Abstaining becomes a maverick
Bluffing gets me going stopping being insincere
They pose a question every time
But why does it have to ******* rhyme.
If insecticide was iodine in a breath
And our egos were only temperaments
And (I know what your thinking)
Imagination was diplomatic
I mean to say it didn't have to be an act
And just vibration equalled peace
Well for those who do that weird **** with ease
And an encumbrance was an afterthought
But one that never touched the sky
(My dreams they are collosal and I wish the world knew why)
If sliding on grass wasn't simple
In the way that the C.I.A is
If we infected our children with a bit of disease plasma:
to stop those ******* getting to us.
If we knew the underside of new knowledge
Getting to the facts...
If there was not an act to cover for another fact!
If the reality of the situation matched up to our dreams
If we were not subjects of honour able only to shed tears.
If logic didn't exist just love did so none of us ever choke
If there were several more songs to demonstrate how just today God coped
If there were ants who lived on our shoulders
And dogs that didn't know the meaning of love
If there were melodies that could do more than ****
If confusion was an inner bout of cancer making the outer one obscene
If martyrs wore accolades in honesty
And didn't have to stall
If these aliens were dead
If unicorns bravery opened up portholes into the universe
Where evil will only wait
Or the human beings and others can invite them right on through
And adjust themselves to the time.
If we perceive what is not there we can get the typing too
Rigged through an escaping rhythm that always without tempo recedes
But I don't upset the rhythm
You wouldn't even know what it is
So, I'm an alien am I?
Is that why I'm living in a special zoo?
The angels are fake and I know this on speed
God is real though
And Jesus Christ is our Savior
So for him he begs of you to provide.
Poonanny god

A prophecy isn't something that necessarily won't happen if noone acts on it
Particularly the prophet making the prophecy.
Prophets are mystics,
Yet they give in so easy to the sincerity and standards of mysticism itself
Or just work blankly for the authorities
That they never make their prophecies come true
Clever prophets work it out on a screen or on paper, whilst engaging in their spiritual and health practices etc etc etc, and then they implement the wisdom they've received from that into a plan.
That
Amen flower,
Amen C.I.A
Peace out "Grandma!"
Sorry you're not allowed to take part human prophets

My apologies to you madam
For it seems to me I am lacklustre again
Of course you did not marry me
And yet you are here now -
As if we are in love!


I have asked of you nothing
But STILL you take via your very presence
And the other past love rapists growing
Backwards around me
Including in their so called gangster dialogue


But always in information moving forward
And, therein lies the worry,
boy do they know how to act.
That

Trouble ensnaring my depths like a fool
To outgrow the cost would be to er on the good
Side of my soul but my heart doesn't say that I should

Rely on my heart then, so easy to say
When it hasn't felt love for the longest time
Without tricks at play

To Garner it's wisdom again would take fire
A blazing picture of past vivid emotion
And, still aflame, in the present sincere.

For what looks upon the restless soul
Is (- to make -)
The heart, and willpower alongside it
Means everything else is stolen art

For true transparency, check the dreams
Of a hundred different sways
That the branches of the trees were doing
On Adam and eves first/last autumn day.

The plasmic screen at least of course trained us into rebelling against ourselves
And as ineffectual as it is, the technological or constant onslaught of misidentify makes them slaves to not only themselves but us.

This is just my spiritual knowledge
But of course as a human being, none of my experiences regarding the generosity in communication of/from others (as real as they may be) has been very spiritually rewarding.

However, well, this is all I have to say about it.

Let's start vaping in the communal area again shall we?
And smoking *** legally?
And congregating as unique beings?

Or surely the war in ghaza, Israel and the shut that the elite do to people in escape rooms will get worse.

Hell, let's even wake me up from my coma.

May the holy spirit be with you all.

If you choose to see clearly.

Amen chariots of the gods.
Poonanny Lord. Dancing God. Daisies! And rumbrgh woods in that tent, (truely magical until I abandoned it to the insects... I wonder if they were real or not? And if that's changed til I last/first saw my parents as holograms?) now let's break bread god. Or eat some noodles. Or be Parry to the envision of one long basic metaphor. Amen God.

