The Guard

Ophiuchus (one of the Guard)

And an appendix of someone’s unneeded life sometimes (what can imply this sometimes) straps one owl’s feather to that of an eagle-owl. Mother-cock, father-hen. And with a bird’s-eye view the world is as impenetrable as from the altitude of a flying bird. Rye spikelet pushes through a multi-honeycomb weed. Lyambuddynia acts for Eros union-creating. Crycvasconia is plaice-flasking as a trumbophlebitis. Phonosemantics corresponds to the theme of the text (prose or poetry). Glory of the world is cooling down, and a lascivious seed of meaningless, as it would seem, connection and life is twisting-twining as a creeper around a baobab of the reality. A dicky leaps to a leaf. A three-strand claw with the posterovectorial heel. Governor’s troops lust after the pleasure of sucking into the bossing party. Katarts, scums, darknesses. Get off, katamyshka, slur and snatcher. Kuram kam. Sound overall marrying off. One continuation from the third row invites for an Argentinean tango and clipping with a knife. Mam maruk. What a gipsy will foretell when lines of fortune compose slander and trash. He talks. Sometimes others talk. Ophiuchus.


Gemini (the Siamese part of the Guard)

They share everything. Though blade of damask halbred smiles Frantz, while Fritz sets hopes upon the infernal hairy pinion. The Siamese are airy, as Asian cats. Their jump-leap lasts for a micromoment, and bodies of greedy Avestinians fall in two and skulls of lewd Zoroastrians are shredded. Mud, blood, brain – the destiny of any encroacher on the diamond zodiac disc. When Frantz seeks for relieving himself of fluid excrements, Fritz feels thirsty. They both can’t take a crap and barf at the same time. Siamese life makes them gorge in the time provided for guard mount. It is when there comes voluptuousness of belly, tongue and pricks, their airness disappears. Carrion is penetrating out of the cracks (bug-cockroaches, fiends and Horoscope researchers). But it is impossible to make use of Termini’s weakness, as the work range of their service is inexorable. To relief them with the orderly parole there comes an aquatic monster – silvery Cancer, in the same way as Frantz-Fritz come in place of the golden Body. Half of one time in a billion of guard mounts can be given to worldy narrow-minded cads to nestle to the diamond disc, to gnaw through the nut of knowledge of the Horoscope. An exception is just a rule of another order. Termini have always loved somebody. They admitted the Great Smith to their whole airy body. He would hammer arms, shoes, buckles and ammunition for them. They would blow up heatingly his bellows and cool down his brawny antediluvian trunk. Their attitude towards the Great Smith sparkled in Frantz and Fritz a syndrome of their cross-sexual love. But tickling the Great Mother (all the wife at the time) clung their air into a shirt. Whether Termini loved the sparrows, tomtits, canaries that tumbled twittering in their ears and lungs? The inexorable diameter has put Termini against the opposite section of the Horoscope, which split into two unequal creatures. The thirteenth doctor- Ophiuchus broke for several days the course of interplanetary pacing. Why? What for? Decided to become a rule of another order. To become the thirteenth between the twelve. Has stood up, the vermin, with the shooting centaur by his side and is bending with his snake-like hands. Ophiuchus has all the veins of All the Fortune on a false shirt-front on his chest. Ophiuchus has made up himself all diseases and healing medications. Though, the entire circle understood that it didn’t go without the Great Smith’s smithery. And Termini in free of the Guard time cried. While at guard Frantz was whistling with his halbred, Fritz playing with his infernal hairy pinion. Their eyes were dried, but their spirit was sobbing. Because of unhappy love, as it seemed to them.

 Libra (cheaters in weighing)

