Bath bomb You
Erupted
In my bath tonight
Like a volcano...

I enjoyed watching you
As you
Bubbled away.

You ignited
With so much sweetness
And scent... floral essence!

The
Petals within
Floated
To the surface
Like a Garland
Toward the shore.

Bath bomb
You gave me the universe
And more
You
Bath bomb
I adore.

SPLASH!

By Violet.

~for the one who will know it was written for her~

muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled

have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?

the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear

this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature

I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif

muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess

even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman

I am here, waiting patiently, though long time no see like ever,
absentia, dementia, both self-censure,
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her, my sun, my sun,
yet she, as well, is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating my muddled mind

I am the warm lips of sun, that kiss your dew drenched petals,
when you in self oblivion try to embrace, I've gone faraway,
playing  with love struck clouds, dancing, their slips flying,
I am the fire making your body burn with desire,slyly planted

I am the wind, licking pollen off your stamen softly, making you
want me to do that more, sowing goosebumps all over
I am the movement of desire, moving through that time of the day
languid in mornings,spreading fervor at noons and in darkness
coils like a serpent that searches for burrow to snuggle in til dawn

Flow of water am I, that carries you along easily throughout,
you could ease in to me, I am the bed and the fingers caressing,
in my dreams you are the  sneaking fingers of my naughty lover,
in you are my ablutions, my fire is quenched  by your  flows.
I ooze,fluids of many scents sometimes a sprouting spring.
I trickle with  pleasure, lubricate,cross one level to the other.
                                               (C)

She has sunshine
in her hair,
like sun
on fields of corn.

I walk there,
brushing my fingers
through the softness.
She welcomes me in,

in I swim
through the waves
of her love;
she is my siren,

I, a drowning ******.
Her lips are as fruit,
I am upon them
as a child greedy

for sustenance;
her moistness
embraces me.
Her thighs are ocean-like,

I bathe as one
needing salvation,
ablutions to a new end,
will this release

the dead me
or mend?

The dream always beckons with a resolution,
while a new day holds unimagined sights.
Yet, the dream resolves only into continuation
ad nauseam through another wasted morning’s light.

While a new day holds unimagined sights,
I awaken mainly to delay alarms
ad nauseam through another wasted morning’s light,
stumbling blindly with an outstretched arm.

I awaken mainly to delay alarms
Yawning through bleary eyes into still weather,
stumbling blindly with an outstretched arm -
the clear morning looks a hopeless endeavor.

Yawning through bleary eyes into still weather,
I eventually haul these stiff limbs through ablutions.
The clear morning looks a hopeless endeavor,
though I can begin to glimpse possible solutions.

I eventually haul these stiff limbs through ablutions,
because the dream resolves only into continuation.
Though I can begin to glimpse possible solutions,
the dream always beckons with a resolution.

it was the day of the fall equinox
and I fell for the idea that all would be equal
but that idea opened pandora's box
to yet another sequel

Of horrors pouring, jaws ajar;
Claws and eyes both pointed
And lashing out both near and far
Leaving all my world disjointed.

How did I become a bystander to what I started
I swear I'm a good person and kind hearted
I just wanted to get laid, but you know what they say
about the best laid plans of mice and men
they go and arise to the horror that was today
Now I long for the blissful ignorance I had back then

You see, not all is as it seems with me,
I have my fair share of cryptics
But this was unknown to even yours truly
I had not expected the apocalyptic.
My eyes and soul and heart was blank,
I had not an idea for solutions
All was lost, my confidence shrank,
I felt *****, in need of ablutions.

It started out as and innocent fling
but after her ***** willow went up my tree
she expected a ring
I fled from her bed in hurry
but I had no idea the calamity it would bring.

I really had opened Pandora's box,
In more ways than just one.
Now she claims to love me, 'lots and lots'.
Oh Hell, what had I done?
I ran and hid, far from her home
Yet she searched for me endlessly
Spitting fire from her mouth of rabid foam
Ripping apart both Land and Sea.

