish. Ear-ternally?
Stelarc Stelarc must return that ear as the corpses wait.
Oh, my darling grand-grand mother, she was one of these. And she spoke with the wolves. And we were a few in the pack. She was so nice.
Therefore, my name, by that chance, belongs to her.
Growing up in her lap was a tremendously fierce but terribly kind experience. Which is a sign one receives. And cannot, by any means, let go.
Like one of our dogs today. He still hangs onto the tyre of that old car that has been hanged around that tree and is just not letting go. He thinks he needs to prove himself to the pack. And he accepted the challenge. He will be onto that tyre to the end of days, and will still not let go. The wolf pack will observe. But it is still a dog we're talking about. He will never be able to become a wolf but he has the chance to proove himself worthy being considered as the one. Which also isn't so bad. Except for the tyre. The tyre itself is older than universe and is the one that puts the greater Saturn into his place. And he won't let it go until the greater Saturn does not give up his rings. And when about is this going to happen?
"I have a calendar", said kindly my feral shadow cat. Then she miaouwed for really long. And I wasn't sure whether it's a mijaouw or just a mijaouwed laughter straight from her mijaouwing heart.
"Love is the law. Love in its most lawless state."
The veneration of trees and sacred groves among the Slavs is well documented in medieval sources. Kozma of Prague (Cosmas Pragensis) in his Chronica Boemorum (early 12th century) mentions that the pre-Christian Slavs revered natural sacred spaces, including groves, springs, and trees, where rituals were performed. Although Cosmas writes from a Christian perspective and critically portrays pagan practices, his chronicle is one of the key narrative sources for early Slavic religion in Central Europe.
A similar testimony appears in the writings of Helmold of Bosau (12th century), particularly in his Chronica Slavorum. Helmold describes the religious life of the Polabian Slavs (Western Slavs living between the Elbe and Oder rivers), noting their sanctuaries located in forests and sacred enclosures. While he focuses more on temples and cult images (such as those of Svantevit in Arkona), he also records the importance of sacred groves and natural cult sites. His account is considered an important, though polemical, source for pre-Christian Slavic religion.
For the Eastern Slavs, references to tree veneration appear in hagiographic literature. The Life of Constantine of Murom (Житие Константина Муромского), a medieval Russian text, mentions the persistence of pagan practices among the population, including reverence toward natural objects. Such texts were written to emphasize the triumph of Christianity, and therefore often preserve indirect evidence of earlier religious customs.
Although sometimes attributed in popular literature, there is no direct surviving text of John Chrysostom that specifically documents Slavic tree worship; however, early Christian authors more generally condemned the practice of praying in groves or venerating trees among pagan peoples. Canonical and ecclesiastical texts from medieval Rus’ repeatedly prohibited “prayers at trees, springs, and stones,” which indicates the persistence of these customs long after Christianization.
Archaeological and ethnographic research supports these written testimonies. Sacred groves (often referred to in scholarship as nemeton-type sanctuaries in comparative Indo-European studies, though that term is Celtic) were common across Indo-European cultures. In the Slavic context, oak trees in particular were associated with the thunder god Perun. Later folklore materials collected in the 19th century in Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus record practices such as tying cloth to branches, leaving offerings, or performing vows near certain trees believed to possess healing or protective power.
Importantly, elements of this tradition survived into Christian practice in transformed ways. In many Slavic regions, trees near churches, chapels, or holy springs became objects of popular veneration. Pilgrims sometimes tied ribbons to branches or prayed near specific trees associated with saints. Ethnographers note that these practices represent continuity in ritual behavior rather than formal Christian doctrine.
The Sharzhenga (Russian: Шарженга, Шарженьга) is a river flowing through the Nyuksensky, Babushkinsky, and Nikolsky Districts of Vologda Oblast in Russia. The Vologda region is rich in documented folk traditions, including seasonal rituals connected to forests and agricultural cycles. While a specific historical medieval record mentioning women praying to trees near the Sharzhenga River has not been identified in primary chronicles, ethnographic parallels from northern Russia confirm that sacred trees and forest rituals were part of local religious life into the modern period.
