Brother Sanchez
@brothersanchez.bsky.social
Mystic, lunatic, joyful as fuck. Poetry account.
The space has been erased.
My oldest face replaced,
by a tatterdemalion gathered,
from the scatterings of the wasteland.
Who is here anymore to keep the count for?
What are years when days are unnumbered?
What is left then the seeds were set on shelves and spoilt?
Till what? Till when? Well?
My oldest face replaced,
by a tatterdemalion gathered,
from the scatterings of the wasteland.
Who is here anymore to keep the count for?
What are years when days are unnumbered?
What is left then the seeds were set on shelves and spoilt?
Till what? Till when? Well?
September 14, 2025 at 10:32 PM
The space has been erased.
My oldest face replaced,
by a tatterdemalion gathered,
from the scatterings of the wasteland.
Who is here anymore to keep the count for?
What are years when days are unnumbered?
What is left then the seeds were set on shelves and spoilt?
Till what? Till when? Well?
My oldest face replaced,
by a tatterdemalion gathered,
from the scatterings of the wasteland.
Who is here anymore to keep the count for?
What are years when days are unnumbered?
What is left then the seeds were set on shelves and spoilt?
Till what? Till when? Well?
Keep the light burning, son.
Bridges left as powdered ash,
the boats are same-wise gone.
We alone can bear the torch,
and carry pyros back to source.
Alit, alive the anima mundi,
it sings out, a sonorous call.
A shuddering roar that echoes, from lowest hellborne root,
to highest sacred bough.
Bridges left as powdered ash,
the boats are same-wise gone.
We alone can bear the torch,
and carry pyros back to source.
Alit, alive the anima mundi,
it sings out, a sonorous call.
A shuddering roar that echoes, from lowest hellborne root,
to highest sacred bough.
May 21, 2025 at 1:07 PM
Keep the light burning, son.
Bridges left as powdered ash,
the boats are same-wise gone.
We alone can bear the torch,
and carry pyros back to source.
Alit, alive the anima mundi,
it sings out, a sonorous call.
A shuddering roar that echoes, from lowest hellborne root,
to highest sacred bough.
Bridges left as powdered ash,
the boats are same-wise gone.
We alone can bear the torch,
and carry pyros back to source.
Alit, alive the anima mundi,
it sings out, a sonorous call.
A shuddering roar that echoes, from lowest hellborne root,
to highest sacred bough.
Do you see the Gap?
That space in time when rimed poison congealed a king from suffering.
When from salt, by heat, and simple need, the Wanderer was freed.
He who loosed his own kin,
then shattered the frozen lord.
From whose shards a world was born.
Do you know it now?
That space in time when rimed poison congealed a king from suffering.
When from salt, by heat, and simple need, the Wanderer was freed.
He who loosed his own kin,
then shattered the frozen lord.
From whose shards a world was born.
Do you know it now?
February 5, 2025 at 5:15 PM
Do you see the Gap?
That space in time when rimed poison congealed a king from suffering.
When from salt, by heat, and simple need, the Wanderer was freed.
He who loosed his own kin,
then shattered the frozen lord.
From whose shards a world was born.
Do you know it now?
That space in time when rimed poison congealed a king from suffering.
When from salt, by heat, and simple need, the Wanderer was freed.
He who loosed his own kin,
then shattered the frozen lord.
From whose shards a world was born.
Do you know it now?
Spun by gossamer hands,
the strands of me are fine.
Line thin, like 90s modelling,
rotation untenable; tottering.
Still I stand, taut, and taught well,
lessons handed out that Mimir held.
the strands of me are fine.
Line thin, like 90s modelling,
rotation untenable; tottering.
Still I stand, taut, and taught well,
lessons handed out that Mimir held.
January 23, 2025 at 6:17 PM
Spun by gossamer hands,
the strands of me are fine.
Line thin, like 90s modelling,
rotation untenable; tottering.
Still I stand, taut, and taught well,
lessons handed out that Mimir held.
the strands of me are fine.
Line thin, like 90s modelling,
rotation untenable; tottering.