She scorched the earth in my name
all eyes and claws pointed blame
the people didn't deserve such a fate
but I knew she was using them as bait
How did she transform from a magnificent maiden
to a brew of Maleficent and the spawn of satan
nevertheless
she could not find my place of rest

Which was right inside myself, you see:
I hid in between my lungs.
So off in disguise,
Right under her eyes
To the sea, I ran and I plunged.
Once out in the Sevens
I reached out to the Heavens
(The ones I'd not believed before)
And I cried,' Someone please save me
From this bat-**** old lady;
Give me help!' I strongly implored.
All of a sudden, the waters did blacken
I had no time to swim, for out burst a Kraken!
'The eyes look familiar', I thought in my head,
Then I realised: The beast is the woman I'd bed.

This Kraken was looking to crack in my skull
there had to be some way to get her roar to dull
but I was a sitting duck, so I tossed in my white flag
and tossed in some loving words almost causing me to gag
she tied me up until we tied the knot
and used my white flag as her vail
I spent my time trying to plot
how to make this wedlock fail
when the reverend said you may kiss the bride
I revealed the concealed weapon I had by my side

Just a wedding ring, was my weapon,
Rounded, gold with diamonds; seven
It was made for her and she loved it dear
Unbeknownst that she should be filled with fear...
We'd now been married for quite some time,
I'd let her love me before my crime,
For the best way to **** a woman - to start,
Is let her fall for you then break her heart.
I found the perfect way to make her life end
So while she was out, I had *** with her friends.

But I said nothing, I let rumors fly
the truth hurts, but what kills is no reply
I let her head spin
and let her unravel
what once was an overbearing boulder
had turned itself into gravel.
the time was now prime
to commit my final crime...

Sunrise bathes me with His gold
my complexion has turned a golden hue
my hairs are rays of light now
and lips amber gems
gaze into my eyes beloved
pools of sweet honey swirl
come sit by this blushing lotus pond
and we will sing luminous songs of the Sun

People talk about death
As if it is the end
Sometimes I see it as a beginning

They tell me that a person expires
When there role is played
And they have done there part

Sometimes I think this body of ours
Is made of wood
The older it grows the more it has to offer

Many people die before their time
People talk of death among other things
These are the very people who should be allowed to grow

Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like

one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug

taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside

her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her

back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by

the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,

seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,

foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway

her hips and ****, hands swinging,
gesturing.  She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in

his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a *****, a druggie slapper, she

said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.

He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,

smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and

she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.

It is often said
That living is the rarest thing
Some people merely exist
I can promise myself this
That the rivers will flow
And the trees will bring wood
Fish don't have feelings
But, innocence fades
That is what clears my conscience
The iota of ephemeral contrast
I can sustain a worthy purpose
Which may have a fleeting foundation
One of immense virtue
That a plebeian approach cannot understand
If I take the crooked path
I can walk among my peers
Who have been waiting
For me
To live free as well
But stand strong I must
As I gaze into an abyss
Without purpose
Undoubtedly determined
I can do something, methinks
Instead of doubting my own perception
Yet, I cannot predict
When the diurnal birds will go in abmigration
I simply forget
Some skip south much of autumn
I cannot remember
When will the solitary tree lie bare
The weather behaves like an intelligent child
No one knows where the wind goes
If you ask why, you question your wisdom
Only you and yourself
Can find the purpose
For the phenomena within
That tells you to move on forward
Contrary to popular wisdom
Until the final beat of an unseen presence
Ushers you into its arms
And like an abyss staring back at you
Tells you there is no rainbow down there
To confirm your fears
Or affirm your immense virtue
Your glory fades
When death holds you closer

I found a wise old man
over the weekend.
He was not condescending;
the wise man was my friend.
And I did not climb stairways
to meet my learned elder,
I fell o’er a threadbare cat;
listened, whilst I held her.

He crooked a swollen finger,
for he was hard of hearing,
far off eyes, a vapour blue;
not empty, and not leering.
And he chuckled in my ear:
All the answers he had found,
which the flowers chinese whispered
across the foreign grounds.

The way he told it showed me
how his gentle life solutions
were distorted and quite faded
after those emotional ablutions.
Yet each tale was a comfort;
marked one pretty girl, long lost;
beside him, pretty, every day,
despite the draining cost.

