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Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
I am angry, but am not sure if I have a right to be. Between all or rather among all the other emotions I am feeling it is hard to discern and clarify the balance and reasons for my anger. Naturally I want what is best for you, that in itself is a conundrum. Is having what you want best? Or do I actually believe that what I have to offer can ultimately elate you to a higher level of happiness than that of your current situation? Another question comes to light now and that is, is what you currently want what you actually want, or is it merely that it was something which at first appeared to be and has over time slowly dissolved into something far less, into something you thought you had wanted but now see that in it's current form, really is not?
        Suppose one of these speculations takes a solid form and settles as the true idea, then in what way could any of this upset me enough to reveal itself as anger in my mind? Primarily, it would seem my own jealousy or want of you could be a proprietary perpetrator in this matter, but I am sure that the true identity of this perplexed feeling runs much wilder and entangled with a slue of uprooted inner conflicts. So then, what are they? As I reflect on the many faces of this anger, the feeling of pain surfaces, but not the kind you feel for yourself, rather it's more of the selfless type. I am, by all means, a bystander on looking the trials and troubles that lay ridden in your path. I see you struggle to hold on and in turn attempt to stay as composed as a rigid coastline baring the constant battery of each careless and possibly calculated undulation of every crashing wave which from where I stand rises more often than not than the natural course of a waxing and waning tide. And it's as if from a distance I can see and hear bits and pieces of you crumble and crash, slowly receding into the horizon with each unrelenting wave.      
        At times finding myself diving into the chaotic and churning crush of waves to gather and salvage whatever I can mange to and still keep myself afloat so that when the tides recede I, with safe passage, climb ashore to safely return to you whatever it is I managed to cradle from the depths. As I take those sandy steps I now understand the reason for my anger, if but only for a portion of it. Watching as I do from my ship, it hurts to see the waves crash, to see something so paramount in beauty, in life be so carelessly attended to. Yet, the fault is not but of one, but of two. It can hardly be helped, you are who you are, and the beauty in you is as with most, your flaw. The core of you, revealed more and more with each crashing wave, smells damp and sweet of hope. Such a hopeful being, that even after the tempest has risen a tsunami to thunder coldly on your very shores, you merely wince and hope that just maybe a windless day will break through to passing clouds to ease each tide to a lapping kiss upon your now jagged shores that in time, piece by piece, return to you what is rightfully yours.
        Throughout all this though I bare a different caliber of weather, one which strikes at my splintered ship with jagged volts of lightening, searing all aboard until your gentle rain turns its pulsing red embers into a faded glow slowly giving way to smoke and ashes. I watch from this distance angry at everything on this side of the world. Anger towards the carelessness, towards the helplessness, at the one flaw that you and I share, at knowing my selfishness in it all, toward the thought of walking on your shores but only quietly as not to summon another unwelcome tide, and finally and most perplexing of all...for being angry at all. It's what upsets me the most, that I'm even angry. Yet, I am as helpless against it as we are with the sunset of hope we both hold so close to sight and mind, for you, hope of a sleeping tempest and in return a more attentive life by the ocean, and for me, the hope of one day being able to cast my anchor down into the depths so that I may enjoy the warmth of your sand, cool nights against your moonlit caves heated by the warmth of your heart, your hope, and to above all tenderly enjoy and return to your ever-reaching shores of love all that it gives and deserves.
        But at times I see that this endless commotion disorients even the strongest of shores and that in it all , there is no surprise that a mere ship in an open sea can seem to be anything more than a flick of candlelight alongside the heat of a chaotic wild fire. Despite this pulsing surge of discouragement,I angrily, hopefully, caringly, and thoughtfully will continue to cast my net to show you that though right now I quietly wisp each flickering dance of summer light, that I too am relentless in my will, but for a different reason. I see now, that my anger is acceptable because above all else,I am your friend and wish for you only the best, for what would make you happiest. And that despite my wants, yours will always come first, whatever they be or you may think they be. My ship will sail alongside you no matter your choice, and if ever the day comes when I walk up on your shores with candle in hand, you need but kiss the tender tendrilous flame I carry to awaken its unconditional and fervent inferno that lies patiently inside, waiting.
Angrily, your loving friend
David M Harry Nov 2017
She lay in bed,
her body a poem
upon my chest.
A sweet perfume
of rose memory
wafts in the space
between our breaths.
A silent incantation
disorients the voices  
in my head and it is quiet.
Our embrace is poetry,
and there are no words.
Just the silence between
lovers, whispered nothings.
I hold her tight,
drawing her to me
intent upon fading
into the memory of a rose.
Trevon Haywood Oct 2015
In what at least
Seemed anger the Aquarians in the basement
Had been perfecting a device.
For making sense to us
If only briefly and on pain
Of incommunication ever after.
Now look who's here. Our prodigal Sunset. Just passing through from Isfahan.
Filled him by the glass.