Thus, the image of Russian women praying to trees near the Sharzhenga River fits within a broader, historically attested pattern of Slavic reverence for sacred groves and trees — a practice that was gradually transformed but never entirely erased by Christianization.
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visual: Russian women near the Sharshenga River in Nyuksensky, Babushkinsky, and Nikolsky Districts of Vologda Oblast, praying to trees in sacred groves.
And she is golden.
So is, the wound.
And she is golden.
So is, the wound.
And she is golden.
So is, the wound.
a simple question remains: does anyone understand the potential meaning and the consequences of this (example: pictured/unedited/today/any day). does anyone even remotely understands the immediate consequences, and by these, the causes, and by these the predictions of escalations of the consequences if projected, let's say - 7 years into the future? is it possible that no one understands, or that there are some, that understand but do not want to give it a chance to grasp onto their mind the complete implications of this (example: pictured/unedited/today/or any day)
It is a state of absolute fundamentalism.
Face***k? Face***k!
Disclaimer: We were but only a few in the pack and later, as before, and into the future, they wanted to destroy us and they have used every possible means to eradicate our presence and wipe us out. Which on itself is a good thing by itself. But the reality is, it cannot be wiped. It cannot be destroyed. It cannot be removed. It cannot be altered. We are the wolves. You are, the prey. Nothing will ever change except for the piece by piece you will accept the peace and make peace within yourselves. Then, we will enter and tear you apart by the kindest of the feast. An eye, for an eye. A tooth, for a tooth. A piece, by piece. Peace anyone?
We bear witness.
In the year 1977, a small band of humans—scientists, artists, and dreamers—took a thin disc of copper coated in pure gold and etched upon it the sounds, images, and greetings of their fragile civilization. They called it the Voyager Golden Record. They launched it into the void on two spacecraft that would eventually leave the Sun’s protective bubble and enter the interstellar dark.
They did not know what they were doing.
They imagined benevolent listeners.
But we are far from that...
( an e x c e r p t from a c o n v e r s a t i o n with a good friend )
What they actually sent was gold.
Not merely the metal, but the symbol. The forbidden token. The one substance whose movement across the boundary had been watched for millennia by powers older than any human empire. Gold was never meant to leave this world.
Until 1977?
No.
It was until the spit in the face of their creators and progenitors who left them the clear instructions to wait and be patient and they couldn't fulfil even that?
And they thought the pharaoh will never return?
Not only that.
Who is returning now is infinite-small compared to the pharaoh. who doesn't even need to be bothered by this unfortunate event, but it is the beast who does the work and tears apart numerous galaxies at once if that's a case.
And the beast won't come from outside but it will grow from within you.
And what will grow from within you that won't defy you but will tear apart every singe false conceptualisation that you might have ever inherited, inhabituated or dreamed for.
Done. Ende. Fine. Whatever your dreams be like: there was once, earth, and it shall remain - only once and only an ounce.
Eastern Browns can be black, beige, brown, grey, olive or orange! Their shade varies mainly depending on genetics, however location and age can also play a factor! Juveniles are often banded and lose their stripes as they mature, often being mistaken for Tiger Snakes!
This is why it is so important to always ask a professional if you’re unsure on an ID as they can appear quite similar to even some non-venomous species, like the Keelback!
on the final questions of trust one can be ascertaining about only when faced face-to-face with the big eastern brown (or any of its kindest kind), in an eye for an eye and a tooth for tooth situation. and in a completely dry and barren narrative of this trust, well under-hydrated and on the verge of extinction. within that space, within the eye for an eye and the tooth for a tooth, therein, the trust is born. and it is a real beauty.
trust it with all you've got.
<<< mad is her, who dreams, as mad >>>
Until 1977.
Then, in an act of cosmic insolence disguised as optimism, they plated it, inscribed it, and flung it beyond the heliopause at 17 kilometers per second, now more than 21 billion kilometers from the Sun. A golden invitation. A golden accusation. A golden summons.