A tidal wave of grizzly bears
Pulled up in the recliner
Taking hits from a bare forest bongo
And ingratiating themselves into a coma
Poonanny LORD

The fixation of brown on toast
Is basically inviting to a host
As the thought insertion perversions
Drawl on and by
I'm through with what could of been the last line
I've lost my focus
And am reliable enough
To have my rights
Out of time music echoes through the device
A triathalon of apparent excellence
That is if we could see it
It never becomes personal
May as well be a tree
Just because you're thinking our loud to me
Does not mean I have to rely on you
And please do not rely on me anymore.
The intellect itself is enough for articulation
It is an epiphany laced with ghosts of fullness
Many times

The counter intuitive action consumes the
Thorough blow to the chest
From icy winds -
We flee

Gusts of geranimo stall and cluck
Like fearsome dions
And freakishly or fittingly
The armour is won

A wooly hat, woven from a spider hat
The classlessness has treathed forth
Since the beginning though

And these days it's a matter of
Who catching whom
Or whom catching who

When it should be who catching you

As trees are set alight
The coridoors confine us to chestnut oak
And Greek symbology becomes irrelevant
As infancy in a tizz.

Many languages
The that conundrum of autism
The ****** of a mother of a saint in
Teenage confidentiality
But also confidence.

The ma in a name given to the self
To get rid of the schizophrenia diagnosis
And supported housing imprisonment,
...Autisma
Ma meaning mother
And as an autistic still quite unsure
Of the meaning of this

But no longer a schizophrenic
There's always the hand that creeps in
To stigmatize the cuticles.

And so as far as what can be deemed fact
So far
Ma means 'more'
Against the alternative meaning of mother.

Amen god, and how I love you.
Hi C.I.A psychiatrists! Okay I'll put it in writing now
Not that I would say in my gut you didn't already know
But my family appear to me as having completely different identities everyday and i was unaware of this until I arrived here. I, frankly, dont see the point in sticking up for myself with them - because it I'm not <i>with</i> them emotionally. Or spiritually. And I'm not too sure what it is I don't understand, but it's a bit like understanding versus overcoming. and yeah, there's a short summary. Save me!

[ Plus the box ]
Plus the box
It was only until the metaphor and anecdote came rolling around again that
The metaphors disappeared again

A flat bed of polystyrene was the twist, and as far as my mouth could gulp there was no ending.
.
Flow the soldiers proclaimed
Be a dullness upon the dance
Because it's wits are greater than your width
A suppliance of song
Get it wrong
A playful parson
Living in the sticks
Revealing everything to make a stand
For what had been

Take our woes the public said back to the combat
Truth, trust, a reason we need to carry on
A headful of birthday cake was next
But like everything it didn't prevail
What carried on is not to be trusted
Not how I would have explained it
After the birthday cake

Snow bound, brainwashed
Looking for the cost
As much as the wash
Reiterating mouldy ceilings
There was a lot of false grieving
Hands as big as mansions
All searching for a phone
Laughter issues from slithery lips
It's a mystery
God knows the real word
Something like slippery
But more orangutan
Puzzles fall apart
Thats part of the art
And as the meanness recedes
It only grows
Forfeit they did and will again the army
But forget about the songs
They're the only things I care about
Like prophecies I've learnt I Can entangle
Myself without

An eagerness encumbered by too much
Philosophical thought
The lie though, miraculously
I've never bought
A garage door described in
A certain state of mind could change the world
A purpose loaded (pun intended) with suffering
Can animate the industry
Leave me feeling guilty for a bunch of my real people
Still being left on their knees
But progress is key
The game goes on with a plea
Working out x
And stealing the rest
Although I can write
This is no kind of plight
Reasoning with the devil
Will not get you anywhere
Too much love lost
Big lack of interference
All quizzical faces
With no results.
Poonanny LORD.

Artists rumble and weight out the time
It takes to write the appropriate rhyme
Unless it is forgotten in a sea of smoke
Where towers and buildings they wished
Were a joke

Trap the embjambment, the pauper and the prince
A release it would be if he could just sink
Into his own thoughts
Where thus far only thugs dwell
Thrown out from the concept of peace and outcry

For safety he ***** instead of seeks
But a wrinkling meekness is still up on his
Cheeks

Where when he is cheeky he points to the crowd
But the singular ugliness in front of him
Is that which was vowed
And to which he is not allowed

The more he is silent
The more the cut off point arrives
There to disrobe him
And make his father proud

But a sure death lies in it
Where fathomed first turns blue
Is as clueless as the first spring bird
Hopping about on a city scene

But I've seen those cemeteries
And Ive felt their vibrations that that that that that that
And if there's not people alive in them
Then they're just animations

Which I highly doubt
As I see holograms everywhere
And they contain meaning
Even if it's just to scare

But dust arrives justly
In the evening
Where waiting on hand and foot
Another group of seagulls have learnt to sing

And carrying on as weavers they out share
Their grenades, parachutes, and worn out trousers
Just on the look out
For all this foul stuff.