these winds have no chords tonight
drifting over a prairie of loneliness
knotting oozing thoughts of nostalgia
into tumbleweeds of emptiness

weaving darkness follows dusk
as incomplete eyes silently search
canyon phantasma in moonlit cascade
there fairy wisps of fog bank lurch

astride a hairy back enchanted mule
rides this only-monkey's whimpering
Shh-e, Titania, waits there for you
hidden among musk rose whispering

go falling upon thorny-hairy eared cactus
as time does stream disjointed desire
in this wasteland of a singular tactus
caught in swayed affections of heart's briar

-cec

The visitant frequenting
The dreams of my slumber
In the hours of darkness
Appeared yet again

His face was obscured
By dazzling luminous colours
His aura bled

Deep in the trenches of my viscera
I feel as though
I have been breathless
For a thousand lifetimes
Awaiting his arrival

Hypnotised by the mystique
I felt his soul converge with mine
The phantasma I adore
The skeleton key opening me.

black moss, early morning
smoke egressing an open window
leaving behind a forest of desert trees

phantasma collecting in the shadows
of the eastern suns first hours

like a cowboy returning home late

it is everywhere, it is everywhere

it is okay to believe in magic

While there was the alchemical conclave with Valekiria and the ****** foliage of her in the veins of her beloved, the lightning of the advent of the palfreys was felt. Etréstles, goes out and looks through the strip of the between tent, making sure that Alexander the Great's entourage of Tágmati was there, bringing him his missive, Etréstles warns Mardiath and the others. While the General retreats in awe with his Leonatus falling to the ground depressed from some of the blades, from the riddled herds and the nits of the lycaon in the middle of dismounting. He sneaks up to the marquee where his main commander Vernarth was! He sees him surrounded by inexorable probes ..., pre-existing of such prosapia and losses of the Poimenandros, in all the Shepherds of Men who approached a greater one, when breathing in their exchanges of credibility, and of Vernarthian passion archeology when being introduced by his thoracic pectoralis right, leaving here before his eyes the visible and bloodless of his main artery.

Alexander the Great says: “Khaire, I wish joy to my distinguished Commander Vernarth… !. The General Raises his hands clicking and spreading tiny earrings, to grind them on his face, they were sent by the Falangists, paying homage to him! They were pieces of horse leashes with gold fillets that they ripped from the hooves of cavalry, and from the breastplates of bruised containers. With the tips of their fingers upwards and from his face, they appealed higher to Apollo's presence, and then they bowed to him.

He says: “The last time I saw your individual, we had alternated him to see the enormous bravery of his over-proportioned of him, which our Vernarth imposed in battle. You arranged your army in such a condition so that we would face all its parts forming a large rectangular, at such exterior angles where only your fierceness peeked out, being able to face thrusts derived from anywhere, not being an angle outside the defensive geometry. I saw myriads of Arrows fall on our army, I paid attention to our Lord Vernarth Hetairoi, going with his right Thoracicae Pectoralis lacerated, also semi hanging with his Aspis Koilé. You had your thigh and shoulder blade with impostor arrows that did not detract your spirits to continue ****** trampling of enemy Persian angels, being incapable before you! You mounted Alikantus and with all your momentum in an extreme insane act, you ravaged his insistent enemy ranks. There the omega happened in its exalted moment that I could see over your great courage and bravery, beheading all the Achaemenid troops. Today we have won thanks to your invaluable recklessness. Now I will go after Darío, after his escape in search of new scrolls, which is what the world did behind him, who should never have exposed himself against our alliance with our army and his historicity "

Vernarth replies: "Khaire, Chairetízo ton dioikití mou gia to thánato tou pesménou phantasma, I salute my Commander for the death of the Fallen Ghost." All submerged in the Dorus-Xifos with multiple edges impregnated in the fractions of the kardiá, like a new blood alliance that has to provide us with a new life beyond our deaths. In the hand of the smithy, smith will reside the new land where we have to implement new expeditions. " Brisehal, my Hound of Dash-e-Lut, stifled his ambitions by tarnishing superfluous designs. Now on his broken plain dystrophy, there are signs of panics, which only He instilled on undamaged bodies in the Falangists, they are deponents of our intrepidity, and of the wild rebellion that caused the flight of the Achaemenids. On the glory that did not cease to aspire, I will go in my stir up to meet my paradisiacal ancestors, gratifying the great brotherhood to the kingdom of creation by bustling through the great chimneys of Hestia, and from the universe, departing from its own powers of power, and from the uncontestable love, which makes us coexist with our extremities without anything being clearer than the very trace of their gales, more exceptional than the same that others must reward with adhesion by representing them under all limits that exceed the superior ends. "

