The Book of Vasche Vexvelt

Vasche Vexvelt. Escape from The Golden Cage. By Moreno Franco

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Starship WOLF 888 entering the Sirius star system

“My Escape from The Golden Cage” by Franco.
“The Last Lullaby” - Hailing signal from the starship ISV WOLF-888 entering the Sirius star system – as it passes out of range of the Icarus ONE transponder beacon.

La Jaula D’ouro - the Golden Cage
- This is a fucking cartoon. . . It is the Worlds Longest Love Letter. Or it is the Worlds Longest Suicide Note. Am I to: die writing this essay? Die from writing this essay? Stay alive to try and finish this discourse? Be kept alive by having to be around long enough to complete my laughs work.
AAhhh! My Life with out me. . .

This manuscript is dedicated to those few special Angeli De la Strega. . .

To You, the witch who loves me as tenderly, deeply and fiercely as I have loved you. To you, who have been the inspiration for my art, (for surely you are in many of my explicit paintings, and clandestine photographic expeditions) my writing, (I would not have written if I had not been inspired by your own sublime attention, affections and non-attendance - depending on which of you all I am addressing), the poetry my passion and my insatiable desire for you, who made some of my wildest fantasies a reality. . . and some of my worst nightmares real, to boot.

This is my dedication to you who comprise the facets of That One That I Love. The Girl of Summer. The Angel of Light. My Spanish Dancer, My Wife, My Concubine, My Mistress.
My Witch of Memory. My Sister Spirit.

But Life is bigger, It's bigger than you, And you are not me, and, You Taught me so well all that I know and used you. I used you to find more.

When I use the word “you” I am talking to some one of you who will recognize the moment or the words, and the time and place.

And recently you said something to me about my drinking of late.
Let me tell you about my drinking. I am a Capricorn. A Goat. The animal cloven hoofed and close, to the Sybaritic Devil that you have your wet dreams about. I drink to deaden the signals of arousal.

I drown my sexual rampancy with alcohol. I try to anaesthetize the Serpent
Problem is it is only worth this one hit. Tonight. For tomorrow The Serpent is back.
You don’t believe me? Well how did my cock get you into so much trouble? I know how my cock got me into just as much trouble.
Whether it was up or down. It got us in to trouble.
Qui se!

So it was not me. Rather it was Circumstance. Moment.

"Qui nos rodunt confundantur. . . et cum iustis non scribantur".
May those who slander us be cursed . . . and may their names not be written in the book of the righteous.

Now how do I secretly relay a message to you where every body, the whole world. You and six billion of your fellow citizens. . . are reading this: Except to say – this story is for you and about you.

Aah! Time to write the bloody Dedication, I suppose. So here goes: (And if one of you would like to change the dedication or help me. . . please feel free to do so)

I dedicate this to my Pavilion of Women. My Oasis in a desert of Time and Space

I dedicate this book to my mistress, who feigned jealousy as a means to control me, and our relationship.
To my mistress, who imagined she had every right to hold a vendetta against me because we have not been to the jealousy play-ground yet.
To you, mistress who has never been jealous – perhaps, because your life is like mine. . .
To you mistress, who was jealous that I had had lovers before you were my wife.
To you, mistress, who was jealous because I had lovers after you left for “no good reason?”. And who also professed jealousy of pictures of my last wife (while you still had pictures of your last two husbands).
To you, mistress, who had to be jealous of letters sent to me by a schoolgirl, before you ever existed. . . and to the Invader who was jealous of all of you.

And finally, to you, that most ineffable and formidable Mistress of All - Are we not ensorcelled lovers in loves own territory?

You, who was always always my first love, always in my thoughts, always a wish for my life. . . who will read this, and who will know, understand and accept this Libra Vida for what it is:
A search for a home for my one and only heart. And I am not speaking here of that physical organ behind this cage of bone.
You will recognise your Self in this mirror that you now hold and know that you are the Celebration of My Life.

I anticipated your arrival with just a little nervousness.