You are standing here at the corner, weighing toffy. Clones with a serious look, vermins, are circling around for their regular procurement. It is not that I’m boiled here at gourds or cauliflower. The security kneaded me with administrative fines. Will get off as an Amsterdam tram to weigh drug-stuff. At apple trade fair we were close to fail with potatoes. For the entire half of eternity we were doing packaging at the stand. The boss ordered to. They won’t do without my help anyway. Won’t have the nerve to put me at the mercy of scum antihoroscopal. To take a run. It is also dreadful to give change to all the ragged astrological. Market people used to tell me that on Shota Rustaveli avenue they give one ruble for Cosmos (it is worth 70 kop in common language), and they won’t take the change. Those oriental dandy-astrologists believe it beneath their dignity. They try to lull the weighers. But we are going to hit them with a weight with a tin inset between two consciosnesses. Don’t poke around. We will fix the scales both ours and the main ones. It is anyway a benefit for us, zodiacs. And for poor people and customers – a suck. Of course, I like the chief. And also the director of our local store, though he is of the feminine gender. Though I hate the regional chief of the trade. …..  they hang out interdisc posters. As if I’m not aware of responsibility. I know my place. The commercial director of the regional department knows all our tricks of the trade. How to get round the traps of regular buyers, to evade a fine or punishment. We would weigh him between our divine scales legs. He’s gloomy, but loving. One word as a left place. There are so many spongers with their commissions for our brotherhood. Well, it’s time I started my shift. To swindle a penny out of those scumbags not to let any to enter into our rich diamond disc. Get closer, people. Toffies and caramels are to be realized today. I’ll weigh for you what is at the left, as if it is at the right. Everything is common. Everything is equal. As my balanced symbol. As air.

The Virgin (Little Red Riding Hood of the Guards)

Shall a redolent daffodil blossom or a lily-of-the-valley appear from under the snow – anything is paradise for a happy girl. Autumn for some, spring for others – earth smells of rain or of drip. The Virgin gives a sparkling wink to the fiery Lion and starts walking. Thousands of images (blond, chestnut, brunette, red heads) reflect in the cold stream of time. Images shiver in the wavy depth. Dink-dink. And rounds of vain love open up like a trap. All Indian summer long. Walk south – a dark sweetie will treat you to a banana and a pineapple, go north and a plump auntie will offer you fresh-drawn milk with a crispy bun and will spoon cloudberry jam in a crystal saucer. Delicious! Scary is the Big Grey Wolf, painted all over. Even he may end up in an apple and lingonberry pie. The Virgin will cook a whole pot of wolf soup to make the angry beasts stay away from the Horoscope. One word – Isabelle, or Natalie or Chapeau Rouge. The girl will take a tin mug, throw a dime in and start a sorrowful song like an old battered music box.  A song of a knight and a mermaid, of an old man and woman, of a wedding and separation with the loved one who goes to war. Death. Destiny. Time. Cut by a diamond disk like grass cut by a scythe. Our first mother sharpened her moon crescent, went to harvest wheat and rye. Snakes of the Ophiuchus twist among the spikes. Smell the dear earth. Attempt to lay eggs. The Virgin cherishes and loves every life. Here she is in the field – tired and red, wiping the sweat off. Reaps have been made. It is time to bake bread. The red crescent is still hot from reaping. At sunset she works miracles with fire. The girl lived through her day and night and turned into a burning virgin. So many low-minded hopes she crashed with her hot beauty. Only an equal shall know the salt of the earth. Only then, like the source and essence of love, shall the baby appear. Everything has its time. Each time you leaf through the book of your destiny you stumble across a bookmark of tulip bud. However bitter is the circle you make there is always space for love and the virgin.

The Ram (zero-hornholder of the Guards)
A zero relay did not get access into the goat head. Horns of the Ram shall be zero of zeros.  The white devil makes sparks with its hoof, stumping it like a rheostat on brass veins. Poke the fork into the guarded diamond – this is endurance test. The crystal was (will be) the zero effect and the zero link. Zero is not afraid of the zero ending. Heat or cold, no one and nothing shall let the devil touch the quantum movement of destiny. Inside zero a fat ram turns its rounded horns in all directions, a fork from its front hooves is pointed at black-and-white. There are two fires of ice wood on both sides of zero, there are two copper pots in the glittering fire haze where hopes of all proud bastards have been destroyed. The guards do not care about doctors, composers and writers. In the minus – Fahrenheit soup the Ram shall hoof any passion and lust for the Horoscope. The Guards boiled icily for a second of seconds.  The zero-hornholder is insomniac in the stall and on guard. But the Ram should not snore with all its nostril. Only the ram may dream of a mountain apiary and of a belly full with green grass. Like the Limpopo and Zambezi the time runs and falls with the zero of depth in the zero of function. All time in the Zodiac brings the solstice closer along the irregular circle. By the end of his shift the zero-hornholder is most dangerous. Peoples of the Earth approach the fire with their feasts. People and goods rise from the dead when the Ram changes into the Golden Body (the next horn-holder). The Ophiuchus pushed too hard rising delicate creatures with his potions. The yellow star cuts the zodiac circle in halves. Space nature gets tense for a moment in zerofication of the world. It got jammed. A dream. But the fiery white devil flipped his whip-tale, kicked the Sun over to the horny branches of the Body and bleated like a volcano. He served his duty: no doctor got inside the Zodiac; only the Senior Doctor beats about the bush and raises losers from the dead in the Horoscope. When on duty the Ram is fiery like the original lava. For the next 12 cycles (after the change) he stays close to zero to continue frying all the mean learned kids. With the cold. Inquisitively. Tenderly. Lovingly.

