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Jordan Gee Aug 1
Looking down from over their bodies - I count them.
My split mind at once rejoices in and recoils from that counting.
Peering back over my shoulder I make
dark associations.
It’s as if I was afraid of becoming lost
the way the bodies made a trail like bread crumbs,
leading back from the places I had been.
I walk with the Holy Light.
I walk with my dark companion.
I walk between the spines of the body shrikes.
They harvest all my crumbs and remind me I am lost.
They hook the bodies high from spikes
so I look up to make the body count.
I can see the Holy Script
but I can’t seem to find the way.
Red and gold beacons in the dream,
flickering off and on like syncopated declarations
as if saying:
Here I am
Here I am
Here I am.
All elbows and knees I slip between the webs of the
orb weavers and the cactus spines of the butcher birds
while they count the bodies for me:
Here they are
Here they are
Here they are.
Hang-dog and hard of breathing  I have my medicine.
I’m hanging from the sleeping cliffs over
hell’s half acre and the high deserts.
I remember my brother flying me to California on a great olive branch.
He fed me sushi and smiled while he watched by brain heal.
But I was coming for the bodies.
My count was smaller then, but it was high enough for him
and his hands were the keepers of the flame.
The fire there was exiled and quietly he laid it by.
My brother spread out over the carpet of time like
the faithful departed with the weavers and the shrikes and
mounted bodies in the sky.
A child appears before me on the walk - eyes like a baby deer.
His mother is two blocks behind, so he asks three questions while he waits:
Why are you smoking?
Where are your hands?
Is it getting dark soon?
He leaves me to wonder where my hands are and where the dark is,
the Holy Sage smoking at my side.
Like some dark sabbath.
Like some reading of the will.
Like some dark and holy delta sleep in a crib of red clay.
I have a feeling I have been gone a very long time and I
want to be home now,
but there is buzzing and chirping and a red light and
Saul of Tarsus holds a great tome before me and with my hands
I hide my eyes.
I am the dreaming of the world of dreams.
Therein the Holy Light rages like the flare of 1000 suns
while my eyes are shuttered tight
like old memories all gone beyond the sorrow.
The old oath keepers are all plates and screws.
The golden woven orbs and cactus spines are all empty on
the altar like a decommissioned slaughterhouse.
So I go and make a body count.
Shrikes (/ʃraɪk/) are carnivorous passerine birds of the family Laniidae. The family is composed of 33 species in four genera. The family name, and that of the largest genus, Lanius, is derived from the Latin word for "butcher", and some shrikes are also known as butcherbirds because of their feeding habits.
Fheyra May 17
A mutated earthling—
From an elitist experiment—
Burst with thorns and limbs,— yet too little to be seen,— That struck mines— Into landslides.

Through and through,— to species and things
A coast to coast hunter— that becomes a Gremlin *******,— and thrilled by a prophet, foretold—
"A ditty hatband to put in flute,— is a note of sphere bullets."

For the meantime, hear the Chieftain's announcement:
"The folly is the naked; as the prudent is the masked—
No one should be phlegmatic in this game,—
For all of you should be sensitive— Unless, if you want to be an elsewhere's feast
Do not act— like a pearl with a great price!"

Soldiers cluttered in passageways,— For Pirates are Ubiquitous thieves
An assemble of frontiers hosed and geared— of wrought bodies— with uncertain prone.

In this war, together—
Barricades of water and bricks— Our chances to be unleashed,— From a long concealment,— To be sooner conquerors of intruders' exile.
Covid-19 is a current situation in all countries. The prevalence of this disease has an uknown end, but with our discipline, and the brave hearts of our front liners, together we will be free.
Clay Face Apr 28
Look at me like an animal,
with-drawled and wing over young;
my peers.

Separate them from us, perceived as vile.
You fabricate a false stigma,
a shrouding ghost stench we excrete.

You’ve kept me from connection,
congealed by your false projection!
Falling farther from coitus, laughter, and joyous.
Torch of aspiration, doused in fabrication.

Curious, like a bee,
buzzing around but can’t see.
Craving sent bitter,
they hate all but those sitter.

Elect thyself primus.
Hate me like a sinner.
Blasphemy to love brother or sister.
You can’t mask your vileness.

You’ve kept me from connection,
congealed by your false projection!
Falling farther from coitus, laughter, and joyous.
Torch of aspiration, doused in fabrication.
Ellis Reyes Apr 14
A Note From Exile

I cannot go home.
Rather I cannot go where my family lives - that place ceased to be home some time ago.

I was a soldier during the Cold War and my neighbors there have become more like East German loyalists than American citizens.

