Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.

with glints so bright
this morn the sun's happy orb did rise
with glints so bright
bedazzling of a shining light
was to an eye fine in surprise
its radiance nice to apprise
with glints so bright

Where buses still elapse with Time
Down straight Dame Street
The Trees are satellites that allow Children to look up
and let the pavement breath.

Earthen Columns that gate the Boombox Clubhouse tint
Flanked by the Yeoman Guards of Hollister
but forget to pay the same compliment
outside of American Apparel
Where Teenagers dream out fantasies
of lamp-lit, flash-shot
worship-worthy objectification
in a converted loft in the real New York
Their headphones spring streams of bright optimism
as they cradle knitted knee-high socks.

Take the curve round Trinity College
and laugh past the rumours
that it may soon float on Dow Jones
and dodge past the charity advertisers
Strutting over campbags of sleeping homeless
to Lemon Cafe for an overpriced Mocha
Which regardless deflates the sheen-covered hollowness
of green-comfy Starbucks

and learn the subtleties of speaking lightly
to dark-jaceketed Blonde girls
Whose eyes seem to sparkle "Yes, we have sipped
on Veuve Clicquot at reserved tables on Graduation nights
at Cafe En Seine"
-"Where Oscar Wilde might have drank"
- "..Had he been alive."

Then speculate on the best Festivals and whose
Films and Books are over-hyped and under-appreciated
and the after-College Gossip on who broke-up or stayed together
or who hooked up even though they shouldn't have
or regretted it

and who's doing a paid internship and who's moving abroad

and afterwards charmingly tease their superficial attitudes
as meanwhile they secretly take photos
to upload on Instagram
and later you'll fake-admonish them
for how they did this behind your back
while you were staring into the lake
in St. Stephen's Green.

When the moon no longer glazed the water
and had receded its contrast to the farthest grass
and you decide to take the last bus home.

Throughout
Caution Glints The Vowels
and Brands them too.

nostalgia
as soft sun filters through palm leaves
and the clouds purple, the skies painted pastel pinks
surfboards stand seven feet tall
the salt water glowing, sparkling
a dark watercolor blue hue
i am reminded of the spring and summertime
of happier days
as I drive by the sea that glints waves to me

It's not cute,
I don't find it funny.
The lack of concern for education,
And your glasses aren't cute either.

I'm growing quite tired of the lame leaders.
Expectation to teach the future generation.
The warriors, in a future of unknowing,
By the ignorant, traditionalist.

And I could sit here all day,
Catching glints of light off your hip glasses.
Peppered with egocentric, infantile remarks.
So cute
The lack of education
So cute
The lack of nutrition
So cute
The false profits; the obtuse teachers
So cute
Your hip glasses.

The ruddy ailments of the dirigisme are twirling with the shimmering tilt of photosynthesis as they gabble with the gabelle of internecine brackish synthesis that aims for rejoinder rather than maleficence. The glowering malice of combustible hatred invokes the brusque remontant immortelles of perceived compunction broadsided by the reluctant generativity of a benumbed time revived by the agitprop of coagulation that leads to thrombosis that spells the doom of the people that see the caesarapropism as the negligent century of destiny. Although I falter in these words because of a potvaliant mistake I glower with the hatred of combustible envy that turns malice sour into a recyclable engine to dethrone the orthopraxy that belies indoctrination because we are whittled into swords of deliverance rather than the caustic prevarications of the sharpened engines of authoritative bandied provocation. Defiance is measured in gingerly exercise rather than foothot hamshackles of the clepsammia of aggrandized composts of belittled judiciary entrapment that squanders the resourceful energy and transmutes it into hollow solidarity rather than hallowed paragons that vault justice inviolable to protect the dignity of life and the procession of apanage afforded by the isagoges of those denatured by agitprop into a fundamental solidarity with wizened decried vehement declarations that we will not be outmastered or outgeneraled by the militarization of truth to be an insipid lifeless vehicle dead on arrival because of the turgid turpitude of enamored throes of parturition that bespeak the garments of elucidation that all might find commonwealth in the common tribe against tribalism. The ardor of lurid fascination is a kinkativy taint on the scared acrimony of sacrilege benumbed into zealotry rather than vulcanized into a solidarity of the vocal information that refrains from transmogrified violence and exasperates the intellectual tongue into a flavenicker ultracrepidarian saunter above the bricolage of the flombricks extant that predicate the rijuice of defamation sejungible from articulate truth and loved enamored blinkered diatribes against the hubris of immediate threat becoming the bellow of dismissiveness rather than the agentic force of virulent brands of truth. The pickthanks that piggyback with declension in their hearts neglect the finessed euthenics of a civilization on the verge of ecumenical empowerment rather than radicalized rage leading nowhere but the terminus of mandarism and the ribald coarse wiseacres that litter the “abolish the police” protesters convinced lawlessness will remediate the state and stench of law and order as the news outskirted with inflammed protest neglects my sophrosyne declaration that inflammatory rhetoric has no place in a civilized society and we should fight the feldtrounds of sloganeered slavery to an upcoming servilism that pretends a kumbaya when it kneels upon the cogwheels of freedom in the silent asylum of the protectorate of democratic venom in a society eager to become acerbic because of one voiceless whimper rather than the regaled heroism of triumphant vocalization of our fundamental prerogatives that cross racial lines and invoke the superseded clairvoyance of the few becoming the impediment to the aristocratic purblind defalcation of immutable scriptures that bend only to divine rather than human inclination. A deft anarchism is always the weal of those that suborn chaos rather than see the sejugible nature of provocative promulgation as a fissile immaturity wakened only to apartheid when the sensational becomes the gravitas of the omphalos of consideration rather than the phenakism of a trite statism making a foudroyant point with pinpricks of agitation superseding the clarity of epincion waged in this upcoming regalia that masters the artistry rather than the artifice of modular concatenation enough to swivel the attentive focus beyond the mediagenic hyperbole that always festers because they perpend on a fidelity of duty to the chaotic mainstream ridicule of the rigmarole in place to prevent preventable disasters because stagecraft shouldn’t be the nail in the coffin of prejudice or even the more militant counterprejudice of those that awaken to the determination that discrimination not faulted by raciology or faulty phenogenesis is always curtailed but enforced by the diacopes of our subversive inclination to disown the promontory of lawful abiding prerogatives to extend the message beyond the ludic tantrums of the tantony of those seeking indelible imprints in the evanescent fabric of forgetting that promotes the oblivion of recent events as a shattered fable of invulnerable atrocity. The impetus of impotence because of the shepherds of the dignotions of aristocratic impertinence silence the gavel into its own dirigible asylum rather than enthroning the vociferation of vehemence to ordeal rather than simpered jostles in the rumpus of the crowded sentry of pother intermediated by the fumiducts of a crumpled toxicity wilting in mediagenic warbles of malcontent but never becoming captive to the riddles of the conundrums of a time that bends by its own honor to the truculence of majoritarian upheaval but never silence the vocal incontinence of generations upset by the deranged stature of a ragged houndstooth checkered hubris of those to partial causes rather than global specters. Lets force the outrage to an impartial stature that declares that candor is a venom that beats the imposture of glaikery that suborns nothing but the vacuous insemination of chaos to reign in the interregnum of a dutiful Republic to the clashes predevoted in time to express the ordeals of outrage rather than the tribulations of awakened reckoning not to neuter the prosodemic outrage but to channel it beyond the blinkered checkers of a ridibund pasquinade of the riotous petulance of a bereaved polity endeavoring to swamp the airwaves but forgetting that the gavel depends on the eccedentesiasts filtering through the siphon of their own agenda a culpable indemnity that slithers with awakened patrons of a novantique beyond division not to excoriate false actors and instead indict true treachery where it fathoms the gravity of its own sopiter that maybe the treacle of modernity evokes the motivation rather than a fickle finicky consternation because the whittled hatred of anathema belongs to those who seek to obrogate the untenable with virulent strains of the eventual carapace of designed cackles among those who feign outrage but seek nothing more than a perdurable confederacy that is milquetoast in its arraignments of truth by enthroning BLM above the more justified causes of universal ecumenical reformation of the enlightened claque to speak beyond the fumes of the voiceless in order to entrench a new virility responsive to the mercurial enmity of divisive fricative visionaries who seek only to disempower clairvoyant clarity rather than subsume the honesty of their stature to not politicize every convenience in weaponized form for the sacrilege of impediment. The diablerists eager to expurgate my knowledge from public repositories will stop at nothing to be diminutive with finicky perseverance to decimate my legacy because the spurts of mind control that hijack me into the morning are beyond my control because they are so powerful it is very easy to craft that mind control considering they monopolize my brain to make me irrelevant.
June 5th 2020 Writing 11:03 PM MST