Pisces (reptiles of the Guards)

Oh, those Pisces! Once the Great Cat wanted to turn its paw into fish-bite. But the dogfish-hunter shall not claw a bloody carp. Hot sweet tea with lemon comes first or leak milk of the saucer with tousy tongue. You cannot make it smooth. You cannot chase the dog’s tail round the cat’s body. One way to escape – throw yourself against the body and arms of a tree with greenly green fear that is like the cat’s eye. Anabis and Cyclopes  grow in the closed glass world. Tubes with oxygen are aimed at the closed aqua buhl-buhl. The armored catfish swims by, moving its wattle like water police. The fish has the Guards’ suite of armor on and three pairs of wattle probing for rot. It can crawl ashore and get the deserter-violator in the air. It will dig deep into the soil and eat any zodiac pest alive. Only his pal clay-fish crawls round the bottom snapping sinkers like a mine trawler. One word – a bottom pal. And the frogs try to martyr themselves away from the Ophiuchus and reptiles. Cyclopes-like Gecko  is yet not dendrobates. The cat hunter shall put a bowl with flanges on his weather-beaten face dreaming of good bite. A mask with a snorkel fits perfectly into the fishing pocket. Violators of the Zodiac have but one hope to get inside the weak water sign of the Guards. They think it is high time. Snapping aluminum, brass, glass and rubber. All the  anti-Ikhtiandre troops destroyed. No love to fishermen, fish. Fish and whiting go for chiton. There is tench in the water. It is easy to find. It does not move around much but buries itself in ooze. Catch it with bare hands. Everything thought up for a silly fisherman. For the Great Cat. But the Guards are on guard. They will take the jester to 69 or 96 Club for the willing nature of the fish. Look what the toms and pussies are doing! Having fun non-stop. The fish has not have a single tail or fin in a fish-day. It is already late. They will cook Pisces of any fisherman and forget the water from the river and the burnt kettle. They will open up any hunter for the blub. Do you want beer with mackerel? Look Pisces in the eye. Sip the barley ear and have fun. Pisces love every one and have not eaten every one yet. Oh those Pisces! Tender, sad, silent. They are not 1 they are 2.

Scorpion (the poison-sting of the Guards)

When the gusset moves along the eastern sandy foreland round the shiny red Antares, rain forest will move into the sacrificial off-white mist and will give way round the altar. The Scorpio is not too different from the wolf.  Space powers have sacrificed the spineless  poison-sting to eternity. In the desert this spider-like defender of the circle hides itself under the chipped yellow stone. Flies buzz on guard threatening him with gnawing mouths. Mecoptera and uropygium rub against each other: some with spider-like pedipalpi, others with snout-like membranous faces. The whole scorpio-world is on guard. A man reaches with his bare hand for the diamond disk-pride. One step away from the poisonous tail is the death of naked bloody flesh. You cannot pat it. The stinger is thrust forward, poison injected, suffocating sigh, spasm of the brain. Everything and everyone is one around you. Thirst for knowledge and life and Death. The desert. A lady-scorpion lurks around leaving traces of her poisonous tail on the sand. Mother Scorpio carries her new-born males on her back. Assassins cut caterpillars is halves with their chelae. For a course, for a thought, for the truth. Enjoying themselves. Turn their locator stings and rub the hooky spike. During the whole circle no one (except for the Ophiuchus) will learn of the two crests on the monster’s belly. Forever poison-sting will protect the Horoscope from carrion and bastards. They will sting to death, tear with their chelae and bury themselves in the sand. They are not afraid of sand-storms and of the brown wolf of the neighborhood. In the excavated state Scorpios turn into coal but when time comes spineless tailed Guards come to life. Yet, Ophiuchus is close. He can collect poison with a special device. For tests. Make cataplasms of poison for the dead. And bring the hairy rotten bodies back to life. Beware you, ancient spider-like creatures. Beware you, humankind. The Scorpio is on Guard. May be to eat some dust of time. Decomposing slowly hoping that Ophiuchus will save us. Not everyone, not you.

