ｔｈｅ ｐｏｅｔ
ｉｓ ｔｈｅ ｈｏｍｅｌｅｓｓ ｍａｎ
ｏｎ ｔｈｅ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｒｎｅｒ;
ｄｏｎ'ｔ ｐａｓｓｅｔｈ ｈｉｍ ｂｙ,
ｈｅ ｈａｓｔ ｍａｎｙ ｓｔｏｒｉｅｓ
ｔｏ ｔｅｌｌ.



©ｂｒａｎｄｏｎ ｎａｇｌｅｙ
©ｌｏｎｅｓｏｍｅ. ｐｏｅｔｓ. ｐｏｅｔｒｙ

Model cutout of a still photograph
***** with pointed *******
Attacking at my ***** hairs
like ergot on rye
almost robotic
her stare descending
  
As the sun from the horizon beams
brightness upon the displayed man-
nequin and I grow from manikin to
MAMMOTH
  
We've kissed before, with her soft velvet
body hair playing my brain like a
Kennebuc County bluegrass musician picks at his banjo
Caressing me.  Attacking me.  Devouring me.
Devoiding me of anyone else
  
The galaxy moves constant.  Mankind
can not slow it down.  There's a
crash-course in friendship.  The
Least important word is "I".  The
most important word is "we".  Yes.
I remain.  Nailed

i.

The governmental beast's
Plotteth right before thine sight;
As many art blinded
By the lies put in the night.

ii.

Making many believeth
Through their media puppet's;
Whilst big elite pulleth thy string's
Secret society member's push it.

iii.

Illuminati, Bilderberg's,
Skull and bones, some unknown;
Now spotlighted, being known
Martial law, to break thy home's.

iv.

All for greed, their new world order,
United Nations vehicles parked
In California; train's with guillotine's
Thirty-thousand that is,
Whilst the young protest
Ignorant bullsh....
Freedom's being taken
Before thy eye's,
It started by the taking
Of the natives land;
European suicide.
Blood shalt be spilt
In the land of the high
Because of the filth
Of rich men's ties;

v.

Rockefeller called it
Whilst Rothschild named it;
Henry Kissinger indugled it
Bush. Sr didst inflame it.
Training going on
Worldwide for this,
A complete takeover
An r.f.i.d chip.
A tracking device
For the forehead and hand;
Revelation thirteen dear poet, poetess, and man.
Revelation stated; (And he had power to give life unto the image of the beast, that the image of the beast should both speak, and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the beast should be killed.) Didst thou readeth that? Didst not get enough fill? Also goeth this. Revelation,
16And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: 17And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. 18Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.
Readeth this again, no man may buyeth nor sell without the mark of this devil tempted man;
Already into act into Mr. Obama's healthcare law,
Bilderberg's saidst by the year two-thousand and seventeen they want their chip Into all,
Signs art showing, were coming to a close,
Awaketh to Christ's truth and his love Utmost.
Christ spoke: I am the way, truth and the life, no man
Cometh to the father but by ( me) Jesus that is the Lord and the king,whilst other's art found in tomb's- Christ hath holes in his hand's and his feet, millions of near death experiences- with only jesus didst they meet. Awaketh mine poet's, get out of slumber, An Antichrist is upon us, the demon's knoweth their day's art numbered. Taketh a look around: demonic influence. Satan's got a short time to killeth, And surely he wilt do it. A prominent Jewish Rabbi is telling his people in Israel he believed their Messiah is here, so art the Muslim leader's, what's wrong? Not clear? Them telling other's they believeth their Messiah soon shalt appear, just means the antichrist wilt show, and a Tribulation's near. Awaketh from slumber I telleth once again, these book's of Christ weren't a play or a myth for pretend. The heaven's art moaning, the earth tis in travail, prophecies hath come true as more art daily neath the veil. Many by the million's art having dream's of his return, please no comment needed if it's for making fun of or scorn, tis I want none to mourn but to open their sight's to truth. Be aware, payeth attention to that thing we calleth the news. Find Christ, if thou hath not, if so cometh back to him, I sayeth this as a warning. Poetess, poet's, beautiful friends...... For God is a loving God, waiting for thee and me to return, a new age of the slave, is waiting for it's turn.......




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

i.

She's the finest
Filipino rose;
As tis as tis,
I loveth to watch her petals shine.

ii.

She's the kindest,
Gentlest soul;
As tis she is
Divine;

iii.

She's the sweetest
Nectar of honey;
O' I'm blessed
With a inamorata of plenty.

iv.

She's mine heaven
Mine earth, and the moon;
She's the life, verily mine wife,
Who awokest me from mine tomb.





©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane sardua Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)

Shadowic heroic ornamental's, false breed's cometh as incense breather's betwixt lively instrumental's. Macrogram plaza's to abrahamic venue's. Caller's calleth upon themselves to saveth what is not theirs;

Morning breath, to winter's dew, hath thou been born yet? Is the baby yet due?

Constant pain's to loss taken gain's maketh brain's and vein's out of organically made flesh; becometh thine own creator, thou creed of selfishness. Anchor heavy soul dragged away by chain's of past forget-not's, wherein the ground stayeth hot to ruin moronic window's.