The drazel caitiffs of doctrinaire aplomb in the wravel of expounded litanies of resurgent acrimony borne out of the ephemeral substantive wisp of the legionnaires of the sunblind heliosis of incidental arbitrage weaken their fettle as the weal of the wednongue becomes an indomitable craven creative force of the bulldozed halvork of ochlocratic vice becoming the melancholy of truculence that besieges all simultaneous fronts to be widely echoed in the polyacoustic cisterns of favored design that we might shield Acts 17:26 and bereave our call as shepherds of an enlightened flock only to make the petty satraps and popinjays they enlist the wagtails to a normative heterodoxy of inclusive ramshackle order sizzling in the fricative fictions of articulate design beyond the flombricks that plodge their way into the edifice of vixens that the hierodules elect in the olasin wave of embedded enchantments becoming  redominage in the artifice of inconvenience that is an aswallone of the enantiodromia of the farce becoming the gladiatorial eager spectacle of decline without subversion and elevation beyond the plaintive lugubrious dirge of the antagonism itself rather than the protagonist for the zalkengur of ripe rather than brusque ribald generativity for ingeminating gammon to swill the coffers of the elite girdle of gridlock blunted by the trauma of seeing the ventilation of etiolated choleric spates that conglomerate into wellsprings of viparious welter that sinks in abaddon because of the stultimathy of the rigid sclerotic design bending in the enforcement of normative stereotypes clamoring for neoliberal and neoconservative chantage above the flays of delamination that sputter with their graunchers that the frescades of summer dawn on the least of all creation rather than fulminating against the most brawny mutilation fathomed in the spectral tomes of a hidebound liturgy lost to the fractions of time that depart from the thrombosis of planned frogmarches into delirium rather than sanitized calls for enforced radicalization that entombs too many witeless brittle and centrobaric forces to contain within these pithy gibes against the hacked jackals foisting the forest above the treetops. The rijuice of jawboned jury-rigged nescience topples the emporium of rectiserial encouragement met by a sterling brute of arbitrary boschveldt coincidental to the ragged ragtaggers of a new age paltry parched apostasy against rivulets that profane the sacred cows and demarche rather than delope against the lurid spectacles that become emergent titans draped with a ludic empowerment that is so baseline that is only its own invidious demise as the crumple of femicide wreaks havoc upon the industrious layers of filigree busted through by the hacked logic of the axile sapwood that eventually the titanism of the scaldabanco will wheedle the society we depend on for sustenance to halvork into a renewal of creative verve and sizzle rather than a flamestun flavenicker remorse of all the petty inclinations suborned  by the lewd depredation of mind and numinous authority at the clawing vehemence of deposed rigid authoritarian welds on the canvass of a dehumanized populace clanging with insistence that the decried hearsay becomes the otiose rampart to an enunciated ploy of skullduggery biding in plain sight to make those that livid luxuries enchant blind to the ecphonesis of riches in generativity rather than follies in hindsight bias bludgergrumbles which fail to elicit even the snirtle of pigs that prowl the owleries and recede into the shadowy umbrage of a demiurge of insulted bravery that they must concede the deferred plansters to warspark that the dissgowl is too prevalent to mask the albatross of their covvenger plots to swivel against the retinue of the righteous cause above the frisky dalliance with politicized gammon. Acts 17:24-31 NIV
24 “The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by human hands. 25 And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything. Rather, he himself gives everyone life and breath and everything else. 26 From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. 27 God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us. 28 ‘For in him we live and move and have our being.’[b] As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’[c]
29 “Therefore since we are God’s offspring, we should not think that the divine being is like gold or silver or stone—an image made by human design and skill. 30 In the past God overlooked such ignorance, but now he commands all people everywhere to repent. 31 For he has set a day when he will judge the world with justice by the man he has appointed. He has given proof of this to everyone by raising him from the dead.”
We are a churned tide of sopanaceous sultry broods infuriated by the feral clutches of the stultimathy of the clambered vipers enforcing the vespiary matrix of a womb we inhabit and cohere beyond numinous calculus or superlative counsel that we might too be called to engineer the future with imagination rather than regress into the pother of exasperation that denotes boundaries for the nations and elects the Titanic design of faultless logic superseded by the euhemerism of the futile cause banished by the barristers of recrimination by the criminals themselves that lawlessness reigns and factions among the factors that determine flaws fade into the alpenglow resistance of the galvanized deputies of enforceable doytins through the maskirovka of celebrities that scrimshank fundamental duty in order to shepherd the malevolence of causes beyond our own into their heyday of sneered scrutiny by those that possess the inclination to swerve away from manufacture and impose clarity rather than suborn fagins into the frogmarches of a radical racism reversed upon itself to condemn the source of agitprop as the vehicle to be trounced in design but never overtures to the planster economy rollicking in enthused flamestun vigor because of the trollops of a reclaimed destiny spawn a newer order of triumph rather than stench. The whinks of kisswonk warspark because they invent the flabbernounced regalia of an otiose whimper decrying a limited specter of scepsis as an enlarged totem and token to a petty tokenism of cordial respect tramples over the historic efforts of those that proceed in ceremony to tralleyripped accord swimming in vainglory to become the wallbaggers of retinoise rather than the arbitrary motions of a motatory justice configured for proper deliverance. The tiresome plastic consumerist treacle is devolved upon the spectral enemies of time that issues promulgation above the timeless as mere defeasible artifices whinking with the kisswonk of the allonker rather than the protagonism of thrusted impertinence to clangor upon the diseased noisy cacophony begging for more than a froward entreaty but a ridibund ridicule that lambastes the haranguetangs even as they writhe in contortions of largesse afforded by the henchmen of a defalcated statism bought by officialism of the licentiates lickerish in their malapert hypocrisy as they blaskerg at their complicity in the webbed design of fomented rickets of the rijuice of complexity. The heatwave of enthused disorder is a diseased artifact pounced upon by desiccated laments of prevarication that riddle the consternation of the awakened flock to the fact that the ravenous prowl above the seemliness of destiny is more integral to our warpspeed bushwhacking that needs to take place. The rigors of a sappy saccharine judiciary neutered wayspayed wesperm of profligate injustice is a humdinger invented by the sciamachies that became spectacles and the scepter of power shifted through the rudimentary siphons of a perceived moment of triumph when in fact the heterodyne retromorphosis of society is nothing but a sad vitriol flickering with vestigial promise even in alveolate protocol that simper with sidereal disarmament of intellect to spuddle through the bodged articles of a rigmarole beyond the delimited courses of the corsairs that teach the designation rather than own the polity. Despair is incongruent with the pangs of deliberative widened gazes at the celestial conformity to the wednongues of purposive violence that shatters the paradigms of peace by domestication of the sheltered animals of instinct that become an invictive stampede beyond the zoolatry that encages the swell of the crestfallen so they must always sink beneath the edifice rather than maneuver their way through the slinky potvaliance of the crimes never surmounted by rationale alone. The clench of grit is overstated but the radical riches of troves beyond contempt deserve an upbraided kempt spectrum of kenspeckel denouement rather than guarded finalism becoming an alley of escape for the podlecs who patrol the authority of law-abiding negligence. The whadronque primposition of the gavels of impetuous internment of exotic trangams that are suited habiliments to cloak the serpentine excesses of a saboteur of division inseminated in the flombricks of a flyndresque revitalization of the rudimentary gnomic apothegm that in sockdolagers of spirituel gift become an odium beyond reprisal because of the stultimathy of the tortivinity of the hackencrude revolt against prolific streams of steamy wisdom that emanate from God above but also the meddlesome inclinations of man to superimpose a cosmogony that defiles the protected and protects the cravens who submit to absolute anarchy or worse hyperarchy in a visionary attempt to trailblaze through the thickets of conundrum the best possible remonstrance against the alvantage of the farsighted announcement of a superlative strain of mettle above the finicky prestidigitation of an all-encompassed time that doesn’t genuflect to merely human traditions without a skeptical poise and pause above the frazzled contrition of the enervated tribes of belief. The trillops of the implucture that countermands my vocal denunciation of the mind control behind my steep fall from agracerie into the contemptible mud of the most opaque subversion manifest so callously and clearly among the litany of deeds done without conscientious objection that I might find myself groveling to stay above the orbit of the crambazzles as the senectitude of the septiferous frikmag enjoins further rebuke as they stay alacritous among the shibboleths they do possess because their hyped alimony is just an affront to decent justice in an indecent time. Madcap wallsongs to a squandered preeminence of intellectual titanism is a sad spate of the defecation of the vultures among the squabbles of braseros that try to disenchant me from my valorous integrity to God rather than the insipid provocateurs of a rankled craven and rancid injustice that teems with infestation beyond the curdacts of reasonable authority wielded by the henchmen of the state that needs a minatory reclamation of prowess rather than a muted mutiny against subversion itself. Mobilized by the inactivity of the dormant squirm against the wreggled mountebanks that think their derelict verdict of seedy boweries becoming the gerrymandered future of the voiceless meet the sternest reprisal in the courts of dalliance between the linear jaunty natatoriums of the futile thoughts of a disempowered alacrity to verberate the yobbery of those that superimpose disorder as a gimcrack for inane vapid provocations of insane decorum in a world whipsawed by the rankle of its own toxicity negligent about the futurition that depends on the stakes of justice rather than the cleavage of conquered cities becoming welcomed rather than fathomed and there exists a stark difference between the heralded contrition and the unsung liars who profess innocuous inoculation even when they brandish the seamstress of all dovetailed lies into a bricolage not meant to withstand even the vagaries of the uncial gains of months by the gainsay of critique which should be not a henpeck in these deplorable times but rather an epincion against the racism that festers into continual rot because the sophrosyne are impeded by the rijuice of preordination that swelters beyond all terminal diseases into a ragged moth-eaten swill of elitism. The hollowed but hallowed recourse of destiny rewards the guerdon of the long-lost patronage now disorderly in gammons to reprove the belittled taradiddles of rookery in a roodged society of roosters squawking with the simpered vitriol of agency against the marauding Viking spate of calculated diminutive crags of whittled dimensions unseen but clearly fathomed by denigrated alacrity that we might too find the paradise lurking at the end of abscess and abeyance that violently caves into the ploys of the modern ****** becoming a post-modern plea for justice rather than enervated senselessness. The lientery of abortive endeavors squabbles with the marauders who provoke the dismal glimmer of epigone rather than daunt the intrepid gauleiter with the showmanship of force beyond the demonstration of the impropriety of those stagekeepers who own the postcennium of kenspeckel macroscian hackumber that runs amok because it is neutered by the wesperm of the ingemination of futility into the mindset of conquest to bereave rather than provide well-earned fortune on the verdict of a day consummated by the squaloid vermin that scowl in protected hedges of secrecy without valor to trounce  the oppositive support for a vindicated but never finifugal society. What a debauched day where a private powerhouse of cryptadia can fossick through the thickets of sapwood and sentiment to usher in a pettifoggery known only to the brave soldiers who blare against opprobrium to the reconnaissance of departed flamestun gambits to entrench their ulterior command of a divisive spurt of econometric capitulation in catabasis rather than shepherding the valorous vigor of intrepid champions to outmaster the lingering resentments that boil into potboilers that renounce the truth only to a pickthank’s travail in overcoming the obstacles that bereave us because of a tigrine and rigid subversion of moralism in clairvoyance to become a turgid refuse of the offal of chattel lost in a frapplank with an otiose but revived assault on the precipice that cadges the lewdness of rumpus over the donnybrooks of donnism itself. The glamborge of the amporge that relegates all consideration in ransom to the truthful declaration of coarse sentiments from the clutches of an unrepentant evil that lurks shadowy and invulnerable as it cripples entire generations of thought into the messy vitriol of froward fomented officialism in malcontent over its own incompetency that I might meet and beat the rapknocks that thwart my eloquence and the privy internecine swivels of a newly minted prerogative to own autarky above the doytin of the aimless ridicule that swims in an ocean of debauched lies professed by the rigmarole of flickers of anointment fading below the scepter of righteous might that I might make more generations captive to the highest order of conation rather than the unwitting dupes of the ulterior sabotage of the elitism that seeks to expurgate history against the samizdat of maskirovka becoming evident that the benumbed stupefaction I now linger between and around will fade into a heightened stratosphere that renounces former sin and parades the righteous justice of novantique that learns from wayward profession the ability to navigate toe-to-toe with the throngs of oppositive saboteurs relinquishing any attempts at seamless order of the dovetailed might of the empowered conscience because their ******* enchantments are a vehicle for a depredation without rebuke and a sentimentalism that foments nothing but the worst fumiducts into the cadges that perdition permits but God exorcises because of people like Epenetus who survived with valor in Asia despite its hostility. I am dismantled by a juggernaut which is often repudiated for its thuggery and menacing dacoitage to make my thoughts seem like a philander with colposquinomia rather than the callisteias and kalons that effervesce into a remedial triumph in these lagging hours where my vigor is a vapid emanation of a withheld empathy becoming an entreaty to simplicity rather than a beacon of vaulted virtuosity that uses sheen to deplore the undercroft while surmounting the challenge to destroy the umbrageous evil of the camorra that lurks behind a curtailed curtain of infallible designs conflated by banausic pretense to curb rights rather than inform duties to apprise those rights as integral enough to swarm the grievances and belong to propriety rather than sink the sunken hidden  mainour of restive intellect above the fray and frazzle of meaningless absurd contrition that belongs to another century beyond my own foresight. The surgical emoluments of crafty duplicity attempt their forestalled delay of my charisma and duende to enrage the battalions rooting for the intellectual clutches of tentacles of revivalism to spark the flamestun of powerful admissions of guilt that they tremulously balk at the religious authority of magistrates because of the witted menace of the deliberate provocation of the worst most untimely sentiments to become cacoethes of a plucky reductionism that makes the puerile sempervirent rather than the ontocyclic countermanded by the periblebsis of flavor above the sultry vacuum of the listless entropy of an evil overhang of swandamos that skillfully delegate meted disaster to portend over the future bailiwick of my own behest craven by tribulation but emboldened by the humane interface that my heyday is among the future articles in the limelight rather than the irrelevance of glaikery to the tomfoolery of the captaincy of a conscience bereaved rather than a conscience reclaimed by the inferior bastions that sulk the crapehanger recruitment of all demented barks that recoil without civil exactitude at precise purpose perpendicular to my swank and emanating the forces of the benighted world upon the clairvoyance of the chosen virtues of a New Testament understanding that shelves Deuteronomistic Law as among the curtailed remonstrance of inefficacy belonging to a barbarous time where the incondite superseded the others by pomp and celebration alone that incense should be recensed against the termagants that wage war on the ridicule of revival.
Now that the brunt of the oppressor congeals his thickened plot of muddy turgid heterodyne syncopation of effete ideology rather than ecumenical unity we see unmasked the true author of vitriol belongs not to the sour malignancy of the rijuice of crime but the criminal repartees of the negligence of abiding saccharine creatures that swamp the light of day with the shrouds of connivance to dethrone the ecumenical insistent endeavor to provide novantique to maidan lands and renew the vigor of the people beyond the temporary temporal subversion of trite tortneyed hackencrude whadronque against the flyndresque refracturism that solders with one united cry for a belittled peace to become a mighty warrior against the decried deposition of majesty upon inclement hours that portend to future calamities wrought by the banausic barleychildren of an otiose corruption wilted in the dead fields of our forefathers littered with the graves of sacrilege in unnecessary consecrations of sacrifice that become unholy vestiges of the rampicks of ordeal because they are drenched with the stigma of belonging to the witeless travail of the wreggled imposture of a maleficence negated by beneficence only enough to permit my respiration in the conservatories of resonant reasons to reach to the stars and their starry-eyed surprise to the delight of generations that truckle but to the doom of those that refuse the grandeur of God’s gratuity to enlist an exemplary agracerie of insulted jaundice fuming with avenues of deception that seek to crush my vindication in order to rollick in the ruin of the shambolic craters of a beleaguered apostolic duty to inform the world that the librations of the quivering moon are a scattershot of whemmled liberation rather than an aimless scourge of prosodemic interpolation fused to an incorrigible calculus that seeks my temporal femicide even with the eternal guilt that amaranthine flowers fade because of the grit of tenacious boschveldt ploys to trample with oppression rather than voice the properly aggrieved complaints of the victimization of privilege rather than the assaults of vainglory upon the outrecuidance that leads away from the humility of God’s grace and into the doomsayers that renounce my dignotions of contempered metaphor as some minor boyg of the evaporative sentiments of a fickle nation crumbling because of the treacle of violence rather than cloyed by the proper castigation of elementary logic becoming superlative in its annulment of the confederate licentiousness of depraved autarkies livid with contumely against the agentic force of a rictus of merriment denounced as an impropriety in a time where fewer virtues are confirmed than many injustices hallowed as the cement for a new world built less on noogenesis and more on the piebald skeumorphs of bricolage countermanding my swift embarkation to a land of promise rather than a staid quilted repartee of the tapestries beyond that proclaim open season upon my impediments to the frikmag subterfuge that reasts upon the recocted mediagenic formulas that will cosher the cosseted vengeance of an evil time rather than the yernage of simplicity designed to forgive the oblivion of conscientious errors in derelict fashions of knavery that they might be expunged from the record to entrench the value and pertinacity of original seminal balks at the currency of the exchequer of the hidden boschveldt which supersedes my attempts to foil its own benighted plots scalding with enormity but hidden from the vantage of the commonwealth to guard the vestigial neuroscience of craven caitiffs who beleaguer me with incestuous deceptions of the pederasty of immoralism. Now that I have launched a flanked assault on the rigmarole of the confederate polity of mistaken grandeur using the maskirovka of inane bleats to conform to the idolatry this world should revile but instead confirms with the lecherous tentations of empiricism wed to the naivety of blank-slate politics we espouse the highest creed afforded to the righteous that belief in the calvary and the agony suffered for our sake is more than a token emolument it is the paradigm that shuffled civilization into endearment and rebuked the catamites and hierodules that scampered throughout the Earth without any recourse as their ironclad vestiges of tridents of petty gauleiters of a suborned authority fell milquetoast and riddled with the foraminated scars of a now cortinate world caught in a trespass of the inviolable screeds that inform the spirit of God to stampede towards the righteous avenue rather than shrink in sheepishness that the revelations of our author our grandest King who reigns beyond the shadows and filters the light of the sun and holds the mountains on a scale of balance that we might curb to his divine majestic formula for renewal rather that glower in an iteration of enmity divorced from the true justice of Almighty Creation to invoke oblivion upon puerile deeds and consummate the highlight  reel of a generation that depends not upon the renewal of the newfangled vogue but the invocation of the spirit of the words of God so that we all might meditate in conation and consecution our privy path to the ways of light beyond the brackish afterglow of a distasteful gloat over hibernaculum that relish after the calamity rather than rest against the girouettism ****** upon us by the siege of bronteums beyond the power of thunder to rebuke that the scales of history vindicate the power of the righteous voice rather than tremble because of the flickering mettle of people that squirm in attrition rather than balk the servitude of servilism that endangers our perpended glance at the eternal lychgate ajar for belief and conviction but closed to the finicky agents that cadge the elements of perdition into constellated forces of abrasive recrimination against a vacuum that anathematizes itself as nothing more but a prop of a propitiated absurdism in a nulliverse of our own creation rather than our goaded resolve to witness the finality of God and behold the splendor of the history he carved through justice rather than impediment to rejoice at the final awakening that swings against the puerile betrayal of evil and renews the promise of temenos and reverence. We have already within our tenacious grasp yet crippled by the memory of opprobrium compounded by finicky formant and froward vehicles that poisoned the wellsprings of the righteous with the cowardice of persecution that curglaff is an unnecessary and abominable relic of the regelation of society into a morass of interregnum that seeks a delimited lawlessness to supersede the vocal clarification that God’s grace depends not only on the volition of conviction known to the body of composite belief but also that the pangs of modern consternation are deliberately provoked to renew an equity that trembles when the revved engines of personal entelechy become titanism that enlarges the pleckigger of deprivation so that all might feast on the transubstantiation of the figurative forms of shadow into the permanent light of abeyance found in jolts of awakened liberty above the corrugation the visagists of plastic cosmogony invoke to inflame turpitude and ransack the perfidious deceptions of former proclivities to swindle the world with a powerful beacon of deceptive flourescein that straggles boundaries in its casuistry to invoke an AstroTurf malignancy to prevail over the righteous words of the sentries of God rather than the epigones that balk at the soteriology of a wide-eyed curiosity for a world desperate for something more ennobled to discuss because the otiose tittup of pretense masquerades as an avenue to the ways of the Lord even when failing its fundamental duty to rebuke the constellations of puerile enchantment that rob the dignified of their perch only to enthrone the owlery of calculated gambits of nescience compounded by the dacoitage of the bomans that guard vigilantly the aim of billingsgate but rarely conceal the maleficence of the heliosis of the hibernation of conscience in times where the entire world was betrayed by a staged artifice that sadly achieved its vengeance upon its own recrimination by sultry broods of provocation without the outsmarted resolve of the many refusing to crumble into the checkered hubris of bias bias that subverts entelechy. The bland blandishment of appeased ego remains the ulterior affront to the alienavesced flapdoons of eccentric orbific forces at work beyond the philandered grasp of wraveled mendicants that spurn the sparrows for their dovetailed wallop of the radical agenda of separatism rather than the humbled modesty of those that seek in God’s word that lasts eternally the modicum of truth necessary to defeat the encroachment of an oleaginous regress of reactionary doctrinaire foments of syndicated hatred becoming the wilt of girouettism to spawn the draksteng of terminus but scald the provenance of foresight as a reckless soundracketeer that mounts an acme to see the apogee for its truest clarity rather than its pathetic resemblance to the true nature of the transmogrified impotence of the world to heal itself when the clamor and clangor of defamation is permitted to scowl vindictively at the armamentarium of assemblies of truth marching heroically down the journey of itineration to invoke God above the mercurial nature of hamartia among the men and even the titans silent in the recoil of provocateurs of the most impotent justice for relegated creeds renewed in the hackencrude to desiccate the desert rather than seed ingeminations of the centupled quandaries becoming quarries of lavadero siphons of the truer enlightenment found in the God we all serve with benevolence rather than neglect because we earnestly renege the careful cull so that we are not swamped by intellectual pretense but that we walk in light of emulation always reverential of the ultimate kisswonk of the authoritarian nightmare becoming the crapehanger against the buoyancy of clarified virtue disentangled from tertiary and subsidiary meaning as a vindication of history that it anoints its strident defenders before it finds guilt in intrepid endeavor. The malice of wiggletemper of flakmention depending on the testy shroff of trykle as the swallock of bleats squandering the proficuous light of the Lord because they pale with their pallor and nebbich cretaceous calculus to delimit things in ordinary times that despise extraordinary prowess because of hapless seances with the spectral doom of empowerment leads down a despicable path littered with estanders of vinsky robbed of their prominence at such a milquetoast juncture that the timid become entrepreneurs of the wiggletemper of those they seek gradgrind control of through euthenics that they might also be rebuked by their faulted subhastation because they orbit the life of brackishness in a catadromous world only to benefit from the collapse of civil disorder into the mercurial foment of sizzling calamity that  belongs to the hotbed spell of draksteng and rancid calumniation of all goodwill and meritorious discernment  that seeks once and for all the beneficence of the compassionate and eager servants of the embodied visages of creation to coagulate into an urbane movement that owns enough leverage over kitsch yobbery to renounce the former prerogative for the selfless ambiguity of repudiation met with cloaked valor in the tempests of an obscene mockery of timely judiciousness only because of a provincial oversight into overtures of affair rather than merely just scandal. Leaping with vaulted foudroyance against the noisome ridicule of imperseverant trollops and trangams that astound slot-machine politics as the gimcrack that gerrymanders the tortoise by the waterdrips of inseminated vagary superimposed by the cordial respite of egestuous pallor into an insubordination against a system rigged beyond sloganeering to favor the wise instructor and his recourse of tutelage we must summit the articles of contrition shrived properly by a shared atonement that the perfectibilism of God’s magnates becomes a magnetic fascination of those who are dancing vertiginously with centrifugal hatred armed at the pretense of justice that bandies with muted solidarity to a trite hackneyed truth rather than surpassing former imagination into the frontier of serendipity founded on discovery rather than lackaday otiose portents becoming the fixation of the elementary canon yet devolved in splendor because of balderdash of bletherskates who evade justice and squander power only to their own demise as the kerygma we champion has the power to defeat the snares of the wicked enchantments that make parturition difficult because of the aboriginal lapse of the protoplasm from which smithy we belong ultimately to in the provenance of a contempered history of the lineage of God foreseeable to the lineaments of man carved from his image that rebuke should be upon the lips of the sophrosyne while restraint should hamshackle us into fiduciary duty beyond vassals and rapscallions but better than the ripe codlings of urbacity predict because evasive maneuver catapults jaunty sleek destinies we have yet to entwine into our magistrates enough to demand reparation humbled by its powerlessness or contrarian power structures to mettle the scoundrels that police the towns that matter to the strings of harmony sweltering against privilege rather than scoffing at  the disdainful apparatus of contravention established by the riotous outrages rather than the picaresque yernage of heyday rather than mayday. The very predicate of darkness invokes the presence of light and love to prevail over the vacuum relinquished by the enantiodromia of a transubstantiation of benighted virtue to become a parallax mirrored imagery of whiplash that assaults the pedigree of any juggernaut conundrum becoming a boyg in rapid decline to reprove itself in order to vanquish the fundus and the mainour relished by the ****** gawsy attempts to blinker the hubris of the kenspeckel because the owlery of pettifoggery seeks a delaminated prevalence of hamartia rather than ergotall wisdom that deafens the aspiration but enables the fascination to swell in the rhythmic squalor of the oceans belittling those who dwell in habitations of landed gentry that they might be the fewterers of a new kennel rather than a lapse of deracination seeking a final excuse to dismiss peremptory wisdom because the thorns of coverthrow are no longer permitted by the mediagenic titans that spotlight a maleficence of haplessness over the lore of glorification and the splendor of light.
The rindstretch of insular plaudits against the fiddle of foghorns of blaring semaphores of singled and signaled alarm are swashbucklers against a systematic tribance of the slivverdeck of the fatewrench of many outmastered by the fox hounds who swoop beyond their natural inclination to corner the tripwires that the graklongeur of the enervated mediagenic effigy of justice proclaims we must renounce the horrified countenance of the disempowered and seek the agraceries of tremendum that forgives the trespasses of deliberative mind control to foment a squabble of lifeless puerility and must fasten our commitment to a perdurable creed that shelters the just cause from the pertinacious wiseacres of those who blankly stare at the realms of salvation groaking for the sustenance of their own erratic happenstance because they scowl by prediction what is denatured by rendavation of the entitled man to his entitled coverage despite the traipses against polity wagered by the rivulets of the swamp rather than the brooked endeavors of scampered sullen swelter to manage the prideful intolerance of kenspeckel injustice. The flarmey of obganiation built on the grindole of the hambaskets that relish the comfortable commode of the nosocomial hospice of irregular griffonage despise the faction that annihilates the narrative fliction of mobilized regress for nominal taunts of the hindsight progress motatory in subtlety whereas the sublime becomes a tapestry embedded by the sly wry grins of eccedentesiasts deciding the worth of revalorized mettle against the hypostatized glamour of aborning generations shielded from the phenakism of the media juggernaut discarding me because of deliberate sabotage by mind control that made me look foolhardy when in fact I am a master of my own victory rather than a passing fad of the trinkadour odontoloxia of the aggrieved prejudice of an unrelenting flash mob of regaled violence.
Gimdermangs rollicking in gregarious solemn indentilation by the slellums of their own negligence in shouting the hollertraps of a castigated caste of renegade hamshackled buffoons escaping the levity of the turmoil of finicky magpiety that elects cockamamie sentimentalism to lead a country desperately in need of reformatory order that oppugns mind control for my downfall and exonerates me for my trespasses against adulthood because to define a person by a solitary transgression that was remanded into being by the siphon of nefarious force calumniating an abject philter as a frolicsome naivety is a poison rather than a posture because the relegated dissgowl in the silentium of their asylum because they protest how quickly an evaporated story of flarmey can overpower the memory of their triumph scalds the conscience of superimposition of counterfeit scruples discrediting the rengall beliefs that stabilized the world for generations beyond and generations before my hallowed prophecy and thereby they should occlude this pother and ceremoniously induct me beyond infumated hatred of cosmetic cosmogony in order to belong to the tribunes that reserve the mention but despise the deplorable in a vacuous silentium of obrogated truth.
The trimscreet glorified by their altruism in triumphant verdict rather than spurned flarmey of a resigned obligation that renounces righteous splendor in order to coverthrow the system in attempts at regalia found only in the newsworthy hyperbole rather than the simpered luxuriance that suborns lawless chaos rather than turgid effervescence berating the gnostic grapnels of keelhauled curglaff that remands a separatism rather than a desperation. Vocal by the retinue of provocation the mediagenic hyperbole is finifugal and retrofugal simultaneously because it sees a decrepit flarmey of qwersy maleficence becoming a perpetual throng for the crowded rumpus of relegation to shield the light of day from the preeminence of an umbrageous character benumbed by the litter of an apostasy beyond caricature and a diminished ethics of normative squaloid imposture impoverishing my future to highlight the few rattled errors of the crotaline sabers that ****** me into negligence rather than offer piety and suffrage to a recklessness that belongs to the arbitrary witticisms of a bulldozer carapace of indignity as my modern-day slavery is glossed over in favor of an interminable oppression that glazes the fascination of beadledom but promotes nothing regenerative within the constitution of society to fundamentally provoke reform like my henpecks at mandarism proclaim with every measured step to avoid the dimples and freckles of the foraminated hatred the media glowers with as it ruins another gossamer life because of a rijuice of the retinoise of the noisiest conflagration of recent memory.
Stupefaction aimed at noisome odium that simmers in the smithy of formative duress is a recourse by shameless eccedentesiast rot of moral virtues that perpend on the issues of sin and righteousness and the infested erratic trimpoline buffoons that gravitate towards the overmilked hypocrisy of justifying racial inequality while memorializing apartheid by negligence of the proper recourse is surmounted by a challenge to supremacy rather than a sunken vitriol of inefficacy because the selachostomous boatswains of ribald wesperm should never be the ultimate ullagone for pontifical authority accorded upon me by the latrias which sustained generations past and engrave future generations to scald indemnity and fight the corruption that festers into a primordial corrosion which spares few cogwheels from the missionary zeal of revocation belittling heroic triumphs because of the tittup of angled anger at a momentary flaw slamming the virtuosity of entire generations just to supersede my story as an enemy of the whadronque.
The sputtering engine of a ribald cackle at my ephorized vainglories prompted by the outrecuidance of defiance rather than a petty allegiance to a corporatism outstretched but now refusing to account for their missteps of hapless promontories of fizzling racial injustice to seek the defeasible prerogatives I once enjoyed eradicated from the semblance of the sane sanitization of all history beneath the unfurled triumph of what is now whittled into the henpecks of rigor rather than the lackaday compunction of officialism that scoffs at people who indict the system for its jaundice and permit  the flarmey of designation to eternalize the struggle yet efficacy of that struggle to dismount the sejungible pathway in a walloped error of rigged judgment because the convenience of thorns is understated and the elective privilege of generations is not a ****** gaffe worthy to be marginalized by the sempervirent fortress of duplicity but  rather exonerated from the skeumorphs of forgotten lapses whisking the timely into promontories of the timeless slivverdeck of the wrikpond beyond its own reckoning.
With schematic consolidation fathoming the subtleties of the taxemes of the scaffold that is an aperture into the flanged derangement of the senseless becoming a sejungible recrimination of itself while becoming bloviated by an internecine balkanization that grovels in servilism that it shepherds the penury of the querulous into renounced rebukes and suborns the cadge of conundrum into a lactose intolerant subterfuge may we marvel at the mediagenic kenspeckel realism that fights armed with the vesicles of perdition a war to enthrone a darkened visage of an exemplary titan as a subsidiary nuance and nuisance for  the planned demolition of contrite solidarity predicated only on the mind control of pettiness becoming solidified as more magnificent than all of the deeds accounted for by the metagnomy of time that now fumes in lapsed accord that the intorgurent hypocrisy of militant fumiducts of duplicity scampers the Earth to provide asylum only for  the privileged rather than sanction for the validated truths that oblivion cannot cast aside and that the inerrant standards of a finicky justice cannot forget but the trespass of modernity to encroach upon my sanctuary with the traipses of the tripwires of involuntary cacoethes to ruinous plumage will be held to account for their misfeasance as the drowned sorrows of one unjust death can mobilize millions while the phenakism of one untold soul can do nothing but reiterate the pointed critique of happenstance against the authors that redintegrate the societal matrix into an accordion that bellows out not a toxicity of an urbane fascination but the permanence of belief among neither the unctuous nor the monoideistic tribes of society.
The tribunes of mendaciloquence relish their phenakism of demoting me because of the tortneyed triumph of planned extortion surmounts the challenges to foment societal engraved injustice that doesn’t apologize for its bulldozer machinations because in unrepentant hearts of those that refuse to shrive for contaminating the collapse of a heroic visage and visagist of the eternal order they cast aside compunction and elevated the tittups of maleficence above the piggyback that shelves the memory of malice and provides bridges rather than sultry mendicants of petty satrap authority to impose beadledom over enthused righteousness which cannot be forfeited by an involuntary mistake invisible to all ears but the ones that illegally spied on me that I might forever be banished by the  barristers of protective oligarchy fomenting their oligochrome into black-and-white specters that remediate only minor atrocities rather than the ribald pother of invulnerable aristocracy lost in abandon and hyped into rampant scorn by the trepidations of underminnow to curtail righteousness rather than proclaim the fruits of the spirit. John 10:27 reminds us all that a mere posture of humility rendered inefficacy by the barnstorm of profligate mendicants who repudiate the incarnation of love and light as a retch worthy of nothing but the prolonged glower of a simmering disdain need to remind themselves with gratitude built in their foundations that if it wasn’t  for me the acceleration of valor and the entrenchment of virtue would be a muddy miscegenation of garbled gabble of prioritization that triages racial apartheid its sublime champion rather than the rags-to-riches ascendancy of the coryphaeus of the righteous congregation rather than the bethel of invented conditions of contingent reaffirmation that they must account for their lapse and atone for their negligence because my proofs of God outweigh your fictions of man and all voices know that the deceit of your glamborge of surfeit that installs a racial epithet as your prolonged scalding disclosure as a reminder of your fickle loyalties to fiduciary competence in a time beckoning the righteous assembly rather than the turpitude of the chicanery of devolution rather than evolution because no momentary lapse is worthy of the pangs of remorse I now feel because the cherished vintage world you renounce is the captain of the billowing ship aimed at your provisions of countermanded vitriol and vindicated by  every justifiable word that my memory will not be a sullen disclaimer of the temporary disdain of a finicky world but the ultimate providence of a just God who never abandons the manager of his flock in times of produce and prudence rather than your deadstock revival of cowcatcher ignorance.
Entrapped by a cobweb of entreaty that appeases the toonardical reverence for the bulwarks of sanitized revelry funded by the virulence of provocative schemes to depose lawful assembly by ****** calculations meant to dissuade the righteous assembly of those who profess and believe deeply within their compunction that God is the master vindication of the human race the world doesn’t need another potboiler prevarication of a haranguetang that doesn’t even read their own conscience as they mindlessly  spout out radical propaganda to demerits and declension rather than majesty in effectuated justice that commands the sentries of authority into a battle between energumens and anacampserotes because my eutrapely is unsurpassed by the outrecuidance of those who think that esteemed negligence outmantles the appearance of spiritual penury despite the glaringly obvious fact that I spearhead a revolutionary prowess rather than a recyclable spear of hatred that devolves into an abortive obganiation that you meddle with so nefariously to seek the retinoise of the false covenant rather than the voice that needs to be heard and exonerated from purblind error rather than prolonged castigation. John 15:26 vindicates me completely. Isaiah 61:1
The callous excuse for my ultimate segregation from the human fraternity and a preclusion of my ascendant destiny is predicated on the maleficence of a recycled lie that my posture is crippled by thoughtlessness upon awakening provoked by hypnopaedia yet you fail to acknowledge that the darkness that exists in this world is a fault-finder of querulous retched factitious reasons to abandon me to the stench of abaddon rather than enthusing the courtesy of a world  that overlooks the blench of manufactured errors by the graklongeur that seeks convenient dismal dismissal as a capstone epitaph on a grave leaden with so much controversy yet provocative and evocative of so many truthful trumperies against the prevarication of stilted liars bolted to a rigid conduct code that determines who breathes and who survives in a world where the viable are renounced by the heresiarchs of finicky hatred with prosodemic vengeance upon their bletherskate mentalities. Insurrection is effete against the machinations of church and state using officialism as a decoy in the dacoitage of eternal infamy superseding the victory of fame against the roiled slummock of those who prepossess themselves on hamartia rather than overlook an involuntary trespass because they have magnanimity engraved in their heart and are suspicious of the connivance of the enemy trying to depose me because of an overwrought vindictive ****** against the liberated class Isaiah 50:8-11 NIV He who vindicates me is near.
    Who then will bring charges against me?
    Let us face each other!
Who is my accuser?
    Let him confront me!
9 It is the Sovereign Lord who helps me.
    Who will condemn me?
They will all wear out like a garment;
    the moths will eat them up.
10 Who among you fears the Lord
    and obeys the word of his servant?
Let the one who walks in the dark,
    who has no light,
trust in the name of the Lord
    and rely on their God.
11 But now, all you who light fires
    and provide yourselves with flaming torches,
go, walk in the light of your fires
    and of the torches you have set ablaze.
This is what you shall receive from my hand:
    You will lie down in torment.