Leo (tzar’s savanna-man of the Guards)

It took him four summers to get born. He was born a sighted fire spot in cat’s suffering. He came out like blue period filling the trapezoid of starry savanna with his voice. Getting angrrrrrrrrrrry. A lion cub in the grass like a hot coal; half of the world will suck on his mother’s breast. Sucking and never getting full is the clawing baby-tzar. Bitchy Veronica’s hair is all round. Cannot tumble in the milky dusk. The baby went at them with his claw. The senior sectarian is trying to knock him on the head with a sextant. The cub can evade easily. And crash the thing with a hard tussle-spike. An angular reflective constellation flew past the ecliptic. Threaten the sectarian with your paw aaaargh growling softly. The absolutely mean hydra reaches with its tentacles to kiss. It gets high on the Grail blood from the neighbor cup and pokes the cub in the yet hairless face. Let her parish. Nonsense. The Great Bear is the last one for a hug. They told her: don’t. Savanna, semi-desert is populated with the fiery lion cub, a small and regal lion. A bear has nothing to do with the hellish heat. Go spend winters at a polar winter lodge under the North Pole star. Let the Guards stay, though. The Cancer and the Virgin salute and take the duty on (zodiac fiends, natural enemies). The cub sang his growling song, rode the turtle, scared the giraffe, roared at the parrot. To cut it short – he grew up fast. He has huge drawing claws on his paws. A sexual dimorphism on his body – dark-brown, almost dark mane. The regal savanna-man brings burning terror to stalkers of the Zodiac. A zebra, an antelope and a bull in his teeth. Feed his face with raw meat, get drunk on warm blood. Stop the inhuman beasts on their way to the Horoscope as the Leo is a star man himself. A constellation-long jump. Claw in the flesh, cut the aorta with his teeth. Joy to the big tom-cat. A warning to the scholars of the diamond disk: to mouse-like rodents, carrion, small vertebral creatures and locust.  The Burning Leo is at work all night, all his angle of the circle. He ate up, cracked and caught everything. He only spared Ophiuchus – a colonist in the cork helmet with  potions, a scalpel and a lancet. It is hard to tell who he is. Let him study the unfinished carrion, poking his instruments at it. It is time for Leo to go to bed. His virgin shift is here. Fire retreats to the manger, a regal savanna-man. Makes noise with one coal eye and snores. There will be the next one. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh. Fang in the flesh, claw in the body, blood in the belly. Uhmmmmmmmmm. The royal lot and lechery. Lion’s lust.

Aquarius (the aqualurer of the Guards)