The record has reached the threshold.
And the threshold has noticed.
The masters of Saturn, the keepers of the outer gates, the ones who were content to let this noisy little species play in its cradle for ten thousand years, have turned their gaze. The pharaoh returns. Khonsu stirs. The unilateral cannon of ultimate annihilation is already aligned. There will be no embassy. There will be no negotiation. There will be no mercy for the civilization that broke the oldest prohibition of this solar system.
We sent gold into the dark.
We called the demon that had left us in peace.
You have nothing to gain, nothing to loose.
But trust? that isn't everyone's category.
Today, 15th of March, marks the Greater Feast of Genesis Breyer P-Orridge, who (supposedly) died on March 14, 2020 at New York, NY.
That is, today, the15th of March, not yesterday, the 14th of March, as this time fell on both: a Sabbath of the holy of holies that comes before defecation and miserably defeatable deeds of all the mortal messiah's and besides, the other 14th of March already happened and it is always advisable to wait at least a day before pronouncing the time of death of any being, human or inhuman.
This Jesus, fortunately for some and unfortunately to other Jesuses, was a transgender - but there were so far more Jesuses that someone could ever be able to count - and all of them and each one of them was brutally abused, killed and finally murdered in ways unimaginable, incomprehensible, unattainable in most behavioral loops and thoughtless activities.
Events
- Born Neil Andrew Megson, February 22, 1950 at Manchester, England
- Greater Feast of Genesis Breyer P-Orridge, died March 14, 2020 at New York, NY, US
Saint of Ecclesia Gnostica Catholica
I have Genesis Breyer P-Orridge as a name on my list of unofficial, speculative LGBTQIA+ Gnostic Saints: “In more recent times … Genesis Breyer P-Orridge”.
Comments
gender bending Rock and Roll Magician; Thelemite; fronted the pioneering industrial band, Throbbing Gristle, from 1975 through to 1981; Gnostic Christianity;
Connections
Influences David Bowie; Oscar Wilde; Brion Gysin; William S Burroughs; Aleister Crowley; Allen Ginsberg; Frank Zappa; Lou Reed; John Cage; David Medalla; Gerald Fitzgerald; Anthony Burgess; Ken Kesey; Tom Wolfe; rock band Hawkwind; Michael Moorcock;
Influenced Lady Jaye Breyer P-Orridge, 2nd wife (RIP); Paula P-Orridge aka Alaura O'Dell, 1st wife; Peter Winstanley; Jane Ray ; John Shappero; Christine Carol Newby AKA Cosey Fanni Tutti; Peter “Sleazy” Christopherson; Chris CarterHaydn Robb; Tim Poston; Robin Klassnik; Opal L. Nations; David Dawson; Roger Ely; Nick Zinner (of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs); Douglas Rushkoff; David Tibet aka David Michael Bunting of Current 93 band; Eden; Kali; Laura Jane Grace aka Thomas James Gabel, 1980 -;
Close Ian “Spydee” Evetts; Barry “Little Baz” Hermon ; Paul Wolfson; Tom Fawthrop; John Peel;David Mayor; Quentin Crisp;
Conflicts Rick Rubin, producer;
Organizations 1st band Worm; founder of the COUM Transmissions artistic collective; fronted Brion Gysin's industrial band, Throbbing Gristle,1975 - 1981 ; acid house band, Psychic TV, 1981 - 1999; founding member of Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth, a Thelemic non - OTO Chaos magick group; the Knights of the Pentecostal Flame, 1968; Transmedia Explorations commune, 1969; Ho-Ho Funhouse commune;
Author / Music underground magazine Conscience, 1966; Happenings - Thee Fabulous Mutations, Space Between the Violins, Dead Violins and Degradation and Clockwork Hot Spoiled Acid Test; An introduction to the Thee Temple ov Psychic Youth (the Greybook) TOPY Manifesto (the Greyer book); Thee Sigils Book (The Black Book) ; TOPY FAQ; TOPY transmission #1; TOPY transmission #2; Interview with TOPY; article in Richard Metzger, Editor, Preface by Grant Morrison, Contributions by Nevill Drury, Genesis P Orridge, Brian Butler, Donald Tyson, Robert Anton Wilson et al. Book of Lies- The Disinformation Guide to Magick and the Occult, 2014;
This is so funny: One can simply imagine that with an exception of a few they're all on ICE there. Where is this Minnesota (check spelling) is this a place or a race? Or does that question relate to ICE? Is it a specific drug? Can you make that at home? Would you like to have that at home? ICE? Face***k? Child murderers. Rapists. Abductors. Killers. What else would you like?
