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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
in that, beyond good and evil, there's on femininity and masculinity; we already know of st. thomas' account about how the masculine needs to made into feminine and vice verse... no wonder such teachings in the undercurrent of our life, that we went beyond this and started doing likewise in the framework of good and evil; but there's hardly a dualism within the four 90º, while the tetragrammaton opens the gates to geometric phoneticism, which does not work in the hebrew depiction of the tetragrammaton, only in latin, because in latin one will not see a vision but reveal, having heard but not seen, and when inserting a thought into an experience: a satanism that said: i'll be satan and change this choir into moving stars and send a telegram to the aliens! should i see man loose all dignity in warring with himself that ended in napoleonic trust for man and man on the battlefield - because what she offered most men can get, and what i was offered only one among the billions, and in history about three, get.

so while some attempts at a sensual proof were not
granted, only one was, through moses,
and obviously through elijah - as sensual proofs
go, the proof of moses had to be fused with
a cognitive remainder, since, given the fact
that the torah was written by the supreme outsider,
the book depicting elijah was written by a true insider,
yet the cognitive realm which these two operated in
is a pure mystery, given the fact that sensually,
the staged rifts were short lived, yet too long lived
cognitively, having to argue, cite and disagree with
moses, who dragged the most sensual distortion
into the cognitive realm.

so as cognitive proof-arguments go, they are simply that,
more cognitive proofs lead to more argumentation,
but little sensuality, such that the paid need for
theological argumentation that leads to no sensual
precipitation enters the realm of holocausts,
whereby idle and vain cognitive proofs have no sensual
******, only more "thinking;" paid thinking.
and when the sensual proof for the non-existence of god
appears, like the holocaust, all those accumulative
"proofs" from the cognitive realm... end up like midgets...
and everyone's awe taken aback, because so much
cognition was left undisturbed, that the senses are prompted
for a disaster! why would i want cognitive argumentation
if i cannot seek and find a sensual guarantee?
where's the sensual ******, if cognitive argumentation
climaxed to the fine tuned 1 + 1 logic is a sensual anticlimax?!

the odd thing is walking the neighbourhood with beer and hand
waiting for the indian heatwave, but as i sooner realised,
this type of drinking is no good - the shelter of the garden
is where i find laughter - on the street making miles
i find anger - and as i noticed a day prior:
beer in hand, cigarette burning the lung forests,
watching a clear night sky, seeing a boeing boast
engine ***** high up to sound like i drone - that
universe forgets i can claim a nighttime hemisphere of sounds
with that boeing, even though the daytime skyblue is blinded
by a dilated pupil,i can feed that massive vacuum
of emptiness and keyhole glitter a mishap and a chance
to study less celestial geometry to endeavour out of this
haven.

prompts a maxim this verse does:
no one around me in my shape or walk -
tall enough to reach the sky, but
dumb like a thirteen day old butterfly, still flirting with the flutter.
***** you were born as the caterpillar old man,
now you're a fever of beauty in colour,
and only for two weeks, or even less if nabokov is about.

well, crescendo!
when simon magus stood with st. peter at nero's throne
the stage was like the two women with solomon about to cut a baby in half.
it was scened within the following framework of details:
st. peter started to sing bon jovi's 'lay your hands on me,'
with alternative lyrics - let me lay my hands on you
with the power of the holy spirit.
nero replied: lay your own hand on yourself, get away from
me you ***** *******, that holy spirit of yours, the one
you said is a personality but really isn't is just another form of:
celestial chaining; magus simon, what about you?
so simon magus came up and said:
i'll whiff you a smokey vision of caligula learning
of philosophy as read by his talking horse *incitatus
.

i wish for praise here on originality, but i heard of this one,
the talking horse of caligula by the one and only zbyszek herbert,
and in quick translation the poem reads -

*says caligula:

from all the citizens of rome
i loved only one
incitasus - a horse

when he entered the senate
the unblemished toga of his fur
glistened immaculately among hemmed with purple cowardly
                                                        ­                           murderers.

incitatus was full of virtuous bounties
he never spoke over me or spoke in general
a stoic nature
i think that at night in the stables he read philosophers

i loved him to such an extent that one day i decided to
                                                              ­                   crucify him
but his noble anatomy countered such a feat

he bosomed the position of consul with dignified apathy
he held power to the helm with a cupful of water
spilling none in a drunk waiter's swagger,
meaning he used none of it with the entitlement

it was impossible to make him bow to long lasting bonds of love
with mt second wife caesonia
alas no lineage of future caesars arose - centaurs

that's why rome crumbled

i decided to nominate him a god
but on the ninth day before the calendar days of february
cherea cornelius sabinus and other fools obstructed these godly intentions

with calm he received the message of my death

thrown out from the palace and sentenced to exile

he accepted the burden with dignity

he died heirless
butchered by a thick-skinned butcher from the township of anzio

of the posthumous fates of his meat
taticus is silent with regards to.
katrinawillrich Mar 2015
Is the biggest secret on earth.
No air traffic underneath smog
Controlled factory lined megaphonic
Daylight saving stolen hour gasp,
When turquoise mood, plays 2nd Pace
To know her.
Confidant pillows pressed for time talking
Loud
Aint gave her nothing.
Xan Abyss Feb 2016
Desert Rose, she grows in the light of the moon
She glows like a ghost amid wandering ghouls
Beautiful and rare, she loves the desert air
and I love to see her bloom after the rain falls

