This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight ***. When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.

The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.

Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.

We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.


We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.

I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.

Everything has gotten so crowded.

A tomboy, naturally barefoot, gingerly walks the white painted line because the asphalt is just too burning hot.  Scrubby tufts of weedy grass are welcome respites on the way, briefly cooling her steps even if they are stickery.  The ***** soles of her now calloused feet were intentionally toughened just before school got out, with mincing steps across the roughest gravel she could find.  Her mother accommodates her preference, leaving a pan of water outside for her to scrub her feet before going in.  Even then, a black path has gradually appeared leading from the front door in the old orangish carpet.  Two months of summer barefoot every day when she had the choice. Keyed roller skates clamped onto last year’s school shoes were the exception.  She can flat out run anywhere.
  
This particular expedition began like every other thing they did, which was anything to fend off boredom.  She had been sitting on a cement step shaded by an open carport, just three oil-stained parking stalls for three small apartments on the tired poor side of town.  There is a little more dirt on the street here, and grass is a little neglected.  Just like the children, but these kids prefer that anyway.  Two scruffy friends stomp on aluminum cans, brothers sporting matching buzz cuts and cut-off shorts.  They are flattening them for the recycling money by the pound, so the carport smells vaguely of stale beer.  Another boy attempts to shoot a wandering fly with a home-made rubber band gun; rings cut from a bicycle tube made the best ammo.  “What do you want to do?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”  Thwack…  The only requisite for friendship here is vicinity, yet it is still true.  The idea of choosing friends is about as odd as the concept that one could chose where one lives... Strengths and shortcomings are completely accepted because it is just what it is.  

Their amazing three-story tree fort with a side look-out had been heartlessly taken down by the disgruntled property owner last week.  Two months of accumulating pilfered and scrap two-by-fours, nails, and even a stack of plywood (gasp!) from area construction sites had yielded supplies for a growing fort.  A gang-plank style entry had crossed the ditch to the first level.  Nailed ladder steps to the second offered a little more vertigo and a prime spot to hurl acorns.  Another ladder up led up to the third floor retreat, with a couch-like seating area and shoulder high walls.  A breeze reached the leaves up there.   The next tree over was the look-out, with nothing but ladder steps all the way up to where the view opened up out of the ravine.  When the wind blew, it gave merciless lessons in facing any fear of heights.  But now that was all over, discovered gone overnight.

Someone says again, “What do you want to do?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”  “ 7-11? ”  Good enough, so they head out.   Distance measures time.  Ten minutes is the end of the street past the cracked basketball court in the church parking lot.  Fifteen minutes and the lawns end at the edge of the sub-division.  Half-built homes rising from bare dirt and scattered foundations could offer treasures of construction scraps, (where she suspects the stack of plywood came from.) but they keep walking.  Twenty minutes is where industry has scraped away nature, and railroad tracks form an elevated levee.  But time is meaningless if there’s a wealth of it, so there’s no going further until an informal ritual is completed.  Wordlessly they each dig around their pockets searching for equal amounts of pennies.  Each of them carefully arrange them lined up on the rounded-surface rail, and they settle in for the wait.  It could be five minutes or it could be thirty.  They all understand it’s a crap-shoot of patience waiting for the next train. It’s an unspoken test; quitting too early means losing your coins to the one who stays, so that’s not an option.

Heat presses down and the breezeless air smells like telephone-pole creosote.  She sits in a dusty patch of shade found next to an overgrown ****.  She knows it tastes like licorice and breaks off a stem to chew, but doesn’t know what it is.  The boys throw rocks randomly until she finally stands up to join in, tempted by the challenge of flight and distance.  Then she stands in the center of the tracks, looking one way then the other, searching for the first random distant glimmer of the engine’s light at the horizon.   A flash, so she places her ear to the metal Indian-style, and the imminent approach is confirmed.  She calls out, “its here!” and double checks her pennies’ alignment.  Heads up or tails, but always aligned so the building might be stretched tall or wide, or Lincoln’s face made broad or thin.  That happened only rarely, since it could only be rolled by one wheel then bounced off.  If it stuck longer, the next wheels would surely smash it into a thin, elliptical, smooth misshapen disc of shiny copper.  Its only value becomes validation of a hint of delinquency, Destroying-Government-Property.  Once she splurged with a quarter, which became smashed to just a gleaming silver, bent wafer discolored at the edge.  Curiosity wasn’t worth 25 cents again though, so she had only one of those in her collection.