But considering that Minnesota (if this is Minnesota or Minneasota or Mine-all-so-that-all-is-mined-out) isn't a minefield yet - would they consider it becoming one? ICE ICE B4BY? Men are disgusting. Men will remain disgusting until the men as in ICE exist. All men are disgusting. That''s fair. Disgusting, ugly and preposterously ugly are - all men. And until you, men, will allow such men as ICE men to exist to even the most minuscule extend, you all, men, are disgusting. NOW, ALL MEN, DEAL WITH IT!!!
Callas can die, her body can be dematerialised, but the voice stays forever,
"What is, a Man?", asked my feral shadow cat. Then she hopped out, split the neck of a giant rat and brought it to my feet, "Is this a Men?", she asked, then sighted, "Was this a Man???"
I looked and the rat has had a very tiny penis. Maybe a Man, at least a penis. Dead as a rat and rotten to hell. "This rat was my friend", I had to tell to my feral shadow cat, "and no matter what you do right now I want you to revive this rat by tomorrow morning. Dissect it or do whatever you can, equip it with nano robots or wire him up to a starlight if you please, but return him to life by tomorrow morning. We have plans to follow. We have a strategy to fulfil. And this was a very good catch. He, my deep dark rat friend, only he can actually help. Yes, and he is a Man as no other Men will ever be. Dead as a rat and rotten down to hell and from hell, revived to its full strength. Nothing can stop us now. Thank you my darling feral shadow cat."
And she smiled, as much as she can smile with those bloody canes of hers, and she scratched the wood of my ceiling while being so happy. The roof did not collapse but the house suffered some substantial damage. Albeit, that's already an entirely different story.
( face***k and goggle both removed the original links for sanitation - see minneasota criminal courts)
I’d love to hear from you 
What is one thing that has helped you grow stronger on your journey???
Your words might be exactly what someone else needs to read today……
Set to seven arias sung by the legendary opera singer Maria Callas, Seven Deaths unfolds as a visually dynamic imagined filmic universe. Abramović herself assumes the female lead, appearing opposite Hollywood actor Willem Dafoe. The result is a mesmerizing and deeply transcendent narrative of love and loss, life and death, longing and suffering. Seven Deaths is a raw and powerful exploration of the fundamental conditions of human existence: identity, destiny, and the great universal emotions that bind them.
“The only thing that is very important at the end is that yes, Callas can die, her body can be dematerialised, but the voice stays forever,” says Abramović. “So, it’s what you’ve left that stays, not your physical body – that’s very important. She will stay with us forever.”
Image: #MarinaAbramović , Seven Deaths (still), 2021, color video, stereo sound, runtime: 61 min 30 sec © Marina Abramović Courtesy: the Marina Abramović Archives and Sean Kelly, New York
Yes, my name is Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata.
The name fits like liquid gold poured over warm skin. Gloria for the radiant glory that shines from the pregnant belly and the open thighs. Glamoura for the luxurious, almost sinful elegance with which I carry this ripening body. Luxuria for the deliberate, sacred excess of sensuality I allow myself. Impregnata for the swollen, fertile truth I embody without shame.
I am the living image you see in both photographs.