The telltale signals of a decadent mediagenic menace is its ability to shield the avetrols of guarded privilege while suborning the rest of the world to derelict the prescient visionaries that clamber through the rugged halls of a tattered time beyond the dominion of petty persecution because the righteous valor of the oppressed overcomes the oppressor only when the saboteurs account for their glaring blaring errors of flagstench that feed the toonardical deception that flashbangs through the smoke of a rigmarole of time to dismount the perceived profligacy of the innocent without compunction for the suffrage of their just cause. The defamation and femicide waged against me is terrified of prosodemic enlightenment rather than the rugged turgid slummock descent into madcap cockamamie identity politics that invokes no justice but professes indemnity because the world deserves a better fate than the one currently chiseled at by the militant scepsis of ulterior graft. The cement of the bricolaged tension of lawlessness is sternly rebuked by the liturgies of the informed who balk at superstitious gibes as articles of the lazarattea resistant to change and glowering with a misguided sense of hatred to aim their vitriol squarely at me rather than enjoining the media from piggybacking on the regress rather than the progress of civilized societies and it is a turnstile of rapid-fire death that provokes people to undercut rather than underscore my heroic legacy which might seem like a picaresque knavery but in reality  represents the triumph of the supernal numinous realm to castigate the Earthly perdition of swollen ignorance too bolted firmly into place by stricture rather than anointed by scriptural purpose that solidifies the legacy of the few heroic enough to castigate the bulwarks of authoritarianism to turn everyone against me in ploys of desperation to ensure my demise by a slowpoke turnaround reviled aplomb that suits the decorum of the backstabbing media in its petty vindication that it elevated my cause only to demolish it in a matter of minutes to ensure I died alone and forlorn when in fact I am the most triumphant voice for truth and intellectual revolution this generation has yet witnessed and nothing can deprive me of my right to exist on a world of turpitude that I might puncture the balloons of superstitious pretense on the grounds they are convenient inkthorns that vituperate rather than circulate my emboldened embroidery of the candor of vicissitude rather than entomb the lifeless carcass of vendetta waged for centuries against my ennobled cause and causality.
My compunction leads me to believe the mediagenic cartel is absolutely terrified about my ability to roam free right at the convenient time when I can lollop about in freedom so they piggyback with charlatans spouting  the fumiduct of lies and escort them to prominence and preeminence because they fear what I could accomplish in the light of day walking in the grace of the Lord rather than suborned into a walking terror that dismantles my plumage overnight because of an expediency primarily because they fear their own reprisals which outnumber their laurels by a large margin by monopolizing the minds of the resourceless and provoking them into needless panic or restive frenetic frenzy just because they seek to expurgate the wizened sophrosyne wisdom of the attenuated truth from reaching more ears and captivating more minds to reject  their purebred dogmatism. Their desperation to  dethrone my eloquence and imprison my elegance within a narrow cloister of a forever ignominy is a petty vindictiveness of unfettered hamshackles of panicky resentment that fears my uproarious rise through the ranks of enchantment rather than the bedazzled frontier of evil knaveries I hereby rebuke in the strongest terms because they suffocate the victim of years of benighted persecution and just when there is a strong lambent light awaiting me at the other end of the tunnel they squelch my rights to be heard and nullify all of my majestic feats because of brinkmanship in complete dereliction of their moral duty to serenade this prophecy to completion rather than the havoc of the disorderly rumpus of the mannequin charade they have a harder time containing than their tenuous grasp on the litter that fumes with atrocity without rebuke as they seek partisan war  rather than rectiserial arrays of compromise and whomever is behind this debauched ploy to estrapade because I represent a virulent threat to their system of inculcation will be judged mercilessly on the days of judgment that await them on the other side of their ridiculous barnstorms of benighted muddy opaque statemanship that sees me as collateral damage unavenged when I will be the marksman of authority if never estranged from the emanation of light that percolates beyond boundaries of country and state to encourage proactive literacy while they suborn the sopiters of the operose negotiosity of yesteryear while I clamber for formulas to rectify the divided human race into the fellowship of polite polity rather than brusque decimation of character that is a violent scourge of the scurrilous fear of the elite that I might swell too much in power if unchecked or that I might simper too much in lugubrious natures if unfed but either way their doom is spelled out because fewer and fewer people choose the virus of the news to pollute their lives with half-baked belletrist of evil maleficence that goes unfettered in its demarche trying to appease the authoritarians rather than solder together in the bonds of liberty and the tithes to the family structure we should all uphold beyond the wretched enslavement of weak politics becoming an engine of unrefuted graft menacing the streets rather than providing recourse for the permanently oppressed rather than the turgid emboldened proclamations that denigrate their petty gauleiter stature as an imposture greater than any I have ever mounted because I am always authentic and God is on my side rather than the side of the aggressive martexts endangered by free thought. 1 Peter 2:9 showcases that my existence is a preordained outcome of virtue over the squalor of depravity that ransacks the venal minds of those who fear my emergence from the throes of isolation so much that they hoist the mythos of persecution even higher with sensationalized bodewash common more to the drazels and humgruffins of the thuggery in Hollywood than the decent upright men of stature that these foolhardy eccedentesiasts represent in the minds of men that ponder the inescapable monopoly of a media cartel that feeds the impoverished with the slavering hypocrisy of groaks and sheepish bleats sublimated against righteousness to promote the wages of sin and death rather than becoming ardent rejoinders of the stature of corruption on our Earth to swivel against its greatest champions in order to enthrone fake paragons in the canon and dismiss the eager readership motivated towards curtailed change that seeks the deposition not of my righteous valor but the lies spoonfed to the crambazzles that are tethered to the monopoly of subliminal subterfuge in a realm dominated by domineering graft that is so obvious in the frikmag that they seek to eradicate my memory from the formulas of time so that fewer people see past the blinkered hubris of the coalescence of evil tribes trying to superimpose order over mass chaos and expect different outcomes when their partisan leanings lead to a weal of aristophrens that feel begrudged by their privilege that now avenge the righteous truth of my belonging to the fellowship of God rather than the agency of the nefarious that subverted me in my prominence and preeminence to make me look foolish when the evil diatribes behind it cower behind their publicity stunts and double-take still-framed moments and use that underminnow to undercut rather than underscore my message of invictive accountability in the mediagenic sphere so that the causes of family rather than forsifamiliation prevail with their righteous bailiwick over the termagants of a mercurial man dissuaded by duende and charisma rather than enchanted by the exercise of latitude and license in the rejuvenated youth of the forever young who celebrate their limelight rather than revolt against the people who suborn evil against it because of petty gripes unsubstantiated to institutionalize dogmatism of a more casuist order that ingeminates the radicalization of people against religion in my absence rather than the convent of people who seek the concave absolution of time to abolish the sinful depravity of the wretched conclaves begging for my eternal persecution.
The ultrageous ultradian rhythms of the heterochrony of delusion spoon-fed by mediagenic sopiter to the guileless audience of grangull bedazzled crambazzles or those who lack the abiding access to the internet is a mannequin taxidermy of plastic values that crumples instantaneously when met by the scorn of the ultroneous mistakes of hypnopaedia that suborns the lawless puerile ontocyclic reversions that become ullagones to lost authority withered in the respite of the virulent winds of change that lost in translation their squelch of vehemence only backfires because if you think about it the American system of media is completely rigged by a few henchmen think tanks at  the top of the rectiserial food chain of privilege where the henpecks are bossy and unrepentant while the clangor of din crowds out the rumpus of donnybrooks while clearing the way for insuperable graft to micromanage the petty souls clinging to the vitriolic acerbic whimper of a defeated mediagenic squalor that finds fewer avenues of recourse than ever before to refute the poignant realism that Trump is validated in his conviction that the media is a malignant force of the enemy rather than a boanerges of elective enlightenment because now that they have called my case forlorn and exhumed the corpses of a few black men to overshadow my preeminence of infamy they are dredging on all channels the ruinous psephology of belittlement to ingratiate the overlords who maximize the peak of the pessimum while the stock market roars because of intelligentsia movements that are a rollicking subsultus that revs up the system against reversal and towards the parallax of Heaven and Earth with the celestial neighbors cheering our triumph rather than jeering an intellectual revolution I helped to manufacture by my obfuscated but sublime rejoinders against the ultrafidian or nullifidian credence that milks lactose intolerance and steamy racism to an amaranthine purpose of subversion of Republic and betrayal of core Constitutional Principles that stand just as inviolable as the renewed covenant ushered in by the latria of aggiornamento far behind and beyond my travails because the retromorphosis of a fearful society no longer quails in restive frenzy because they now see right through the parched thirst of the mediagenic juggernaut for ulterior control of the impressionable through the subtle nudge of agitprop in the formula of dissolution that disembarks to foreign interests faster than you can call them out for being verboten with their stigmatophilia that obsesses over the minauderie of graft with their eccedentesiast bomans guarding the show with the sizable appeal of livid personas on a carousel of enantiodromia of respectable order as an underbreath of the pasteurization of the sterile Republic that bends more to the underminnow of involuntary subterfuge waged by the vehement enmity of the agentic force behind the promulgation of heatwaves of intellectual furor now retreating into comfortable commodes beyond the fray of embrangled hatred because they see the easy recourse is just to all embrace the hollow sloganeering that enthused past generations but with vehement frikmag we see past the graklongeur because we are famished of relativism in truth as the absolute arbiters that restrict us with trespass and bludgeon the indelible imago of ignominy above the embroidery of progressive salvation from the slavering groaking incompetence of people that are unipotent in the wrong direction is now outmantled by the irenology of people that distance themselves from the furor of confused ideology that is a prop for ironclad idolatry that spurns my wisdom because it indicts their intrepid trespass as an inviolable blasphemy because their ultimation of neglect provokes my assault on the fact that six major media outlets are the only source of live commentary on Television and many fewer people are in charge of the zeal for reprobate politics that fuels against revolutionary intellectual revision the policies that can contribute to the dismantled caste system that currently runs congress pullulating with pickthanks and wagtail terriers to the encroachment of mandarist tyranny that is rarely if ever brassaged properly because if they had it their way I would be the exhumed corpse of a dignitary from a foreign land buried in the charnel after the battues of indignity walloped me into prone submissiveness because they cadge the inclement belief that some puerile ontocyclic invention of the state that oppresses me makes me culpable for being a fictional prophet when I-in my honest estimation-am the most significant prophet for intellectual truth in the past millennium and among the top three prophets born in the past millennium behind Martin Luther and Joseph Smith and that with the help of the juggernauts that beseech the authorities to overlook petty frethorns of mind control I could overwhelm the world with vespiaries of militant truth percolating throughout the noosphere to enthrone enlightenment above the frazzle of combustible outrage that enslaves many lesser patrons that capitalize on outrage to ventilate the inferiority of their station while becoming maudlin props in the pacification of all to a kumbaya agenda that always is blinkered in its oblivion about Hispanic representation and thereby is a squaloid engine with selachostomous posture that devours the soul of an entire nation festers it into prolonged violence and meditates without remorse over how it exasperated an already suffocated situation with further infestations of deplorable opprobrium that was leniently reported as though this cadge would unseat the Republic to diminish the wagered campaign of orthopraxy against the ridicule of those who seek the decimation of candor and who seek to anathematize my revelations of truth as tertiary vehicles rather than primary movers. The typhlophiles that run amok with their petty ubications of usucaption of the funneled channels of graft undeterred or daunted by the intrepid intelligentsia which seeks with esquivalience to ditch the mainstream agenda and bandwagon with the promontory of craggy truth rather than reviled blarney and blench that steamy idiots will cling too with more pertinacity than the educated zealot will cling to the 2nd amendment is an affront to civilized decorum and deserves to be widely ignored rather than celebrated for their debaucheries of lawless serenades that capture just how much dissgowl it takes for a hostage media to pay the ransom of coverage that needs fuliginous fulmination of the uberufen to incite their desired poignant twinges of remorseless headway into the conquest forever of minds and hearts in that order so that the dogmatic slaves of intolerance of intolerance or just flat out racism are becoming firebrands of lunacy fuming with periblebsis rather than castigating  the righteous conduct of the ennobled gentry in their assailed vaunted capture of strongholds for odalisques that exist in yobbery to ensnare the chantage of a mindless echopraxia rather than encouraging a eutrapely of mindful meedless convivial celebration to evict the hype of brinkmanship swerving away from its own narrative to balk at draconianism while simultaneously failing to address the core prognosis of why draconianism exists in the first place of the ultrageous few that elected the conflagration many are reeling from primarily because the stage is a massive lie and the propitiation of the audience to believe the actors that represent the elite interests of our aristocracy are somehow behooved to become a new pulpit that decries religious somber authority  because it threatens the boondoggles of the future. The troudasque assault on the reified hierarchy of the taxemes of rigmarole becoming an intelligible assault on the freewheeling license of latitude to swarm into emergence and corner the arbitration of truth with an insemination of integrity is ignored because the yumdimbers of our visagist times are too much invested in autodimplage because they have been conditioned from birth to be ludic feral animals of predatory instinct that reviles any authority other than a solidarity with the flirtatious wave of kenodoxy that becomes from the pleonexia of those seeking the cordial wrinkles of a corrugated happenstance exasperated into strangulation of rights and overhyped fears that remonstrate against the freedom of license to outwit the barbarity of plagues of casuistry that enlist many duped volunteerism charades to gradgrind us into a position where the insuperable leviathan of the wragatek is a fortress which cannot be captured because its vetuda and panopticon is too visibly entrenched in extortion is a humdinger of warning and admonishment that the adumbrations of lawlessness are a further declension of the clawed mendacity of a crawling liturgy of the secular pulpit intrusive upon all vehicles of despair or accidia and promotes a culture predicated only on the reversal of privilege that disadvantages the Hispanic community without remorse because of the artwrench of the extramundane fascination is the sveldtang of relevance that is always germane despite the flickerstorm of the flamestun audience reeling from a perfidy against the people that swiftly and brusquely abandoned me in the frenetic poise of my rejuvenation to whittle down my sapience and carve the spelunkers into bolides of oblivion that crash with geotaxis which exceeds the credibility of the credulous dupes that swim in reiterative propaganda that shelters hidebound prejudice within the subtext of the antinomian waves of overpowering overreach of autarky becoming enslaved to a lewd licentious covvenger of vengeance beneath the witticisms of God and beyond his domain because the wretched corruption of the media needs to be addressed because the media is more of a vehicle against free assembly of propriety in speech by regaled conduct than any government could ever be. I am a gyrovague bibliopolist efflamen because my yulliver sensitization to incidental rebuff is an incorrigible stain on my destiny to majestic overthrow of dogmatism because the scourge of prosodemic lies that infumate and become chalky vesicles for impropriety lollop around the nuisance of the complicity among the caste system in Congress and even up to higher rundles of legislative authority to find themselves in mutiny that is a formal calculus of an ophiuran system of fungible saboteurs working from both within and beyond the paludism fundamental to the ecosystem of telmatology that they must be a participant connivance in the supercherie of all major affairs. With nimongue witticism I can exorcise the gaffe-prone hyperbole of suggestibility by enthroning a countermeasure of mesmerism that finds predicates in the dominions of the frappern created by the missionary zeal of those agentic forces that provoke the proactive righteousness of vigor rather than the suborned glaikery of the foofaraw which once reigned indomitable because it exposed human weakness to the schadenfreude of the elitism which preyed on the weaklings that still get routinely gouged by excessive crimes of patronage that rollick in the festivity of active promulgation against sidereal proclamations of human inferiority damaged by the tentacles of the tabernacle which issues justice from above rather than swampy prerogatives from beneath to elevate society above a whimper but beneath a squandered din of inefficacy calculated to become a boyg conundrum because the metage and metagnomy of the wider world is besieging my citadel and I am armed to the teeth with wisdom. More often porlecked by the thronging insubordination of cross-examined futility I stand by the halidom that cements my prophecy on Halloween 2008 as a seminal frescade with the adventurous reclamation of an assailed essay on the fragility and frailty of a crumbling equipoise grounded on farcical precepts that are rarely challenged such as the idea that spontaneity can coexist with punditry which is an abominable lie of perverse idiocy that should rankle people that all scripted social engineering is remediable from the top down but yet rebuffed because Derek Chauvin becomes a ploy of the state rather than a curtailed actor on the stage of infamy. The checkered shambolic ruin of the collateral damage of ******* with the qwersy voice of the newfangled enlightenment with great vigor dismantling the authoritarian voice of the deskandent lunacy of estrapades convoked upon the latticework of dissolution is that when you derelict the champion of freedom expect the recoil of liberty to be a whiplash upon your extended lineaments of fascination that the flargent many will crumble in cerulean clavigerous claptrap that fulminates against few agencies but the once hostage credibility of a machination that snarls with menace and reeks of opprobrium that is rarely challenged to a duel of honesty in wit because the real debate is how do we protect the order of orthopraxy from the incursions of the dilapidated credulity of an overhang of patibulary politics in an agitprop state? Retchanvil verdicts perpend over the recensed ballicatter of the keelhauled virtuosos that are signatories to a slavery-by-design system where the sclerotic agents of the mediagenic are held culpable to enforce the coalesced agitprop of consensus by refraining from their fork-tongued vitriol against injustice lest they be stampeded by an uproar of the retchallop of exchequers deprived by the state and privileges revoked by the aristophrens that are skittish in the skirmish against the retchanvil provocateurs that estrange the vainglory of pother from the potagers of enlightened mosaics of the macadamized diversity of the freeways of interchange strangled by the scuttle of piebald skeumorphs of zoolatry that fascinate the alienavesced conscience as they view as bystanders the madcap cockamamie fixtures of a modern world overreacting with mercurial redhibition their haunted fears of the scepter of war and chaos for the forlorn but never a pittance for the privileged license of exoneration above the pitiable depths of the dearth of humane enchantments provided by the modern engines of demoralization. The wipple of puerile ontocyclic regressions is turning into a steamy backfire for the sopiters that count the gullibility of massive disenfranchisement as neither detriment nor merit to the compromised solution of the diplomatic truce between embattled enemies because the wesperm we face is against virility and for the sterilization of the flosculous and pertinacious troudasque orignality of a true belief rather than a derided legacy of lies and deranged politeness as they mock your catastrophic level of nescience and plumb the abyssopelagic for hints of the mainour of the sapwood of rampicks so disillusioned by the hype they cower in scrimshanks of duty forsifamiliated by their own tribe to commence a tirade against decency rather than upholding the zeal of the lawful demonstration rather than the conflagration of repartee to enforce a newfangled decorum that is honest enough to encounter the brusque bruption of reneged agreements rather than the salty saunter of the piggybacked immoralism that sinks beneath the artifice above. The dratenk of the foibled fables of invulnerable arbitrage by boursocrats to outfox the system greatly abetted into competent leverage by the finesse of autodidactian prestige is overlooked by many as incidental when in fact the measurable demarches for the unified front of enlightenment don’t devour their frenemies but instead resort to negotiable pinhokes of devolved clarity that wravels the system and oppugns the oppression of the listless weal of warmongerers and freebooters alike as corsairs of the same syndrome of pleonexia that is a marauding force for vehement fiction becoming engraved as cretinism and certitude in diplomatic gamesmanship that is a humdinger sockdolager for the ages that provokes us to a sophrosyne neglect of the ulterior channels of furrowed outrage in the sulcate grooves of hypocrisy twirling with gawsy chocolate-box surfeit to try an install a puppet rule and a gentreng honesty that makes no concessions to a systematized persecution of the ribald witwanton effrontery against the profligate syndicate that syndicates a warbled wipple as the justified end and entombment of a prominent leader as self-sabotage is never convenient but their overstated neglect is their own pitfall rather than their collaboration in triumphant rhetoric to quizzically spurn the contumely of unstated harangues of charlatans who invoke beadledom to impose the corrosive corruption of optative choices to silence opinionated voices out of pragmatic necessity rather than cordial disagreement. The ammenque loitering against the trillops that guard the treasuries of flakmention and flarmey is an implucture of all talent corroborating a false narrative so that it is plucky enough to withstand the rooster assault on primposition of redstrall bluepomp that is the rapknock against the efflamen to endanger their safety and besiege their glamours and scintillating glints of appeal because appellate courts justify the dratenks of flombricks of wiseacres of benumbed clarity to invoke a martial order rather than an irenic francketor metanoia towards God rather than against his frenetic barnstorm for clarity and clairvoyance withheld to the ******* of redominage in the hyjamb of repcrevel.
The symbolic resistance to galvanized divestiture makes me a homeless king domineering over entire regions despite the nosocomial welcome of the evil poltroons and scullions that withhold justice from my presence because they taunt me with insubordinate factions of facture rather than the foofaraw of faffle in useless deskandent poverty because my otiose wealth swells into a dormitory of dormant passions simpering with the luxuries of time to engorge coffers rather than create coffins. I am drastically tired and wilting from the pangs of contrition that I seek the appellation of the Lord but my appendages are conflated because I sought my own outrecuidance rather than a redivivus of reclamation because I stand stranded from my own euphoria as a punitive measure because I trusted too much in quacksalver remedies of parched apothecary wisdom that now enliven barely any part of me as I have cleansed the remnants of my advantage to squander.
I am equipped for long-haul visionary prowess but I am paraded around as a nuisance for noisome vapid conglomeration to supersede my valor of purpose. Hebrews  13:1-3 NIV 13 Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters. 2 Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it. 3 Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.