Then the blue sky clouded over
his eyes scruted the garden
I questioned ‘Are you well…?’
see the flesh cracks harden.
“Who’re you? Leave me; GET OUT”
for I was not his friend.
And then the nurses came,
though his confusion did not end.

I walked down to the front
for the afternoon was finished;
he no longer knew my name,
though I’d seen his mind diminish.
What a panging pain it is
to share with him cream tea,
whilst his mind is being taken
by that calm, corrosive sea.

.
Still pale grey earth is turned,
Deep is the loam moisted,
Lone by the Ploughman.

The rows of the brushed patches,
Sweating the breakneck blood,
Are painted by labours.

Messiah doors out cathedral,
With iron plod anoints the soil,
Exposed unto mercy sun.

His hands are knobbed in stone,
His eyes searing of the star,
His face dark as deep loam.

Each day ablutions of sod earth,
Heaved out tilling unfree wills,
Burdens of harnessed beast.

Dark is the turned loam moisted,
Water flame heat of veined mist,
Seeds sown explode to bloom.

After thorny works, crowned blood,
Sun leaves to wine red fruition,
Ploughman maker is done.

I hate it when my biscuit commits suicide
in my cup of tea.
I hate that TV is about celebrity, banality
and reality.
I hate that even though I have a job, money
still alludes me.
I hate being woken up and going to
bed in a bad mood.

I hate adverts on the radio.
I hate stupidity
facebook debates and vanity.

I hate people who think I'm a traffic light
and those oblivious to where they're going.
People who can't stop relentlessly moaning!

I hate that learning's on the decline
I hate shopping , boredom
and "being dolled up to the nines."

I hate that everybody just waits for
things to get better.
I hate that a 'good' hair day depends
on the weather.

I hate assumptions, non-conclusions
and skin ablutions that don't work.

I hate that the art of conversation is
adrift in this technological generation
I hate time-wasters, calories and kid with
no respects for elders.
I hate that journalism's no longer 'cutting edge'
or about the truth.
I hate profound sayings about too many cooks
and spoiled broth.
That I'm incapable of telling people with clipboards
to *******!
I hate martyrs , can't be ****-ters,
ignorance, arrogance and man-made disasters
The non-stickiness of plasters!

I hate public transport, rush hour
and being stuck inside.
I hate people who wear tracksuits but
never exercise.

I hate queuing and clichés
I hate opinions on mental health
and those who just can't help them-self.

I hate people who relentlessly moan
who can't stop trying to sell stuff over the phone.

But most of all I hate it when

....

                                                         ­           Ah! Forget it .

Center in the Atmosphere

Breathe me in.
Huff-huff and go
we don’t belong here.

It’s in the air around you.
The scent of the spice
exudes from your pores.
Hiding your clothes is no longer effective.

Give in.
They tell you to try harder,
to shower before you walk to their house.
Your constant ablutions mean nothing.

Who are you fooling?
You worked to perfect their clipped accent,
but you shortened the wrong vowels
and they know.

Assuage.
The word tripped you up and dragged you down
so have some more. Rise yourself up
but not like that, enough of the silliness.

It won’t **** you.
Say your mother was *****,
you might as well whisper it to them.
They’ll believe anything.

A moment more.
The days will drag by
and your face will crack
and the Children of the Sky will look down.
Their gaze will seek to strip you;
your raspy breath will betray you.

Don't exhale.

He is her first love,
the love which makes
her want to open her
arms to the early day,

hear bird song, wash
in the cold water the
maid brings, breaking
the ice, her hand scooping

up the coldness to her
face, and the o yes this
is it, feel, in her. Before
him there were only dull

mornings, icy ablutions,
boring birds singing, and
her father lecturing at
the morning table about

the horses or the birds
for the shoot or how well
his dogs hunt. This first love,
this exciting explosion,

this wanting to run through
the fields undressed and
sing loudly, this new born,
fresh as a lamb kind of love,

this tingling through the veins
and nerves feeling, this is
what the poet’s name love,
their words ticking off the

virtues, their voices calling
across shires, hills and seas.
She wants him to come,
wants his arms about her,

his lips on hers, she thinks of
him each moment of her day,
senses him in each touch her
body feels, in each smell of air.