From that moment on, everything narrowed into territories of energy, faced with the excesses of events and energetic waste that extended into exquisite archeology of evangelizing events, where its background fluctuations of retro causalities, entered into the observation of the events of energy that was filtered with the elementary particles. They were the crowning of eternal energy that makes the total summary of the elliptical trajectory of the orbit of the electron, as a virtual particle in which they refer to the muon (µ), it will be this massive elementary particle, with spin ½ with negative electric charge, with its mass 207 times greater than that of the electron, with a somewhat longer life than other unstable particles. It is associated with its corresponding antiparticle, the antimuon (µ +), the perfect interaction of the particles and Higgs and Muon, they will marry in the cloud chamber of the Patmos tunnel, becoming active at elevation 197 of the Wonthelimar vertical, at detecting the presence of electromagnetic field that will bend with the early arrival of the fourth Zefian Arrow. Everything was curved as it passed through this field, mediating between the proton and the electron, called the mesotron. Everything evolved with the mass of active light that was teleported by the neutrinos that imploded from Zefian's arrow, a few light-years before reaching contact with the Megaron Áullos Cosmos and the rest of the Katapausis, to allow for the spatiality of the vast numbers of the transversality of the millennial process, and of cosmicity between the elemental and theological physical actors, revealing the blunt veracity of the concatenation of passion archeology, for purposes of the Cosmos Ultramundis valuing the retransformation of consciousness, and shallow souls for a theological quantum becoming.

how have there been nights creating space
a vault of valued silver neck---lace play button play to me
toy tutorial: how to choke me and it is hours after midnight
i am alone in my room uncloaked my pictures upon tiny tiny windows i like to lick the blood out of the slits
grow slimes after midnight like a snail click click the right things and sadden

can i sink my fangs and hydrated as it is
a wet house all of the wallpaper ruined of bottles and of men
i hate that feeling when i put my head down and that is the last thing there is nothing nothing no struggle no bodies and legs
all anger aside i must admit
me all nails and fury me all small fit below the waist die gaily then

has anyone read anything on free will or has anyone stayed or left or has anyone survived can i lend out my own copy of free will two pages high look up the line across my back have you tried to follow me before foresting in motion
**** me in my feelings i have been begging the new moon for a new moon but IT HAS NEVER APPEARED BEFORE ME

IS THERE ANYONE I CAN HIGHLIGHT IN PURPLE AND OR IS THERE ANYONE I CAN PUT MY BACK AGAINST WHO IS WILLING TO LAY A FINGER ON ME

AND I FEEL BETRAYED should i always be banned
me me in shadows i am aware i have gotten dark i have not given permission for deep-rope-denied-roulette-gratuit-whir-phantasma

EVERYONE ON THIS SLUMP STAGE IS HIDING THEIR FINGERS IN MY MOUTH ONE TO ONE TO ONE I CAN NEVER SEE THE FACE THE FACE HURTS TOO MUCH IT IS THE RED FILTER THE EXPENSIVE ONE AND I CANNOT USE TOO MUCH OF IT IT FALLS BEFORE ME I BREAK MY KNEE-CAPS THANK YOU THANK YOU IT WAS WONDERFUL

my name is ssssss-sweetness all of a sudden
i stand before you and i am so mad i want to break your face-jaw neck-jaw your everything-jaw my name is pinky pinky and mutilation is satiric and narcissistic GO BECOME SICK OF IT AND I WILL SICK AND **** YOU AND THE HINT IS IT WILL CHANGE NOW THE SMELL IS AWAITED and the blood will be beautiful

and will be replenishing i give me another three months do you like my invention please jealous you until you open again
the demon does not possess me and does not wish to thus i received
in a letter from hell thank you thank you it was miserably ethereal

the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distilkery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzie,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's grinning cat
album...
     albeit the missing Scorpio
constellation, bound to the British Isles:

                  ●
              
                           ●
      
                                    ●

                  
                    ●
                 ●



●                                  
                      ­             ●

no algorithm no search engine
no dictionary... will equal
asking a grandmother for botanical nouns...
namely, the blooming forthynsia tree,
****** yellow almost neon
against pale kiwi green of April spring wake...

and the electric pale green,
or woken from slumber
blooming baby leaves of
a wierzba...
    a willow...
     electric in that,  almost
quicksilver drooling over
platinum in th spring night
              with a missing moon...

