you know it needs the thumb, index, middle and ring fingers to clasp the eroticism of the neck for the geese to fly in man inverse to the hellish fires of emotion that have no sense of temperament?*

even the existential french philosopher sartre was fooled
by what the common man conquered
deemed the end of rome...
but the conversion gave us the long standing
byzantines: saint who never warred
and so warring turned to sainthood,
but the man was rags to riches fraud,
as archaeology - that thing above history proves:
can't deny the papyrus came from india
when it was found in egypt by a real shepherd:
unless you're in it for the money...
and not the fact that pharisees would not have
thrived unto exdous for muscle the 2nd time,
so why such intellectual diversity and thriving
under roman rule... because there was no dislocation?
the conversion of constantine empowered 2nd rome,
byzantine fabrics of jewel of sainthood
than never took to taking an acorn for some reason...
western rome was overrun with orcs, northern folk
previously not conquered when julius caesar looked
and the women of gaul and said: easy **** soldiers...
easy ****: brit girls easy too, but have to pierce
the membrane of fickleness that mediates man conquering
and man scheming (paedophiles).
of course women are worth the conquest...
but in a western society what wages "justifiable"
as war outside of itself... inside it there's a sexist war of pacifism
of one ***... *** changes... you name it...
in a society that exports war and imports pacifism
you will only get angry women and confused men...
pacifistic war is far from the pacific,
it's horrid... woman gets all the weapons:
****, ****, nakedness, ***** and *******...
man gets confused with what war is actually for:
profit... so he earns his share...
honestly... even though he's not warring...
so woman lives longer... becomes entombed
with inheritance... gets ken barbie the 2nd
******* of flamboyant killjoy mansion investments...
and it's equal: the worst sexism is one
that demands a pacifism of one *** but not both;
and we're living in a time when masculine sexuality
is pacified, and where feminine sexuality
is warring... easily duped by womanising wolves
that would reincarnate the third ***** somewhere
far from germany... like syria.

Your love was like sunshine,
slowly warming my soul until
it burned to a crisp.
My love was like moonlight,
usually hidden, but on the
right night, showered you
in a full glow.
I love you darling,
you are a work of art.
I love spending time with you.
I could be with you
for an hour, a day,
a year, for ever,
and not get bored.

he said,
it’s good to still be among the living;

a new year makes someone say things like that

but I wondered,
is it better than walking on streets paved with gold?

the life we leave behind is for those who will miss you

the legacy of our journey, is it in need of forgiveness;
yes it is, always

we make promises we cannot keep;
we turn out lights but cannot sleep

it is because we do not know the difference
between light and dark; or if the difference matters,
we can only listen to a poor black woman, a legacy,
singing gospel with her gift to carry the shame of men;

to carry it to God; TO GOD!

to ask him to forgive them for what they did to her;
because she knew that he would ask her a question

who have you forgiven my child?

CAN YOU IMAGINE ANY OF THIS?

the longest road out west is part of the scene

you can ride alone and think about where everyone went;
why would they not want to live here when it is so quiet;
is that why; the quiet?

even looking at the word makes you feel uneasy,
if only for a moment;
but the soft wind limps behind,
while nature focuses upon you alone,
with your rifle and your hat

beyond wondering what happened there long ago,
and what might be behind that cactus, you can only
keep walking to find what you came for; or maybe
it’s just that;
you and nobody else, with brown grass
and dry air substituted for streets of gold;
and you’re ok with that;
it's because you found somebody who agrees with you

you told her you sure like talking to her; she’s not too
******* you; she gets the strain in your life and how
it’s  really about companionship and not rearranging
everything

she is part of the living and it makes you want to live;
right up to the time that gospel song began to soar,
because that made you realize this whole thing is one;
one with her, one with God, one with that song, one
with that long road

gold ain’t got nothing to do with it

"Oh my, I don't feel
that I can go on much longer.
These old man's heels
have in the past been stronger. "

And then,
down a black Hole
to seek the last truth;
defeating blunders of mind,
but too long in the tooth.

And then,
back out, returning to the open.
Auburn leaves beneath lie still.
Wind stirs, orange spirals woven.
"It's a universal fractal spill."

And then,
"Recursive, it's recursive;
my whole existence has thrived.
One end is subversive,
the other end is contrived."*

And then,
the black Hole opens wide,
*******, grabbing, attracting--
uncontrived, unaware of requite.
One old soul the Hole is extracting.

And then,
...

Sometimes I tell myself that I am normal.
Sometimes I tell myself that I am not.
Sometimes I could drown within the contents of that needle.
I wonder at what time do things work out
I wonder how many hits or how many highs
Could help me arrive to the place of no doubt.
That is my destination, but traveling never seems to cease.
The ceiling over my resting place
Will tell you secrets, if you just remember to say, "please."
Because so often in this world, we just take
We take from whatever is there, when there's nothing even to give.
We have assuredly erased the word "keepsake"
So if you do remember to ask before you assume
If you know that good things come to those who wait
Go with a question and ask the ceiling in my room.
Ask it for the needle or the tears on my pillow
But brace yourself, "Ignorance is bliss."
Some secrets can pierce, like an arrow.
Ask the ceiling for me, if you would
Because I should like to know about myself
All the things I never understood.
My ceiling has seen me, no doubt
The naked me, in the purest sense,
That will ever come about.
Sometimes I wonder just what it would say
"Oh that girl? She lies awake every night.
The edges of her mind have begun to fray."
Or maybe something quite different,
Maybe something like, "Sometimes,
She is very quite brilliant."
I wonder if it might speak with a british voice
For I imagine it does, but watch, it's probably harsh
It probably has no choice.
Sometimes I act like the ceiling cannot speak
Or other times I simply know it can't
But when I believe it can, it makes my knees weak.
But please, I beg of you, If you can
Tell my ceiling to hide the needle
Because my skin is tired of being the doorman
For my brain, my skin would rather be
Wholesome and healed,
The bodyguard to protect my immunity.
And If you happen to get the chance
Throw a wink at mirror
For it never gets more than a glance.
Don't bother to go to my room at all
If you can save yourself the trouble
There's nothing there at all.
The ceiling won't talk.
The pillow has no tears.
There is no needle.
There is no room.
In fact, there is no "she."
Only sometimes,
In my mind,
Are there even words
To define me.