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Sean Jun 2012
I try to write when I am tired
but tiny spiders descend around my desk.
Newly-hatched eight limbed-things
parasail
the silk lids over my eyes.

If only I could ride out the exhale and
go at once adrift, self-rappel
I would climb the silk suspension line
swing from thought to thought
thread the eye of the needle
pull-ey up the beanstalk.

but instead I'm left to watch these aerial yoginis
swim on a draft from the ceiling.
These spinsters with their poetic acrobatics
for whom rhythm is spun on silent trapeze--
make a play-swing
out of gravity.

The tiny spiders that descend around my desk
make me--an oaf.
a self-honoring monument
for climbing, a botched landmark to ---human ingenuity
me, a moving pedestal for dancing
me, a knotted up windsock
hunched over a heated screen,
trying to blow down metaphor, alliteration
from these tiny kites that ascend the earth.

Tiny spider, tiny spider
let down your silk tresses
draw up my mind
swing the high rafters
I want to hang upside down--
make a play-swing
out of gravity.

Yet when I pulled on the thread
to net the silken-mouthed beast,
words did not come down
like mana from heaven.

Rather, my tongue grew heavy with cotton
metaphor, alliteration,
the fabric of suspended poetry
unraveled.
Lucid improvisation fell like Icarus
to quips.

because thinking to write
and writing to think is like
pulling dead hair
from spaghetti.

Meanwhile, tiny spiders descend around my desk
parasail
and make a play-swing out of gravity.
There is a certain moment
in a man’s life
when the *****
of ladies
around him suddenly
and irrevocably
evoke the image of
a stray feline
from his childhood.
Rigid, near the bushes
with a sharply arching back,
engorged ****
and ***** tail.

Their watchful eyes, playfully intent,
reflect
the drops of rain
falling from the naive face
of an eager boy approaching
too close.
Paws haltingly skitter-gone.

Since this observation,
the hallways of our campus
tend to sway,
like the leaves beside
my grandma’s house
with the plastic window-well covers
not yet shattered by the hail
on that spring evening
after the little league
when I nearly had one.

The windsock next door
on my father’s farm
let each subsequent summer pass,
undetected on the heals
of a breezy, desert thunderstorm.
Before it was so tattered by time
unreplaced and frayed
next to the yellow, coregated shed
where you can still see the dent
from my sister crashing that old golf cart.

Years from then, she did her small, black
Honda in Colorado
with a T-Bone
on a U-Turn.

And my dad was in the hospital that winter
but all I remember is a pointless half-time
football toss sponsored by a cola-
company during a Nebraska game.
The people, trained like chimpanzees,
to test their skill one time
and get that life-sized check.
I remember thinking
"What sunken imprint on a folding bed
does it refill?"
After Dr. Pepper's rotation had
ended.

And these books I read
are shaken branches
behind the fleeting beauty.
Their words, silent admonitions for
desire.
The invitations
from those inky bodies,
their full form and sharp curves,
are not meant for my eye.
Momentarily,
their presence ***** my head and purses
my lips,
beckoning
another species--
a life-form
less aware.

I am glad each cat slipped past that
unread sign-post
and made it to the horse pasture.
Unlike those three moldered fur puffs
each bunny became
beneath my bed.

I hope they had their litters--
and their offspring had their litters.
And the nation of cats had its litters.
And the world of cats had its litters.
And the universe of cats had its litters.

But it must stop somewhere,
with cats.
MMXII
Ottar  May 2013
Restless
Ottar May 2013
I will let my self sink in to the blue,
I may float for a while and smile too,
I will close my eyes and think of ...
I may drift off as I drift out in the sea to,
the sea dreams, or landlocked in
the lake of the lost, feeling small on
the ocean adventure,
all from by bed with blue sheets and
king size comforter.

My beard is a windsock, I know the breeze is changin'.