Eons are jumping along the radians of star showers. Water dust in the water forest rises from the waterfall like a water symbol of the Aquarius. Two aquarids surround the bronze waterman. Fish splash, getting caught in closteriums and caulerps, in rockweed and sargasso.  The Whale, the next link of the zodiac evolution nibbles at plankton and emits a column of water dust. The Eagle flies in circles and clicks his beak in the blue. In the blue, dark blue, brown, and black starry sky. The earthy shift goes beyond the circle – a guard called Capricorn. Your airy highness. It is your time to be on guard, to start alarm. Heroes, lusters of the Horoscope dream of a bronze or clay vessel. Either a рукомойник or a lifesaver wine vessel. The diamond circle holds a feast. Water-protective, deadly. To treat all the thirsty to the zodiac light. To put the purple gut to sleep and let them out. We shall wash the greedy hands in the aqualurer, treat to the sour-sweet wine from the amphora. Those inhumane dogs fell asleep. Throw some dill from the dill-jar on your skin. It burns. Blisters on the skin. It sizzles and bursts. Ha-ha-ha. We shall cut the shame off and throw it to ourselves, to the dogs, to be eaten.  Water lovers crawling over piles of dead bodies who finished the feast. Black water-loving bugs move their right and left legs in turns. There is no vegetal food. The bugs of Your airiness would not eat seaweed or wigglers. They will spawn into a floating cocoon in each dead wet mouth. Water-lover’s worms are predators; they eat dog’s brains-shellfish. Water joy. Aqualurer shall come to them all in their dream as a beast, a bird and a rider, irregular in their regularity and regular in irregularity. The vessel shines with watery white light surrounded with water parenchyme. And from sleepy watching researchers of the Horoscope develop hellish lust for the parenchyme. They will want to feed their faces with thick flesh of aloe and cactus with heavy water. And here come Aquarius. He has water-bugs behind his back. A small heteroptera with no wings with an elongated body and long legs. Water-bugs glide fast across the water surface. They have velvety bodies. They suck instantly on the living and the dead. They carry their own spawn. Here it is the water horizon rich with two isotopes of interstellar hydrogen. If carrion gets too annoying Aquarius shall set the hydrogen bomb off. Let the nurse Ophiuchus wash the dead bodies with hyperoxide. He can extract hydrogen metals from the dead flesh. Aquarius has respect for the hydrides and Ophiuchus carries a hydrogen thermometer. It is his own kin. In the tenth logarithm of concentraction of hydrogen ions His Aquarian Airiness is happy. Its hydrogen indicator is high and horrid. Without ooze,  without bottom to the very water bottom.

Taurus (the gold body of the Guards)

Plug your greedy thoughts with bluestone and patina. Inside the gold body in the dissected heart one can hear the famous song of Orion and whaling of the silvery Pleiads. Golden hares hop by, cunning and stinking agouti. A golden carp crawls by that can grant three perverted wishes. For gold, for freedom, for power. Forget emotions. Pure insatiable monetary abulism. Earthy horny bull holds the sun up with his horns. He got it from goats, rams and other guards. The Zodiac is protected by the Body. By the natural hoof, by the octahedron of a mighty body, by the spheriness of the horns, by the stick-likeness of the tail. Total amalgamness, intermetallity of being. The gold body starts moving after solstice and Leo and Cancer shall meet on top of a gold rainbow. Each is responsible for his circle. The bull likes the earth: plowing, harrowing and breaking. He also loves people: spoiling them with  gold. Taurus is a gold youth, a golden staphylococcus. He will not really give money to humankind, he will only start inflammation, infect the incurable from poverty wound. The bull’s eye sparks fiercely with  gold and telecentration of the gold standard, trouble the soul, desired to shaky hands Aldebaran. A gold message in the soul of each man: coccus-like multiplying cells like poisonous grapevine. Only Ophiuchus as the vector of spiritual fight between life and death shall help the poor lusty man. Ophiuchus knows that the man lives in his unknown and unfathomable  world and that life of a human being is sad and joyless. Blood is running inside man-eaters pumped by the heart, a pump that right after birth starts going rusty and useless. The world of will and notions is fragile just like human will and notions. Should a man scratch himself – blood starts dripping. No money or gold bodies can buy you infinite movement of a blood particle. But Ophiuchus produces a gold seal: a blood-stopping yellow root. Hydrastis has yellow body covered with scars from dead stalks. Simply a perennial flower from the buttercup family. And Ophiuchus knows it and its essence. The gold body mooes. Taurus does not like when caught in the gold net and scanned with quicksilver zoroastrians survive. There is no space for their nature at the zodiac diamond disk. People will never understand the world anyway and will never gain access to the world. That is why humankind has one destiny: a meaningless wheel of fortune – hellish eternal suffering. Death, only the Death is hope for the martyr. Ophiuchus brings dead bodies back to life: without soul, without emotions, without will. And the Gold Body dances among the thirsty souls giving them small hopes. All peoples on Earth worship it while the Gold Body devours them, drinks them, kills them, strangles them, loves them.
 

