Says Etréstles: “The immortality Aeternitas trepanned the fury of enchanted isolation after descending from the crow's nest on a trip to Rhodes, sinking haggard towards an underworld dressed without pain or ischemia that complained to me originating from transient cellular fatigue. This was enchanting me towards another pseudonym that renews it under the pretext of digging itself into the eternity of unspeakable silence full of possessions in shallow Beech leaves, and above all those ungerminated senses. Abbreviated topic and placebo speeches that were exerting a cluster of cloaks of once fermented and materialized in disconnected lapses disintegrating towards their perpetual movement, exiled and physical-dynamic, but not eternal. Aeternum was boring itself into the continuity of perpetual preaching where nothing and no one emits it out of everything unknown chaos overwhelmed or becoming independent of its effects full of irony and tragic moans sniffing out its dying flat lux, and separating into double archetypes torn from the rehearsal of the thousandth life like all reflective floaters not being afraid of being in a substance that was seeing itself crazy and seduced from its imaginary. For everything that is intolerant, unable to see rolling chariots of fire and not evolving with the exactness of an eternal minstrel. When we were on the deck of the Eurydice I saw how they danced through some diaphanous fingers when observing how the same color of the Ouzo was fading all over its sudden and rebellious sphinx, falling from its own feet insinuated to others that they were apprehended when counting of the cheers and emotions to be later discerned in Aion's ashes. Powers of a potential beginning became a cautious being In Aeternum in a straight line to his clone without beginning or end, without time or matter, being himself his own deity rebelling from the correlated fractal dam. What notion is born from the concept of “Instantaneous being, immune to the cloistered effective and continuous knowledge when materializing as a god…, God of Bern-Gethsemane, among the songs of abyssal seas before the perfection of a hymn, ceases to exist, falling out of tune in the court of Aionius”. I stresses; mandated the zeal to stay in the twelfth cemetery being able to get rid of the symptoms of ****** and Harpies with the flourishing of venerable pious beings like Vernarth, behind these beautiful winged women remaining lustful just by looking at him, and subsequently being swallowed with all their evil thickness resulting from snowy genius. All of them rested with their sharp claws breaking their intrinsic heart in everything that is sometimes a tear before moving through banal philosophical philanthropy, which was lightening their days to discount it in what they learned from another pair, not being the subsequent ones same. Nothing is suffering like the jubilant flute that solfeggio when its sounds are randomly listless making ****** in its trepidation with harmonious notes and emaciated tears on the surface of a mask. Behold, his parallel face is a disfigured universe, not being possible to count distances between his equidistant eyes, and formerly sighs that go unchecked with his physiognomy at the end of the egress that rubs against his relative beloved, disintegrating his own turned into nothing. All these ailments are melified universal emotions that stand out in harbingers of destroyed futures described in some Olivacea Bern branches, made up of the precepts of multiple physiognomies, father and son hating of so much affection and orbiting in lasting decadent cycles with areas and divine contained rootlets of Beech tubers satiated in reliefs of insane emancipating curves..., called Empresses of Vernarth, just like In Aeternum with spaces falling from various inter-tempos to its high grace and radiant help towards the final pinnacle that was ready in the will to lighten him up and go cornering leaf after wasteful leaf.