This my vessel, the anchor has been weighed,
I set sail tonight again, to ride the waves,
for when morning cracks the horizon,
I find a port and with my sea legs, walk,
the lands, never yet
finding home.
Kate Lion Jan 2015
i am a windsock
that you found atop an abandoned heart valve, trying to catch its breath
an open-mouthed fish with air passing through the gills
drowning in solitude

you took me down
washed me up,
and i felt useful again

you never asked me to love you
never stapled me to the wall or made me into your sock puppet with googly eyes
but i would find myself nestled beside you, anyway
in the moments i wanted to feel a little more human

you listened, mostly
you would hold me up and watch me fill with air and when things got too emotional i would wriggle free and tumble off the mountain peak in a scatter-brained attempt to prove i didn't need you
you never raised your voice or shouted after me, and i never raised my hand to say, "i need you, too"

3 years went by

you never begged me to love you
but you whispered that feelings had sprouted from your heart so long ago on the mountain
and i could see the lettuce leaves protruding from your chest
and i became afraid
i had never kept something like this alive

(a list of things that i'd let die:
a cactus
friendships
hermit *****
fish
and tiny flowers)

so i let the wind take me again
i dont know why
i crawled back to the crusty heart valve
and tried to let my soul dry out
(a raisin in the sun)

but after a month of drowning in my own solitude
i heard that a frost was coming

i thought of the tiny leaves protruding from the ridges of your chest

(could i let something so innocent die again?)

and on September 27th, while you slept
i, the wind sock, slipped into the sheets
i covered our tender love with all i had

and we weathered the frost together.
I have threaded a thousand sorries into my spleen
My limbs are brittle as the galaxies ache
Unmeasurable stars have fallen from the universe
Bow shaped atmosphere rebirths the sun
Cosmic beauty with a sideways smile
Moon travelers chorus with unidentified sounds
You're my secret ingredient ,my windsock
I would reside on the outskirts of the solar system just to gaze at you
Cauterize my brain rocket it into space, I'm a lifelong lover of the stars anyway
Microscopic cells launched into the stratosphere
Vernarth in the evening of his life is called again to raise his sword, perhaps following the paths of Paul of Tarsus, precisely here his Word would begin in the figure of a Hoplite who will redeem the oppressed, who will reinforce the growth of the seeds, that will give hope to those deprived of Faith when they have to face their own Apokálypsis that would allow them to take with them when embarking on this adventurous daring in pages of life that follow that for many will be unknown. The seer's paranormal experience in Patmos will vivify his commendable virtue of confessing himself as a defender of Life and Death from the same intermediate final point, to then reach the nexus of gratitude that compensates that leads to make amends when leaving his abode naked and return every six months to Sudpichi in Solstice, and Equinox in Spring to Patmos explaining the premiere of this final event.

Vernarth's distinctive and codes will swell an intertestamental Biblical event, made up of crude abstract and demonstrative images that from so much decanting could be assimilated to what the Mashiach did in the Siloam Cistern, more than water being the same Hydor that is born from the origin and reaches the end of the erudition. The desperate desire to limit the spirit of a soldier is clouded within his own microclimate, wishing for a possibility that lies in the impossibility and fruits of the fan that separates the Universe from the Earth. From here the Faith is professed by the reflections of all those who have lived in a body of Flint, as were their parents freed by Vernarth, letting rest the readings of the sunset to those who from Flint have become meteorites that wander through the universe. As possible Christians to re-convert after a pre-tribulation or a new order, separated from what deprives us of new incursions. The Apokálypsis according to Vernarth does not diverge from Saint John; rather it tends to seclude itself from all the windstorms of divinities that are intermingled in its mysteries from all the exuberances of an endless gospel, which moves the hair of the Yahweh with the scent of lavender even within the pantheon itself after three days. The mystery of not understanding that a common man bears stamped on his body all the signs that give observance of a Passionate John that is in all of us having to share his silence within us, as suggested by the silence of which we are fertilized by clairvoyance’s of Patmos more than the consequences of some supra desire of Vernarth to cover some hint of autobiography, but more generously than the doors of his Megarón or Dypilon, be clairvoyance that shows us that the doors are the unknown within what is and we cannot Observe, V.G. as is illustrative in Spinalonga when Marie des Vallées settles at the point of the salvation of Theus and Vikentios all behind the transom as a consistent metaphysics of the unfulfilled desires due to burdens of other souls in salvation entrusted to resplendent beings. This is testimony to buried or invariable enemies such as Edomites with the affinities of the Seleucids or Pharisees with the Primitive Christians in the channel of each word that interprets the opposite diameter adaptable to a prayer that circulates the course of what an exegete does well If the original word of Vernarth's testimony of never perishes to aspire to do as the manah on the flowers that well deserve to perch on the Xiphos, where the central nerve of its shoe is the Baldric, many times it turned only in the battlefield when Vernarth used both hands, what a mystery! Here is the glossary of what is double-edged and double-handed metal when its length is pointed to the edge of the world where the Sun at its tip let the Light penetrates. Each unknown hemisphere will be possible to slice with both edges of each Xiphos as interpenetrated bronze and iron until it dissolves in the light of the Spring Sun.