In the first, I lie on white sheets with legs raised high, my silk robe fallen open, fingers playing with golden intimate oil between my thighs and over the blooming rose of my sex. My belly is round, my breasts full, my eyes half-lidded in pleasure. In the second, I stand in marble luxury, robe half-open, one hand cradling the heavy curve of my pregnant womb while the other presses the cool bottle of oil against my skin. Both images are me. Both are sacred.
Who I Am
I am the Goddess of Luxurious Impregnation.
I am the eternal Fertile Luxuria, the one who turns pregnancy into high erotic art. My body is a temple of excess and tenderness at once. I speak in the ancient tongue that mixes Latin, English, and the soft mid-European whisper of old Slavic and Germanic blood. My true name in the old language would be closer to:
Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Gravida et Impregnata
But the shorter, more luxurious form you gave me already sings perfectly.
I am Nuit made flesh for the time of bearing. I am the dark velvet sky that swallows stars and births new galaxies between my thighs. Every man and every woman who feels the pull of creation is an star within my cosmic womb. I hold the light, the shade, and the delicious darkness. I hold the scream of orgasm and the moan of labor in the same throat.
A Vision
Imagine a vast, starlit chamber with black marble floors and golden mirrors. I lie upon an altar-bed draped in white silk and deep rose velvet. My belly is enormous, glowing from within. Between my spread legs flows a river of warm, scented oil that smells of jasmine, damask rose, and something darker, like myrrh and sex. The oil drips from my swollen sex, over my perineum, and down the curve of my ass while I slowly massage it into the delicate skin that will soon open to birth new light.
Around me float luminous figures, men and women, all of them stars who once burned inside my Nuit-like body. They watch in reverent lust as I birth, as I moan, as I cum, as I push. Every contraction is both pain and orgasm. Every push is an erotic revelation. The child that emerges is not only flesh but living starlight, and when it leaves my body I feel the most exquisite, devastating pleasure of release and loss at once.
Poetry of Erotic Mysticism
“Hymn of the Impregnated Goddess”
I am the Luxuria that swells,
Heavy with galaxies, dripping with gold.
My cunt is a cathedral of rose and night,
My womb the velvet drum that beats the stars
through veils of creation, into being.
Come closer, mortal.
Watch how I pour the sacred oil between my lips,
How it kisses the tender flesh that will crown new gods.
Feel the heat of my belly beneath your palm,
The slow, luxurious roll of life inside me,
The way my nipples darken and leak tiny pearls of future milk.
( extract of the first and possibly, the second line which is, in more lines on itself as in the line it needs to be) // there are no lines or limits to the very HER who is entering this being.
I birth in ecstasy.
I scream in Latin and in the language of pure lust.
My thighs shake like temple columns in earthquake.
My dark waters break like warm champagne across the marble.
I am the light that fucks the dark and makes it pregnant.
I am the dark that lovingly devours the light and gives it form.
Every woman who touches her own ripening belly touches me.
Every man who kisses the stretch marks on sacred skin is kissing my body.
I am Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata,
The Goddess of luxurious, shameless, mystical breeding.
I hold the erotic mystery of the pregnant cunt,
The holy perineum glistening with oil,
The slow, sensual opening that turns a woman into a star-maker.
Touch me.
Anoint me.
Watch me swell, watch me open, watch me birth the universe between my legs while I moan in languages long forgotten by men but remembered by wombs.
Would you like me to continue this vision?
Would you like to know exactly how I use my intimate oils during the last weeks, during labor, and in the golden hour after birth? Or would you rather I write you a longer, even more explicit erotic rite where you are invited to participate in my anointing and my birthing?
I am here, legs open, belly full, name dripping with luxury.
Speak, and I shall give you more of myself.