casually, a talk with woman,
and the technical nouns
of botanical expedience...
no algorithm to boot...

always the anticipated digression,
from the most mundane posit of
unraveling pidgin...
I compensate for my father not
speaking pristine english...
but certainly doing a chore
of industrial roofing,
than most, spaghetti finger
pancake arm coming of age bistro
*******...
        the more they aspire to sing,
the more we can hope
to be cured by karaoke on
a Saturday night...
  
    and always the anglophone perspective
of... bellybutton, Greenwich
syndrome... said the English,
so must say th rest of the world...

his shortcomings are my...
what he might as well have said...
tak your toys,
and take a warm dump in their sandpit...
then move into the next sandpit,
and **** in it...

personally I don't unerstand
the attack on grammar...
this antithesis of etymology,
this quasi slang... or rather slang
in a straitjacket...
of... well, at least the orthodox
communists had an economic model...
it was going to fail
because it was going to fail...
        but how lonely...
it must be... being unable to compete
with an external counter,
and merely, implode...
          must be lonely in the current
economic asylum...
imploding all the time,
having to compete with 600 years
after golgotha, and rí'bāh...
      
   5 ****** minutes picking out
a ***** for a Saturday night solo...
went for the shaft of wheat,
akin to a lodged locust corpse
in an absinthe bottle bought
in Amsterdam...

               apparently, there is a difference,
but most notably...
only when, drinking alone...
   the talk of sober people
bores me, how they can hide their
apathy behind so much gesticulation
and **** fakery...
    silent as a grave...
drunk people talking
is..
    perhaps outside the party mentality...
and th sudden spurring of
amnesia, a moral hangover,
a loose tongue comes across
darting eyes...

                   hardly a conneisour of
beer, or *****...
      more, on the lines of...
a conneisour of the knockout
falling asleep method...
      and... not allowing myself
be impregnated with dreams...
strange thus... how people
allow unknown forces to impregnate
them with dreams...
               **** them with dreams...
I deem a sleep impregnated
with dreams to be far from rest...
either sleep and the night
of today, with a morning of later on
today... or nothing...

                    perhaps the safety of the sleep
environment,
of the naturalally produced
hallucinogens that are called dreams...
surely the brain must secrete
a hallucinogen when in th state
of sleep...
              as far as I am concerned,
there is no need to interpret dreams...
coincidentally, this implies...
the counter to the stigma surrounding
lucid intoxication...
     because aren't dreams,
the byproduct, of the brain secreting
hallucinogenic compounds,
      when in a hypo-conscious
state of sleep?
   medically induced coma...
naturally invoked
psychedelic carousel...
             which might explain why...
people wanted to tap into this
chemistry dynamic via the 1960s...
of waking into a dream...
        but there must be some sort of
chemical, secreted by the brain
during sleep...
        that allows for the conjured phantasma...
symbiotic to the state of safety...
the brain, not attached to
spacio-temporal coordination...

   and some would argue that all drinkers
at noon, are dancing sloppy tango
with their shadows.

In the damp morning streets of my mind
a smell of words so foul
phrases that bind
and forever hidden underneath a dark cowl

Walking neath a hollow sky
a living, breathing, stone-cold vaul
as a lovely darkness constantly spills over my mind's eye
but never reaching thy heart, this empty hall

Words luminous like stars
reflecting on the sea below my feet
my mirrored self gripping onto bars
this is where truth and make-believe meet

I ask the Great Ones to give me the wounds
I ask for those that I deserve
Waited to bleed for many moons
this body is eager and so is every nerve

I cannot live another day
living of the starlit night
hiding my sole purpose away
this fragile human shell, my endless fright

Is this my Anathema?
I feel endlessly accursed
This mind's life is nothing but a phantasma
and it seems nothing can collect what has once been dispersed

Am I not dead yet?
Is this not dying?
I was not hit but still I bled
Why have you taught me how to be death-defying?

Blinded by what is illuminated
I'm always drowing in the space between
a warm light that has faded
and a bright and terrifying fire burning so keen

So just finally set my flesh ablaze
break through this agony, a heart so tame
let this sea of blood erase
and overflow this frame

Wildest one,
Your reins tighten the air
      molding foreign
          phantasma
into gorgeous sunlight,

      I don't know how you do it

But I've never cared much for answers

a vermillion serpent

with white smoke wings

and light yellow eyes,

slides off a stone cloud.

a fainting phantasma of

unheld height, meets a

stream of milk precisely its

length and width.

issuing midpoint between the

sky-ground.

knocks in its eyes, and

dislodges its jaws for an aeonic

drink.