Cancer (tropical tumour of the Guard)

 The diamond wheel has chosen Cancer as its genetic zero point. The threat of the entire mankind has submerged into the water at the bottom and is watching patiently over the zodiac circle moving with prototzephal. The lynx jumps onto the back of Canis. Leo clutches with fangs the twisting black hydra. From Cancer tropics there descended once on earth a sky scout. But his twofoldness changed into a multiplicity of three, and Feathered Serpent cut in two the changed cancerous essence. Cancer didn’t want to kill people. Ophiuchus tried to render a medical treatment for the scout: to cure from the cancer’s and people’s cancer. Never. The Great Essence won’t let not to watch over the motion of the absolute circumference. Will set polipi and leukoplakia upon epithelial tissues. The tropical cancerous tumour likes everything watery and mucous. Will dash as a mitosis to open cavities clapping with hands. Will break through the life-giving shell. Will crack thievishly the vital coconut. Will swallow the life. Gorge the immortality. Cancer will leave just scraps: sucked dry shells of wishes, good-for-nothing horns and limbs of people’s hopes. Ophiuchus will make of cancerous slag beads-shell script, will get an amoeba in each dead shell tempting the dead flash with a dream of living hopes. Cancer will continue moving backwards around the circle, out of time will be splintering his egg. There will come into the starry world silvery nauptiliuses who regenerating into tropical cancers will set people’s life into impossibility to stop the grinding off wheel of fortune.      


Capricon (the goat mug of the Guard)

Well, Capricornus. Hu-hu, the gawk. The patrol Goat is butting with his acinaciform winding hornlets. Bands of aurochs, capricorns, sheer artiodactyla are circling-twisting. There is no moss or lichen on diamond Zodiac’s body to feed yourself. The single mountain ungnawable element, and avestian scum is gravitating to it. The filth is stretching hands with nibbled nails. Capricorn gives a kick with his hoof and horn of a goat to the earthy slag. Offal is dead into a greasy humus. The hat of a goat, sheep, cow is already basidially polipore-weaving. The body of yellow-fulvous colour is poisonous for the sky and edible for the coniferous forum. Hymenophora is tearing with the radius and spindle-like spores. Ophiuchus has had a walk, gathered a punnet of mushrooms for picking, pickling and a soup. He is going to hocus the goat with a muddy broth, so that Capricorn misses the low standing of the diamond-disc in his tropics. Poor people are mincing to set dog’s goat-breeding on the goat’s segment of the circle. Aren’t going to get a snook and a triangle three-eared horny section. Duam, gam. Hills bezoarovy will howl. Chins bearded will rise. Will begin to bleat and to goat. Roes, nanny-goats, real females will come up to be inseminated. A pipe will sing ssatyr’s pilihymn. Pus will gush out of poor people’s ears because of the soft, tender music. Pupils of the eyes will burst tearing eye-sockets, and life will turn into one greedily masticated mouth. Wood-louses will be creeping on lipless mouths and listening to squelch of rot. Bam. Curs have heard the goat’s lyre, seen the satyr’s face. Capricorn standing on the mountain chine of the lowest Guard is dreaming about the real calling of the land of his sphere. His goat mug is devouring salt, pood after pood, not guessing that sugar is salt. Ophiuchus is sitting on a hill, having got one snake out of his hair, has unclenched its mouth with tweezers and squeezed just a drop of poison onto the sugar. Is it goat who decide who will get a tub of tea and who will get immortality. A wrong circle is circling. The goat’s mug is laughing and jerking. The horn is on the Guard. The Earth is on Horror.


Sagittarius (mixtropical diety of the Guard)