Everything was recreated in minuscule variations between Romanzas Tchaikovskianas, recent and terse when they divulged him near the Volga. Vernarth planned with the facade of him to resist amid musty and gutted late musical papyri; called scores of illusion and fervor at the sound of the celestial harp that was nothing more than another harpy, coming close to him as it fell on the pegs that struck a Muscovite bell. The borders in themselves became a reality in his space and accompanied him, making him feel that he was still outside the spaces of the Hermitage when he remembered it..., even though he did not know anything or the coolness that attenuates him indistinctly from the Bern-Time that was frolicking in his emotional cover, making him feel such hypothetical compunction at realizing a deadly thread. His life mechanics hesitantly fell off V.V.'s lectern. Gogh, developing in un concretized models with singular embarrassments that have not yet stopped in its squalid rind, on the way to uncovering and then imagining knowing whose it is or was, knowing that no precedent would model its sensation of hyper-Ouzo, aggravated with maledicence in his space Bern-Time, and surrounded by his **** hysteria coming out of the bellows of his veins and ferocious ******, singing to cruel people who laughed with great art for whoever challenged him and concentrated his sorcerer's trick. Ferocious evil devils were still in their remnants rolling through some cracks that ask to circulate in Florence, in Tuscany among some Diavolo with multiform cosmogony, "Possibly reliving" that has decayed from himself, and resorting to himself to facilitate the last parallelism of the variable molecule and lung protervo balanced in grim expansive hopes by validating him..., perhaps of a false revival. From here he will have to absorb himself with hepatic gargles, and seriously insulted desires as he gets drunk from the unknown universe, pretending to decipher the encrustations on his back full of particles that were hidden in residues without mass or gravitations, overestimating the heart that hangs from a hedonistic Longines and from a mischievous ending outlined towards the woods of Hylates longing for him. His verses are confused with ailments and consciences without trace or trace or firmament that remains ephemeral before closing the cousin Lux that was passing in front of In a Gadda Da Vida, whose symbol is the one who outlines it in darkness highlighting his metaphorical soul intangible solemnity and portraying his adolescent face that dozes under the attentions of his ascendants, removing intemperances, and prophetic doping that was torturing and invading him on the fold of Alikantus's haunches when he was annoyed that his own steed would carry him in his arms resting on his disturbed property endorsed in an equine Hoplite. Its iconology is and will be in the hexagonal baptistery of Ein Karem, solfa templar choirs and choirs that thunder from the spawn of the sheaves to a sanctuary that nothing calms in infinite and allegorical deities with tortuous moratoriums enduring the resistance of the obtuse sprains of the ineffable.

Vernarth Antithetical to an Auric medal, it rested superimposed on his arms, wrapped in well-tempered cymbals, nourished by turpentine allied with Ouzo caramel, minced after thick Hellenic toasts when they began to perpetuate themselves with sagacious heretical attacks and narcissistic bravery as they went cloistering himself in maturity that dressed in an imposed narrow law fame, which was expiring under immutable and succulent decrees perched on the same aphrodite in love with himself. Meanwhile, Vernarth stocked up on medallions chained to garments of happiness they were inscribed with precise digits and sighs that would name him as Vernarth, "Son of Sisyphus perhaps", the guru of pending conclaves and hesitations "Here is who I spoke of allowing him to delight in named feat and with trivial branches in plunges that were varying in the spheres that were degenerating into heavy lightness towards their alter confusion. He bites the line of a comet falling on him, knowing that the Sotíras or Sóter has done penance within it that will not let him sleep on the motionless stars. Unstable from a primordial advance, then starting from the worst chaos that could have engulfed Vernarth In Aeternum. From this adolescent temptation that will launch meteorites and elegies at the castle of his courtship, telling him to remain confined in the solidity that he will postpone for other winters and the same passages that will make him come from the northern *****. The sweet necropolis would then light up by not being lost among the living, rather by the fallen who would have to seek the living among the fallen to help them and reciprocate between nearby verses by resurrecting them from In Aeternum…, seducing them from his active life! Vernarth denies coming and going along the aforementioned hillside with his courted delay... she will have to remove his dagger from his wrists, more or less restricting soporific arteriosus threads, smoothing the scaphoid and pyramidal, permeating with tender fire and playful irrational object "instigate In Aeternum to my onerous mind, whose world map and impolite split in the valleys of Berna-Universal..., as Adonis planted that was perceived in agreed cycles,... only by alternating his instigations..."

In æternum Auream Consecratam, Vernarth defoliated after the axis mundi and exaltation of the Bern-Universe world, encrypting in the engravings of all the memories of the Harpies, even in their finished archetypal capital where they moved through the midst of trunks cosmogonic footsteps and of the gods with spare hearts in frank wandering architecture, rebuilding themselves with new gods of consecrated aura. The party continued with decreed dialogue and continued with the medallion on the drag chain that went under the draft of the ship indicating the message to verify and rest in the preciousness of one who can balance his man's maneuverability with his Lynothorax open to the world so that Zeus in this day of utilitarian morality makes it part of his infinite use, but with orderly practical use. In this proportion, St. John the Apostle warns him of the sighting of Cape Koumbournous, approaching Prassonissi, not far from these two appears the third, Karpathos, all this limited to the south of Rhodes in the concordant uniform of his entire work, transforming integrally according to the conception of St. John for the predicaments of maximizing the weight of his alliance with Vernarth; now converted into a dogmatic designer, placing Gnomic poetry to help his memory. For all the themes of wisdom and conversion in each stone on another with a liturgy of construction of the temple that extended them to Patmos, in intelligence biblical verse was explaining the versed maxims converted from the prior cadence of poems in sequence, and legacies of stanzas of wolves that save lives to their hunters with prosaic testimonies delivered in hilarious argumentative eagerness, but not transgressing the expository towards Bernese-Hellenic poetry, with rhythm and cadence of the hours of the day that the centuries do without questioning its cyclical beauty, although I walk on it in a drama of lost revelry.