She wants him there. Before him
there was just the routine of daily
visits to the poor of the parish
with he mother’s gossip, picking

of flowers, the dull witted wit of
her tiresome brothers, before this
first love she almost drowned in
the daily drudge, but now she feels

each second’s tick, each moment’s
*****, the over feel of air and breath
and him maybe being there to watch
her dress (unseen of course) and

all the little things that first love brings.
The maid helps her dress, buttons
up at the back, brushes the hair, o
o she wishes it were the first love

there unbuttoning her dress and
making her neatly done hair in a mess.

We set off for a long weekend,
Does this Carmageddon ever end?
Eventually, we arrive,
That was a long hot drive!
See our tent as it collapses!
"He" does bust all  his synapses!
I unpack, rain commences,
"Let's go home!" he mentions,
Yeah, right, now the dog wants loo,
Did I bring a coat and gumboots too?
Armed escort of mosquitoes,
Forgot insect repellent, oh Woe!
Never mind, not long to go,
Finally made it all the way home,
A weekend of staring at the rain,
Last word to him I say,
"I am never going camping again!"
(And no more I did)... from my brain,
The poet in someone's heart,
From indoor ablutions, I'll never part.........

To me, this sounded so final and trite,
But his wife, she said, left him,
Cause she couldn't be a wife.

There's a fine epitaph to carve,
On the stone above his life:

My wife, they say, left me,
Cause she couldn't be a wife;
That's all she ever wanted,
To be this dead man's wife.

A couple passing by the script,
Might read an enigmatic drift.

What kind of wife, the woman asked,
I wonder what he meant by that.

One who'd drink and drink some more,
Smoke and eat and grow so fat
On Caesar's Salad and chocolate.

Could she nurse through any sickness;
See it for what it is;
For what it was;
Work with the outcome,
Not the cause.

And yet, it's true, all along,
He wasn't in control.
Not abuse, or waywardness,
But the drink that dries the soul.

What could that wife do
In the fight.

They each promised,
Each meant each life;
Does she get to choose the sickness?
What kind of wife gets to pick it?

I know he didn't give objection,
As many husbands do,
When she raised ablutions
To false gods she eschewed;
They promised on the temple pinnacle
That all is theirs, if she submits,
To the pyramids that promise riches.

Till death do us part.

Now that's a lark,
In a song of lament.
She could have been any wife
She'd deem to choose in her life;
She chose,
For a limited time,
On a definition
He declined.

I woke
withal
the rain
-like snow-

It fell in
ablutions
around me

Paris
est-ce que
voudrais
boire une
verre de vin?

Sucia
ciudad
llena de
las filles y
los hombres
y moi

Dans mon
chambre
-alone-
despierto

Moonlight washes me
through the window.
Reaching out cupped hands,
I gather it...drink it...bathe my face.
Silky ablutions.
Moonbeams strike the silver in my hair,
throwing back a milky reflection.
For a moment I am a Goddess
instead of an old lady.

this, only a feeling,
or time demanding to be owned,
desiring occupation
for its relevance is something
that space tenders us.

amongst the peerless lampposts
stabbing the silence with
daggers of light bent to
infinite smallness, so breakable
and so falsely fabulated, is this
scene demanding a name:
flooded are the elliptical interstices my heart's waysides, close to bursting
with waters rendering me repetitions of ablutions, pain is as thorough as a mother meticulously
thwarting dust off of sacred things.

these abated breaths rehearse
their oblivions.
these hands pardon their
callouses for holding too tightly,
the craggy exterior of something
that quavers to be freed.
and the soul turns to leave,
crossing a fine line of distance,
midway pivots to squint at a still vibrant recollection then
pretends as if
nothing has happened.