I do not know that I could have gotten here without you to assist me

Things you wrote, or said, are included in this Book. From your letters, your conversations, recently - your e-mails. And I hope dearly, that as each of you recognizes herself in this story, you will recognize your handiwork.
And your pre and post contenders. . . and be enlightened - you are not alone.
There are a few like you out there. But very few. You should each be precious about this state of affairs. . .

Be advised that we (all), (each), found each other by trick, design and machination that are too colorfully bizarre. There were no chance meetings, coincidences, or hypothetically random circumstances.

We plotted, schemed, planned and intrigued to arrive at a place where once our paths met – it was inevitable that the outcome would justify the means.

The Enhancement or Intensification of. . .

The enhancement or intensification of ordinary events or common objects, illuminates them making them shine in their singularity and compelling us to view their power with new experience.

That is Poetry. What poetry does is show us what parts these singularities play in our perceptions of love and life. Poetry does this by “fucking around with syntax”.
Re-defining meaning and overcoming the limitations of language.

“If we spoke a different language, we would perceive a somewhat different world”.
Life in My fathers House

If you do not understand this I will explain: This Book is about the highlights – not the mundane.
So pay attention. . . A story about washing elephants in the river, gun-ships, impetuous love & lost opportunity. . . per tunia me, e seugar mar. . .

To you, who said that you would “grow fat from potato chips”, and did - and, also, conversely, in another life, that “potato chips are not food”. . . So is caviar, “not food”. . . for I remember telling you: when I was young that I ate hamburgers because I was hungry:: Now I eat caviar because I can afford it. I ate you!

The implication being that when I was a boy I screwed around because I was horny.
Now I only make love with women who are akin to me. . .
women almost you.

When I Touch My Love - It Is Poetry

A poem consists of verses – each of you a magical verse in the poem of my life. I had to try many verses between you. Wrote so on many hearts, magicked my way across many salty oceans, to beach myself on so many stomachs. Just to find the right magic verse for the poem of my Life.

My Pavilion of Women

Through her finest robes
her beauty shines as clear
As she sporting naked in
The oceans waves appear

And though her eyes may
promise nights desires to
follow in her steps all day
And her mouth ne’er for a kiss will lack
There can no greater paradise
in all the worlds be found
Nor greater beauty . . .
Than when she is laid gentle, upon her back.

Moreno Franco Jan 2004

After all, poetry is what civilization ought to be about.
And magick? Well. I will come to that.

But first - you have to polish up on your reading skills.
See if you can read the Directions / Instructions / Ingredients list.
And the Hazard Notice: “Contents Under Pressure”.

Beautiful On Her Back Beautiful On Her Back

I Will Find My Way Back to the Rose in Your Garden

I must tell you, that sadly: “We are never like the angels till our passion dies”  – does this mean that I may never become an angel?
Nor will any of you if you carry on like this - Although One of you was an Angel when we were found.
Still is – too. I will not say who. But you will recognize yourself.

All you beautiful witches of mine, will recognize Your own Angelic Self in this story,  recognize the passion that still keeps us inextricably bound even after all these years. In reality this is my recollection of my love of You.
For there was only ever ONE of you,  and you existed in all these times, sins, crimes and climes.

Even in all of your assumed identities, I could always find You out.  Perhaps I have to consider that you ran me down to earth. To the good earth.
I knew you all my life. You gave me your most precious prize. You were always with me.

My Love and My Very Life Itself.


Not apologise for the lack of historical sequence.

There is an apology for lack of sequence? I know none. . . none. I disavow a predetermined impulse to present scenes out of context or conversations out of moment.

For the simple reason that I have had to bear the very same words several times over.
From your different mouths.

There is no chronological order here. I do not believe that literature should mirror reality.

As a clock does not create time, a book does not create reality. Rather a book creates the illusion of reality, as a clock creates the illusion of time. The sentences are the springs and cogs:
“For what shall we do and how we shall cry when Babylon is Fallen?”

You have been my Companheiro longo da Vida, all my life-long. My Magick is not just you.
Magick is finding some one other than your-self who believes in what you believe. . .
I can claim that I know magick. Now. Finally
After all, I found you. . .

Companion and Fellow Traveller, I share this with You.

NEXT >> The Magick And The Possibilities

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