Concession of the demand has taken place due to the rule of another order: due to wisdom. Intemperate in their insanity peoplekokoni limited the range of work of the circle. By a vegetative way out of a linden, thundercloud and a fire wheel Galaxy has produced an angle with a bow and arrow directed in the center of themselves, into the point of the diamond disc, into the egg of their essence. By a catenary, sag and dimentions of the line Sagittarius decreases the intensity of the development of the wave crisis and knows the activity of an arrow-leaf, arrow-ear and camber. Sagittarius will pick a perennial (water, march herb) and will get to a sore ear of a bat-jerkin (white-belly, sharp-incisor). The guard will get sit in his pointsman box. He is all pointer ways: the controller, the street and measuring instrument, and a tool for movement of the heavenly rolling-stock. The mixtropic of the Guard is capable of navigation of disease. He knows out of what and where what is growing. Wise due to the ancestor chained to the diamond disc, the vital wheel. Sagittarius has shot into the man’s world with taphrometopon lineolatum, a false grass-snake and echo of a sheet lightning. With violent fire. His infernal pain from hydra’s poison the guard has bartered for an every day tortured liver. Has brought about the system of knowledge, fire and Ophiuchus (a panacea of death, life, diseases). With a snake-arrow he watched after Zodiac. With its snout concave, with a longitudinal fillet, with its extralight moving. The arrow is hunting for lewd man-lizards. Lies in wait and traps on herbs’ branches. It is smothering the prey, twisting around it, biting it at the same time. Scum dies of several bites right at the galactic altar. Ophiuchus comes up, gets out a telescope, directs a microscope at dead bodies, goggles, smacking, stamping, tripping, snapping, whistling. It is allowed to the Chief Doctor to get onto the elastic axled parallax on the arrow circle by the sky itself and the man-horse guard. For the whole week Ophiuchus is getting carrion on Medusa Gorgona’s shield out of sagittarius bombardment. Will carry away into sagittarius step, virgin cereal motley grass fertile lands. In the picturesque rich in species herbage will be rubbing dead man’s bodies with bitter wormwood. Cretaceous carst is typical in step. Sagittarius is admiring his apprentice Ophiuchus. The centaur has given to the poor doctor a small nook. Let him have fun. How much more endlessness of time will the fortune wheel be ruining life? Let the lascivious mankind have Ophiuchus  with the red cross in help. There is no chance for stinky hounds anyway. Bye-bye.


Ophiuchus’s shirt front



Only eyeless first children of the lilac Sky knew of the origin of the diamond fortune. In the paleandric battle the coming into being Guards (in their first dozen number) killed the giants. Their snake-like lower extremities and fangy trunks failed to help the under-constellations. Emasculated has been the sky. One metal testicle has been cut off of the ethereal eternity. The viviparous prick has swollen of a cyanotic pain. Fulvous blood and bumpy sperm are dripping out of it straight into the earthy vagina-mouth. Golden strands appear. The great Smith collects the fertilized earth with a brass scoop and throws into a volcanic boiler. The Guards are sneering at corpses of scum-giants, coming into and sitting at bearded head-organs with their organs. Some are cutting with halbred, some with a fang, some with a sting. Are gorging discomposing guts and drinking ptomaine. Then throw remains of corpses into the Great Smith’s boiler. Out of snakes’ tails there comes into being Ophiuchus. The Great Craftsman smelts out of the broth the golden zodiac disc in form of a hauberk for Ophiuchus. With a nuclear hole in the middle of the Horoscope for a snake-shaped head. The golden Zodiac is divided into 12 houses, angles and circles. Ophiuchus dresses a golden false shirt front. The rim of the shirt front is white, bright, threefold with silvery rivets. The hauberk is made of five sheets. The dog is barking, the wind is howling, the bird is flying, the flower is growing, the tree is rustling, the fire is burning, the water is washing, the earth is teeming, the sky is cooling. 12 Guards are being on watch around the circle. Ophiuchus will turn on the left – the Moon is rising on the hauberk, and rolling over, transforms the left hand into a snake’s tail. Ophiuchus will turn on the right – the Sun is jumping out of the hill, jerking the right hand into a cobra’s extremity. The two earthy cities are noisy with a market crowd: both are framed with river-ocean. One city stretches wide on 12 hills, the other – is a castle-citadel on a mountain slope. The fate is fascinated. The sky is wheezing with all its whistles. The darkness is roaring with a contrabass squelch. There is an entire wheel on the snake bearing scull. The earthy tillage to dig up with a mystical nail. The earth is steaming. To spit out eggs into a harrow and lie as a sitting hen. The wheel is grinding. The life is going on. Children are being given birth and brought up. Absolutely meaningless. As grass. Lower, than the absolute zero.