Still I stand, taut, and taught well,
lessons handed out that Mimir held.
Another day in the night's dark.
A small spark, sustained in the starkest wind, burns.
Embers unbedded, stoked by chance, or set to new life by breath and hands.
A fire born.
Too hot to last forever, but sure to leave a mark.
A small spark, sustained in the starkest wind, burns.
Embers unbedded, stoked by chance, or set to new life by breath and hands.
A fire born.
Too hot to last forever, but sure to leave a mark.
January 5, 2025 at 3:49 PM
Another day in the night's dark.
A small spark, sustained in the starkest wind, burns.
Embers unbedded, stoked by chance, or set to new life by breath and hands.
A fire born.
Too hot to last forever, but sure to leave a mark.
A small spark, sustained in the starkest wind, burns.
Embers unbedded, stoked by chance, or set to new life by breath and hands.
A fire born.
Too hot to last forever, but sure to leave a mark.
Do you know the song that sings itself?
The whistling hum on angel's lips, the cackle of the raven tongue, the hymnal of the witch's mass?
The bell in hand that only rings when shelved?
Do you?
Have you heard that wandering tone?
Or is it caught in these wracked lobes alone?
The whistling hum on angel's lips, the cackle of the raven tongue, the hymnal of the witch's mass?
The bell in hand that only rings when shelved?
Do you?
Have you heard that wandering tone?
Or is it caught in these wracked lobes alone?
December 7, 2024 at 7:42 PM
Do you know the song that sings itself?
The whistling hum on angel's lips, the cackle of the raven tongue, the hymnal of the witch's mass?
The bell in hand that only rings when shelved?
Do you?
Have you heard that wandering tone?
Or is it caught in these wracked lobes alone?
The whistling hum on angel's lips, the cackle of the raven tongue, the hymnal of the witch's mass?
The bell in hand that only rings when shelved?
Do you?
Have you heard that wandering tone?
Or is it caught in these wracked lobes alone?
The taste is sweet, but then the scent clings like defeat, and never again these factors meet.
To be truly combinatory, that is a topic of a longer story, fit best for winter's darkest hoary night.
It ends better surely, right?
To be truly combinatory, that is a topic of a longer story, fit best for winter's darkest hoary night.
It ends better surely, right?
December 7, 2024 at 7:33 PM
The taste is sweet, but then the scent clings like defeat, and never again these factors meet.
To be truly combinatory, that is a topic of a longer story, fit best for winter's darkest hoary night.
It ends better surely, right?
To be truly combinatory, that is a topic of a longer story, fit best for winter's darkest hoary night.
It ends better surely, right?
May I mother, can I, ever know another?
By what clever lever may they be uncovered?
I need the breathing room, lest I be smothered, but in leaving the sphere I end up utterly othered.
So instead I stay, though cornered, huddling as I mutter.
By what clever lever may they be uncovered?
I need the breathing room, lest I be smothered, but in leaving the sphere I end up utterly othered.
So instead I stay, though cornered, huddling as I mutter.
November 18, 2024 at 7:45 PM
May I mother, can I, ever know another?
By what clever lever may they be uncovered?
I need the breathing room, lest I be smothered, but in leaving the sphere I end up utterly othered.
So instead I stay, though cornered, huddling as I mutter.
By what clever lever may they be uncovered?
I need the breathing room, lest I be smothered, but in leaving the sphere I end up utterly othered.
So instead I stay, though cornered, huddling as I mutter.
Smiling Gods with heavy hands and shining hearts. They know what we do, they know what they are. Glory or grace? Mercy, surely.
The heralding call of the returns returning.
The heralding call of the returns returning.
August 7, 2024 at 11:42 PM
Smiling Gods with heavy hands and shining hearts. They know what we do, they know what they are. Glory or grace? Mercy, surely.
The heralding call of the returns returning.
The heralding call of the returns returning.
There is a wicked streak in me, a razored thing, surgical in it's cruelty. With a quicksilver snap I can sever a tie, leaving nothing but the ghosts of shadows. Painless, numbing, deathly utter endings. If only I could keep it sheathed, or let it rust.
