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Filmore Townsend Sep 2017
and here had you to come
along again, to turn but
rut down-in again. why
of purpose bound-to-barter
by the wind in ragged
motion; trees don't sway,
but, more-so, break and fray
when antithetic priest-like
figures moan-chant away
the now, the new, that
coming for-into a wounded
day.  a channel/offair.
Filmore Townsend Mar 2017
some Catholic catharsis
and massively multiplying
paradigm shift;
do you fight the thought-flow?
through the catacombs
where you're nothing?
precipitate of participation
and attempted, forced, alliteration;
inconsistency, and in kind,
    (and onward Christian solider,
               play your cards right)
chomp the *******; maybe
out of context. always
throwing context; pseudo-
attempting contrast. scribblings
about the ancient gods.
random, fleeting, fancied-thought.
      in an abstract field at night;
at nigh. to be repetitive, and
in dredging the past of words
long-since winded. when
is the cohesive era played-
through of these little uttered lives?
these faulting breathless lines?
Filmore Townsend Mar 2017
to come back to this, after much
a long minute, feels like a *****
returned to brothel; perhaps the
harshness of the analogy is hype-
rbole. won't let a Crowley
****-block me; sun's
  too bright for that.
      should shower,
         but drink wine,
    and this is perhaps a poor
         reactionary response; ironic;
the ironned-iconic. pressed to be
           pre-dressed, and no need to cut
  a styled up-do;
                the hair isn't quite real,
anyhow. all-quite polyeurathane,
   or polysylvester, or
              never too keen for poly-
anything.          now hold up.
      nah, keep on the
          struttin' along, there's a better
one than you follows a
                 winger's lead.
             smoking cigarettes at the window
     while she sleeps; thine own eyes
        never stop in faltering-rest,
then restless-hoping that
                   pen-scrawls, window
   scraping sides when opened,
smoking a cigarette at the window;
           rattle-restless, hope
      is a beggar, but we are manifest;
                choosers can't be beggars.
Filmore Townsend Mar 2017
(making sure the
     crease is tight)

     bringing in massive amounts of
information in past few weeks; past
month finding excel for creative-effort.
     consolidation may be required; maybe
a bit of desolation left to wake. in wake.
had to specify; to make sure.
     quite some worded-path here-found
us our footfalls lay silent; untrodden
under-growth. the Void carries no sound.
     found Earthen-detachment after
land swept in tidaled-tears. seas colored
gray, reflection of vision lost from Light.
     retracted narration, refracted thought,
forcing pan-plane sight; listen, bones yet
vibrate once more. another time; now.
     pallet-hoarding bricks enough to path spanses in thought-memory. burn the
bridges while building; two birds,
one self-destruction.
     allegorical immolation; sat in silence a bit too far out there. synchronicity; some
perfect-hidden stalker.
     allegorical cave; words with no promise
of unison in conveyance. leading around
some Tree Of Flashing Visions.
     all-aligned eyesight as the sun dawns.
swimming head; mental-cud of knowledge.
at influx of Ones' differed perception.

                                   (making sure the
                                          grease is slight)
Filmore Townsend Feb 2017
god isn't all back-talk,
but why do we ignore?
again repeated to save
the sleeper;
why not save yourself?
what may come after? and,
now writing by guided
half-light of morning;
purples hues, and
incandescent colorblindness
of a growing dawn.
drop your shoulders,
quit tying knots throughout
your back; how
can the Holy Fire strike
through layers of caked icing?
******* wash it away,
******* dust the flour
from your hair, attempt to
self-(lost the next word)
to remember
you came forth from nothing
to be gifted self-determination.
and realize, even god is cyclical
upon our dimension;
    wane to gain,
   return for praise from yearn.
there's fear, if only
because there's reality.
chills through spine, radiating
outward under skin; this is
melody's echo chamber -
hyperbolic time chamber in metre.
Filmore Townsend Feb 2017
OH, sometimes we slip
cumulative experiences, missing
keys, but on and along some other's
new patterned-rhytms. just buy some
character; hit in hopes to stop
irking measures. we all end up
minding another. hoveling
the initial, and first-prime
enslaver, to rip free from Natural
objection in reality. static-cra-
ziness to me when joints,
droning ambient, crackle
like bubble wrap. pondering
on for far too long, and was I
even to speak, alongside
your falsified grace.
091516; 3/3
Filmore Townsend Feb 2017
gods will author great disaster
to empty plenty-enough vessels. man
has always known man; blinded,
and heretical vehemence, testing
flaws cited by narrator. listeners,
to ennui, while dust-devils rise,
and fall, with time
to unheard metric-rhythm.
(never did we start the ticking-pace)
too stubborn, feuding selves to turn
brand around and unto Deity's forehead;
wrists given to be bound, willingly.
as always done for a chance at conne-
action through-vessel-from-soul
to shunt the earth;
dead now, always, also again
to beckon me in two and along
lost thought with the words
left to draft, held in mind.
091516; 2/3
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