They surrender their rights without question
They are eager to call out community members on social media for ‘social distancing violations’.
They use shame and ridicule to control others
They applaud the police for keeping children from playing in gigantic public parks
They trust politicians who ignore public defecation and drug use to look out for ’the public good'
They allow themselves to be labeled ‘essential’ and ’non-essential’
They carry ’traveling papers’ in the event that they are stopped by the police
They propagate the most inflammatory statistics without ever validating their veracity.
Because…
They heard it on CNN.

So I will remain 1098 miles away
Zooming
Skyping
Facetiming
Until the contagion subsides

And then I’ll return
To a completely different world.
A contribution that I made to a friend's blog
Ylzm Dec 2019
Faith's a gift even as prodigies are gifted
But whereas prodigies are put on a pedestal
Truth's a stranger, exiled from the womb
And life's a harlotry in a foreign land
Simon Oct 2019
Like probability. Fate exhibits the constraints to a more tolerable atmosphere at heart. The heart of an atmosphere, is the atmosphere functioning with a heart. Completely one sided. Never admitting who’s mentions are who. Whose opinions mattered the absolute most. Options become tiresome. Tolerable frequencies through pure hearts devoted without contract to inner self awareness. Prompting the judgment of what atmosphere has over the heart of the problem. There are problems within hearts? WHAT!! Contrary to the balance of symmetries without depth. Hearts full of many brimming effects. Only determined to sending out there resume for better times. And which one is disclosing from the standard developments rotting the better picture into ruin? Pictures printed with resumes aren’t fruitful. When dynamics in the surface, isn’t comparable to challenge. Challenge lays claims to birthing the right focus. Take charge! Listen carefully to directions! What does that all haft to do with fate being exiled? It doesn’t. Well, not conclusively anyway. Fate is a thought manufactured behind the scenes. It won’t show it’s face directly. Too imposed in everyone else’s business. A directive with no claim in its heart. An atmosphere unsocialized with parts never discovering inner desires. Concluding fate never trusting itself. Fate exiled… Means to test one’s own claims of basic will. The hint is why does fate act? Rather then think the way it’s acting? Could simply be a perspective too old for the majority to classify broadly about. Justifications rise and fall. Birthing the right assorting facts, isn’t a focus. It’s diverging away. Imprints full of empty reassurance. Concluding something different in a basic platform the majority concentrates on. Fate just stands taller than the rest. Filtering all unsuspecting protocols from the inside out. Propagating pressure with insolence. Insolence flowing in-between the rough exteriors of right and wrong. Abiding time for another surface. Triggering the inside out dynamics at large. A picture finally noticing a part of itself without deciphering what complexes itself apart from the others. All this is a much-discovered piece of evidence. But it lacks companionship. No light or dark. A patronage not as diverse as the one heeding influences out with a weapon changing velocities around left and right. Pieces of quietness is an illusion. The surface being what it is. Underneath is where fate discloses further information completely. It’s weapon of probability is just that. A surface area too big for noticing details in itself. Rather picking others to commune a wishing sentence. Hinting at probability being a fake! There isn’t probability in the logical area of flat platforms without big thinking specifics. It’s all hogwash! Fate determines exilement to rush the borderline potential awareness of others. Except that’s probability maneuvering as a mask in the light. Tricking typical surface dwellers in an area too complex for delusional purposes. Even it’s claims are full of doubt. So why does everyone bounce from one flaw to the next? Practicing what it means to put one step after the other. Exercising doubt completely as a waypoint to a better tomorrow. More like a fruitful one-minute moment of standards too gray for focuses to admit. (Tricking won’t get you anywhere, if your full of bland statements.) An assertive quote straight from someone who exiles themselves onto others for practices into the next benign claims. Resumes with a statement that’s only delusional to what tricking isn’t. Showing you exile is the right future for an atmosphere with a heart. Which functions its heart towards the atmosphere. Switches in claims divert the true knowledge around in circles. So, who is fate, exactly? What possibly could they decide amongst themselves for the better future to the surface area of majorities? Try flipping yourself inside out. You might just want to write (Exile) on the permission slip of your own determined mark. Welcome to your identity in exile!
Fate claiming its own rights to act for itself, rather then wanting to break down others interpretations completely. Exiling every piece of information in one’s heart forever! A trick amongst claims.
Ylzm Jul 2019
the eagle flies free,
and men imprisoned,
behind lines drawn in the sand,
for which they are flattered,
to ****, to bleed, and to die ...

the free mourns,
for theirs is all the earth,
from which they are banished and exiled ...

the idolatrous flag,
another nail to hang the hypocrite ...
Ylzm May 2019
My chariot rode the wind.
I saw the land, a familiar land,
Just as I knew it, seeking and
filling in the details, as I looked.

Only when I returned ,
did I know I was away.
For home is unfamiliar and strange.
I had been away, a long time.
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