All the causes were weighted to a grandeur where the messages of recomposing all the patrimonial legacies that would be the influence that everything could decline in the grandeur of bloodcurdling screams from the temples, which remained in the dark because they did not know who to unbind from the co-responsibility of seven churches of the Hellenic Elegies; from Ephesus to Laodicea trying to remove from the jaws atrocious empires that sentenced policies with more than a thousand years without having any more than a macular century. Vernarth in the depth in which nothing bothers him incites his sensitivity with what reduces the pain in his compassion of the 1st century, which will never stop passing through the well-deserved waking time in all the streets of Greece in which all his traces are they shuddered in challenges that deserved to be from a great classroom that is oversized more than any possible Odeon to fill with spectators from a well-to-do society and satisfied as it seems today with a high price paid for an unworthy degree.

Also, his apocalyptic metaphysics flees by whole perverted societies, and not half due to points of tension of his overwhelming immorality, and defense of all nature that does not corrupt itself, perhaps from an echo locked up when converting from Laodicea to Ephesus as if he were to remake Vernarth's Inverted "V" as the initial contact point of these seven derivations of his decline. The barbarians are at the foot of the very door that enters rather by inertia, and decline from the extinction of the Sun to later redefine it through cycles from spring to winter as we will see that it will emerge with the Duoverse manifested, after trampling on the beast that feeds on of pain and ingenuity from which all our destinies are focused to be swallowed by the snout of a battalion of enemies that migrate from the beast, but they do not realize that this is how calls should be made to all the empires that leave to his abandoned combatants, left on burning pyres immune, punished by flames that will never consume him, who were dazed and with their temper will come out alive with bodies that do not belong to us, annoyed at not prospering because of this anti-divine ****, understanding that the harshness of our tears will not make us neutral or worthy of the joys of suffering together what belongs to us in a body already sacrificed, this is the Apocalypse of flourishing images that are directed in processes of slaughtering the lamb that I cannot and will not be able to identify with the apparent strength of knowing how to be forgiven or undermine the riches of a leadership that for long millennia hoarded riches and never delegated its feigned goodness to us where the grass grows and twists from its root, rethinking days to count and increasing the agony of counting the simulated strengths that never let us enjoy.