In the vicinity of Skalá the miscellaneous image of the Nashema or consciousness of the soul of the Mashiach was discovered that undertook to summarize this Byzantine fight, which had no hold on the detriment of all those children of Adam that was translated by distorted copulations of infamy and psychic morbidities of Judas Iscariot, who was abstracted from his evil infernality by the Fifth Hell of Iblis, god of harmful subtraction as plagiarism of a deteriorated being from his consigned load from the uprooting caves of Iblis, appearing tacitly in the tetragram indicating alef or tav, being a wayward son of David who knows well about caves that sponsored him from the Philistines and those who had the power of Allah, as biblical sovereigns who unloaded the sum of the ego that was transferred on flaming elytra of Cherubim under the edict of a champion and close teacher in the armchair of the bewilderment of other celestial spirits that dozed off from their reveries, until e revealed himself and defended himself from the stews of heaven where he claimed for another equal to him, which was Judas Iscariot.

The secret task was that nothing will stop the Apokálypsis, because the second essay where the manuscripts denoted a real area of eschatological mythology contained manuscripts where the Iblis was already authenticated as being equidistant from Judas, but its magnetization fascinated him, even wanting to obtain it to be the devout image of the first century, where everything was Bereshit from the Beni Masar region of Egypt. Thus doing this genealogy of guideline that documented being created in the salvific parabens of the Kassotide or orifice that had been confined from the concave pectoral relief of the Colosso de Apsila; being this same Vernarth who would expiate himself in absolute solitude, only executing by dump trucks of oxen to feel the centuries that went by over the through of the first century pass slower. The Subtraigo was the standard of the unborn from the womb of the mother of Judas, Cyborea Iscariot. Exorcising what has appeared after thousands of years and from this the instant filled with centuries that will make the apostle the failure of his solar macula, or the paradigmatic mole in ******'s hair, judging immolators who would be indicted in the nihilism of ego that underlies the unity of the capacity of the neat body, whom no one has inter judged in the culmination of a divine plan, which will just begin with the investiture of Himation. The personifications of the Iblis are profuse since the fluctuation is appreciated in the analysis of the ink of the papyri, which are the range of the Nefesh or divine blood that he writes and no other. The perceptible time washer takes us back to Mariah, escorting her son in Nazareth in which time is not time, it is only consciousness of endless enhancement on the ends that press Gethsemani to the opposite degree of lack of gradation or renewable oil in the sublime beatitude with which it was to be mentioned at Easter, where the menorahs were to radiate in the portraits of worlds that follow one another from the septenary that covers his robe. The years oppress the equinox when the Sun presses olive trees that turn their carmine green leaves to brown leaves, for those who let out of the concrete body what makes blessings of the kiss itself to an Iblis god who also abandoned his entity, to reside in the essence that hides the black olive tree. The celestial deprivation of the seawater of Skalá asked the day that the ashes of Cyborea Iscariot will float on his body; whose matriarchal physical body would spread the disconcerting manias when expressing that nothing affects, it is only a slight sting in the entrails of Apollo that has spread the upheavals that are lost so far from him, as well as they have deprived him of wills that speak where his wasteland will be the only conjuncture of a widespread assumption of mythology, as if it were an axiom that would be within a consecrated category of submitting logs, being the gnosis of a quick thought that shelters aphonia and mutes of the gospel that awaits who would really give a kiss without felony.

The Battle of Patmia presided over external wills towards an extroverted theology in all the Matakis or sacred canvases, inserted in the dispossessed who in their last struggle would no longer be worthy beings to mention combatants, neither the Hoplites nor the Achaemenids. They were already the last death throes of the first century, and what the hand writes is first forged by the ink that is the section devoid of the primary ego, with the piety of Wonthelimar that extended in its bilocation towards the northeastern region of El Minya, after the Judas world map. Here the Iblis or archangel agreed to lead the Speleothemes of El Minya with what a right-hander makes relativity of the throne at the edge of the universe, where the affliction faces fought before them, being automatons that will be commanded by their friezes of geniuses, as defective ****** dawn in the creation mud of the adventurous human. From this slime the Iblis arises in Skalá when the fourth day of vertebral battle began, while the hell in the den was subordinated to the will of the congener of the Judas curse in El Minya, concretizing the utensil that let everything run over matter, until the moraines with black rain and volcano lava would make the previous temptation of a false edge return that made the world vary in degrees, which make clairvoyance very higher than the nose of a penitent Judas. Making the critical hell the reintegration of the being that inflicted fervor from head to toe due to the collapsed preconceiving of who does more damage with the claims, than with the head of a Cherub in discredit of a headache. The fifth hell of the Iblís would go on to engender extensive speeches and speeches in idleness where the shadows of their doubts would respond to the obstinate ones that were really intended, even when they flowered in the calender that flew over the shadows of pain, after the winch of conscience would debate the shady intentions in the anger of a god who was confused with himself, making them believe that their laudable salvation would be left by a two-person demonic locution that perceives evil with good and vice versa, that is why the albuminoid of quantum salvation transgressed from serum, speaks in this work of Vernarth as the clister of the Iblis, accusing having to do ablutions to later be admitted for his altruism in the impressionism background in who lives in delight in the high sphere of lust, alter ego of the fallen but grace of neutrality of a seraphim, who became a libertarian in the gift of free will, willingly experiencing the fifth hell of l Iblis, to turn him into the fifth dimension of the tree of life that flourished as an underhanded host, if he is a Madhi Chiita who wants to revile him in his lust.