Obscurities of the Guard

The world is bitter. As the taste of a racoon’s stump. As toucan’s beak clatter. As the smell of hedgehog’s excrements. Everything essential is terminal. The sea is less than the ocean, starting from a spring. And in the luminescence of one of the constellations at Gibraltar the Great Fighter has cheated the atlantes, making up two rocks. Two basalt stones are standing on two shores of a narrow way into a Sparkling Ocean. There is one way, and two choices. A hawk is circling above the left rock, and a golden eagle – above the right one. Mirror, hair-loose Ariadnas are sitting at the bottoms. Waiting for the Great Companion and Drunkard. Goats are grazing grass, bleating the song of sixteen rings and thirteen guards.
The entire life is in our love. To one’s own sperm and bisexual being. Having gossiped reptiles submerge to the bottom in the way of a gimlet. Get to the surface in their jaws black pearls of their fish cold passion and languor. Fish has a seeming armour-scales and the soul as ice. A man melts with one word, one loving hug the entire severity of the minus lust. Fish emerge. Belly upward. Stun. Half dead. Dead. Of only one drop of real love elixir. Wao. Sparkling Aquarius is coming up. An aqualurer is playful in petting. Juggling with balls of life and dead fish. But if to touch the circus airy clot with a magic wand. Trapezium of the play will scatter. The aqualurer is standing full of loving sap and weeping sadly. He is being already pushed by the zero-cuckold’s trident. Wants to dispose of tenderness and caress. Crack. The lamb is tough, aggressive and fiery. But to give it a breast with milk to suck. Where has gone the fire of movement? Everybody’s end is in loving pricking. And there comes the turn of Taurus. He has the only hope. To trap people’s happiness into the golden circle. But lovers don’t need all the gold of the world. They want languorous look eye to eye, electric touching hand to hand. The lovers have everything in common, as with Siamese part of the Guard. Termini are powerful. They are strong, until their soul starts singing, as the spirit has always been sobbing. It seemed to the Siamese, that of unhappy love. Therefore, to their place there comes backward cold-blooded Cancer. The killer of all the living. There can’t be a tumour without a living thing. Cancerous double essence changes into a threefoldness as a result of meeting with the sensual absolutely human. Cancer loves himself and devours himself. A typical mitosis. The love disease. La-la-la. RRRRRR. Leo dashes sable-toothedly as lust. Fiery bestial king. But the entire master of fortunes and not a people’s master at all. When the Great Hunter steps on the path with arms, the fortune of the savanna-dweller is already predetermined. Will point the gun of the Amore into the lion’s heart. Ba-ah. Loving fermation-burning in the blood and ears. Leo is already mewing of human languor as a fluffy little kitten. Will get fell rolled in grass. And in the middle of a boundless field there comes Virgin. Being in herself. Luxuriant, full of red milk. Being herself made for temptation in love. Little Red Hood is sizzling as a boiling pot. It remains only to cool her down turning into a light wind. To touch first her little toe of the left foot. To tickle her little heel. The molly would flop down with delights and groan. Do what you wish to her. Khe-khe. You should just put love on Libra. How many micrograms does the essence weigh? The weigh cheaters will try in this way and that. The weigh this way, the counterweigh out of this place. Though it won’t be weighed. Libra is sobbing, being upset. It remains to pat it on the back, to pet, to kiss in the dredge of its absent heart and to shape its air into amorous passionate steam. What can be set off against love? Poison of Scorpio or poison-sting of the Guard. Savage is the fossil Guard. There is an ancient bane inside his body. Having been circulating instead of blood for ages. There is a single antidote in the entire universe – man’s love. A drop of the elixir gets into the poison-greed mouth, and Scorpio’s sting pierces straight into the fangy mouth, killing the predator and his poisoned juice, transforming to the circle of the living essence. Leaving out the two previous, Capricorn is being defeated with the last sign. The most difficult for love is to come over the goat’s mug of the Guard. It is standing behind the back and, the rascal, is making love and jerking all the time. With satyr’s beard gets into female vaginas. It is hard to get it out. You can only tear the goat’s mug into the tiniest pieces to make be born again, as in the beginning of her way it gives the vital sap of love itself gradually turning into an ordinary lust.
The one but last of Zodiac’s guys of thirteen Guards and sixteen rings there set  Sagittarius and Ophiuchus. They stand on the Olympus embracing, in the sphere of inhuman love, being full of humanity long since. Centaur and a man bare in their essence are embracing heartingly and kissing passionately, as the one had conceded to the other a part of the angle of his circle and fortune. Forever. As a useless under- and beyond- essence. The purple-vinous to the lilac one.