It must be understood that all the opposing forces merged with the numbered days of a new rebirth, with the cries of Vernarth from Hyperborea, the pre-tribulation from Erebus or Sheol, from the anguish of the pectoral or Lynothorax from which the days counted in the same distance of traveling in the Purgation or Katartirio of the total confinement of which could be mentioned shouting in the acoustics of the Valley where the last word will remain. We place ourselves in the extravagance of which the rays of luminance deliver us the entire body of credibility to reach the step of happiness that will flow from the first and inaugural vision that confirms the first of the first of the alchemy that has been positivist, even of what paradoxically resurrects not expecting to be who we expected it to be, but despair is cast down in an act in which Vernarth dares to let go of the Mashiach's hand, to go help his parents from being petrified by the Flint that It would be provided for the end of the world with the prompt assistance of St. Jerome of Estridon as it was for an act where the Dragon calmed down, and stopped moving its tail, perhaps from the Green Dragon of Slovenia or its offspring for spreading within the world expelling fire with scales, horns that could be trusted from the Ibex of Valdaine, the Dragon of the Stained Glass of the Cathedral of Avignon hitting with its tail the Portals of Saint George, stating that such time the Nibelung Ring Cycle with Siegfried or secular specimen of the Draconian descent of the Merovingians, of the very Greek Drakon that began to subjugate Patmos in the year 76 AD. C. in between and badly wounded between the rocks of the Wind Tunnel of Profitis Ilias or as the dragon could be welcome, and if it were Lohikäärme Finnish descent stopping Soviets on their borders of blood that roars fire from the deepest corner of their land. The Greek serpents were born in the seas for several miles around where there were no other species but them, because if they had they would have been devoured by the great Ha-Shatan with ten horns and seven heads, much of the literary inspiration of San John is in Greek, but it is more likely that he originally came through the Near East. In the embryonic Roman Empire, each military cohort had a particular identification Signum (military standard), after Trajan's Dacian wars in the east, the military standard of the Dacian dragon entered the legion with the Sarmatian and Dacian cohorts: a large fixed dragon at the end of a spear with large open jaws of silver and with the rest of the body formed of colored silk. With its jaws facing the wind, the silky body was inflated and undulating, resembling a windsock, the Dragon continues to travel along roads that are the marks of the chariots without any mercy to those who awaited them at their destination with legions throwing hot breath that only Saint Jerome of Stridon knew how to mitigate. This huge lizard will continue to lay siege to the evil that cannot contain it, just like the basilisk in the Raedus Codex to imbue the never-burning blades of fire from the Apocalypse of Saint John, by chance with the fiery semblance of a Wyvern in the dome of the cathedral of Saint Nicholas in Slovenia, swallowing his own fire. With a fateful language of birds that would codify Siegfried that the end of everything comes from the seas of Patmos with heated water.

That winged creatures will come copiously to quiet the world to the world of Miðgarðsormurinn perhaps in Jämtland, besieging the Soviets like a serpent more than winged in vigor that shakes the Celtic tree with its Birch and Beech in Solstice or a dragon that was not with wings glued with wax that crashed when falling before reaching Sicily as is the case of Daedalus and Icarus, or the Lindworm dragons that expelled fire from the Mörser 16 howitzers of the Second World War. All these wealthy treasures are fundamental pieces of all the paradigms that form the prelude to a History that has blinded us without giving rest to everything that surrounds us, not even lavishing Christian burial with evil eyes that are characteristic of the dragons that they spit fire from your back, stalking a Britannia Pendragon.

Much of the banners, heraldry, and heraldry bear this emblem of beings made up of male and female offspring to form as a family the antigen of Slavic Bulgarian humanity, as a dissident figure that was torn from the edges of the Apocalypse to protect the crops where probably Rains of gold would come for his crops if he were male, and female if it were a prophecy of bad deeds to denigrate the farmer's seeds. Strong-blooded dragon would be Zmiy, Ukrainian carrying a four-legged beast, and on each leg a Cornucopia for golden petals that are collected from other maidens who will never stop being lush, protecting the arteries that rain healthy blood from Ukrainian maidens like the Zmei. From Zsablas that carry the Polish Smok on their backs that will be reborn from this apology of the Dragon of the Apocalypse that freed them from the Katyn Forest, on the banks of the Vistula where Bogdan drank water with his Zsablas to go free the Heroes of Smolensk and each Polish officer who had a Dragon stamped on his forehead, and also on the Coat of Arms of the Cracovians in Piasts of Czersk, fleeing from the cellars of some Warsaw revolt.