******* innovated by giving food and drink to the limbo that was an eternal dimension, where specimens of piety spoke with languages of the seven heavens and the seven nights, where the nuances lag behind in an indoctrinated Islamic being, and who testified for a single voice the reincarnation of all the faiths that awaken from conscience, and that does not shy away from the technical risk that precedes the first gradation or the alpha grade of olive oil, on apocalyptic statements even the Lepidoptera that have supplemented the external pouch to carry pollen for the child in the manger. This equivalent pollen will ****** the mystery phraseology of diseases, making the urgent reason and belated conspiracy presented by its antitoxin, which can be hinted aloud, but it gets lost in the Vas Auric that made formulas in the children of indulgence from where it is now tinned. the groin of the Iblís, for the defense of those who destroy sufficiently in those who build in their acoustics in the Speleothemes of El Minya.

The bay of Patmos brightened in the scaphoid Trinitarians of the Colosso de Apsila, the combustion of the alma matter constituted Solomonic vademecum until the rebirth of those who preserve their sclera that accompanies their cruel torments in muscles of passion, for those who prostrate and recline on the pain that the soul itself asks to alleviate morbidities in the hay that grows when nothing rises before the tragedy of the pious fragments that divide the heart of a Sufi. Everything pretends that it is religious epilepsy bubbling vapor of faith through the mouths of the gods when illegible gestures of stars shine through from others that are greater in light and form when chaos was first, and the darkness became entangled in chaotic truthfulness of what converts the sacramental guarded by the angel Iblis. Judas Iscariot was a hybrid to dissent from Asmodeus, taking him from those fates of the firmament that had six apices, thus enrapturing him of the Siblis who had gone into exile in the caravans of Morocco, then falling from the despotic saying that shook the heads of the Achaemenids indicating anticipated conversions of unbelievers, when seeing that the six vertices of the first star of subjugation were declared, coming behind the second-star splint that was made up of other hexagons taking out ruinous cults that lay in the infertility of skepticism, not tolerating interpositions in any other way. Everything indicated that the light of the Shamesh of the Ruach Hakodesh in the roadstead of Patmos could already be asserted so that all the fires of the fertility of the Holy Spirit waving a loud voice that raises the worlds in the ablutions of the effluvium, with the emissions of Delphi, and with the lightning bolts of Zeus that would be encased in the scapulae of the Colosso de Apsila, silencing the delirium that only spoke out loud in those who did not know more than to hear in another sense, that avoids subsistence and where it grants more sap.