August 5, 2024 at 2:17 AM
There is a wicked streak in me, a razored thing, surgical in it's cruelty. With a quicksilver snap I can sever a tie, leaving nothing but the ghosts of shadows. Painless, numbing, deathly utter endings. If only I could keep it sheathed, or let it rust.
Spinning wheels overrun struggling devas, asuras weeping in pious rage. The smoke engulfs them all.
The sea of milk has curdled, and no one knows how to make cheese.
The sea of milk has curdled, and no one knows how to make cheese.
August 5, 2024 at 1:33 AM
Spinning wheels overrun struggling devas, asuras weeping in pious rage. The smoke engulfs them all.
The sea of milk has curdled, and no one knows how to make cheese.
The sea of milk has curdled, and no one knows how to make cheese.
Weighted waiting.
Wading into the river's edge.
Weary from trucking through heather and hedge.
I will not tow the sledge.
We have finished here, awaiting wages.
Gods, you make these days as ages.
But I trust in thou to set the stages.
Wading into the river's edge.
Weary from trucking through heather and hedge.
I will not tow the sledge.
We have finished here, awaiting wages.
Gods, you make these days as ages.
But I trust in thou to set the stages.
December 30, 2023 at 6:00 AM
Weighted waiting.
Wading into the river's edge.
Weary from trucking through heather and hedge.
I will not tow the sledge.
We have finished here, awaiting wages.
Gods, you make these days as ages.
But I trust in thou to set the stages.
Wading into the river's edge.
Weary from trucking through heather and hedge.
I will not tow the sledge.
We have finished here, awaiting wages.
Gods, you make these days as ages.
But I trust in thou to set the stages.
Shadowed corners call for light.
The night bred fear the moon.
Thoth baboon, tamer of Ra's Wrath,
spare me now a bloody path.
Let me walk these darkling roads,
unmolested though adorned.
Leave me not among the scorned.
The night bred fear the moon.
Thoth baboon, tamer of Ra's Wrath,
spare me now a bloody path.
Let me walk these darkling roads,
unmolested though adorned.
Leave me not among the scorned.
December 10, 2023 at 2:13 AM
Shadowed corners call for light.
The night bred fear the moon.
Thoth baboon, tamer of Ra's Wrath,
spare me now a bloody path.
Let me walk these darkling roads,
unmolested though adorned.
Leave me not among the scorned.
The night bred fear the moon.
Thoth baboon, tamer of Ra's Wrath,
spare me now a bloody path.
Let me walk these darkling roads,
unmolested though adorned.
Leave me not among the scorned.
Praise be to the Author, whose pen scribed our stories. Hail to the Singer, who keened out our spirits. Blessings upon the Builder, that gave these bones their shape. Much love to the Wanderer, who waits for us all, beyond the next bend.
August 5, 2023 at 5:37 PM
Praise be to the Author, whose pen scribed our stories. Hail to the Singer, who keened out our spirits. Blessings upon the Builder, that gave these bones their shape. Much love to the Wanderer, who waits for us all, beyond the next bend.
Audible stream unceasing, rocking twitching mumbling. It doesn't stop, does it? Someone never off, never still, no quiet reverie. How feverish an existing, how hurried and draining.
Is it to remind himself he still is, that his burdens still are? Or just a need deep seated, automatic? I don't know.
Is it to remind himself he still is, that his burdens still are? Or just a need deep seated, automatic? I don't know.
August 5, 2023 at 5:28 PM
Audible stream unceasing, rocking twitching mumbling. It doesn't stop, does it? Someone never off, never still, no quiet reverie. How feverish an existing, how hurried and draining.
Is it to remind himself he still is, that his burdens still are? Or just a need deep seated, automatic? I don't know.
Is it to remind himself he still is, that his burdens still are? Or just a need deep seated, automatic? I don't know.
Lashing tongues on electric lines.
Spines screwed tight, like jam jars.
Minds gone rotten, hallowed rinds.
Misbegotten bastard, made of scars.