Disorients [...].

James Merrill
Poem dedicated by me.
Pedro Tejada Oct 2015
I used to be hidden in my room
choking at my mouth's roof
as if stuck within a stutter,
exhausted from existing, hinging
like a wind-chime battered by a hurricane.

Then a troubadour with honey hair
had me humming to his ear-worm
of a melody, depicting a choreography
that jolted my legs into frenetic mania
like an early talkie starlet's.

For years, I have memorized
this intricate chord structure,
immersed myself in its crescendos
until I could belt it backwards.
It's the only song I know by heart.

There is this one tune,  though,
if you can even call it that,
this atonal reverberation that alerts
the darkest corners of my mind,
a slowly muttered siren song
leading to lands I never want to visit.

I can never fully decipher
the lyrics to an entire verse.

It's the excerpts, scattered
like dust mites in a concert hall,
that try to nibble at me piecemeal,
romanticizing the revolving door
of self-destruction, bruises
veiled as smudged calligraphy.

So please excuse the minor notes
that hiccup from my vocal cords
every other half moon or so.

It's just the ebb and flow
of awkward drumming
that disorients the ear,
causes me to trip up
on the patchwork of refrains
we've spent so much time weaving
into heavenly cohesion.

Above all, please remember
that no static or din
will ever shoehorn its way
into our ironclad harmony.
Aseh Nov 2015
When people accuse me of
being emotional or
oversensitive,
of playing the victim,
it invalidates me,
and then I feel small
and then furious tears brim my
emotional,
oversensitive,
victimized eyes

But as I'm trying to explain this
to you over cold chicken wings,
I go glassy and red with shame
because your words just put a cap
on my emotional allowance
and suddenly I see you
as just another dead end,
a road that leads
to an unlived life.

Are you a man or a prop, and am I
a fly from a web--
detaching, leaving weak limbs behind
in its grasp?
or am I the lone spider--
she who disorients
then releases
just before
venom hits
vein?
Andrew Crawford Sep 2023
Personality disordered,
untamed ardor explores
every river delta
and corner forked;
borderline morphs.

Formless torment disorients,
roaring torrent force
forging its course,
divorcing arboreal forest floor
into a gorge.

Clear mirror
gorgeously adorned
with floral orchard, adored;
stream looks on in horror, forlorn-
shore a formidable fortress stormed,
water waging war on
brambles, thorny swords,
and flourishing orchids scorned;
armored only by rain's discord
and fresh petrichor worn.
Tea May 2013
soul searching
Lost inside what I cant find
The words to say exactly what I need to
They flee from me. Far from you.
You were someone who always said you loved me
And I knew it was true, even with the bitter beer
Even when you couldn't hear
Reality ringing in your ear
I always knew you loved me
Funny how I remember you
Like two people, fit snug
In one
You said horrid ****** things
Followed with the a laughter
Always following so much faster
Humor was your shield
It would rain but their was a sun inside you
You hide it, fought it
Drown it with hams
But it surfaced and id see
All the thing I loved in you
Truth is, i'm sad
Sad to see that life is leaving you
That you let it take
What even alcohol couldn’t break
Your spirit
Your love
Will to live
Chills me,spins disorients
Because you are the biggest presence, personality
The loudest voice, largest part
Of the start of my life
….


You were a lot of things
and you are just giving up.
Cancer is taking you away
And I hate it. I almost hate you
Ironic because you are finally sober
Just a reminder you don’t always want what you think you do
because whats taking you
was never what I thought it would be
and u have just got to know me
I love you
ivory Jun 2010
hello, i am air.
i am finding my way between cherry blossom lips.

hello, i am earth.
i am beneath you, rooting your feet to this very spot.
don't you dare move.

hello, i am water.
i am slowly slapping against the shore.
testing my own depth.
dive in.

hello, i am fire.
i am every passion a flame holds.
i am every ounce of heat that goes straight to your head; makes you sweat, disorients you.

hello, i am possibility.
i am the wide open sky, second chances, new horizons.
i am the point of no return.
© AlyssiaAnderson

Awkward reactions encouraged.
Cee Valenso Jul 2014
Shadows
No longer mere figures following me
Developing minds of their own
They seek liberation from the commands of my feet
To fully manipulate me

Roads
Morphs into labyrinths before my eyes
Entrapping me into the darkness
Its unceasing modification disorients me severely
A thriving attempt to hold me captive