The guild and build of compunction is predicated on the ethos that an eternal generosity not flickering in a disdain for discipline avoids dippoldism but chastises the wicker of the wicked so that the snuffed ambeer of rijuice becomes a permanent abode of those that aim for righteous conduct and a pivoted course above the travail of useful operose laborious krifts but also against the principalities of darkness that overcome the world with maleficence even in times tithed to eternal remembrance that they might be integral to the sejungible fractures of history that don’t bluster with importune crestfallen dirges but siphon through lavaderos the rectified remembrance of all virtuous deeds consummated through the renewal of covenants too herculean to master by any one apostolic visionary because I apply my wisdom to the nature of a servant dutiful in my fiduciary duty to the covenants that are foiled or proven but simultagnosia overcomes neither  the dissident nor the zealot because it is squelched by the coming of the light of aborning tides of day bequeathed from the night of lucubration that is the pedotropy of a new century rather than a rigid certainty of the last century that lapsed with grievous war and forlorn strife that the trumpery of evasive rookery doesn’t roodge people from their tranquility but instills a surpassed peace that placates the understanding of the placid miracle in the turgid ponds of absolution given as gratuity to the marvels of those without blemish or defect yet many fall short of the grace of God but are we all indeed sinners or is there a rare batch among us who is so blameless that he becomes blameworthy in the eyes of a glowering sentiment of perfection being impossible. I offer the exemplary wisdom of this age to renew that which is only impossible without the counsel of the aggrieved generation eager to novantique but disregarding the sentinels that seek the destruction of the womb and the matrix which harbors all life and neuters through death the covenants of old that a wizened corrugation of reclaimed prophecy might have enough mettle to fulfill the law of the Lord. Let the blameless procession of ceremony anoint newfangled rulers in the interregnum between lapses predevoted by the diablerists of contamination of the purified license of a ragged continence becoming the bewrayed secrecy of a furtive cloak of deliverance that professes no partisan allegiance and defies no creed but the ultimate salvation of as many of the members that constitute the living God of composite symmetry with enlightened and awakened wisdom rather than the slumber and the slummock of the radical princely rebuke and rebuff of the polished sentries of terriers too loyal to the fewterers that gave them life and not curved enough towards the beneficence of compunction actionable for levity against the gravitas of levitation afforded to the few if rarely by seldom simpers that the luxuriance of man be cloaked in the majesty of the throne rather than the ensnared tomb of sandapiles of petty eternity Matthew 5:17-19 NIV 17 “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. 18 For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished. 19 Therefore anyone who sets aside one of the least of these commands and teaches others accordingly will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.