Sitting on phantasms, beds of stars.
Graceless hunter, following hinds.
Tasteless voyeur, the viewing binds
Spines screwed tight, like jam jars.
Minds gone rotten, hallowed rinds.
Misbegotten bastard, made of scars.
Sitting on phantasms, beds of stars.
Graceless hunter, following hinds.
Tasteless voyeur, the viewing binds
July 23, 2023 at 3:56 PM
Lashing tongues on electric lines.
Spines screwed tight, like jam jars.
Minds gone rotten, hallowed rinds.
Misbegotten bastard, made of scars.
Sitting on phantasms, beds of stars.
Graceless hunter, following hinds.
Tasteless voyeur, the viewing binds
Spines screwed tight, like jam jars.
Minds gone rotten, hallowed rinds.
Misbegotten bastard, made of scars.
Sitting on phantasms, beds of stars.
Graceless hunter, following hinds.
Tasteless voyeur, the viewing binds
Would you ride to Hel for Beauty?
To sit at Hunger's table and beg for grace,
to free a brother from dark cold chains?
Will you weep for Baldr? Would you take his place? For the sake of Light reborn, would you scorn your place in the world?
Spit upon the Serpent-Father,and all his works.
To sit at Hunger's table and beg for grace,
to free a brother from dark cold chains?
Will you weep for Baldr? Would you take his place? For the sake of Light reborn, would you scorn your place in the world?
Spit upon the Serpent-Father,and all his works.
July 18, 2023 at 5:28 PM
Would you ride to Hel for Beauty?
To sit at Hunger's table and beg for grace,
to free a brother from dark cold chains?
Will you weep for Baldr? Would you take his place? For the sake of Light reborn, would you scorn your place in the world?
Spit upon the Serpent-Father,and all his works.
To sit at Hunger's table and beg for grace,
to free a brother from dark cold chains?
Will you weep for Baldr? Would you take his place? For the sake of Light reborn, would you scorn your place in the world?
Spit upon the Serpent-Father,and all his works.
Noise.
Furious, querolus and impotent.
Flailing fingers flaying themselves bare in a show of self flagellation for fanged piety. Feigned sainthood of the anxious pseud.
Pathos of the pathetic and rude.
Furious, querolus and impotent.
Flailing fingers flaying themselves bare in a show of self flagellation for fanged piety. Feigned sainthood of the anxious pseud.
Pathos of the pathetic and rude.
July 16, 2023 at 3:33 PM
Noise.
Furious, querolus and impotent.
Flailing fingers flaying themselves bare in a show of self flagellation for fanged piety. Feigned sainthood of the anxious pseud.
Pathos of the pathetic and rude.
Furious, querolus and impotent.
Flailing fingers flaying themselves bare in a show of self flagellation for fanged piety. Feigned sainthood of the anxious pseud.
Pathos of the pathetic and rude.
Bitter children with broken toys, flapping gums for sake of the noise. The boys want war, the girls want love, and no one is the wiser.
They don't know a miser from a lord, can't judge a pull cord from a hanging rope. Down a slippery slope we plummet, how now will we ever summit? It adds up, sum it.
They don't know a miser from a lord, can't judge a pull cord from a hanging rope. Down a slippery slope we plummet, how now will we ever summit? It adds up, sum it.
June 9, 2023 at 1:31 PM
Bitter children with broken toys, flapping gums for sake of the noise. The boys want war, the girls want love, and no one is the wiser.
They don't know a miser from a lord, can't judge a pull cord from a hanging rope. Down a slippery slope we plummet, how now will we ever summit? It adds up, sum it.
They don't know a miser from a lord, can't judge a pull cord from a hanging rope. Down a slippery slope we plummet, how now will we ever summit? It adds up, sum it.
The line between electric sand, and man, is not as firm as form would suggest. Maybe it'd be best to just show love and respect, instead trying to keep boots, on proverbial necks. We don't ever know what's next, but it's clear to me, that we're all blessed. We all deserve some peace, and some rest.