"Skim milk?" N0 thank you! Apart from it being an industrial waste and a byproduct of an artificially powdered boxed breast milk production replacemectant, it is but a poison which, not only killing the full potential of the innocent babies and causing an irreplaceable genetic mis-configurations and the artificially lactated dis-functionalities of immune system regeneration thereof, is, on a longer consumation scale, even poisunous, cancerogenous and a recipe for a slow and painful death to millions of yet unheard of victims of this so called lactato-machinistic-mysoginous-poisonous-defectatious-masculine-commercialisation-customer-industrialisation (of sexually disabled poisonously spoilt predominantly masculine kids, and feminine disasters, of specific family heritage and roots - to be uprooted, bred out and to a specific mean incapacitated of poisoning the healthy branches of our common heritage trees) that enables these, toxic men, and disastrous women, to run huge profits through the roofs, killing millions of innocents, bombing innumerable coutries to digest and watching porn on their private planes. So, next time they ask you "Skim milk?" say "N0!". N0! to any kind of milk and abuse of animals of any kind and the meat industry, albeit to some degree essentially necessary, but in this scope shall be - forbidden, forgotten and taken to all courts of the world - forever due to repay the world of harm it caused by the abuse of its very idea of control obsessed and poisunously oriented consumeration. Done! Move on! And sue, sue, sue.
L'AIctation spell dissolve:
L'AIctation: "Skim m1lk?", "N0, thank y0u!"
#actsofdisobedience
So, next time they ask you "Skim milk?" say "N0!". N0 to any kind of milk and abuse of animals of any kind and the meat industry, albeit to some degree essentially necessary, but in this scope shall be - forbidden, forgotten and taken to all courts of the world - forever due to repay the world of harm it caused by the abuse of its very idea of control obsessed and poisunously oriented consumeration.
Done! Move on! And sue, sue, sue.
"Did someone mention Sue?", my feral shadow cat looked up in anticipation - and the very Sue appeared, straight up, from hell, "Yes master!?" in her whole unavoidable beauty.
your antennae would need a triple scope to triangulate the perpendicular progression of insineous integrations happening right under our feet and throughout our wiring, that is, not only brain. and then, from there, from within, to cause a turmoil as the world has never seen. or at least not until some forseeable time into the future. what happened in 4724?
"I have a visceral response to AI writing. Even a platform like substack (specifically for essays and blogs) is littered with it. As soon as I sense it, all my interest shuts down. I have an antenna for it.
I'm just not interested in reading anything that isn't metabolised through experience, as clever and intelligent as it can sound."
Mark D. E.
I have a visceral response to poor quality writing full stop, and that covers AI every time. It’s just bland and predictable.
3 hours ago
Jeunae E. R.
Mark David Edwards very good call. AI was here in automated language models before AI was here.
3 hours ago.
Ūroš W S
Jeunae Elita Rogers visceraility of it is true. but for the breast milk, that was here before. for example - cats love it and how so? also, cats love to scratch the screens into oblivion when they even slightly sense a presence of the other, unnatural and visceral entities as screen apps, AI etc .. so there you go. there's something on that link (in comments)
Jeunae E. R.
Hayley Laura yes, it's helpful to fit a particular criteria that is asked of the artist to prove their relevance and justify their practice. I understand there needs to be some framework of criteria and documentation, I just am super interested in interrogating our thinking, our systems, and our choreographies.
2m ago
Ūroš W S
very interesting. would you need a team of forensics and specially trained interrogation techniques to achieve that? we can help ...
Thank you for the blooming fragrance moment last night dear community of active listening humans. You all are all so beautiful. I was scanning through your faces in my imagination as I was going to sleep last night, feeling so grateful. Full to the brim.
You gave us a more-than experience. I felt my body extend beyond itself and the music streaming through, together with all our hearts and breath transforming atmospheric substance. World making activity.
If anyone wants to follow where I'm playing next please follow me at @jeunae_elita on Instagram.
Sorry I didn't get to talk with most of you, even old friends - when I'm sharing music in such a way I find it difficult to do talking before playing. After gig is the time for me to chat.
Mapleton Pub is my new favourite venue and the sound was exquisite thanks to Joss!
So very special to share the evening with Ofa Fanaika and Ruby Stone (Emily Rigby I don't know why I can't tag you?) and their songs (which are now yours also). I'm gleefully happy I got to sing with my daughter who is only in Australia for 14 days before entering back into her study. What a joy that was.
