pretty pearl anklet
adorning your foot
tiara crown
princess ***** cow
all dressed up in a dark red
cherry sequined
come **** me dress
black lacquered nails
body beautiful prepped
for ordeal by *******
and pretty girl strangle
torture blood ****
wiggle wiggle
**** pink aglow
glistening hive
your mouth piece
bilingual
fucky and baby talk
all manicured and bejeweled
glitter and tears
***** food
inch worm lover
little bludgeon

your excited
for a bed of nails
what a luxury
legs spread wide
***** drool melt
your scent
a silk **** cocktail
in thick puce
stained pink milk pom poms
****** beyond tabulation
come sweet cow
its time for slaughter
down on your haunches
you look up
thrilled
dark dreams do come true
i love you
like the bog loves bones
embalmed in spice

oh but too my own, misery, should i be denied it,
i find it hard to suggest what pains i am to deny others
in the fiefdom of the crass suggestion as worthy of a
kingly undergarment and  whatever suiting the kippah
to befit both the monkish barbers' sunshine lazy ordinance
of polished marble and cranium  and the cardinal's crimson
shoe disguise of political poker to echo a pope's red shoe
Cinderella worthy a faking of democratic shoo or coo;
oh indeed ****** like the angels and kept as a diabolical
vocabulary to marginalise any auxiliary suggestion;
i'd rather shove a turtle up my ****  than shove your ego
through my mouth, to **** with ease would please me more
than to speak with such dis-satisfaction
as to succumb to a justifiable tribunal
of fatigue against the state - i.e. one-word crossword
puzzles are hardly the logical excavation prompts
readying for war, should they be suggested
as jeopardy, or treason - sooner then
the sun hang at noon higher, than the moon
be bathed at midnight among the nadir of the sewers,
whichever way the intrigues waver
in acknowledging weakness or strength -
let i become lost amassing more than the fewer new
utilised words, that i become lost in befriending
the fewest possible manners and subsequent curbing on vocabulary:
as friendly, thus subsequently endowed with hostility
and historical revisionism that might steal
a man's shadow, even if kept with the man's brother's shadow;
paranoia is another term for plurality - and indeed
variances of logic always existed: as long as the Eiffel prophecy existed,
the king held sway over pyramids and schematics
of high fashion, or some ******* about
punctured condoms and ladies in waiting -
or David's Lyre and Solomon's last harem moan exalting
the forgotten prayer of a teenager... well...
what an exalted circumstance to suddenly don the
clown make-up and subscribe to Israeli history?
**** me and my regret with prostitutes...
is this some high school reunion get-together?
i was waiting for the perfected font... all i got was
as a subject worth an A*, but because of a ****** handwriting
having only been given a D+;  hell, we can all make
the angelic prosaic with our complaints,
but to make the poetry we have to sometimes act-out
***** **** in positions of high power like being
a nymphomaniac and a district attorney.

oh right, she's the *** "slave" that gets kissed on the lips after being given oral ***, getting paid £110 AN HOUR... i'm i'm just a free-radical floating about on an income of £120 A WEEK waiting for charity of food and roof? well then... i hope that translates when i speak with a *******'s tongue stolen while having licked all the former ***** out of her **** and said: only i was in there... oh for ****'s sake! take the ****** out, i can feel the mouse tail on the tip of it! so who's the ***** now? the only oil i apply to my brain to ease the pressure after going 30 odd hours sober without sleep is alcohol, i imitate a axe action on my neck feeling my third tonsil turning into a throbbing muscle.

the split apart grapheme in greek!
θ                      and                        φ!
the lost grapheme!
thermometer                                           the
                                                             ­     v'eh or d'eh?
imagine saying     θarmacology
and imagine saying φermometer! imagine!
the english empire... shushed in a second in Dublin,
god knows why Yeats was read by
Clint Eastwood, and to my surprise,
a toothache or a broken nose readjusted is
more painful than what i managed to spot
in the greatest boxing movie: million dollar baby...
some pains are greater, the pains of the past
the past not rekindled are greater than
those of the present, the present can be overcome,
the indestructible element, what with
fire, water, earth, air, electricity, the seventh being
soul - all the others are preserved in continuum,
why can't the soul be kindred of the others,
is it to forever remain a ******* from the *****
bank of Louis XIV, huh?! the soul is equally elemental,
all modern science can tell me a that it's
worth walking in a library rather than a forest,
that all trees will eventually be treated as
toothpicks, matchsticks or pencils,
but i am not bound to exist in the mind
of another person, i am not to be the host eternal,
for all the science, we've become less
individualistic and more prone to parasites
of theory... personally i'd prefer the membrane
of phobias to keep me safe rather than
transcend these little millimetre irrationality
segments to be captured by a frigate of the grand
theorists...