Saint John says: “The maxims, aphorisms, and apothegms will be where they differ from their charm like the beloved fugitive that Werther awaits from Goethe, like Vernarth, threatened by his madness to escape from the harpies emitting in his apothegm “His intensity is neither worthy nor irritable, but abhorrent." Vernarth is detested by large masses of clones of war comrades who make their apothegm young death in the hands of abhorrent old age, which falls into trends of compromising verses, and circumstantial that require doses of Ouzo on those levels of the classic apothegm, seated on a Klismós with a bald and contoured ***** on the four legs of Vetrubio, and a backing of light Rembrandt being born of all equal synchronicities at the dawn of a preceded and pseudo-literature, which more than letters will be retractable symbols of his bellicose artistic memory that bears of the tabulator of its reflective collections, leaving divine blood in the claws of the Griffin that slices blood of vermin that bind the light with its red pupils, like Werther and Vernarth swallowing the divine gesture that differentiates from those who are not prey to the erratic intensity of the wolf wise, who pursues his prey beyond cold and hunger, finely leaving his victim between nearby hooks and his neighbors Garfed Family members making enemies of natural blood relatives. Here is every part of our challenge in every listless use that is consistent with our entire works since the trade winds put us in the best climatic emotional mode, towards those who live on the food of wisdom more distant than the ignorant fools, but rather for those who they make their species our own variety in good moments that will be intense, but nothing that we cannot moderate with this greatness of small lux, but with great expressive mechanics dissecting interstices and remains of sediments that will remain for us to reassemble with public voices a Messiah as a great speaker, even with nubile apothegms that do not allow to be portrayed. We are sailing here slowly with the force of the blows that drag us to the Koumbournou cape, we can look at the highest peak that can be seen, being devoured by our own expectation that makes us go beyond what we thought we could achieve as a founding prize in the new religious laws that we have to refound, after the phylogeny of Olivos Berna. Not only does the Greek landscape manifest itself to us with the mythical laws to re-study them, but they also make them possible with our overseas proximities on cliffs that fill us with courageous courage towards one end of the stranded ship heeling upward, and towards the lavish waves that speak of coasts and white waters on the same waves that sang denominated in verses of the renewed goddess Hera, and who are related by a hero like Vernarth glorified. Neither illustrious nor villainous, but an aristocrat of Nymphs, Muses, Harpies, and Hesperides taking the sun deck with them in the Eurydice triaconter, stripped of benefits to the one who is just beginning to rule over him with his pious song. ”