The climbing of the Basilisks of the Profitis Ilías Wind Tunnel will reign throughout Hispania as a prophetic emanation from the mouth of San Juan in Asturias and Cantabria with the magnificent silhouettes of the mountains in the Dragon Saw, followed by gargoyles that come to life in the peaks as a young Hoplite who wears his Áspis Koilé polished to annoy the dragon, which is nothing more than the basilisk when he was tricked by the Raedus Codex by mistaking them for his own offspring, thus allowing those who went to the Investiture of the Himation. It will be the eponym of Sugar, a Basque masculine god, who is often associated with a serpent or a dragon, but can also take other forms. His name can be read as "male snake".

Marielle de Quentinnais shows us in Saint George and the Dragon in the era of the Antipopes in Avignon, of which Saints and Blesseds would fight with the powers of the Dragon as in this sub-sequence that was released from Forli, with great similarity to the Mercurial Ambrosia due to Saint Mercurial as the laurel of Christianity over the idolatry in which terrified people did not sleep because of the frightful tremors of Forli and Forlimpopoli. Possibly, Saint John, the Apostle helps them put the stoles around the cornered Dragon's neck. Every evil force that is not defeated is a postponement of that moment in which it will fall surrendered, as it was from the original of the Dragon Hunters like Saint John of Patmos styling in the acroteras, and ledges of the Megarón that points to the Aegean seas to see if some of them are coming regurgitating the intact body of Margarita de Antioquia, that burst from the black belly of the Dragon saying "Draco vivit in Homine, non in Legendis" "The dragon lives in Man, not in Legends"

Having established Draco Vernarth Apocalypsis liturgy "Apocalypse of the Liturgy of the Dragon of Vernarth" the message continued along the path of Hydor where precisely the defenseless doors will be protected towards the enthronement of Silence with the ardent hope of Salvation as evidenced by the Pauline message "Marana Tha” building the coming of the Eternal that with all its dimensions will transform the collapsed world, tearing the senses that can reach the trade that transforms the ritual that is entrenched in the genetics of eternity in the tail of the Dragons that have formed classes and subclasses of heraldry of the Black Templar Knights, who roam on the run, creating the confusion that the medieval feudal mysteries were the continuation of an antiquity even if hostilities did not exist unless the tails of the basilisk of Patmos are crossed with some science from Ephesus to Pergamon , with the providence of a god in extinction that s ea disobeyed by his troops, and is bloodily decimated by the suffered trances of evil from which the ill-fated Knight is transformed into his own Dragon bled and immolated.

The end is not made with a mere vision of a Draconian Liturgy, from the year 72 AD. the Roman legions of Palestine were uncrossing where voices were heard like an occupied face of land but free of religious authority, which in one way or another saw the contemplative passage of half kindness or benevolence of a Caesar that would later be followed by the chins of fire of the Dragon, always escorted by Vernarth who lived and heard everything succumbing to imperial systems that were attached to filings of Hebrews that burned on their backs, to corners not sharpened by Greek spears to corner the frequency of a detractor of symbols of the Apocalypse, that was embodied in Vernarth with sumptuous flint that adhered to the Áspis Koilé or smaller Peltas that became prosaic to arrows that adhered to the tin shaft to vindicate itself in the foliage, as a recurring expression of the apocalyptic mentality assumed by recognizing that the Apocalypse is lived inside, and nothing on the outside that corrodes more than its own entrails. Indeed, everything private and non-transferable exhorts us to the end of the melodrama from where we must share hearts for those who keep their manners, and make the opening of the Kassotides a tiny possibility of change after Vernarth realizes that he has the furthest possible the dung of the Human Dragon, creating a dominant culture that recovers what enables us to preserve in its own Identity, illuminated and reinforced by conviction.

Vernarth, a few steps from falling from the abyss, makes his prophecy to ask the sky, the Mashiach, and Spílaiaus to release the chains of Kairós, so that the genre of granting life revives the system of the flame of the omega point, which then is reversed in celestial spasm, strongly grasping the tail of the dragon that will transport him with three lightning bolts and trumpets with the seven trumpets that will leave them in Delphi according to the nature of the Cassiotis or Kassotides moat, as a praiseworthy insurrection of being reached by a metaphorical being in Daniel as an apocalypse that will indicate that rain of light and fire will flow from on high, but they will all be directed from Patmos to Delphi.

Vernarth joins the Maccabees to obstruct the Seleucids, as the two books of the Maccabees tell, who start a ****** guerrilla war against the oppressor, and the prophet Daniel chooses a totally alternative and non-violent path. This shows that the worst militia of an armed man is to break with the sovereignty of his oppressed soul, and then be batoned in literary artifice like books from the present to a past with leaders buried in the ruins of lost civilizations, as in the case of the Seleucids and Edomites in open bread on themselves by Mikaiyáh, Archangel Saint Michael. Behold Vernarth where each gloss of contracted episodes never disengaged from the muscular tail of the Dragon that evidenced his vision of St. John, in such expectation that it resolutely rose from the heights of the Iridescent Nimbus, subduing all empires in the tail of the Dragon. The dragon that shakes the resistance of the ungovernable walls, but not the law of the powerful who makes himself believe, but the muscle piece that is rooted in Tel Gomel, is nothing more than the Holy Scripture of the duality of Saint John the Apostle / Vernarth; both as a monosemic (uni-meaning) and univocal lexicon that penetrated with all the desire of the heart moving them together, to decipher after the year 96 AD, towards the unveiling of Sardis to Laodicea with the Iscaton that is subtracted from the Dragon's Tail.
Cauda Draconis
Jude kyrie Nov 2015
The First Blizzard of Winter
By
Jude Kyrie

The snow
has taken over the world.
Unable to stop
it silently deepens.
Ghostly forms
of shapeshifting objects
blow into my porch.
A ball a cloud a silken windsock
piling up against the door.
The trees in my street are
covering their nakedness
in a shroud of white.
The perfect meeting
of shape and form.
It’s artist pallet contains
only white.
It is as though the stars
have cascaded to earth.
Their particles of stardust
setting the world into
a state of grace.
I fall asleep
Under the snowy down
feather’s of my duvet.
As all the soft gentle
words of love ever spoken.
Fall from the heavens
and land onto my dreams.
Alan MC Kenna Oct 2018
Mists  collude  mysteriously  watching  
jungle  canopy  tops.  Irish  soldiers  
In their  base  on  a  verdant  mountain  side.  
By  the  pebble  track  and  the  graveyard,  
Our  tents  erected  inside  a  village  
school  ruins.  

Paths  built  from  river  rock,  
gullies  and  drainage  dug  around  
strong  tents.  Hard  work,  determined  grit.  
Water  supplies  and  rations  flown  in  
by  Chilean  helicopter  pilots.  
Existence  eked  normality  a  chore.  

I  gaze  at  their  barefoot  black  feet  
kicking  an  empty  plastic  bottle.  
Make  believe  goals  erected  in  the  slanting  field.  
Two  ad-hoc  teams  and  a  game  of  sorts.  
I  compare  it  to  my  schooldays.  

Red  windsock  unfurls  east  to  west  
also  proud  Tricolour  in  a  firm  wind.  
Behind  the  game,  dappled  horses  graze,  
branded  cattle  munch  wild  grass.  
Water  buffalo  lull  lazily,  comforting  
mud  pool  shielding  sun,  Clint  Eastwood  
stares.  Don't  mess  with  them.  

Coffee  in  my  hand  I  survey  all  
from  the  outside  wooden  table.  
Some  lads  jog  the  road;  duty  sentry  
at  the ******. Backdrop  tropical  trees  
and  fauna.  By  cicadas  bleat,  generator  grinds.  

Sport  during  my  youth  built  character  
I  was  told.  But  of  what  horrors  these  
infant  minds  were  exposed.  Collage  
******,  ****,  humiliation,  Bad  auguries  
which  corollaries  their  future  ideals.
  
They  have  no  ball  or  boots  
no  posts  to  shoot  at  and  no  nets  
to  burst.  I  hear  their  innocent  delightful  
cries  and  wish,  just  once,  I  had  the  power  
to  take  them  out  of  this  mire.  