please tell me it's just a horror case of aesthetics,
please! but no, you won't...
i know the overbearing particularity of English
due to missing diacritic,
i know the significance of significant syllable
cutting-up due to diacritical application -
the Greeks had a premature ******* starting
to use them... they shouldn't have...
THE ENTIRE WORLD WAS WAITING
FOR THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE TO BEGIN USING
DIACRITICAL MARKS! why did the Greeks
jump too early into the whirlpool? look at English
culture, they're gagging, rather than laughing,
we were all waiting for them to catch-up to the aesthetic,
they didn't, the Greeks made a falsetto on the 100m sprint,
they should have waited, and waited, until
the English applied diacritical distinction to the print,
in order that they might deal with programming,
encoding, computer language, no wonder
English once so eloquent disintegrated into emoticons
and acronyms! look at it! there's no point feeling
a nostalgia for only one man, there's no point
keeping Shakespeare when there's an entire
century to decipher, Marlowe et al. (i preferred
his Faust to Goethe's - one breath reading session
in Dover) - with nostalgia come the many merry men
of Southampton, not one, you can't do nostalgia
primum uno, you need a species, can we find the
required shrapnel in the Caribbean or in the
Venice of the Indian ocean, namely the Maldives?
you can't do nostalgia like that,
you need at least one other, otherwise future literature
extravagance will be as short-lived as
the Counter-Reformation given Martin Luther,
he isn't god, never was, but imagine the feeling
of disgrace that even poor Charles Dickens couldn't
match up to!

indeed the Greek created the consonant grapheme,
and many other twins separated at birth,
to fuel an orthographic aesthetic -
a bypass necessity of the opposites and lacking
colour - false stance of defeat written on white,
but geometrically written in the *******-out of colour,
therefore mutating, deliberate encoding due to
how to write like an Impressionist or how to write
like a Surrealist...

but as i remember, the riff to Black Sabbath's
black sabbath* written in tabulation:

e ||                                                  (boo tome)
b ||
g ||
d ||
a ||
E ||                                                   (top um)

opening riff sounds like this:

d ||                    3
a ||                                      2
E ||    1    

                 for the trembling effect, quickly
                 interchange with

a ||                                      2             /            3.

now, I will try to abandon time and space
in this form of truancy.

what is this abandonment trying to measure?
  the abeyance of presence.

what is the measured variable trying
to dissect? the impossibility of absence.

a poem aspires to be something concrete. a poem
   is what is real and imagined in the same context.

I try to invoke Abad -- what is imagined is most
   real.  this shall be its leitmotif.

now, i imagine the horizon as a point

of origin, or a template to some familiar projection,
  or a tagebuch summarized into a fine line
of allegories and denouement.

what this line tries to prove is that

an enjambment is a mimesis.

acknowledge the sublimity of a
  creation. notice that the sequence that will
be promised is diegesis of absence as form
     but not a poem as in a poem that enshrines
lucidity -- but the lack of it.

there is only the photograph of horizon
   as hypothesis of perpetuality. this now

is a subject, a speculative undertaking rearing a
   poem -- writing as preparatory for absence,

finishing a line as pursuit of thesis, gravity of
    its heft as tabulation of emphasis, or
verbosity, which may be telling of meaning or chronology.

a poem that is not a poem,
  But poem as a form of absence

that aspires to be a poem.