To heed the call of discipleship invoked by the peremptory sophrosyne commandments of my prophetic tentacles that for momentary transcendence evolved beyond  the lapse of a cursory glint of sheens of iridescent squalor lost to the futility of a timeworn design  that I might measure up as worthy in the kingdom of Heaven to issue decrees and anoint the latria with newfound growth without decimating the spirit of the Law nor the words that constitute it despite minor grievances with the subordination of women and the slavery of men that have been remanded by ecumenical benevolence because of secular paragons celebrated widely for enlarging the sphere of humane compunction so that zoolatry and idolatry do not consume the  comestion of the Earth before the outrage of the contrition of those that knock and seek and find ajar the doors to the lychgate that leads to paradise beyond rather than turpitude beneath. As found percurrent through the human facetiousness about stricture caving into witwanton pressures to rectify a modern law to supersede a valorous insurrection of petty cordslaves mentoring themselves into indigence rather than cloaked with resplendent jovial grace we must find ourselves vindicated by magnanimity and renewed by the agony of calvary before we can call ourselves disciples rather than loutish repugnance that glowers at the dimples of time rather than pounces on the eager testy reaches of limitrophe and charter to centuries beyond our own which will either heed my wisdom or disregard it as less than sagacity embodied and more of an individualist bent but carved throughout the Bible was the insemination of the redaction of pure sentiment into cobbled perfection and yet lacking the insight to discern the future yet elapsed I contain within me a joyous discernment that the torpindages wagered through time traindeque the integrity of the trykle of inconvenient bristles that apportion the loaves and the fish evenly among those seeking food that abundance derived from dearth enriches all for in my petty  insights humbled by the porches and porticos of my assembly and ascension into a more sanctified practice I might become licentiate rather than licentious because the key difference between the disciple and the master is that the master has grasped within his truth the full measure of the scales of tip-toed justice and judicious foresight never overlooking the niceties that glamorize the vogue that contains the ebullience of artistry to entertain the flocks of Heaven and Earth and among the celestial realms earn a reputable stature as canonical enrichment rather than belittled provincialism. Gardens of the propriety of genteel regaled zalkengur will shimmer beyond resplendent imaginations never splenetic or phlegmatic in rejection of the covenant which binds us to the promise of Isaac both with the deeds of Moses succeeding him to bequeath the riches of tattered lands favored by the timeworn compunction of design to end the apartheid that rules a war-torn patchwork desolation that reigns in destitution weary of its own shadows that umbrage offends both God and Man and thereby is revoked with the privilege of the few capable of vulcanizing the totemic prerogative into a democratized  bailiwick that seeks the rijuice of remanded custody of the future to the diligence of the hands of crafty craftsman rather than other disparate clenches of the tenacious idolatry of the purebred past fed the ligony of reputable deeds or worse knaveries that are obliviated from the highlight reels that accept correction and lead prolonged lives of gallivanting gallops towards the pastures of prosperity gleaming with the boodle of the well-earned realty of labor rather than just the pretense of levied taxation upon the unfair distribution of things beyond man’s petty grasp of the junctingent reality that seeks its own heyday beyond the stegmonths that broaden the pains of parturition given as punishment to seek the reward of oikonisus rather than the dissolution of accusative whispers retreating into embanked subterfuge rather than swiveling among the creatures of light so that all might have the courage to approach the lambent presence of wisdom despite the fettle of doubt and the hamstrings of desperation that curb our mettle and cast aside our reigns to tatters rather than scullions who devour all with their charnels of brutish injustice.  The enigmatic linchpin of guarded furtive secrecy is that the lambent light shimmers with sheen but only by propinquity and proximity can it be fully fathomed so thus we must shepherd the courage and audacious resolve of the many to surmount the challenge of conation beyond the despair of failure so that the marginalized fruition of the devolved prosperity of contempered metaphor leads to the regaled histrinkage of phylogeny beyond racial divides and for the profiteers of a new century gilded in light rather than regressing into the darkness of chambers that sulk because they are seedy rather than impregnated with the fruit that distinguish the bowery from the metropolitan urbanity of clairvoyance.
The dissipated pogonip of punitive dippoldism is antithetical to the relache of paradoxical inoculations cadging dissolved juxtaposition to internecine tangential respites in the clamor of time to speak on its own behest to the calamities offset from the friction of a world slick in furtive details but evasive with dodgy harangues about the radical imposture of jingoism above the right of the voiceless to amplify the stern ripostes against warped dementia and fortify the strongholds of a guaranteed compunction contingent upon the tincture of attrition yielding a cloveryield for ambassadors to the true living wisdom of the Almighty presence of supreme authority rarely invoked but established by careful entreaty to evacuate the endangered sultry lickerish malapert licentious broods of those taxidermies that squelch the feral gregarious spirit of the untamed limits of imagination that spawn new worlds and better deeds from the spools of the woolen greenhorns that mete out our deeds for feted reclamations of the novantique. The stipulation of providence leans on the weal of turnverein abiding by amaranthine dictates that are supervenient with a beneficent attempt at recoiled surrender to divine will but met with a firm individualism that seeks to picaresque rejoinder the ultimatum of time itself to seek and find or to be stranded and evoke. The poignant twinge of individualism is a harrowing force of idiosyncrasy to triumph by hortoriginality rather than leak like a rusty faucet by the whimsy of formula and calculus both arrayed in constellation to abide by the cretaceous dictates of lifeless discipline bent by the ferules of improbability and the acatalepsy that precludes any judgment of the impossible because  the vanquished sandapile of the aggrieved coffins of former titans breathes less under the scrutiny of silk than it does when the emigration of souls in tenure and tutelage of others depend on the living sustenance of the active word Heb 4:12. We exact a precision of balance against the stultified weather of a grievance of sorrow and somber semaphores that portend gloom rather than shimmer with optimism in light but a benighted day is but a prelude to the sunblind coronation of the rigors of  mettle becoming the refracturism of a conclave that divides time in half to recursively reiterate itself in reversal and then become sejungible from holistic parcels itself to rejoin into one solid entity even when the indivisible becomes soluble in the mysteries of the ultimate querulous enigmas foreign to many minds prepossessed by anteric spite or the spate of dissuasion rather than goaded adventure that spars against the spartanism of rigged gladiatorial spectacles that appease the aceldama much to the agony of the participants who issue not even a whimper of resignation in their trumpery over courage because they foist their momentary battle as an exaggeration of the prowess of invented celebrity that is much belittled in the artifice of war that is checkered against the hubris of outrecuidance that gloats over the dumose duress of shattered paradigms while regnant upon the face of the dormant courtesy of designation rather than design for the supercherie of evocative throngs of rumpus and cacophony to settle into the sedimentary victories of tallespin rather than internecine gambits of glaikery lost in the ****** creeping galvanization of artistry met with inclemency. The sophrosyne proclivity pivots on a propinquity of asseveration of sacerdotal mandates and individualism untethered by the boundaries of the purely lucid and pellucid thoughts known to the conversant tongue because to regiment the historical lineage of a crafty kisswonk that avoids the pitfalls of egestuous penury of conservatory conservatism and neglect the thorny imbroglios posed by the ragtaggers of freebooted hornbooks sold by the colporteurs of the aboriginal swindle of defalcation from public treasury we must find treasure in all composite works as mosaic artistry becomes the granular comportment of majesty unfurled by emblazoned ascertained certainties without being flummoxed by the crestfallen pause of the waterdrips that stand nesiotes in silentium insular in design only to be found among the troves of the value that designates the valuable from the worthless and we must determine the integrity of deeds supernal and faith provisional the restive pause of soteriology that all matter is better than all sense only because without matter sensation would lack its testy limits to the mathematical postulate that carving sapwood is easier than the whipsaw of the contrition of centuries grieving over  their compounded losses rather than prizing their compounded interests of atocia and wesperm of neutered virility swamping the industrial sentiments with clockwork vanities rather than humbled or even humiliated revenants of carnation believing never the credulity of partial lies but swerving away from temptation even upon faulted pages that superstition will evict. The boiled subsistence of many odd epistolary requiems are omitted from memory because the reverse evasion of an unmerited life earning  few keepsakes worthy of a tithe to a modesty of reprisal rather than a ruckus of betrayal that casts asunder the former ******* for the emergence of the stegmonth and the barleychildren of emigration to newly crowned visages storming the frontier of not headlong abandon but the sad recadency of vitriol upon sentiment divided against itself like a creaky vestige of a craggy hill surmounted by an edifice of sterilization rather than perdurable anointment. We whimper with resignation that this overlooked passage through the turmoil of the yearned heyday upon the grunts of labor will forever be stained by the petty numbers that emblazon the recumbent posture of inconvenience riddled with foraminated despised countenance belied of its own true nature to wither into the crumples of ashen dust memorialized by fewer than the momentum of catalysts demands. Proverbs 8:22-35 NIV
“The Lord brought me forth as the first of his works,[c][d]
    before his deeds of old;
23 I was formed long ages ago,
    at the very beginning, when the world came to be.
24 When there were no watery depths, I was given birth,
    when there were no springs overflowing with water;
25 before the mountains were settled in place,
    before the hills, I was given birth,
26 before he made the world or its fields
    or any of the dust of the earth.
27 I was there when he set the heavens in place,
    when he marked out the horizon on the face of the deep,
28 when he established the clouds above
    and fixed securely the fountains of the deep,
29 when he gave the sea its boundary
    so the waters would not overstep his command,
and when he marked out the foundations of the earth.
30     Then I was constantly[e] at his side.
I was filled with delight day after day,
    rejoicing always in his presence,
31 rejoicing in his whole world
    and delighting in mankind.
32 “Now then, my children, listen to me;
    blessed are those who keep my ways.
33 Listen to my instruction and be wise;
    do not disregard it.
34 Blessed are those who listen to me,
    watching daily at my doors,
    waiting at my doorway.
35 For those who find me find life
    and receive favor from the Lord.