The Siblis says: “with my hands, I take what remains of life, and what will remain I will put under my comforts where everything will speak with withered corners of the lullaby, and of what the asylum of what it despises. Thus, everything that comes before the fourths happens to the fifths, and I subtract them from my hell, Iblis. The deities are withdrawn and the almighty is constrained further from the clouds that shelter the consciousness of the burning, and from the rays that exceed a thousand volts and more lights with large megawatts over the wings of the body that will experience growth, when it is a dream may he remain alive on the one who is at odds and is knocked down by his gesture of triumph that never annihilates, he only hangs on the body that is defeated "
The high tide was decomposing in degraded red blood cells, strangling bodies that were banned from their automaton skeletons, and from what was sacrosanct of Allah, which was also of the Mashiach, making a refuge that would make bones rest for more than thousands of years that did not rest. In the forging of a bronze frame, leaving every paradigm to the patronage of the amulet for anyone who suffers merciful debasement of the talus, beginning to flare up in the fords of capsular phototropism, leaving on them springs that cause and fill hearts that do not pulse, but if after an acquiescent nucleus of the rarest corporal alive or not! Praising what he writes by himself when for thousands of years everything has separated us instead of joining the immense room called Megaron Áullos Kósmos, eminent, free of all symptoms where impudent politai paraded through the flattened flowers that mix monstrosity of their cheers and the strings that surround him elliptical from the perihelion far and reviled and dangerous preventive. What exceeds the stature symbolizes the wrought iron that in a series of thousands becomes siege weapons instead of farming, and what the high sword invests leaves its merit when it discovers the weapon of punishment, cut off in deaths that are crossed when revived. from the same edge of the converted spirit of the one who wields it. The pairs of symbolisms protect almost depopulated those who have dwellings in paradise, with bent consciences that ****** Xiphos of conversion into staves of a mortuary color, which mutilates the mezzanines that are typical of a black cane exiting the human figure. The ruins produce architectural syncope that concerns the ineptitude of the castrated humanity of the Berith Milah, as a baptism of ancestry and circumcision slicing courses of arteries that fragment hemispheres of reason to found adherence to who really lives in you ..., if Hanael or another who has always been livid in you without becoming fatigued at the disposition of calling you a degraded son, materializing spiritually and becoming symptomatic of prevalent shocks by having them exulted by ancestral kindnesses.

The resentment caused planetary rumblings and extreme unfolding that sprouted from the exact diameter of its joints, leaving the grasses connected to neurosciences that slaughtered at dawn, and collected the expiation of what it is not capable of resisting in its faded sacrosanct body when all they were going through the drain of Judas Iscariot. Reflecting majolica and boches encrypted in themselves, withdrawing from the incense, from Hellenics who have never stopped beheading spheres that doze in the oasis where the water seeps through meadows that fill creek beds, apriorism of infusions that are injected where the meadow do not flee! Patmia was the silence of the tabernacle superior to the sizes that annul all composure in the cusp and in the spaciousness, and if it were to be seen like this, syllables would be limited that they uttered their only cheers that agonized at the side of their enemy, gracing them with the pain celebrated in courtship linguistics in its parallel.

Judas thinks: “In the next dawn everything seemed as if the world had just begun to be reborn, the whole world appears as the greatest satisfaction in the world. Some wondered what had happened or what it was that transformed everything when they observed from afar when an image came that pretended to be further away from the whole world, encompassing the realms of abstraction. They are the hearts that beat far away and they think that the strong reason is supported by the stratum by orpheons of angels, where the Master does not bother to teach us that great dreams are always accompanied by great beats "

.
Still pale grey earth is turned,
Deep is the loam moisted,
Lone by the Ploughman.

The rows of the brushed patches,
Sweating the breakneck blood,
Are painted by labours.

Messiah doors out cathedral,
With iron plod anoints the soil,
Exposed unto mercy sun.

His hands are knobbed in stone,
His eyes searing of the star,
His face dark as deep loam.

Each day ablutions of sod earth,
Heaved out tilling unfree wills,
Burdens of harnessed beast.

Dark is the turned loam moisted,
Water flame heat of veined mist,
Seeds sown explode to bloom.

After thorny works, crowned blood,
Sun leaves to wine red fruition,
Ploughman maker is done.

I’m Used to Ugly

When physical rejection is as familiar as
Morning coffee

When nice clothes are an unneeded luxury

When the after version of your morning ablutions
No longer result in an uplifting, “You look good”

You get used to ugly.

When you have 2 sets of nice clothes - that are years old

When you do not go anywhere that requires nice things

When your job is semi-professional

You get used to ugly

When your self-deprecating humor is more true than not

When you encourage your spouse to do things without you

When being alone is a better choice than being out there

You get used to ugly