The Vernarth-Werthian Tragedy was crossing the overseas challenges of Koumbournou, witnessing before his eyes the storms and effects of the intensity of an adult youth with his apothegm “My intensity is neither worthy nor irritable, but it is abhorrent”. But of Werthian scope, with the intention of competing with all the leaders of the courtship and of the sources of its antiquity similar to one more degraded of charm, leaving those who love and those who have been bewitched by all those who have been abandoned by adhesions of love unrequited. Cycles of horrors over the ship expelled the worst that made the ship list with rattles from Vernarth's gouges that made three-dimensional the superfluous darkness of the birch that was anointed on the mainmast, causing populated voices from minor to major near the Koumbournou cape. Certain temperamental harpies perversely wooed him from high to the freest confines of the scale of sarcastic incantation and countless love affairs. He is forced to witness his own indomitable fictions with an adorable room in the peasants where the harpies and their corsets licked the bobbins of some tonal hypocoristic words, contrary to the euphemistic of his apothegm that bordered on the most abhorrent apocalyptic when he found it in his practices mental manipulators and in the fictitious reality of loving beautiful women who do not correspond to those who love them! They knew this interdict that is hidden in the pavilion of some rockeries that hit the doublets of the minor harpies presenting themselves to everyone in the skylights of the sky, which were overshadowed by contested intimacy since they could not correspond to the final linguistic sounds of the lipped apothegm, adjoining in full love and colorful operatic stillness. Vernarth continues with his gouges inscribing his name and the name of his harpy that would finally rid him of ****** ailments. Arhanis; the harpy looked at herself in three glasses simultaneously, giving Vernarth sorrow for the attachment that escaped through the hiding places of the matrix fairies with delirium tremens when they submerged themselves under the decorated breaths of the floripondium that lingered from the totemic censer, recomposing itself in an incomplete wagon with areas of hydro-monoxide heaps overheating and producing viscosities, smearing his chest and mouth in the vortex as he softens the flow spilled by warm lightning rods in each abandonment, while nothing consoled him when everyone attended to them to overcome his catatonic course. The ursids who embraced the females would be outraged by his laziness, and the hopes of finding them would take them to the shore of Aphrodite with her final dirge defragmented and out of tune. Werther, with obvious elegy, appears with essences and disappeared in anxiolytic body parts. Werther says: “Here is Koumbournou, here is Wahlheim where our docks would still like to house rising boats that cut their bows and keels leaving each other in nothingness. Both pontoons would kiss in their death locked up near the In Aeternum, adjacent to the openwork where the auric medallion grieved. For the first time before committing suicide I saw that the heavy doors that led me to Lotte were opening, letting joy fall on my eyes, being the harpy that every female bears with a name similar to the one who fills her cup with desire and vanity. The harpies whimpered with their bellies full of harsh tears, asking Vernarth for two harpoons from the coarse cellophane of the flimsy sea of her soul, still standing before him dressed as a Werthian organism. Until the Panagia Ipseni, the monastery of Rhodes, cries of projectiles were felt that crossed each other in the swift flight of the desires of the immolation of both, whose ballad melted the rows, tying themselves to two naves like bushes grafted onto the hands of the suicide's executioner. The one who speaks here is entangled in Lotte's glottis, still alive to ******, and he calls me with eagerness and regrets my death in the whole world, not for my Werthian love for her. Vernarth says Werther, this rots me with uneasiness, I let myself fall into its obscenities to decay from Lotte's apnea, which is still in all those who suffer when two harpoons cross for the same destiny..., the victim chooses the first " Says Lotte: "Even after the Vernarthian time, both who dare a rude hostility as a way of harpooning doubt and who are not prone to suicide, it is that hope itself sweetly lingers in the one who receives the wound that bears my name..., that of Werther that grapples with the spur of the Eurydice, and that of Wernarth that crosses paths before both of us were lost in the midst of oblivion. I am still in Wahlheim, but I give birth to those who in the evenings after the bells still come to claim my destiny, perhaps their tragic destiny was taken by the princess Eurymedusa who will take them to Rhodes and Patmos, following the path of the myrmidons between them whom I envy and the princess herself loving him in her Rhodes prose”

Crossing the overseas challenges of Koumbournou, the storms and effects of the intensity of a Young Adult were witnessed in her sight, with her apothegm "My intensity is not worthy or cause of irritability, but it is abhorrent." But from a Werthian field, with the Venia to compete with all the leaders of the courtship and of the sources of his antiquity, as one more degraded of the spell, he left those he loves and those who have been bewitched by all who have been abandoned by adhesions. of unrequited love. Cycles of fright on the ship, triggered the worst that made the ship list by their rattles of Vernarth gouges that made the shallow gloom of the birch three-dimensional, which anointed it on the main mast, eliciting populated voices from least to greatest near the cape. of Koumbournou. Whose temperamental harpies, they fell in love with the evil high and freer confine of the scale of the sarcastic enchantment of their songs and love affairs without courtship. He is forced to witness his own untamed fictions, of adorable stay in the peasantry where harpies with their corsets on, lick the doilies of hypocoristic words, euphemistic opposite tonal of their apocalyptic verging apothegm ...; but it is abhorrent, when he found in his psychic manipulative traditions, the fictitious reality of loving beautiful women, who do not correspond to those who love them! Knowing this question, they hide in the pavilion of the roqueríos that beat the corsets of the minor harpies, presenting before all the skylights of the sky, which were obscured by contented intimacy, as they could not correspond to the final linguistic sounds of the lofty apothegm, bordering in full and colorful love of operatic stillness. Vernarth continues with his gouges inscribing his name and that of his harpy, which would finally remove the ****** ailments. Arhanis, the harpy looked at herself in three mirrors simultaneously, giving Vernarth regret, for the love that escaped her through the hiding places, the matrix fairies, with delirium tremens, were submerging under the decorated breaths of the floripondium, which delayed the totem censer, recomposing an incomplete wagon of areas rich in hydro monoxides, overheating and producing viscosities, smearing his chest and his mouth in the vortex, spilling warm lightning rods at each abandonment, while nothing consoled him, while everyone attended to them to overcome their catatonic state. The bears that embraced their females would be outraged by their laziness, and the hopes of finding and rearming them were taken by the shore of Aphrodite in his last defragmented and out of tune dirge. Wense, with her evident regret, appears to her with marrow in corporal and anxiolytic disappearances.