Maketh thy bed of silvered spring's thy own rusted medieval pillow; thou grand ol' operatic theme, thou patriarch to a dream,  Art ourn day's but a whisp of a second's last?

Thing's hath cometh to the listening one, the earth's spinning to fast; the mechanism's now begun.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prison writing's

Galileo couldst not even seeith
The heaven that lieth
Inside queen Jane;

Einstein couldst not even dreameth
The beauty
Inside of her brain;

Edwin Hubble lived inside
Of a bubble, being blinded
From her view;

Stephen hawking, forget thine
Scientific talking; mine empress
Is from God, a divine muse.

Isaac Newton, recalculate thine
Mathematic's; mine amour' is not a number,
Awakest from slumber, sweet Jane is aromatic.




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)

When Christ returns from the East 'twould be quite proper indeed that he call upon the mountains of North Carolina as the Holy Platform , Soco Falls most assuredly a replica of the Heavenly Gates , the surrounding colors of the Appalachian woodlands painted by the Angels themselves ..

They say that I have problems:
Schizophrenia and such.
There’s a lot more, but
I don’t understand very much.

Am I crazy?
I can’t possibly be!
There isn’t anything
Wrong with me.

Why am I in this cage?
Just because I can’t remember my name
Doesn’t mean that I am insane!

If these walls could speak, what would they say?
Would they grieve for the loss of those who had been in this room,
Not realizing that their time was wasting away?

Or do people enjoy losing their minds?
Do they like the sense of clarity that it brings,
Like knowing why the caged bird sings?

The visitors I had today,
The visitors do not exist,
Or so the doctors say.

I told the doctors about the knight
Who showed me how to make pictures with raindrops on the window.
They simply said that my mind is in limbo.

The dragon told me a story
Of how he rescued the knight from the princess,
But the knight got all of the glory.

The princess tells me about the voices,
The voices, the voices that whisper all around
As you slowly feel your sanity giving ground.

“No! Stop! Get out of my head!”
At least, that’s what I wanted
Before my sanity fled.

Quiet
Peaceful
Room to think
Noise
Friends
Clarity
Reason
Chaos
Insanity
Infinity
What a luxury
It must be
To lose your
Mind
Completely.

My friend, what if you are the one who is in chains bound to this earth,
And I am the bird, the one who is soaring free?

Indeed, I thank you
For giving me some hope
By sharing your love so true
For injecting me the wisdom of the pope

Tried, but mostly I've failed
The exam was too difficult
Dark thoughts seem to me, was heavily nailed
To optimism, I am just an insult

So why? why back again?
Mostly because the wisdom of the dark is truer
I'm sorry, it’s really hard to begin
Believing in a myth was much bluer

I hope you'll understand such situation like this
This insanity in my head
Why I need to blow your sweet perfect kiss
And choose the bitter lips of pessimism instead

So here I am now
Singing the same depressed song
I know I won't received any bow
But I'm home, back where I belong....


written: January 29, 2015 at 10:00 pm
Depressed Mode
Mysterious Aries

There's gotta be more than all this waiting
I know I'm being impatient
But I need this to be over
It's so frustrating
Not giving into the temptation
Where's my life been?
How did everything get this complicated?
I'm jaded and frustrated
Feels like my whole life is just wasted
I need to simplify,
I'm not obligated but I got this emotional need
To just breathe, take in the scenery
Before everything in my life
Finally escapes me

Nothing that I see
Could be as beautiful as thee
Even the sweet breeze between the trees as we sleep
It could never carry me as far as your kiss in the rain
I could never wake from this midnight dream
And if I did I would only speak your name
All of this waiting
Every patient moment another illuminating grain of
sand falls through the frame of an hour glass

                      And hours pass between goodbyes and hellos,
                       but it only feels like a second every time I get a dose

                                              Of you.

O' to thee this heart belongeth, to thee I layeth down all; exposed, unclothed, in spiritual configuration I'm raw. O' tis with thee I standeth tall, in sainthood hall's, erstwhile ripped and mauled; now reincarnated by thine enchanting call. I'm glorified, in thy eye's I taketh a dive; and splash. Inside thine dusky vision's I've found riches, wealth, a stash. A hideaway, wherein I'm faraway on cumuli of better day's, wherein ourn bodies sway, until were old and gray, and we reawake into eternal life. Husband and wife, to where all is right, and we art protected in the almighty author's finger's. A poetess Reyna as thee, and me as thine poet, and singer. Amour' bringer's, jotting dimple's as minstrel's atop holy church steeple's. Welcomed in by conglomerate people's; as we hold eachother's hand's, locking finger's to starlit showers. Tis we hold the key's to intimate and infinite hour's. We passeth the time by rhyme's of divine flower's that canst shimmer on a dime's notice. Unbound as a lotus; opening up ourn feather's.




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose ) dedication

i.

Giveth respect
For the poem's
Not lit;

ii.

Those art the best
The one's
We seemeth to forget;

iii.

Giveth respect
To the back alley
Poet's.

iv.

The one's with
None likes:
And their poem's below it.

v.

Shineth a thumb's up
To the one's whom deserve
It;

vi.

To the true ancient
Poet's;
The one's we seemed to forget.

vii.

It doth not taketh mazuma
To maketh a bard
Grow;

viii.

It taketh a
Share and a like;
To maketh the unknown known.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry