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A H J  May 2016
Hypersomnia
A H J May 2016
I can't see the stars
But, in the pitch black I see the planet Mars
An old new happiness I set with a worn-out timer,
it seems like my heart is now a foreigner.

My eyelid is worn-out
Sleeping eight hours are not enough,
The wall which I sticked my will and wish
Are also a poem to an individual's sight.

I feel winter at a land that never snows,
While writing a poem to drown my sorrows.
Positivity notes are burned with her words
I am blamed for a small enormous fault; drowse.

Exhaustion and sadness.
I'm on the verge of an old madness.
I rule the world inside my head
Why, am I only closing my eyes ahead?
just an old poem
Venarth says: “After alternating with the Erythrai, I climbed the top of the ship, and began to experience changes in my philosopher's dermis, from a permanent continuous present independent of the post-period, leaving the dogma of the numbers that would cause me an existence capable of only obsessed with supporting him, with the weight of a drunken Lepidoptera who spoke to me close to the invariance of the incorruptible dense layer that covered the sea on the cornice of heaven, making them a continual delay of time. The facets of invariability would begin the notorious oceanic areas that fractured when the Eurydice divided the hemispheres, causing them to doze in the time of her crystal ball, up on the crown which would make her base the extra personalities of the sunset on me. The present allows me to eternalize my memories or memorare, of my existential eclipses, making of its faculty to speak of a super conscious overwhelming and constrained to the hermeneutics that invited me to drink Ouzo among the few beings that accompanied me in the height of the ship, increasing its gradation every time a sip multiplied with the puffs of the Hesperides that passed me by, inviting me to bag their naked spring figures wintering, given the temporary stagnation that entered through the hole in my pectoral of the sinister right scapula, where some probes of the Mythical elderberry paused my outraged finite human, who got stuck in my chest when he couldn't apprehend the amount of my second lieutenants who sifted through the Bereshit voices of the Torah, who lamented pre-late and tonal that they never finished, that they became prey condensed from each sip I drank into his Ouzo harvest timeline, tracking the tiny sips that That I would not be able to count, before drinking them, after never having drunk them harshly, thus not understanding the mats blown by the reefs of the infinite twilight sapphire, carrying away the burps, that the naiad Arhanis saw coming out between my central incisors and from my mouth numbed by the heat of Zeus's anger, and from the dawning of potential between fallen, hanging from the sky of Arhanis, holding between the hands of the one who supports him. The clouds and geometric masses in vapors fell on distinctive chromatic ropes and cords of volumes supporting the infinite, which today eliminated itself blinded, falling into the void of an ex-vaporous corporation.

This succession in status of perenniality, made me hold vigorously from the top, as I began to fall into an unknown void where I would meet Elpenor in hypersomnia, but rather, from a song of the Odyssey that invited me to a straw next to him and the liquid chemo of the Ouzo, asking him to give him the worthy food of his oblations and the liquor broth, to make me advise him in the last sip, before the sirens sing, where I would affirm my golden hoplite elbow so that the status of eternity, dispense with the ford runs of the taps that exude their Cretan Ouzo, through the navel that swallows the entire boats and my "Pectoral that puts the stopper of time so that it does not pass supra into infra existentialist"