what is transpiring now is that i am assuming
   an utterance: utterance as being here,

and perhaps voice as sound of becoming but not finality
   of presence, and sound as disappearance

post-peak. its point-source silence and formation
   of thought, and then a poem is written as

evidence of disappearance in deep and close
   contest with a vision coming from another

audience as an objective supposition or
   reaction that may propel an exchange

but only when silence is entertained does
  silence happen, and so this may be dismissed

as a monologue among dialogues insofar as
    only to pinpoint this arrogant feat:

i may be speaking glossolalia, or in tongues,
  and that i seek no reprieve nor vestige,

all the more response -- intone of voice
   stilling itself in the tense setting

of being gazed upon, glazed with coherence
  of senses from one identity to another say,

you hear me speak as in speaking
as baring sound.
   but now that i have spoken, i have already undone

  the quiet to stir volumes and amplitudes
to attest sound-fade as vital component of absence,

whereas this poem produces ample sound
  if you pay close attention to yourself reading

in the lull form of reading (your
breathing will have intensified here,

your reasoning will have made so much
  noise here) as i continue to whittle

away in form of verse, verse not as poem,
  verseliteration not as occupancy of space,

but all in all, a body of work
that is a visage of movement - or a trace of absence, physics of space and kinesis of departure.

a delineation of a thing that was once
   thriving in threshold accompanied

by its tendency to wane: sound may be an
     analogue of unheard, as sound is impervious
to quietude but quietude conscious of sound
     and its potential,

that quiet coheres to its inclination to consummation,

this completeness so emphatic,
this allegory as
  absence the somatic, axiomatic,

indefatigable machinery of a presage,
   or continuity -- this poem that is not a poem,

but an excess of sound, a body that
   deserves end,  a punctuation.
     verity of this argument in basest form.

this body of work as absence
  and its completeness, volition

of its enigma: is this the end
  of sound or your silence summoned?

to drag it back, its recalcitrant body,
   is form of revision, then possession

of an absence, a recollection that will have granted
   seamless entry and translation

which passes on from its origin to
  a new clause -- to end it here, now and pass

over as readable only in the background that is
   an embellishment of absence amongst

things in exclusive continuity, to have this produced
   in space as empirical of absence,

and to punctuate this, a mystification,
or say, acceptable fabrication,

to read and extricate as acceptance of an absence
   as form: this poem that is not a poem but

only a physicality delimited -- to speculate
and study
as disbelief, and to have done such simply

demystification of its transition.

Tabulation without results
Living here
I’m a part of cults

More than one
Not even two
Yes me.
Yes you.

I sometimes doubt
That we‘ll ever see
I sometimes doubt
If we could ever be

Like the electrons
Floating in empty space
We don’t even see
What’s right in front of our face?

Like neutrinos never erased
Sooner or later
By this hovering planet
We’ll be defaced

Tabulation without results
Living here
I’m a part of cults

More than one
Not even two
Yes me.
Yes you.

Capture the microcosm effect
Separation united
From the dangerous affect

Tabulation without results
Living here
I’m a part of cults

More than one
Not even two
Yes me.
Yes you.

I sometimes doubt
That we‘ll ever see
I sometimes doubt
If we could ever be

Like the electrons
Floating in empty space
We don’t even see
What’s right in front of our face?

Like neutrinos never erased
Sooner or later
By this hovering planet
We’ll be defaced

Tabulation without results
Living here
I’m a part of cults

More than one
Not even two
Yes me.
Yes you.

Capture the microcosm effect
Separation united
From the dangerous affect

Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
  wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
   a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
  to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
   feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
  The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
  collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
  itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
      available for the world to break once again.

Forcing an alignment of corporate resources
for some theory of best fit correlation
doesn't work on Kingdom People
when using an unspoken method of tabulation.

If Life is about true spiritual growth,
then why do ministries attempt to pigeon-hole
not making any allowances for us
to develop, expand and break our current mold?

Despite multitudes of outcome possibilities
the Church seems to suffer bouts of paralysis
from the continued mashing of talents and gifts
resulting from unexplained Presbyterian analysis.

There are many ministry leaders who speak of vision -
Their tone indicates that the laity is completely blind and numb;
their message is clear - the Body is not interested
to reach the Earth before Kingdom Come.

We are souls with great, untapped potential
and not just elements of an array.
Despite our abilities and life experiences,
our dreams and desires we're not allowed to convey.

For a failure of Church motivational tricks
comes from cramming God's People into a human matrix.



Author Notes:

From the book: Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
The ISBN is: 1-4196-5051-3

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.

Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?

Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?

Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?

the horse rummages on the track
and the victory is owned by the ****.
soon sleep will engulf my body
like the oblivious quietude of Aokigahara-jukai.
things and their semblance of utmost care.
light begins to burst
and there is little left to see,
wide-eyed, crunched by the efficacy of aches.
taking all to the very heart of hurt
as gamblers wager,
and coming back with the sound of completeness:
a man is a man in his chronology of defeat -
left torn by madness,
a cornered beast pressed against the woods.

the moon plays its lyre, white-washed,
sound wading in the very source of quiet,
hauled out of the Sun, its mother.
this hound stalks the world
with woebegone legs, a reflection of the entire world fractured
by a singular shot at the end.
i hear the guttural snarl of engine
unwavering in its limitations. say, at first light, all exists to paint darkness quicker
than any obfuscated conclusion -- hiding in
itself, its mood for squalors.
the mud dug deep for bones
pared from the slaughter of midnight,
hiding them to mask my defeat:
everything around me sparkles with
the vigor of frailty, all the same.

the nights are too long, scarce as froth
from an opened mouth left flat,
a dry gin bottle.
i imagine sad armies dissolving in pale moonlight, and crosses thumbed down to the snaking hiss of its nondescript prayer.
gears gnash like teeth in anger
of you in your young clothes, the pace of cars
hurrying back to homes.
i remember the splintered wood burning
the last in the round kiln of the Red Lion.
the upholstery of night is the twilight's
catharsis. the coast of dread widens like
the vernal metamorphosis of a young ******* in Gibraltar,
come in, come in with undecided ******.
you can hear the fall coalesce with the levitation of ember, landing like feet blunt
on the asphalt beside desolate bicycles
    in seedy parks.

the surreal tabulation of analogue repetitions:
death's myriad, in all corners screaming
the countenance rebel, against the floored masses.

Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?

Mirrorball - “the fabrication of our performance”

a life long struggle to accept who I am,
of course, lose, and lose again, and
the fabrication of our performance now
inherent in every excuse and mirrorball
revolving asking, no, laughing, at our
vanity, as we endeavor, enabled by the
paucity of ego, the neediness of weakness’s
to catch, keep, hold each single flickering
light spot in our open, slick palms forever

we fabricate our performance of daily living,
modifying our measurements to match output,
only a human cannot wake only to fall within
each daily tabulation without thinking, once:

I am a hero, worthy of acknowledgement, just
look at my hands! see how many spots of
light I can claim as mine! the mirrorball turns
and turns paying no mind to the worshipers
below, until some sorrowful fool confesses,
fools fail, fools fail, turning the dervish off,
the white flag of ego darkened, once more...

we are all false poets, false prophets, occasionally confessing



7:34 AM
Sat Jul 18
The Year of the Virus, Corona

Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?

.
Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?

Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?

Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?

Wavelength   I - XVI

The Hyper Wavelength accelerated the transit of the Paraps or chapters from the first to the sixteenth, having to say that the energy between these initial Paraps could not determine the quantized energy in value lines, subordinating themselves to infinite values that anticipated forms that would be transferred from somebodies. to other material and immaterial. Making the energy value elemental sediment where the energy of the War Animal became an edge of the equation due to the height of its strength and multidirectional hyper-accelerated mobility in sixteen algorithms in its Muscular Meat Piece until the Final Apud Tertium. In quantum terms, this would mean transmitting Zeus's ultraviolet, generating a Katastrophe that would be nuanced with the Value of V= h•k, entailing radiation in future successions of high-level electromagnetic fields and in the Katastrophe as a start in which nothing would mutate from other fields, no less. trying reasons from other unknown fields. Vernarth's Aperture Paraps began to migrate according to the iridescent spectrum of the dark value, emitting towards other darker areas, carrying discrepancies in the farmsteads of the non-existent but kinetically existing Mythology, disagreeing that a mind that does not imagine but its energy that inaugurates the axon quantum making possible the real magnitude of the union of the Paraps as an energetic pyramid that represents density that is arranged between Vernarth and the unimaginable light field of energy quantization, whose axial oscillates when transmigrating from its agreed organism in integer multiples h•k, where the impossibility closes all imagination that opens in a wavelength that is precisely arranged between photons that would begin to shake due to the intensity of square meters and the timing that would play in the succession of each Ellipsis in a medium wave.