Werther says: “Here is Koumbournou, here is Wahlheim, where our dikes would still like to house the ascendant boats that cut from their bows and keels, leaving one between the other in nothingness. Both barges kissed in their deaths, locked near the In Aeternum, adjacent to the draft where the auric medallion was distressed. For the first time before committing suicide, I saw that the heavy doors that led me to Lotte opened, letting joy fall over my eyes, being the harpy that every female carries with a name similar to the one who fills her glass with appetite and vanity. The harpies whimpered with their bellies full of dry tears, they ask Vernarth for two harpoons of coarse cellophane from the flimsy sea of her soul still placed before her, donning a Werthian body. Even the Panagia Ipseni, monastery of Rhodes, the laments of the projectiles that crossed in the swift flight were heard, of desires for the immolation of both, in a romance that melted the ranks by tying themselves to two naves like bushes grafted in the hands of the executioner of the suicide. The one who speaks here is entangled in the glottis of Lotte still alive to love him, who calls me with an eagerness to mourn my death throughout the world, but not for my Werthian love for her. Vernarth, I rot with calm and I let myself fall into her obscenities to decay from my apnea in Lotte, which is still in all those who suffer when two harpoons cross for the same destination ..., the victim chooses the first ".

Lotte says: “Even after the Vernarthian time, between the two who dare in a rude hostile way to spear doubt and who is not prone to suicide, it is that hope itself gently delays, who receives the wound that bears my name ..., that of Werther, who fights the spur of the Eurydice, and that of Wernarth, which crosses before we were both lost in the fog of oblivion. I am still in Wahlheim, but I give birth to those who, in the afternoons after the bells, still come to claim my destiny, perhaps their tragic destiny was taken by the princess Eurymedusa who will take them to Rhodes and Patmos, plowing the path of the Myrmidons, among them whom I envy; the same princess loving him in her Rhodes prose”

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies. Before being sunk, the prose was found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:

“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself."

"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror...

The second mirror..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther..., says no more than regret, the acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegar, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is leftover in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that is not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is leftover from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution, and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am Omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, Omni Messianic, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with overtimes, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord because he was before all of us who were his poet's servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless, vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of eghotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf..., here is not to belong to this century..., reverted to an uncertain meditation...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives the cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society Olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a microsecond device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict! But what a great solution, for someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xiphos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

You have pretty eyes
and such an ugly, burnt soul.
Stay for a bit, love.

She's so happy with the teeth dear
Now they're perfect,  pearly white
And she's looking at the rest dear
'Cos she's heard of Mack the Knife

It's those crows feet round the eyes oh
Keep those ******* way out of sight
And those wondrous thunder thighs oh
They're going under Mackey's knife

She's been thinking of her friends babe
Dearest Lotte and sweet Lucy Brown
Oh how jealous they will be babe
Once old Mackey's gone to town

She's withdrawing all her cash now
She'll be poor but look so right
Someone's taking all her stash now
And that someone's Mack the Knife

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies . Before being sunk, the prose prose were found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with a constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:
“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself.
"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown ... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets ...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece ..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament ...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices ... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror ...