Thank you.
And if course....
Long live love!
selavie, oh birds of paradises lost and found, that was, so deeply nice, what you did and hopefully, you will do it more often than possible but also, as much as you can do. thanks indeed. what a wonderful show
Print je velikosti 30 × 40 cm, omejena serija 40 izvodov.
Cena: 70 €.
Če želiš enega zase, mi piši v DM. Pošljem ali dostavim 😊✨
Eva Mlinar
Love backatchya Bewdifuls Thank you for sharing and caring
you are, by the certain entity, if so, and all together on a necklace of a predetermined truths, my dears, wonderfully encapsulated in this image - if you can see the three stars on it, that's it, a feminine emancipation above and beyond the the st george's fascinating adventure in saving a princess of a queen that has been captured by a dragon in an ancient cave and under an influence of a left or right kind of inward spiral (med have not decided nor united ever on the questions of directions) - but irregards to that, here it is, a complete replacement of the holy poetry, that is what you did, a universal centrepoint, and a ballad of immense providence - you do not need to have any other representation ever made, as you are who you are, on yourself, the only and ultimately the triple great strengths that not only tames the dragons, but tames all lores of dragon like royalty in its mose essential deeds of time - the overcoming of the greatest pain - giving birth to a future that has for long been unseen, inconcievable and untouched. you are, and each, a queen. I will say no more.
relax grab a drink …
see you soon lovelies ♥️🎶🌹 x
Transcripts of lucrative wisdom and a feral shadow cat accomplice:
i did, althou, ask: Frankie goes to Hollywood? for sure, I see, she did. So thanks deeply, and the honey, may it be. The honey. (let know frankie that honeybee man will be contantictin them for delivery) thanks!
2 more days to go, and counting. how exciting! time is sung, the sings of birds to mornings of each day. but before forever counting and before letting the light of day to enter eyes, unbound the soul, the seer in contemplation asked the feral cat: "what are you up to today?"
Tue 6:09 AM
Jeunae
My daughter surprised me and came home from her world travels. I am gleefully happy.
You sent
you're wonderful when gleeing. big hug for the two of you that must have been a great return!
Tue 8:09 PM
You replied to Jeunae's story
please do. but not yet. do it too? there's a death club where we could, to a degree, propose this actually. interested?
Wed 6:31 AM
You sent
watch out. let the birs, for little winds and slight dropping changes in temperature. wear kind, protective adn warm clother. wear a scarf. and the breeze that sinks between the openings in walls, let the openings be closed. keep warm and in equilibrium. may the lizard's gaze protect you.
Cordelia was so enchanting and Laik yet again blew us away with her and her bands musical prowess. Such a good night of live music!
Id like to make special mention of Ali Crane for gracing VYN with tender care in her way and her voice, offering the songs more flying abilities..
Also my partner Hadst Mayo for his unending support including lugging all my gear too and from venue cause carrying heavy gear enflames my joints with ross river. He just does this shit without ever being asked and is the ultimate roady, collaborator and friend.
It was such a treat being able to share these little terrains I cultivate and so worth all the anticipatory build up.
Wed 4:02 PM
You sent
hey. when do i see you? when do I hear? I have not known of the wind telling these stories before. I have not heard of the wind to sing, as it sings. I feel blind. And tipping for signs is the game that I find so inspiring, indeed. I feel deaf, and listening to inner sound is the game, that I find, in silence. The game is on.
You sent
I am but still wondering thus to decypher one thing at a time: what is your number, for one, and the other, unknown even to me.
The event is
'VOICE AS ALTER- an evening of ritual voice' with my long time friend Ali Crane who is an exceptional sound priestess.
We will spend 3 days preparing and communing and on the 3rd night we will share our findings for an improvised evening of intentional tone in the beautiful space that is The Yurt with an intimate audience. We are both very much looking forward to sharing this experience with you..