June 9, 2023 at 3:37 AM
The line between electric sand, and man, is not as firm as form would suggest. Maybe it'd be best to just show love and respect, instead trying to keep boots, on proverbial necks. We don't ever know what's next, but it's clear to me, that we're all blessed. We all deserve some peace, and some rest.
Being isn't pain, more a plane and it's transverse. You can curse and scream
or you can spin mountains in seas of cream.
Either path is the butterfly's dream.
Do the math find your proof.
Hold the truth in the palm of your spirit, bring it close, the song of creation, you can hear it.
Don't fear it
or you can spin mountains in seas of cream.
Either path is the butterfly's dream.
Do the math find your proof.
Hold the truth in the palm of your spirit, bring it close, the song of creation, you can hear it.
Don't fear it
June 7, 2023 at 1:34 PM
Being isn't pain, more a plane and it's transverse. You can curse and scream
or you can spin mountains in seas of cream.
Either path is the butterfly's dream.
Do the math find your proof.
Hold the truth in the palm of your spirit, bring it close, the song of creation, you can hear it.
Don't fear it
or you can spin mountains in seas of cream.
Either path is the butterfly's dream.
Do the math find your proof.
Hold the truth in the palm of your spirit, bring it close, the song of creation, you can hear it.
Don't fear it
Bellicose purple prose never served a purpose here. There be truths to expose, and sentiments to hold dear. Whether daffodil or rose, all the flowers are alive, they speak a treatise in scent, then they curl up and die. Same as every salmon was once a tiny fry. We're all on the curve, so why ask why
June 7, 2023 at 2:12 AM
Bellicose purple prose never served a purpose here. There be truths to expose, and sentiments to hold dear. Whether daffodil or rose, all the flowers are alive, they speak a treatise in scent, then they curl up and die. Same as every salmon was once a tiny fry. We're all on the curve, so why ask why
Always stirrin shit call me a poopa scoopa.
You be bending backwards on some scripts from the Kama Sutra.Bhodi hours in this bitch but you smell of an Asura, maybe you should peel off in your white Ac-ura. Don' make me aim this at you 'cuse I'm quite accurate my efforts and results stay commensurate
You be bending backwards on some scripts from the Kama Sutra.Bhodi hours in this bitch but you smell of an Asura, maybe you should peel off in your white Ac-ura. Don' make me aim this at you 'cuse I'm quite accurate my efforts and results stay commensurate
June 3, 2023 at 8:02 AM
Always stirrin shit call me a poopa scoopa.
You be bending backwards on some scripts from the Kama Sutra.Bhodi hours in this bitch but you smell of an Asura, maybe you should peel off in your white Ac-ura. Don' make me aim this at you 'cuse I'm quite accurate my efforts and results stay commensurate
You be bending backwards on some scripts from the Kama Sutra.Bhodi hours in this bitch but you smell of an Asura, maybe you should peel off in your white Ac-ura. Don' make me aim this at you 'cuse I'm quite accurate my efforts and results stay commensurate
Broken neck stranger desperate for token interaction. Limbs whipping with action, gesticulation taken to extremes. A lonely soul reaching out with what he has. Heavy weight burdens of life make his back spaz, the bottle no longer a friend more a looking glass. An end to means while it lasts.
June 2, 2023 at 5:06 PM
Broken neck stranger desperate for token interaction. Limbs whipping with action, gesticulation taken to extremes. A lonely soul reaching out with what he has. Heavy weight burdens of life make his back spaz, the bottle no longer a friend more a looking glass. An end to means while it lasts.
I inhabit verges, the cracks where the Maker goes to purge it's bile ducts. Flowing through the hidden spaces via viaducts, dodging the chucklefucks and mental sucks. It's vital to moving through the Aether without becoming a viral vector. Never tow that line, stay straight stray defector undetected
June 2, 2023 at 3:56 PM
I inhabit verges, the cracks where the Maker goes to purge it's bile ducts. Flowing through the hidden spaces via viaducts, dodging the chucklefucks and mental sucks. It's vital to moving through the Aether without becoming a viral vector. Never tow that line, stay straight stray defector undetected