It is considered that the intensity mediated by the energy will be a photoelectric quotient that will come from square meters in the rays of light and wave that would be broader than those that Zeus could hold if he demanded greater prominence and intensity than the time itself that allows him to be incorporated in the Mythological and Submythological quantum interstice. Remaining each surface illuminated with wavelength radiation with photoelectron braking potentials in the meantime when oscillating in each two-dimensional space that would be composed of Paraps XVII onwards, with the sole mission of preventing Vernarth's electrons from reaching the anode to subtract the energy that should not affect the kinetics of his parapsychology moving tons of information from great sages being dragged by this phenomenon of Submythology (e • V) where “e” would be Kinetics and V, Vernarth postponed to the phenomenon of systems of equations that allow determining what values are assimilated to products versus laborious neophyte expeditions, and actions prone to stopping the time that was contained between each Paraps process. Generating thus, a logic that will make magnitudes towards a real dependency between the world of the origin of elemental Vernarth with the metallic cathode of a photoelectric cell that is illuminated simultaneously with two monochromatic radiations that were combined with the relationship of the stars and the Katastrophe Zeus's ultraviolet when he managed to uncoil gives all speed that was the euphemism of Hellenic Astrality. Right here the luminous radiosity would affect the serial equal to that of the Sulfur bringing immediately the electron of the Genus of the Duoverse Itheoi, and the god Sulfur extending to the initial margin of a photoelectric god.

The maximum speed is based on the radiation intensity, influencing the speed of the photons that would advance towards the Paraps or Chapters in the Vernarth dimension, expressing long waves that would finally occupy the initial sections of Paraps I to XVI. The zero-energy and zero-motion of the plot in Vernarth's actors would be subjected to this quantum dimension Inter Paraps due to the poor mood of the primordial environment that would only give them the light frequency, which could hardly be used to release all the energy. energy stored by the hecatomb of Katastrophe of Zeus with the Ultraviolet that is indicated later in the intervention of the god Azofar and the Mashiach. When the field of action or quantum Axon narrows, they will reach the incident potential that will release electrons in enormous extraction and release ducts towards the cathode field that would move towards the Iridescent Nimbus. The equation of the I to the XVII Chapter will point out that it could be perfectly encapsulated in a timeless measure creating its own energy and its own autonomous sustenance among those that make up the parapsychological energy fields as adhering spaces and concomitance between the material and anti-material. Here it is only intended to tell what moves in the forefront in a certain plane of gnosis with another that in parallel intends to wield itself in systemic freedom by expressing what this quantum lies dimensionally in the events, since the imperceptibility that happens is not enough to stock up on limitations of a Wavelength that would correspond to Vernarth hydrogen atoms, offering patterns of the existing limit in a portion of physics, and in openings that exceed the length of a wave even if they became sidereal when arriving in the reading of a Paraps if it is that it be a question of coinciding in the Vernarth serial from V to H as the same spectrum of the restrict serial in each value to be considered. The quantum is sometimes pure mass of stubby and hyper-accelerated organism crawling through large portions of beefy masses that overestimate the value of length beyond an exhale that will not return from H to V. This brilliantly allows us to discover that Paraps Submythology they would cross the congruence limits of physics towards the tabulation of everything that silently transits visible and not.

The Paraps from I to XVI and the Three finals of Bumodos try to interpret that alchemy is the property of the god Azofar, while his quintessence will seize Vernarth's veins after strong sand cavalcades will make him fluctuate from this quantum of ending in Three-dimensional Paraps, and restructure its hydrographic purpose with tributaries embedded in the torrents of its ill-famed interior, and all the submerged extra-quantum Dorus-Xiphos, with its multiple ****** edges as a new ruddy alliance that will provide us with a new life beyond our sad mournful.

Who are you this evening?

body    first   we took   on the    evening
   like   it    were   virgins     on   flay

we    owe everything   in  praise
   of    moonlight

saying    the   ****   of word
  meaning   it   full   in the   sudden heat
     of   ephemeral   light

once    and   always
  at    once    your   world     became
    a tiny    cage   for that   little hummingbird   heart

and you    wafting
   in    the   wind   like    a cloud
    of       farewell   from   the exhaust
of     transitions


redefining    you    with   intent   stare
     was     searching     for  myself
from    heavings    of      tired     fusuma;
          hefting    out   a    mound   of
equal   parts    divine    and
       sullied       undisguised
yet     only     silence   retained   its   poise
      of     mystery    nothing
I      could   understand

a    hand    in
     hand      is    nothing but  the   instant
merge    and   separation
    and  that    the coming
out     of     words,    a   tabulation
    of    abject    loves

simply    you,   a  splitting    image
     of   a thing   refusing
to   be held   with   one    hand
     on    my face   and   the
    other,     fluttering   away