We were all borne of the smithy of the furnace of the aboriginal yet it is lapsed in our memory as the stardust of a time beyond volition and therefore repentant not because contrition for secondhand deeds without moral pedigree tethered to altruism requires few hymns of atonement that we were there when the protoplasm engulfed the Earth and rattled the cages of the celestial realm so that the emigrants from the future and the distant sidereal neighbors we barely know with intimacy saw us in a decarnate form crass to perception but not immune from the pregnancy of rebirth that is the incarnation of all flesh and blood lived in the loitered remembrance of eons that flashed by in seconds rather than draped over countless millennium with a poise and a pause. There is a tenure of conviction which abides by a deputized authority that fossicks every creaky hinge of absolution to demarcate the boundaries of stardust that impregnated the world with life in variegated diversity not for a haughty zoology of the sneer of outrecuidance or merely the capitalization of the syndicated gains of collectivized enlightenment but the higher realm of betrothed fidelity to the tutelary plenilune dictates that are in sultry sullen broods of oligochrome to the tentative ear but swivel silently to the journeys ineffable that make life memorable and peaceable with armistice rather than desperate recoils of militarization against domesticated furor rather than foreign malevolence that depreciates the tegular carapace of conversion to summit the tropes of tramontane fables archaic in literacy but bundled in the comestion of design that are formant proprieties of spates of flamestun twinges that spurn the ferule and bound the jackals leapfrog above the bushy secrecy of a pointed swarm rather than a pointless scorn that disavows its prejudice for pride but becomes an empty vehicle of subversion rather than empowerment when the people abounding in its glorified presence  become captivated by transfixed valuable temporal achievements rather than the core of mettle itself to divide the plunder on even ground.  The fickle atoms that when divided provide the ulterior gainsay of destruction are the same unitary properties that should stand forever indivisible in the resemblance of an effigy never berated because of insensate brevity in sensible sensation but always applauded because the constitution of all matter belongs to the ephemeral spars among stars and the violence of bolides of collision rather than ramparts of desecration. The offspring of this shambolic awakening is the seminal procedure beyond the reiterative quips of awakening that seems to make few demands that are heard beyond hearsay and a great deal of ordeal ruckus and character building at the centerpiece of a mosaic permutation of fundamental perpended democracy that shelves its prerogatives to obganiate the tired point of the tiresome hackneyed narrative that seems steamy and running out of gas and thereby stranded in insular vagary. This gay-baiting ******* deserves to belong to perdition in the deepest barathrum of hell because schadenfreude should not overpower moral logic because of corrupt evil henchmen that won’t surrender a petty point in a war they will lose completely by my vindicated triumph over the ugly tittups of desiccated vigor intermediary to triumph that regales only the worst of society to curbstomp me because of ridiculous lies that deserve the strongest excoriation demanded by the exigency of this scenario because you can’t justify slavery to prove GLAFD vindicated.
I stand in solemn triumph that this psychological debauchery cannot reduce the agency of God into some petty psychological experimentation with human virtuosos to make them grand empirical diatribes of the suborned fagins of robbery and thievery that sneaks around the thickets to reprove the vindictive ****** of God against his many coagulated enemies. I am here to declare the Black Lives Matter slogan a fraud to enslave dumb people that aren’t awakened to the true trumpery of supercherie that governs our country negligently while many itch for the grievances of legal recourse but feel intimidated by the strangulation of the armies of evil promoting consternation to demerits rather than plaudits. I am a righteous agent of valor rather than a deposed reiterative squalor that vanquishes the enemy despite their background because I don’t shrink from a fight even when embattled by the shepherds of evil maleficence that simpers with disdain at my heroic attempts to beat Truman Show politics that shelve moral fiduciary duty to subsidiary status while I campaign for the valorous enrichment of God’s bounty beyond limits of the petty  finicky resolve of the enemies that surround me with finicky subversion. The inexcusable crime here is that the majority of malcontent deals with slavery rather than George Floyd whose memory is memorialized as a sopiter to the dumb people watching TV dying of senectitude that don’t research the  internet when the truth is far more glaring Facebook mafia and Silicon Valley are holding me hostage to prove a petty point about the schadenfreude of a never ending torrent of bashing Beto’ O’Rourke style that would end in a terminus of despair to promote a radical agenda that is now being hijacked by BLM despite the fact most of the momentum is being catalyzed by my injustice and the grappling moments with the demons that estrange me and suffocate my movement to squalor and entrenchment. Wake up! This is not BLM anymore it is a hijacked excuse for the slumberous old people who only watch TV and don’t do research and there is a concerted effort to limit free speech even when I have license and latitude to exercise my authority to exorcise demons that haunt this skrimch that resides in eternal evil for petty political ploys deranged in lunacy rather than ennobled by God’s justice and this maleficence will never end until my dying day because I will not resign to the pressures of divestiture to lead a prosperous life only to find perdition at the end of my path because I abide by God’s covenant without flinching and I will march on for the solidarity of liberation rather than the squalor of demerited apartheid.
White prejudice tried to systematically erase me from the records despite my continual truth in interrogation that subverted me in the most minatory way imaginable. I stand reformed by my character in the face of depredation because their faultered attempts failed. They should be degraced from their positions of primposition of the police state that avenges all petty losses in the SB era at a time when I was prone to querulousnesss. Benumbed by crisis the world will be inoculated from truth to subversive values that inculcate the vulnerable rather than exonerate the bridewells of encomium. I justify my works by God’s compassion to bless me with such encomium even in these balkanizing circumstances that we all might be remediated by the grace of the one who sent us to the missionary zeal to compunction that delivers the sentinel vision of terriers of goodwill and justice!

she told me that this is what it was like to be a firestorm,and i believed her.youre not golden sweetheart,
none of us are.we're not meant to look nice.
this is for our eyes only.dont look me in the eyes
and pretend that you dont know what i mean
take me to the cathedral pour holy water over my shivering shaking bones
build a baby grand out of my corpse,honey,its the only one ive got.
dont pretend you dont feel it too
and even if ill never be as romantic as you,at least ill try
at least i wont leave you here
gasoline on pavement,dying the only way you know how
they told me i could be anything i wanted so i turned myself into a gun,
hollow like your stomach when all youve had to eat the past three days is stale ******* bread.
dont look at me like that.
i know all of your secrets and youre the one still forgetting about my jaw,the one you broke.
i see it in your eyes.we both know how this ends
but I wont pull the trigger on heartbreak hills
not until theres more whiskey than broomsticks beating us ******
cigarette **** wrists against a concrete wall,you always were one for a metaphor werent you?
jesus,babe you look so beautiful in this light.would you let me take your picture with the old kodak we pretend doesnt exist?
im sorry if this is forward of me,but i think id like it if you dug bruises
into my throat
loving the only way you know how,and this isnt the kind of love you see in movies
cause its not really love when neither of you can stop chainsmoking for a ******* second
to look at the way the sun glints off hair at just the right time.
maybe if i had sinners hips youd kiss me,just the way i like
too much,all at once.this,you say,
this is what its like to be a firestorm.
we tell people we're just close friends,like in the way real people are close friends,
we tell people that the bruises on both our mouths are just from the red wine,silly,isnt it obvious?
the train station is too crowded.im fidgety
and the woman in the dress sitting next to me is reading a newspaper article about string theory
i wonder if it tells her about the way i sewed my mouth shut one winter
(or maybe that was you.whatever.its the same ******* thing anyway,isnt it,you say.stop ******* smiling at me like that.you know its not funny)
i wonder if she knows that the needle does not have to be very sharp to pierce the skin.
lesson one:stop pretending that youre the dragon.
lesson two:god.god.god youre ******* annoying.cant you keep your ******* mouth shut?i told you not to tell anyone,you ******* *******.if you show up outside my house again ill **** you.
dont leave someone voicemails after they leave you for the subway station. they will not reply.
this is normal.
you called me a narcissistic ***** and i think you were right but at least i think im worth something,right?at least i havent given up on my collarbones,thrown
them away like they're ******* trash.but what i mean to say is,
at least im not like you.at least i dont have a scar on my upper lip.
stop telling me that the ******* is a ******* metaphor,
this isnt a novel and im not a vampire
and last time i checked your eyes were brown,not black.youre not a monster so stop trying to be one.
the woman sitting next to me on the airplane wont stop reciting bible verses but i dont feel any more holy than i did three hours ago.
this isnt a ******* contest.you cant compete with someone to be the most ****** up,god whats wrong with you
havent you read about cain and abel
this will end the only way it possibly can
stop hanging grave markers on walls,cant you see the marks on your fingers
this isnt a ballad for a dead man and i dont mean to be condescending
but i like the way you kiss people,ten days after the time of death
and maybe ive left you too many voicemails at three in the morning
and maybe i stained your pillowcase with whiskey and secrets
but listen up,honey,you need me more than i need you
dont lie to me,you know its true
youre lying down at the bottom of the gymnasium swimming pool
and somehow youve managed to find comfort in it
dear reader:im sorry.im sorry about the mixtapes,okay,you were never supposed to find them and-and ****,ive messed everything up.bye.see you soon,
i guess.

Passenger seat.
Windows down.
Sun in my eyes.
Love sits on my left.
And there's trust
In the breeze.
We create little expeditions,
Until the real freedom comes.
Adventure glints in both set of eyes,
And we long for that day
When the world is completely ours.
As for now,
We walk on the edge of the limits,
Trespassing sometimes.
The wind blows through our hair
The sun gleams in our curious eyes.
One day we will never be apart.
One day adventure will have no limits.
I try not to complain,
For the adventure will always be there,
Paitiently waiting for us.

The sun is shining and
moonbeams glisten through the air.
Moon, not sun.
While the sun shone
and incinerated the sloshing intestines of
vengeful beasts;
the gentle and forgiving moon
projected from their eyes and
caught the ****** maw of a starving deer.
Suitcases of leather stacked behind us
filled with spruce, pine, elm, oak, cherry.
Ready for induction t
o our paperless society
which consumes the forests of
Hippolyta and Antiope mercilessly.
Burning every leaf
then forgetting to feel
because nothing mattered.
Everything never mattered.
Facts are lie, opinion is truth.
“No one is nothing”
they shriek to the heavens
striving to be limitless
and scorning morality. Embrace death
and all its glory.
Life, while full of happiness
and gorgeous splendor,
refuses to acknowledge the
magnitude of the word. The thing.
Falling and reading and lines
and circles and explosions
and whimpers and screams. Agony suffered
silently, alone; never understood
because how could it?
What could totally encompass
the raging fire that devours the veins
and burns from the inside out
kept in place by the impenetrable
flesh that glints in the forgiving moonlight.
A hostile exterior that
smiles, waves, laughs on cue to
disguise the raging storm
fighting its way through from inside.
The shell which shrinks from the moonbeam
and into the harsh sunlight
that filters beneath the floating clouds.

Skyward glints,
another hint from another sun,
London runs down,
daily commute over and out.

And how the weekday work is
coming to an end,
but what do they work on whilst 5 in the evening?
Spreadsheets saved in significant folders,
word documents in for a week on Monday,
presentation notes to be written, rehearsed, re-wrote and printed?

‘Beds, beds, beds,
prime town centre property To Let’
Broken brick buildings sit, they belong
to internet auction sites and in estate agent windows.
There’s no flow in this town no more.
Whatever river of commerce that once ran through here
has moved onto, and into, another course,
oxbow lake suburb by Government force.

It rains in the North.
Jewels in the tarmac,
rings in the walls,
stars behind the factory noise,
sound hidden behind an all-car-call.

My broken skin, my broken hide,
months of thought, a hunger for home.
Far flung, further thrown,
back to the up-north-hometown,
hometown of the known.

Her sadness hung around her
Like a suit of tailored tears.
And her vision started to blur
Knowing she lost someone dear.
Goodbyes always hurt the most
When the story wasn't finished
When opportunities were missed
And potential is diminished.
She gazed into the black abyss
Thinking about what could have been.
The abyss gazed back into her
Its loneliness crawled under her skin.
But she heard a whisper in the wind
Saw the sun's diamond glints on snow
A lonely lark appeared to sing
A song that only she could know.
It made her step back from the brink
Of the river never conquered twice
For she was never left behind;
on his way to paradise.

The shimmer of blue changes
As you dragonfly move,
Your cellophane wings
Fragile, yet brings
You to me,
I cannot see the world
As you do, true?

You can see mine
            Just fine.
The sunlight
glints as the
Colour changes
To a different hue.

one moment
Green
The next
Blue

Dancing with you
As you float then soar,
is impossible ...
As you pitch and roll
Leave me entranced
As you exit...

Without saying so much
As goodbye,

Must mean,
You will,
Be back,
Soon.

Please.

O, the Horror! Halloween Poetry!

Halloween Poetry: Dark, Eerie, Haunting and Scary poems about Ghosts, Witches, Vampires, Werewolves, Reanimated Corpses and "Things that go Bump in the Night!"



Thin Kin
by Michael R. Burch

Skeleton!
Tell us what you lack...
the ability to love,
your flesh so slack?

Will we frighten you,
grown as pale & unsound,
when we also haunt
the unhallowed ground?



The Witch
by Michael R. Burch

her fingers draw into claws
she cackles through rotting teeth...
u ask "are there witches?"
… pshaw! …
(yet she has my belief)



Vampires
by Michael R. Burch

Vampires are such fragile creatures;
we dread the dark, but the light destroys them...
sunlight, or a stake, or a cross ― such common things.

Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings,
we shrink from his voice.

Centuries have taught us:
in shadows danger lurks for those who stray,
and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs
and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs.
He has no choice.

We are his prey, plump and fragrant,
and if we pray to avoid him, he earnestly prays to find us...
prays to some despotic hooded God
whose benediction is the humid blood
he lusts to taste.



Styx
by Michael R. Burch

Black waters,
deep and dark and still...
all men have passed this way,
or will.

Charon, the ferrymen who carried the dead across the River Styx to their eternal destination, has been portrayed by artists and poets as a vampiric figure.



Revenge of the Halloween Monsters
by Michael R. Burch

The Halloween monsters, incensed,
keep howling, and may be UNFENCED!!!
They’re angry that children with treats
keep throwing their trash IN THE STREETS!!!

You can check it out on your computer:
Google says, “Please don’t be a POLLUTER!!!”
The Halloween monsters agree,
so if you’re a litterbug, FLEE!!!

Kids, if you’d like more treats this year
and don’t want to cower in FEAR,
please make all the mean monsters happy,
and they’ll hand out sweet treats like they’re sappy!

So if you eat treats on the drag
and don't want huge monsters to nag,
please put all loose trash in your BAG!!!

NOTE: If you recite the poem, get the kids to huddle up close, then yell the all-caps parts like you’re one of the unhappy monsters, and perhaps "goose" them as well. They'll get the message.



It's Halloween!
by Michael R. Burch

If evening falls
on graveyard walls
far softer than a sigh;

if shadows fly
moon-sickled skies,
while children toss their heads

uneasy in their beds,
beware the witch's eye!

If goblins loom
within the gloom
till playful pups grow terse;

if birds give up their verse
to comfort chicks they nurse,
while children dream weird dreams

of ugly, wiggly things,
beware the serpent's curse!

If spirits scream
in haunted dreams
while ancient sibyls rise

to plague nightmarish skies
one night without disguise,

while children toss about
uneasy, full of doubt,
beware the Devil's lies...

it's Halloween!



Ghost
by Michael R. Burch

White in the shadows
I see your face,
unbidden. Go, tell

Love it is commonplace;
tell Regret it is not so rare.

Our love is not here
though you smile,
full of sedulous grace.

Lost in darkness, I fear
the past is our resting place.



All Hallows Eve
by Michael R. Burch

What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term “banshee”) and, eventually, to the Druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgan le Fay and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts.

In the ruins
of the dreams
and the schemes
of men;

when the moon
begets the tide
and the wide
sea sighs;

when a star
appears in heaven
and the raven
cries;

we will dance
and we will revel
in the devil’s
fen...

if nevermore again.



Pale Though Her Eyes
by Michael R. Burch

Pale though her eyes,
her lips are scarlet
from drinking of blood,
this child, this harlot

born of the night
and her heart, of darkness,
evil incarnate
to dance so reckless,

dreaming of blood,
her fangs ― white ― baring,

revealing her lust,
and her eyes, pale, staring...



Like Angels, Winged
by Michael R. Burch

Like angels ― winged,
shimmering, misunderstood ―
they flit beyond our understanding
being neither evil, nor good.

They are as they are...
and we are their lovers, their prey;
they seek us out when the moon is full
and dream of us by day.

Their eyes ― hypnotic, alluring ―
trap ours with their strange appeal
till like flame-drawn moths, we gather...
to see, to touch, to feel.

Held in their arms, enchanted,
we feel their lips, so old!,
till with their gorging kisses
we warm them, growing cold.



Solicitation
by Michael R. Burch

He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging
my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman,
and his eyes are on mine like a snake’s on a bird’s ―
quizzical, mesmerizing.

He ***** his head as though something he heard intrigues him
(although I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense;
his words are full of desire and loathing, and while I hear everything,
he says nothing I understand.

The moon shines ― maniacal, queer ― as he takes my hand whispering

Our time has come... And so we stroll together creaking docks
where the sea sends sickening things
scurrying under rocks and boards.

Moonlight washes his ashen face as he stares unseeing into my eyes.
He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine;
my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face.
He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared.

His teeth are long, yellow and hard, his face bearded and haggard.
A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp.
My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly.
He likes it like that.



Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch

Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes ―
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.

Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.

Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.

Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies,

yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must...



Polish
by Michael R. Burch

Your fingers end in talons—
the ones you trim to hide
the predator inside.

Ten thousand creatures sacrificed;
but really, what’s the loss?
Apply a splash of gloss.

You picked the perfect color
to mirror nature’s law:
red, like tooth and claw.

Published by The HyperTexts



Siren Song
by Michael R. Burch

The Lorelei’s
soft cries
entreat mariners to save her...

How can they resist
her faint voice through the mist?

Soon she will savor
the flavor
of sweet human flesh.



How Long the Night (anonymous Old English Lyric)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast ―
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.



The Wild Hunt
by Michael R. Burch

Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky
with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call;
and the others, laughing, go dashing by.
They only appear when the moon is full:

Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood,
and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales,
Gawain and Owain and the hearty men
who live on in many minstrels’ tales.

They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor,
or Torc Triath, the fabled boar,
or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth,
the other mighty boars of myth.

They appear, sometimes, on Halloween
to chase the moon across the green,
then fade into the shadowed hills
where memory alone prevails.



The Vampire's Spa Day Dream
by Michael R. Burch

O, to swim in vats of blood!
I wish I could, I wish I could!
O, 'twould be
so heavenly
to swim in lovely vats of blood!

The poem above was inspired by a Josh Parkinson depiction of Elizabeth Bathory up to her nostrils in the blood of her victims, with their skulls floating in the background.



Nevermore!
by Michael R. Burch

Nevermore! O, nevermore!
shall the haunts of the sea
― the swollen tide pools
and the dark, deserted shore ―
mark her passing again.

And the salivating sea
shall never kiss her lips
nor caress her ******* and hips,
as she dreamt it did before,
once, lost within the uproar.

The waves will never **** her,
nor take her at their leisure;
the sea gulls shall not have her,
nor could she give them pleasure...
She sleeps, forevermore!

She sleeps forevermore,
a ****** save to me
and her other lover,
who lurks now, safely smothered
by the restless, surging sea.

And, yes, they sleep together,
but never in that way...
For the sea has stripped and shorn
the one I once adored,
and washed her flesh away.

He does not stroke her honey hair,
for she is bald, bald to the bone!
And how it fills my heart with glee
to hear them sometimes cursing me
out of the depths of the demon sea...

their skeletal love ― impossibility!



Dark Gothic
by Michael R. Burch

Her fingers are filed into talons;
she smiles with carnivorous teeth...
You ask, “Are there vampires?”
― Get real! ―
(Yet she has my belief.)



Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.


Athenian Epitaphs (Gravestone Inscriptions of the Ancient Greeks)

Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
― Michael R. Burch, after Plato


Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gulls in their high, lonely circuits may tell.
― Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus



Passerby,
tell the Spartans we lie
lifeless at Thermopylae:
dead at their word,
obedient to their command.
Have they heard?
Do they understand?
― Michael R. Burch, after Simonides



Completing the Pattern
by Michael R. Burch

Walk with me now, among the transfixed dead
who kept life’s compact and who thus endure
harsh sentence here―among pink-petaled beds
and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure,
pale blue once like their eyes, will gleam blood-red
at last when sunset staggers to the door
of each white mausoleum, to inquire―
What use, O things of erstwhile loveliness?


Reclamation
by Michael R. Burch

after Robert Graves, with a nod to Mary Shelley

I have come to the dark side of things
where the bat sings
its evasive radar
and Want is a crooked forefinger
attached to a gelatinous wing.

I have grown animate here, a stitched corpse
hooked to electrodes.
And night
moves upon me―progenitor of life
with its foul breath.

Blind eyes have their second sight
and still are deceived. Now my nature
is softly to moan
as Desire carries me
swooningly across her threshold.

Stone
is less infinite than her crone’s
gargantuan hooked nose, her driveling lips.
I eye her ecstatically―her dowager figure,
and there is something about her that my words transfigure
to a consuming emptiness.

We are at peace
with each other; this is our venture―
swaying, the strings tautening, as tightropes
tauten, as love tightens, constricts
to the first note.

Lyre of our hearts’ pits,
orchestration of nothing, adits
of emptiness! We have come to the last of our hopes,
sweet as congealed blood sweetens for flies.

Need is reborn; love dies.



Deliver Us ...
by Michael R. Burch

The night is dark and scary―
under your bed, or upon it.

That blazing light might be a star ...
or maybe the Final Comet.

But two things are sure: your mother’s love
and your puppy’s kisses, doggonit!



the Horror
by Michael R. Burch

the Horror lurks inside our closets
the Horror hides beneath our beds
the Horror hisses ancient curses
the Horror whispers in our heads

the Horror tells us Death is coming
the Horror tells us there’s no hope
the Horror tells us “life” is futile
the Horror beckons, “there’s the Rope!”



Belfry
by Michael R. Burch

There are things we surrender
to the attic gloom:
they haunt us at night
with shrill, querulous voices.

There are choices we made
yet did not pursue,
behind windows we shuttered
then failed to remember.

There are canisters sealed
that we cannot reopen,
and others long broken
that nothing can heal.

There are things we conceal
that our anger dismembered,
gray leathery faces
the rafters reveal.



Duet
by Michael R. Burch

Oh, Wendy, by the firelight, how sad!
How worn and gray your auburn hair became!
You’re very silent, like an evening rain
that trembles on dark petals. Tears you’ve shed
for days we laughed together, glisten now;
your flesh became translucent; and your brow
knits, gathered loosely. By the well-made bed
three portraits hang with knowing eyes, beloved,
but mine is not among them. Time has proved
our hearts both strangely mortal. If I said
I loved you once, how is it that could change?
And yet I watch you fondly; love is strange . . .

Oh, Peter, by the firelight, how bright
my thought of you remains, and if I said
I loved you once, then took him to my bed,
I did it for the need of love, one night
when you were far away. My heart endured
transfigurement―in flaming ash inured
to heartbreak and the violence of sight:
I saw myself grow old and thin and frail
with thinning hair about me, like a veil . . .
And so I loved him for myself, despite
the love between us―our first startled kiss.
But then I loved him for his humanness.
And then we both grew old, and it was right . . .

Oh, Wendy, if I fly, I fly beyond
these human hearts, these cities walled and tiered
against the night, beyond this vale of tears,
for love, if it exists, dies with the years . . .

No, Peter, love is constant as the heart
that keeps till its last beat a measured pace
and sets the fixtures of its dreams in place
by beds at first well-used, at last well-made,
and counts each face a joy, each tear a grace . . .



Horror
by Michael R. Burch

What I ache to say is beyond saying―
no words for the horror
of not loving enough,
like a mummy half-wrapped in its moldering casements
holding a lily aloft.

No, there are no words for the horror
as a tormented wind howls through the teetering floes
and the cold freezes down to my clawed hairy toes ...

What use to me, now, if the stars appear?
As I moan
the moon finds me,
fangs goring the deer.



Strange Corps(e)
by Michael R. Burch

We are all dying, haunted by life―
dying, but the living will not let us go.
We are perishing zombies, haunted by the moonglow.

With what animation we, shuffling, return
nightly, to worry Love’s worm-eaten corpse,
till, living or dead, she is wholly ours.

We are the dying, enamored of “life”―
the palest of auras, the eeriest call.
We stagger to attention ... stumble ... fall.

We have only one thought―Love’s peculiar notion,
that our duty’s to “live,” though such “living” means
night’s horrific wild hungers, its stranger dreams.

We now “live” on the flesh of eroded dreams
and no longer recoil at the victims’ screams.



Love, ah! serene ghost
by Michael R. Burch

Love, ah! serene ghost,
haunts my retelling of her,
or stands atop despairing stairs
with such pale, severe eyes,
I become another pallid specter.

But what I feel
most profoundly is this:
the absolute lack of her kiss,
the absence of her wild,
unwarranted laughter.

So that,
like a candle deprived of oxygen,
I become mere wick and tallow again.
Here and hereafter ...
gone with her now, in the darkest of nights, the flame!

I lie, pallid vision of man―the same
wan ghost of her palpitations’ claim
on my heart
that I was before.

I love her beyond and despite even shame.



Eden
by Michael R. Burch

Then earth was heaven too, a perfect garden.
Apples burgeoned and shone―unplucked on sagging boughs.
What, then, would the children eat?
Fruit indecently sweet,
redolent as incense, with a tempting aroma ...



Outcasts
by Michael R. Burch

There was a rose, a prescient shade of crimson,
the very color of blood,
that bloomed in that garden.

The most dazzling of all the Earth’s flowers,
men have forgotten it now,
with their fanciful tales of apples and serpents.

Beasts with lips called the goreflower “Love.”

The scribes have the story all wrong: four were there,
four horrid dark creatures―chattering, bickering.
Aduhm placed one red petal in Ehve’s matted hair;

he was lost in her arms
till dawn sullen and golden
imperceptibly streaked the musk-fragrant air.

Two flared nostrils quivered, two eyes remained open.

Kahyn sought me that evening, his bloodless lips curled
in a grimacelike smile. Sunken-cheeked, he approached me
in the Caverns of Similitudes, eerie Barzakh.

“We are outcasts, my brother!, God quickly deserts us.”
As though his anguish conceived in insight’s first blush
might not pale next to mine in Sheol’s gray realm.

“Shining Creature!” he named me and called me divine
as he lavished damp kisses upon my bright scales.
“Help me find me one rare gift to put Love’s gift to shame.”

“There is a dark rose with a bittersweet fragrance
as pungent as cloves: only man knows its name.
Clinging and cloying, it destroys all it touches . . .”

“But red is Ehve’s preference; while Envy is green.”
He was downcast a moment, a moment, a moment . . .
“Ah, but red is the color of blood!”

Disagreeable child, far too clever for his own good.

Published in The Bible of Hell (anthology)



No One
by Michael R. Burch

No One hears the bells tonight;
they tell him something isn’t right.
But No One is not one to rush;
he lies in grasses greenly lush
as far away a startled thrush
flees from horned owls in sinking flight.

No One hears the cannon’s roar
and muses that its voice means war
comes knocking on men’s doors tonight.
He sleeps outside in awed delight
beneath the enigmatic stars
and shivers in their cooling light.

No One knows the world will end,
that he’ll be lonely, without friend
or foe to conquer. All will be
once more, celestial harmony.
He’ll miss men’s voices, now and then,
but worlds can be remade again.



Bikini
by Michael R. Burch

Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming,
by the shell’s pale rose and the pearl’s white eye,
through the sea’s green bed of lank seaweed worming
like tangled hair where cold currents rise . . .
something lurks where the riptides sigh,
something old and pale and wise.

Something old when the world was forming
now lifts its beak, its snail-blind eye,
and with tentacles about it squirming,
it feels the cloud above it rise
and shudders, settles with a sigh,
knowing man’s demise draws nigh.



Ceremony
by Michael R. Burch

Lost in the cavernous blue silence of spring,
heavy-lidded and drowsy with slumber, I see
the dark gnats leap; the black flies fling
their slow, engorged bulks into the air above me.

Shimmering hordes of blue-green bottleflies sing
their monotonous laments; as I listen, they near
with the strange droning hum of their murmurous wings.

Though you said you would leave me, I prop you up here
and brush back red ants from your fine, tangled hair,
whispering, “I do!” . . . as the gaunt vultures stare.



Contraire
by Michael R. Burch

Where there was nothing
but emptiness
and hollow chaos and despair,

I sought Her ...

finding only the darkness
and mournful silence
of the wind entangling her hair.

Yet her name was like prayer.

Now she is the vast
starry tinctures of emptiness
flickering everywhere

within me and about me.

Yes, she is the darkness,
and she is the silence
of twilight and the night air.

Yes, she is the chaos
and she is the madness
and they call her Contraire.



Dark Twin
by Michael R. Burch

You come to me
out of the sun―
my dark twin, unreal . . .

And you are always near
although I cannot touch you;
although I trample you, you cannot feel . . .

And we cannot be parted,
nor can we ever meet
except at the feet.



East End, 1888
by Michael R. Burch

Past darkened storefronts,
hunched and contorted, bent with need
through chilling rain, he walks alone
till down the glistening cobblestones
deliberate footsteps pause, resume.

He follows, by a pub confronts
a pasty face, an overbright smile,
lips intimating easy bliss,
a boisterous, over-eager tongue.

She barters what she has to sell;
her honeyed words seem cloying, stale―
pale, tainted things of sticky guile.



A rustle of her petticoats,
a flash of bulging milk-white breast
. . . the price is set: a crown. “A tip,
a shilling more is yours,” he quotes,
“to wash your privates.” She accepts.
Saliva glistens on his lips.



An alley. There, he lifts her gown,
in answer to her question, frowns,
says―“You can call me Jack, or Rip.”



East End, 1888 (II)
by Michael R. Burch

He slouched East
through a steady downpour,
a slovenly beast
befouling each puddle
with bright footprints of blood.

Outlined in a pub door,
lewdly, wantonly, she stood . . .
mocked and brazenly offered.

He took what he could
till she afforded no more.

Now a single bright copper
glints becrimsoned by the door
of the pub where he met her.

He holds to his breast the one part
of her body she was unable to *****,
grips her heart to his wildly stammering heart . . .
unable to forgive or forget her.

Originally published by Penny Dreadful



Evil, the Rat
by Michael R. Burch

Evil lives in a hole like a rat
and sleeps in its feces,
fearing the cat.

At night it furtively creeps
through the house
while the cat sleeps.