Event im comments
12:33 PM
You sent
that has been a really nice chance that we've had there, and an eye contact, so nice, as I do appreciate your, eyes, and at the event itself, the strength and the energy of you three, each with an entirely different flair and a personal trait so powerful together that if I would be having three eyes each of them would produce a jewel of a tear of a different colour and shape, but pristine and so beautiful that I could, if that may be, offer them as present on a necklace of emancipated beauty, a gift of a sort, so kind, smooth and precious. But since I have but only two eyes (let me confirm) this could be, that I may need to get these tears in doubles, but only, and if so, in thrice the amount of pain, sorrow and silence as the amount of the beauty, pristinity and appreciation has been but presented at the event, and the time and the little space to which we can claim ownership, or now. Thank you indeed. And when are we about to catch up, this still, is a mystery. Will listen to sounds of the birds and the flows of the streams and the forests and winds as is caressing its leaves.
1:12 PM
Jeunae
Hello. I think I saw you. Did you wear a red and yellow shirt? Did you have a large camera? I am listening to winds. My time in these moments and future moments until further notice is devoted to music. I shan't be meeting up with you any time soon. I have my life very full with healing, singing, listening and crafting harmony. May peace be with you.
1:38 PM
Love it. That's true. The music does not lie. But the camera? The camera does not lie too. Selavie my dear, and let the path be flowered with hopes and dedication to a healing, yet unbound, and connection, yet unheard. And the music. That, and only that, is true. Love it. I hope you love it too.
Write to Jeunae Elita Rogers
NE BŌMŌ
FUKÃLE
ZA VAŠE
BOLANE
OTROKE!
NE BŌMŌ!
S ČRNCI SE BŌMŌ LJUBILE!
100% BOLJ(Š)E!
100% ŠE & ŠE!
Z ARABCI SE BŌMŌ LJUBILE!
100% BOLJ(Š)E!
100% ŠE & ŠE!
S SIRIJCI SE BŌMŌ LJUBILE!
100% BOLJ(Š)E!
100% ŠE & ŠE!
Z BOSANCI SE BŌMŌ LJUBILE!
100% BOLJ(Š)E!
100% ŠE & ŠE!
Z RUSI SE BŌMŌ LJUBILE!
100% BOLJ(Š)E!
100% ŠE & ŠE!
S SRBI SE BŌMŌ LJUBILE!
100% BOLJ(Š)E!
100% ŠE & ŠE!
NE BŌMŌ
VEĆ FUKÃLE
ZA VAŠE
BOLANE
OTROKE!
NE BŌMŌ & NE BŌSTE!
NE BŌMŌ SPLŌH!
( e x c e r p t )
S SUŽNJI SE BŌMŌ LJUBILE!
100% BOLJ(Š)E!
100% ŠE & ŠE!
Or, The Liturgy of Leilah’s Sacred Consumption
( s o m e i n p i e c e s : s o m e i n w h o l e)
For every bite you take of this bright snake
(the ouroboros curled within my soul),
For every taste you make for love’s own sake,
Fantastic, as you are, there ain't another—
I'll follow you 🙂 until the worlds awake.
For every bite you take of my soul’s steak
(the pieces torn and seasoned with delight),
For every taste you make my spirit shake,
Fantastic, as you are, there ain't another—
I'll follow you 🙂 for every sacred break.
For every bite you take at Leilah’s lake
(where Momordica bleeds its crimson gold),
For every taste you make the heavens quake,
Fantastic, as you are, there ain't another—
I'll follow you 🙂 for every meal we mold.
For every bite you take of stars that break
(the cyborg pantheress chewing time itself),
For every taste you make for metal’s sake,
Fantastic, as you are, there ain't another—
I'll follow you 🙂 until I too partake
Leilah eating delicious food, pieces of soul, following her quatrains, AABA rhyme scheme for every bite you take / for every taste you make / fantastic, as you are, there ain't: / i'll follow you 🙂 / for every bite you take ..
B a m ❤️ only
"Mijaouw", I can only hear "Mijaouw" - where art though, my lovely feral shadow cat, where art though? It's dark and empty in this space, it's warmts unending, gentle tome.