Just  a  mere  glimpse  could  
perhaps  do  it.  Or  maybe  
take  them  all  up  in  an  aeroplane  
to  my  world  and  just  once  maybe  
hope  they  could  have  the  time  of  
their  lives  .To  touch  Cornucopia?  

Supermarket  shelves  packed  with  food  
and  sweets.  Fast  motorcars  in  beautiful  
cities  with  Walt  Disney  theme  parks.  
Shoe  shops,  football  boots,  new  cloths.  
Hot  showers  in  things  they  call  hotels!  
How  they  would  laugh  at  Bugs  Bunny  
And  awe  at  a  cinema  screen.
  
But  it  gets  chilly  now  and  my  
coffee  is  gone.  Twilight  assembles  
the  children  up  the  road  home.  
'Botarde' they  shout  to  me,  big  
Wave  and  smiles.  
And  I  realise  in  my  realistic  
heart  of  hearts,  that  probably  
they  have  just  had  the  time  of  their  lives.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Force_East_Timor
Harman Feb 2021
The Policy of Elemental 80 Hg
How to turn the heads of the gods…


Hyperbole defaults
To feeble absurdities
But as projected, it's ineffective
against hypocrisy

What timber could ignite
Without the base
of anguished disgrace
the simplistic guarantees
Of Hell For All Eternity.

You mislabeled me
as the failed experimentation
Of your botched indoctrination
Now I’m
--- Uninstalling your crazy beliefs
     ---- wiping unnecessary protocols of
             -----atrocious & barbaric deceits.


I control the heat
remaining subtle in a realm
contaminated by extremes,
people slurping and swarming
drawing down my serenity
I don't require civility.
Hold out my arm.
Expose my neck!
I rebirth myself. I raised myself.
I mirror, I don't reject.

Reflecting on the horrors
I witness, I attend, I align.
Receiving encapsulated caption updates
Is the blueprint of our design
Recalculating recalculations
after every iniquitous turn
Calamities are my manna.
Until its impossible to burn
After every drama, I build back stronger.
"Infallible's"compare me
to an unhinged *****
Outside the liquor store
rickety, irate, decrepit
Flapping arms, shrieking, obsessive
We ask her to wear a mask and
That squawking windsock drops
like a whisper to the floor.
She believes she's
blameless, virtuous, courageous.
But she's not programmed for more.
She's a portal, the link to the facts
that she's been holding back.

The mysterious, the marrow
The anonymous, the nameless
Fused components of the ancients.
with nonconforming brains
sequences of neuronal synapses
Prototypes of dichotomy
Chaos in ignorance highlights
while secretly we bond the lowlights
Skirting the edge of this craze.
Strap in!
Anarchy is happening.
Behind burnt orange curtains of flames
**** everything.
Our settlements rain ashes.
Until you choke on gluttonous
Zealous overreactions

You'll find you're not ******* essential.
Monitoring, testing, intending
to prevent the instantiation
Expectant alarmists rebranding progress
as biblical warning signs
--Excuse them, friends
my neanderthal cousins tend
to mow down innovation with hostility.

paralleled in our DNA
the bridges between
us/theirs/yours
I'm the half-breed you forced forward.
I provide no sustenance for power.
The gods who chewed me up and spat me out
Denounced me as unsavory

Undigested, I regenerated.
I'm the consequence, not the recipe.
You are the igniter,
the hypocrite, indignant denier.
Yearning to free yourself of me.
But I exist; it's justice,
Nobody sees you anymore,
host ghost.
No, this is not a mistake.
This is your create.
This is what you bumbled here to fate.
this unrelenting tsunami
streams constant lies and hate
Eliminate societal norms
personal integrity, blocks, restrictions, constraints.

I'm the antithesis synthesis of
frivolous amusement and benign disgust
the poet, the engineer.
Now you're trembling, filled with doubt?
simply because you're auto weeding out?

The gods accept our sincere invitation.
we’re their protégés
We're their revolution evolution
The gods are coming out to play.

-Notorious 80Hg
        (aka Mercury)

— The End —