Stars
Lose their jaunty sparkle in the tenebrous sky
Turning into prying eyes whose gazes burn my skin
They observe me like a peculiar specimen
I am not alone

Songs
Begin to sound discordant to my ears
Reverberating vociferously across my room
Strident tunes thwack my skull mercilessly
Unable to think

Mind
Fails to function properly
Unhinging the helpless one
Its thoughts are chaotic, and in shambles
Another man is lost
Every now and then remember to breathe.
Close your eyes and let the crowd carry you along.
The haze of heat disorients you but you welcome this new feeling, so new it defies description
as words to describe it have withered from your vocabulary these last years.
Excitement, apprehension, a billowing breeze of freedom perhaps.
Out of habit in recognizing how to feel, let alone attempting to transpose it to paper once again
after such a long absence from yourself and this world and caring to remember this day.
It is standing tip toe on top of a bridge over the clear diamond façade, a pristine ocean.
Opening your arms out wide; the whipping wind creates waves equal in your hair,
brings tears to your eyes and captures your breath.
You can’t wait to fall.
Not to end it all, but to begin what’s next, because you know that there is more.
You know that what lies ahead is better, better than this…
You welcome this and all feelings as they’ve been missed for this long time.
You wonder where they’ve gone, the feelings unremembered, some purposefully forgotten.
For surely they had to have existed, and are therefore somewhere.
Some dimension must still hold them; perhaps they are not the only thing missing.
The need to find who you were all that time so that you can continue…
But for now, for now the horizon is beautiful.
Driving home through the next sunrise won’t make you cry, for there is freedom just beyond.
That is what this feeling is…
dr Jade Apr 2015
It is the secret fear of being unlovable that isolates me
Of not finding it
Of not recognizing it
Of not being deserving of it
Of not being capable of it

It paralyzes me at that precise point between sleep and wakefulness
Digging its talons into me
Keeping me captive at that area where dreams dissolve into nightmares
Whispering its rabid venom
Consuming me, driving me to near madness

I cannot recall at what point I actually awaken
It's realism disorients me
The fear stays with me, just beneath my skin
Wanting, waiting...always just waiting
My lover... My monster
Mary Feb 2019
I reach across the chasm between us
to see if you’re still there
Remnants of a nightmare
linger in the air
The sleep that fills my head
disorients me but then
I hear you breathing next to me
and I feel safe again
Tatiana Sep 2014
The boy gets tripped the next day.
I watched him fall again.
The fall disorients him.
It's terrifying to see him so still.

He gets up quickly this time.
He's shaken and scared, isn't he?
The boy glares at his attackers slightly swaying.
He doesn't show his pain.

The other kids start to speak.
Oh God, why would they say that?
The boy stiffens.
I can't watch this anymore.
The boy's eyes are hurt and he never responds.
I'm going now.
I'm gone.

The boy tries to pick up his books,
but they keep escaping his grasp.
The books are being kicked,
and ripped apart.
He loved those books.
He loved his work.
But they were being destroyed,
piece by piece.

He manages to pick them up
and leave this mess.
But the words follow him,
down the halls
and into his classroom.
Everything is being destroyed,
himself included.
He sits in his seat,
in pain.

I saw him pass me in the halls,
I couldn't help it,
I followed him.
He walked into my classroom,
I didn't even know we shared this class.
I saw him sit in his seat,
I walked by him to get to my own.
I saw his eyes,
and it pained me to see,
that he is just as haunted
as I used to be

**** he's in pain
*...But it's the start of someone else's pain all over again.
Each poem won't be written the exact same way, i'm kind of experimenting how I want to write them. But they will all end the same. The words in italics are the thoughts of the other kid that was mentioned in the first poem. :)
Travis Green Apr 2022
I longingly await to lapse into his confidential headquarters
Where I can unearth his hidden treasures and pleasures
Feel his electric shock to my heart
His sweet, sultry stickiness fused to my lush, tawny skin
So hot and superheated, locked in his charmingness
Conquered by his strongness

He bombards my thoughts
Rains down his amorousness on me
Makes me defenseless and strung out
On his stunner star qualities
He is like a tall and venerable clock
That constantly beats in my heart
Like the hands of a clock
That slowly moves across my marvelously
Scented and succulent body

He demonstrates his magically
Massive masculine strength over me
He disorients my dimension
Makes me crave to melt away
Into his fascinating sensationalness
The way he surveys the roadmap
Of my sexually stimulating gayness
Has me pulsating passionately

I lay on his battleground of flaming hot magic
Abounding in lovesickness
Musing on my vividly intense and dreamy feelings for him
Unaware of the world around me
Wrapped up in his high-ranking flex
On fire, urgently requiring exclusive access to his thugness

— The End —