Second mirror ..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness ..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther ..., says no more than regret, acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead ... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting ...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegars, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical, but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is left over in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct ..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that are not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream ...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding  sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is left over from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender ..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns ..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire, because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, omni Messiano, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with over times, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord, because he was before all of us who were his poets servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of egotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf ..., here is not to belong to this century ..., reverted to an uncertain meditation ...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends ... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured, if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a micro second device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die, because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict!  But what a great solution, of someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings ..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xifos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan ..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

Unrest. Lotte is ill
I grab my backpack
my compass and some clothes
put on my boots, a jacket
and I'm out of doors

On my way to Lotte
Being alone with myself
As long as I'm on the road
she will live
she will not die

She's not going to die, it mustn't be
She's not going to die, she's not going to die
No, no, not now, not yet
It's not the time yet
She mustn't, she won't

My steps stomp
The earth shakes
Where I go, a bison rumbles
Where I rest, a mountain rests
When I'm there, she'll be alive

60 and swerving -
pause it there.
Throw a five,
hold my hand,
pull my hair.
Twirl me around,
I might repel.
Don't scowl,
be gentle,
be smart.
It's not semantics,
it's a worn out adage -
something about cake.
Save me a slice,
I'll eat it up.

I know what I'm going to do
About two and a half years from now
I'm going to order a case of Soju

Maybe two cases
One Jinro and one Lotte
Just to switch things up

Tastes similar to Purell
Strong stuff, burns your nose
Two bottles will knock you out

Same stuff my mom drank
When she locked my brother
In the ******* bathroom

Same stuff my aunts drank
When they kicked me as
I hid under a blanket

Same stuff I sneaked shots of
A few years ago, when my mom
Was depressed and decided to drink again

He'd always been able to slip it on and off,
Puttin' the tux on, as he put it;
He'd often told his wife
(A legit beauty, real glamour top to bottom)
I may be scruffy little ***-*** Walden Cassotto in here,
But once I go outside, I'm Bobby Darin
And I ******* well make sure they don't forget it.
But it was a garment much like the ones he wore
Back at All Boys in the Bronx, a hand-me-down thing,
From some third-tier department store or Army -Navy,
A little too worn here, a little patched too often there,
Unable to mask the real whos and whys and wherefores
Of a decidedly gilded-cage existence,
And while he was musing ad infinitum
Upon the vicissitudes of Sukey ****** and Lotte Lenya,
There there were things going down  
Away from The Flamingo and Golden Nugget,
And begun to suspect that he was on the wrong stage,
So he chucked it all in-- the cars, the studio sessions,
The club gigs, even the sequin-sparkle wife,
Opting to hunker down into a small camper
(A decidedly acoustic model at that)
Eschewing the hairpiece and putting on glasses,
Looking like just one more Summer-Of-Love refugee
Wandering down the coastline
Seeking some pastoral ***-primed epiphany,
And he was looking, suspecting it was more likely
That he wouldn't know it for sure until it snuck up on him,
So he waited, plucking a dime-store six string
In a ratty old lawn chair by the door of the cub camper,
The tuxedo inside, either as a hedge or habit,
Though as he invariably told the occasional visitor
Thing ain't no more empty on a hanger
Than it was on my shoulders.

i opened my eyes
i open my eyes
i will open my eyes:

i realized
i realize
i will realize:

* nothing is worth more than family *

TO MY DEAREST ONES:

MY SON NICHOLAS:
fan of dragons, buburacker, properer schelm, the best that happened to me. you are becoming me and yourself
i have been changing through you
indescribable love is in me for you my son.


MY DAUGHTER EDEN:
this verse is about the delight in your cheeks when you're smiling baby
one day i looked into your eyes for a long while this was our closest moment so far
indescribable love is in me for you my daughter

BEZA:
i truly apologize for all the bad things you had to deal with during my active dependency
you're a good mother: god bless you. i love you.

MOM and DAD:
i am made of you and i've been given a lot by you, my parents


TO MY DEAR ONES:

maria and barbara (believers like us)

christoph z. (the man with a great taste in music)

CHRISTOPH R. (wise and pervaded with love) & sandra

ELIAS (try to quit the gaming, young brüderle)

alin & valerie (the twins)

uncle günther (try to reduce your pod smoking much love)

aunt susanne (meet me on christmas much love)

andreas (all best to your mother, may she rest in peace)

cousin tina & lance (blessings by god and shem; an inspiration)

aunt marlies & uncle teddy & and their dog billy (empathy is the best medicine to live a good life)

aunt lotte (have never met you but would like to)

if i have forgotten anyone, please forgive me
God bless all of you
you are my family

MUCH LOVE
ICH LIEBE EUCH

YOURS
MAX a.k.a. MIKEY