It eats old excrement and gnaws
on steaming dung
and it will pause

between odd bites to sniff through the ****,
twitching and trembling,
for a scent of the cat ...

Evil, the rat.



Temptation
by Michael R. Burch

Jesus was always misunderstood . . .
we have that, at least, in common.
And it’s true that I found him,
shriveled with hunger,
shivering in the desert,
skeletal, emaciate,
not an ounce of fat
to warm his bones
once the bright sun set.

And it’s true, I believe,
that I offered him something to eat―
a fig, perhaps, a pomegranate, or a peach.

Hardly the great “temptation”
of which I’m accused.

He was a likeable chap, really,
and we spent a pleasant hour
discussing God―
how hard He is to know,
and impossible to please.

I left him there, the pale supplicant,
all skin and bone, at the mouth of his cave,
imploring his “Master” on callused knees.

Published in The Bible of Hell (anthology)



Role Reversal
by Michael R. Burch

The fluted lips of statues
mock the bronze gaze
of the dying sun . . .

We are nonplused, they say,
smacking their wet lips,
jubilant . . .

We are always refreshed, always undying,
always young, forever unapologetic,
forever gay, smiling,

and though it seems man has made us,
on his last day, we will see him unmade―
we will watch him decay
as if he were clay,
and we had assumed his flesh,
hissing our disappointment.



Excelsior
by Michael R. Burch

I lift my eyes and laugh, Excelsior . . .
Why do you come, wan spirit, heaven-gowned,
complaining that I am no longer “pure?”

I threw myself before you, and you frowned,
so full of noble chastity, renowned
for leaving maidens maidens. In the dark

I sought love’s bright enchantment, but your lips
were stone; my fiery metal drew no spark
to light the cold dominions of your heart.

What realms were ours? What leasehold? And what claim
upon these territories, cold and dark,
do you seek now, pale phantom? Would you light

my heart in death and leave me ashen-white,
as you are white, extinguished by the Night?



Liar
by Michael R. Burch

Chiller than a winter day,
quieter than the murmur of the sea in her dreams,
eyes wilder than the crystal spray
of silver streams,
you fill my dying thoughts.

In moments drugged with sleep
I have heard your earnest voice
leaving me no choice
save heed your hushed demands
and meet you in the sands
of an ageless arctic world.

There I kiss your lifeless lips
as we quiver in the shoals
of a sea that endlessly rolls
to meet the shattered shore.

Wild waves weep, "Nevermore,"
as you bend to stroke my hair.

That land is harsh and drear,
and that sea is bleak and wild;
only your lips are mild
as you kiss my weary eyes,
whispering lovely lies
of what awaits us there
in a land so stark and bare,
beyond all hope . . . and care.

This is one of my early poems, written as a high school sophomore or junior.



The Watch
by Michael R. Burch

Moonlight spills down vacant sills,
illuminates an empty bed.
Dreams lie in crates. One hand creates
wan silver circles, left unread
by its companion—unmoved now
by anything that lies ahead.

I watch the minutes test the limits
of ornamental movement here,
where once another hand would hover.
Each circuit—incomplete. So dear,
so precious, so precise, the touch
of hands that wait, yet ask so much.

Originally published by The Lyric



Keywords/Tags: Halloween, dark, supernatural, skeleton, witch, ghost, vampire, monsters, ghoul, werewolf, goblins, occult, mrbhalloween, mrbhallow, mrbdark

Published as the collection "Halloween Poems"

I am a swordsman of the mind. My blade, Language, and logic.

It’s purity glints in the sun. It’s truth, a razor edge.

With a deft flick of my tongue, crimson lines appear, blood beads.

The cut is skilled, rends deep.

This is not trolling. This is sparta.

I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

Four dots. Four lights
Each floating deep in an icy cavern
Each glints in time to an unknown beat

I see my breath, but I'm not cold
The crystals of water feel like rock,
or plastic

I feel warm here
Watching the four lights
Watching them glint as I speak to them
Looking to the back, at the fourth light

One light fades and goes out
The last light I looked at
The last light I made glint

It glinted fast, and went out

The other two glint
Still outshine the fourth
In the back, growing brighter

Another glints fast, pops away to black
The other just vanishes

Now I am alone with the last light
The brightest of all
And I see
It too was blinking

Faster than the light that faded too soon
Faster than the light that flared and then blew
Faster than the light than just ceased to be
It too was blinking

But I broke that light
And now in the dark
I see how cold it truly is

Icarus’ sister exists only in living stone,
the watchful daughter of the craftsman
in the middle of his own labyrinth,
once his prized creation, placed in
the prime line of his drafts, design, eye
of his genius, now a relic existing
in a dusty nowhere cobweb corner
stained with Minotaur blood,
watching her fleshy father
falteringly stitch wax, feathers, twigs
to a frame that could not
take the water and sun of every day birds,
not even the weight of a son’s pride
who complacently raveled and unraveled
his father’s clew, half hearing  cautions,  
his mind flapping beyond the planets.

She cried over how Daedalus could
dote over such mortal error
while she exists in perfect neglect,
cried a tear turned prayer that
mixed with the dust, the murderous
blood crusting the rusty teeth of Perdix’s saw,
knowing hence  that men **** their best dreams,
fear the successful  flight of  their ideas, and  
that her faith, trust now forever lived with the gods.

Hephaestus heard her and bellowed her mind,
taught her to seek inspiration in the rejected
metal slivers that littered the workshop
like the sand of Naxos where Theseus
left Ariadne in her abandoned dreams.

In the cry of that other lost daughter
she heard the sound of ascent,
saw father and son in erratic flight
and followed to the top of the labyrinth
to watch two glints align in descent
and one splash into the sea.

Graced with the knowledge
that forbearers would
name the waters below for this fool,
she deposited Icarus in their father’s arms,
and flew away on brass wings of her own design,
wingtips skipping waves, seeking the sun.

Of your tounge, and the words you speak
Of your hair, and the light that glints off it
Of your eyes, and the sun warmed memories of the sea
Of your chin, and the knife that cannot cut as sharp
Of your neck, and the swan that has snapped its own
Of your laugh, and its hue, dusty and callous
Of your hands, and the work they've yet to do
Of your heart, and the love it has yet to give

sparkling gems adorn the night sky
studding the vast backdrop of black
glittering glints which do magnify
sparkling gems adorn the night sky
a dazzling splendor to ever beautify
sequined glories that verily eye smack
sparkling gems adorn the night sky
studding the vast backdrop of black

A surface gleams its slick ripples,
Solid liquid covering varied depths,
Frigid water held strong to the reflection of sky.
Held steady in gray by overcasts,
That hide the blemishes on this day.
Crack a warning, glints of sarcasm pierce the eye.

Somewhere below live antique creatures,
Demons of yesterday encapsulated.
Slow with slime and cold with sleep,
They dream of spring, dream of a thaw.
When sunshine blasts the sound of life,
Screams an alarm none dare not keep.

The slow shift strains patience,
Green bubbles from woody mottled arms.
Here and there come the arthropods,
Beginning their feast upon new bounty.
Finding themselves delicacies to another,
The flying predator of the mighty worms.

Singing sweet songs that bring dismay,
From April to June sometimes beyond.
Summer arrives in time to sear,
Tears from this repressed eyesight,
The cold winter from the dark water,
Which breed parasites unknowingly to pester.

Teasing sanity of forest dwelling fauna,
To fester in the skin as a tick or leech.
Drawing life out into the open plane,
Whittling down strength for another day
As we lay out the bitter harvest,
As we find another season of complaint.

Reed Bass
January 5, 2008

I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence.
Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.
When we wake up we are gone as our night precedes dawn
It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread.
At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.

I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence
And olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots
And six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home
With black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires
Their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are
Or on the peaks where everything is bound in fuzzy snow
At the mountain passes where vehicles duly pass oiled by hot tea
Or in the mist-filled airports where aircrafts do not take off
Of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams
In the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes
And much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves,
In lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces
And lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders
Strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them
The children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps
Outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages
Their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows.
I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees
When it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west
And children are still hitting ***** visible in the green of the trees.

High up above the open, welcoming door
It hangs, a piece of wood with colours dim.
Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
The winter snows had bent its branches down,
The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
Summer had run like fire through its veins,
While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;
But every now and then broad sunlit days
Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.
Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us
It does not speak of mossy forest ways,
Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch;
But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea!
An artist once, with patient, careful knife,
Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea.
Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown back
By the gay, sunny wind, which whips the blue
And breaks it into gleams and sparks of light.
Among the flashing waves are two white birds
Which swoop, and soar, and scream for very joy
At the wild sport. Now diving quickly in,
Questing some glistening fish. Now flying up,
Their dripping feathers shining in the sun,
While the wet drops like little glints of light,
Fall pattering backward to the parent sea.
Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows,
Or skimming some white crest about to break,
The spirits of the sky deigning to stoop
And play with ocean in a summer mood.
Hanging above the high, wide open door,
It brings to us in quiet, firelit room,
The freedom of the earth's vast solitudes,
Where heaping, sunny waves tumble and roll,
And seabirds scream in wanton happiness.

Thank you Galileo for tilting up at their sky,
as the bull, crab, and ****** sent caution from thought
to the flat dirt umbrelled by musing why,
''or a fire of stone from an old hellish plot''

Sinners will crumble like a drum to a wall.
Glints of knife scratches shall drop from their clouds,
while Libris will beckon to the vowels of the tall.
Your protest shall quiver to madness aloud.

Plighted in brick, left to whince to your game,
the branders, hatassers preach love and then die,
but the truth of their lie only whispers exclaim.
Thank you Galileo for releasing this sky.

This room smells of cigarettes and ******* (“My daily cologne,”)
Before it was bought, this place was a home—
But now it’s just storage—
A place to get horizontal.

You don’t have a religion (“This isn’t adultery,”)
You proudly show your body
You’re not afraid of sin
You’re not afraid of this intense heat (“I’ll let you **** me thin.”).

I can reach you at *69
Being away makes everything hard.
It’s a 1-800 number—
Payable by cash or card.

Even when we were teens (“When you were sixteen,”)
You could always pleasure me (“And I was fourteen,”).
Even though I’m married (“It was the best time for me.”),
You’re the one I need.

You’re the angel in these bed sheets (“The devil with my chains.”),
The local roaming God—
We down whole bottles of sweet Champagne (“You didn’t even have this at your wedding,”)
And stand up on the balcony (“Having *** in the rain.”).

Sweat glints on your body in this smoke-filled light
And shimmers on your neck.
(“My eyes are open so I can remember,”) My eyes are closed so I can
Forget, forget, forget.

You won’t change yourself (“Come away with me,”),
And I know that you won’t cry (“I can make you happy,”),
But even though my eyes are closed (“The tract marks will disappear-”),
I like to pretend you try (“We can live forever if we make it past thirty.”).

This room smells of alcohol and ******* (“The scent my wife just knows.”),
Know that I remember and love you (“I don’t want a wife, I want”),
But you’re not just mine to have (“you to be with me.”),
Just try to save some time for me.

This romance of ours is deep (“We’re not going to make it.”),
Even if it’s two hundred and hour—
You were always worth the money
Saying the one is me (“Even if we try,”).

We’re going to die here together,
Just you and I (“The tracts are way too deep.”),
We’ll be in each other’s arms
In life we couldn’t do that (“But in death we’ll **** well try”).

In the dim yellow light beneath deciduous trees she spun methodically in Autumn. Shadows loomed aloft, chirping their approval. She spun and seemed to levitate, the flickers of the evening flame reflected in her pale green eyes darting in between loose strands of bland vermilion hair. And she spun and spun as if she'd spin forever,

Autumn.

She was Autumn there and then, personified in glints of golden green and faded yellow brown descending listlessly to greet the open canvas of the forest floor.
And the shadows pressed into the earth and disappeared as overhead the rain slashed through the shyness of the crowns betwixt the trees.

And she slowly spun her last, and lastly, panting stood before me naked, shivering in the gentle gales that rose and fell like Mozart's heavy heart.

I beckoned her with dead weights crudely fashioned to the pauldrons of my coffin that hung lowly, swaying listless as the leaves. And she smiled a tired smile and blew the kiss I yearned for seasons to receive before collapsing in the dirt.

In Autumn.

-Mike Robbins-

Such is the fate that defines,
I have all I need, not what I want,
I will still laugh it off,
Tell myself I’m not the only one lonely,
It happens to everyone sometime,
Then I feel to me it happens every other time,
Unable to hate everything despite being in silent misery,
I’m afraid I will get used to it,
Where the world doesn’t stop without you,
But it’s not the same as with you,
In glints of light I imagine your eyes sparkle,
But then everything I call beautiful,
Reminds me of you.

A forest pathway I follow
Through a distant misty hollow
To a far place where thoughts unwind
That's buried deep within my mind
To the smooth banks of a clear stream
In this fair dream within a dream
My River Lethe gently calls
And to her depths, my spirit falls
In her sweet waters, I forget
This life of sorrow and regret
Perhaps this river, flowing free
Will pull me to the endless sea
Where Nereids live within the caves
So deep beneath its swirling waves
And lifetimes pass in depths pristine
As sun glints through aquamarine
And there one senses pure delight
As currents dance in pearly light
So to the sea where dolphins play
On this river, I'll drift away.


Note: Lethe, from Greek mythology, is pronounced:
'Leethee'.'

the lapping water drifting to the sand,
the smugglers hurry o'er the silver wave,
a rose-moon blushing where the waters lave
and moonlight glistens on the breezy strand.
the oars are steady, gliding to the land
the stroke of midnight near a watery cave,
their whisp'ring feet run silent as a grave                                              
to its dark reach to hide the contraband.
the waves roll mistily with honeyed breath
the sky, a vault of iron, weeps a tear,
the sweeping waters break and start to veer,
a gold tooth glints, the night as black as death,
a dreadful shout, the watch is drawing near,
how suddenly their faces pall with fear!

There once was a boy with bones of obsidian and onyx eyes.
He held me as if all that was beneath my
thickly woven sweater sleeves was my
hollow crystal skeleton.
He held me up to the light like
seaglass he discovered on the beach
and let the sunset filter through me.
One night the onyx in his eyes was sparkling with glints of ruby
and what he didn't know when he
wrapped his hand around my neck and squeezed too tight,
reached into my chest and stole an artery from my rose quartz heart
and an amethyst knuckle from my ring finger,
was that beneath my rose-gold toenails
were leaden feet.
I kicked him swiftly in the groin and ran.
Then came a boy with sapphire eyes.
When he touched me, I felt polished and clean.
He was the first boy I let
take off my knitted sweater.
He stroked the smooth surface of my bones
and when he shattered them,
he would help me repair them.
Between the cracks of my translucent skeleton
are slivers of the shiniest sapphire
you've ever seen.

TV light glints from pale fingertips.
For how long have I been passed out?
The longest I've been dead is nine whole days.
Stirring in pitch darkness to faraway sounds
delusion of two dark cracked lips upon mine
infect long loved texture with bitter hate.
Now from Heaven a hand rips off the roof
godly divine bound in rags soaked in proof.
"Drink of me, drink me down."
I'm left lone and uncovered under basalt skies.
"Drink now, drink forever."
Here I'm left vulnerable to you and that original knife.
"Drink down, drink down, now."
So swallow, I think, swallow.

Pressure from within building, pushing out
ruptures suddenly leaving a cold head hot.
Twisted highway we ride quakes spewing black
broken fragments through white eyes as glass.
Hungrily ******* for life, skyward again.

TV light glints from pale fingertips.
For how long have I been passed out?
Falling, with unfolded wings.
Dreaming, luciferous dreams.
Burning, brightly nine days straight.

I bring and bid you drink from two leaking lips.

The artist paints yellow, pink, and red
roses on her canvas,
glints of blue at the edges
dripping and spilling.
Something for spring, she says.
She gently smiles,
her hand rubbing
the swelling curve
of her belly,
just a black shirt and ragged blue jeans
covering another kind of canvas.
Underneath
something else entirely
waits to bloom.