Be my Tree of Life
Be my Peace of Mind
She's my Healing Light
At the end of every night

Desert Rose, her eyes of crystal-clear skyblue
I don't wanna be anywhere but here with you
Against your ivory skin, and to caress your spun-gold hair
The starlight in your smile burns right through my despair

You're the only one who understands me
And still there's sunshine in your eyes
You're the only one with whom I can be
Who I truly am inside

Be my Tree of Life
Be my Peace of Mind
She's my Healing Light
At the end of every night
Oh, darling
Be my Tree of Life
Be my Peace of Mind
She's my Healing Light
At the end of every night
the first genuine love song I've written in a while.
r  Jul 2018
Raining on my Sunday
r Jul 2018
I miss Sunday
in a skyblue sundress
with sunlight
shining through
that gap between
thighs so soft
like cotton clouds.
Luxi  Feb 2012
simple y solo
Luxi Feb 2012
un dia de estos encontraré tu caballo blanco
sentado al cordón de la vereda
sí, esperando que pase el sol de lluvia buena
eterno sueño mimado del día
siguiente a los pasos tristes de mi sombra celeste
simple y solo

una pena no tenerte a mi lado

hoy y ayer
y hasta mañana esperaré al cielo
y a la estrella fugaz mas lejana
antes que tus vidas pasadas golpeen mi puerta
y nos reencontremos reencarnados
en otro lugar del mundo y la tierra.

--------------------------------------------------------­-------

simple and only

some day of these i will find your white horse
sitting at the sidewalk curb
yes, waiting the good rain sun to pass by
eternal spoiled daydream
next to the sorrowful steps of my skyblue shadow
simple and only

it is a pity i dont have you by my side

today and yesterday
and until tomorrow i will wait to the sky
and the farthest shooting star
sooner than your past lives knock at my door
and we will reincarnated rejoin
somewhere else in the world and earth.
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
It all looked clean, crisp, picturesque postcard promise
The river reflecting skyblue shimmers
Mists rising wisps of secrets
Trees and plants glossy, full bellied, nutritious happy
The birds practising new song and twitching wings
of fancy in the bright 440 volt sunshine
Filtering through
the senses to settle softly.

All was really not that clean and crisp.
The photographer could not zoom in
On a dead kea choked on a 1080 trap
Dropping from the sky like a manna treat
Four fish gobbling pellets pulled upstream
Mouth agape as poison shut the fluttering gills
Two other magpies lost their raucous tone
Deprived by early morning bait
Possums slept softly high up in the tress
With last nights buds bursting in their full bellies

The photographer could not see beauty and ugliness
Together.
The lens could not question the crystalline view
The click was not from gun
digital film rolled irrespective
And his dream of a pristine forest
with no pustules told one side of the story.

The other side
Balanced the books
And tore the heart of the very creatures
That spoke beauty with being there.

The picture was captioned;
Clean and Green.
Was it?
A picture speaks a thousand words
Sprinkled with three hundred lies and lives.
Author Notes

This poem accompanied a lush photograph of forest with a little stream flowing through. In the same area where the photograph was taken, helicopters bombed the forest with 1080 poison pellets to knock off the possums which were eating through the fresh shoots and leaves.

The end result was more than the possums going to thy kingdom come.

There are serious environmental undertones in this poem.

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid;=11260667
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 days ago
Mohd Arshad  Aug 2014
Skylark
Mohd Arshad Aug 2014
what a skyblue skylark!
submerging in soft white,
plays upon the violin
and sings his heart, so young!
my weariness flies away
like the smoke in the breeze,
and senses dance like
flowers in the drizzles.
who hears the melody
of such a sweet singer!
his songs are much delight
and flight from pain to joys.
rubben Wainaina  Jan 2021
Raelynn
rubben Wainaina Jan 2021
Life like flowers wither,
Love like dye fades,
The art of eternity is nothing short of shades of blue!
But she, she shines beyond the skyblue
Raelynn!
She like sand,  sweeps away the sorrow,
Her love is free, i dont have to borrow,
drop                           down                            dirt
(love gently)                  (into the)

s           it
eed
f            it
eed
w          it
eed
n          it
eed

new roots
shoot
and stems
stand
to
the skyblue

                                                                      i do
                                                                      i do
F  Dec 2020
moses mirrored
F Dec 2020
two white beaches lie asunder;
a temporal numbness foregoes
the crash of red endorphins tidal-waving between parted skin.
fabric-flesh torn
and measured upon a pulsing
living
purple bed of weedlike nerves.

kubrick westwood.
each micronanosecond framed by
ruler and rolling arriflex,
memory designed and inserted.

moses returns with
tablets gripped white-knuckled beneath soiled robes.
skyblue needles repairing a crimson chasm.
autofleshpots of salvation;
each skinly knot weaved unto one
vile tapestry of red

and red and red and red.
eternal beyaux sans story.
those shanks that play no myth
nor legend.
no pierced eye nor
striking cleric nor
sailing comet appear upon your ghastly skin.

you're merely scarred
and nothing more.

— The End —