Elpenor, already burning before him, continued with a glass in his hands, pressing the heads of the Taurus who prolonged substitute immaterial lapses, which turned into ouzo vapor vomited by both, running through the sequence of the masts of the crowns, which it would begin to weaken somewhat  from so much distillation of the vineyard test tube, as it cooled down after a succession of events that began with the severed head of the beginning of the emotional initial moment, in which I am still wounded between crossbows and moments that undermine all origin, under a toast of heavy eyelids that pretended a Bing Bang, before taking the float towards a mound that would allow me to fall into the unsustainable gravitant, in which the acceleration causes me, and that weatherizes everything, even though I am not the one that transports myself. Before Elpeneor, I witnessed three uncorrupted deaths, one with the scythe on his shoulders cutting the fences of the impiety of raising micro-times in the Odyssey, another as a prey of biological dowels that debate science that fall incapable before the granule of the involved brain similarly to the multisectoral questioning of conscious conflicts; and final hunger within my contradiction and inconveniences of the loss of the sense of taste, cloistering myself as I live in its metempsychosis, losing the sensitivity of my hands and trying to leverage my swords and spears, not defending my defenseless body from immortal carcinogenic fears , of a lost sacred soul and in sequence of losing reason of seven times plus another seven that remain for my way to paradise, evacuating primary psychic elements and codes of life that rest in formalin, before those who do not fear revive me when drowning  in Ouzo, for all my phalanx soldiers who live in me still dying in my arms.  Constituting the triple of the human being, which affirms the transfer of certain psychic elements of my body to another after my death that does not allow me to walk in the threads of the dust of my bones that wish to be taken back from the corners, from the old and sticks of the termites that eat my crow. I am still in creationism, dressed in yellow, so that the poet who only ***** and breathes me with his great senses, is closer to Christmas than millions of years I have lived, before the Christmas carol woke me up as a divine child, being only a large hoplite cop entangled in an igloo of Panentheism, deifying me or perhaps semi-deifying me, to house the stars that would walk out of my intellectual herd, creating my own low hills of consciousness, that look through the balustrades of the flint of Saint Peter in their Altozano, self-creating vital, but immanent. Transfigured, I decant my teeth in the crottals, on the carpet before the scarcity of their dilapidated embryos, before the Biblical Revelation that tells me that, among all creatures, I will be the only man capable of daring to apprehend the concept of eternity, in between of the serpents. As in one of the theological versions of Ecclesiastes imploring God: “He has made everything beautiful in my time. He has placed my eternity in the hearts of men”.

When I hail Heidegger after a sense after lingual ..., with the amphora ***** in his philosopher pipe, and with Wittgenstein I ***** half – half brain tobacco. Averaging Newtonian ignorance’s, before an absolutism that are revealed in the universal psychic drama, while God awaits me early in his catechesis, ordered, gummed and omniscient of myself, I am agreeing with the precious perfidious date still in my Eurydice's crown, that it looks eloquent of my new date of birth without a month that fits in any calendar that is known, to then go after the capitol in Athens itself, running aground with my ship after my hurricane, possessing its great reliquary itself Parthenon, with my ship over all this stiff structure that is reborn together with my eternalist suicide "Perpetua et incorruptibilis, in æternum vive"

"... Vernarth, breathes unfathomably and comes down from the Euridience crown, as if nothing had happened, when he sets foot on the deck full of liquors and ambrosias, he joins the others and dances Zorba without stopping next to them
Perpetua  et incorruptibilis, in  æternum lives
Why do I devour you so?
Foundation's of lost years
Restraining me refusing to let me go
If I were a shield
I would draw my sword
Mentally defeated, spouting my existence
Submerged in hypersomnia
Sleep disorders are so hard to live with. I have missed out on so much. But I carry on that is all I can do. I know that  people suffer way worse than this. I'm blessed Peace and love to you all.
Of My (Lenovo External) Computer Screen

Within mere nanoseconds,
     (or less than an instagram ming
     kickstarter reddit snap,
     chat ting shutter
     fly), this bopeep
awakens (i.e. ascends) beep
ping from, a pseudo steep
descent transcendental

     restorative meditation,
     (though there be
     unREM burr hubble
     dream times re:
     viz zit ting me
     "Max C. Mum" security creep
right after headroom gets
     shut-eye as

     requisite upkeep
whereat, I still feel fluky,
     *****, and yucky,
     sans like the Cisco kid)
     ready to be
     tossed on scrapheap,
and wanna get
     right back asleep

this, no matter
e'en if temporarily
     feel rested, and cheap
per after doze'n
     (ala bright tailed, sheep
     push, and bushy eyed),
     primed to leap,
over historically

     fattened dustheap,
nonetheless this ole baby
     boomer purportedly reap
aired awakens from deep
slumber, yet suddenly without
     warning internal forces
     overpowering, qua in
     tense gravitational pull

     immediately pulling slip
     ping vacuuming
     suction yanking me (a dude
dill ling Yankee) helplessly,
     irresistibly back into zzz
     top land of Honah Lee
     courtesy of Sleepy's
     easy chair holy jeep

pers, analogous to Uriah Heap,
when clear out the blue...
(screen of death), what should
     appear without a clue,
but hypersomnia (excessive daytime
     sleepiness) heavy as an Emu
pursuing with full force
     like gang (lion) busters goo

goo wing nsync with
     Doctor Zeus then stopping,
     cuz Horton hears a hoo
cryptic message loo
wuss lee translated
     (by Alaska Natives
     holed up in their igloo)
essentially means view

pixels will unwittingly woo
spell bind and forever bind you
to a flickr ring cursor
and aux com1 (an ex port)
whatsapp pining
to the human zoo.

— The End —