The approaching engine silently builds impending size and power, so she dashes back down the rocky embankment to safety because after all, she is not a fool, tempting fate with stupid danger. She knows a couple of those fools, but she finds no thrill from that and is not impressed by them either.  Suddenly the train is here, generating astounding noise and wind, occasional wheels screaming protest on their axels.  She intently watches exactly where she placed her coins, hoping to see the moment they fly off the rails that are rhythmically bending under the weight rolling by.  It becomes another game of patience, with such a long line of cars, and she gives up counting them at 80-ish.  Then suddenly it is done and quickly the noise recedes back to heat and cicadas.  The rails are hot.  Diligently they search for the shiny wafers.  Slowly pacing each wood beam, they could have landed in the gravel, or pressed against the rail, or even lodged straight up against the square black wood yards down the tracks.  They find most of them, give up on the rest, then continue on.

She has thirty cents and at last they reach the afternoon’s destination.  7-11’s parking lot becomes a genuine game of “Lava”, burning blacktop encourages leaps from cooler white lines, to painted tire stops, to grass island oasis, then three hot steps across black lava to the sidewalk, and automatic doors swoosh open to air conditioning.  She rarely has enough money for a coke icey; she is here for the bottom shelf candy, a couple pennies or a nickel each.  Off flavors but sweet enough.  She remembered when her older brother was passing out lunchbags of candy to the neighborhood kids for free, practically littering the cul-de-sac.  She had wondered where he got enough money for all that popularity, or could he have saved that much from trick-or-treat? She wondered until he got busted shoplifting at the grocery store.  The security guard decreed that he was never allowed in there again, forever, and the disgrace of sitting on the curb waiting for the mortified ride home was enough to keep him from doing it again.

Today she picks out a few root beer barrels, some Tootsie-rolls (the smaller ones for two cents, not the large ones that divide into cubes) a candy necklace and tiny wax coke bottles, and of course a freeze-pop.   Sitting on the curb, she bites off small pieces of the freeze pop, careful not to get tooth-freeze or brain-freeze, until the last melty chunk is squeezed out the top of the thin plastic tube.

“What do you want to do now?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”

I fall in love with the sound of the rain as it hits my window pane
It comforts me as I lye in bed at night and reflect on all that is dead

I fall in love with you as the snow falls lightly, and embrace every moment that we spent together.

I fall in love with the crinkle in your noise
The one that slowly appears every time you smile that brilliant smile and laugh that wondrous laugh

I fall in love whilst talking to you,
The way you talk, laugh makes my day so much better!

I fall in love with the smile of a stranger on the street
When they give me a gentle beam as our eyes meet
In that moment I don't feel so lonely

I fall in love with the way you run
The rhythmic beating and the sweat,
They help me decode your personality from stranger to bff

I fall in love with the cool side of my pillow on a hot summers night
When my body is begging for relief from the summer heat and it thoughtfully accommodates my pleas

I fall in love with rhythmic waves from the ocean Poseidon sends us,
It gives me a reason to hug you when you get cold

I fall in love with the sunset, each time I lay my eyes on it
As the sun slowly sinks into horizon to create such a sublime image
My eyes always dazzled more and more each time

*My parts are in bold for easier identification.

When floating on down avenues of deep subconscious
remember to stare upwards for at least 10 minutes a day
and contemplate the life of a cloud;

To that transitory vapour,
project with your iris the world you wish to manifest
in passing minutes
towards that passing station-

internal vision dominates
the human mind speculates
and accommodates,
what it wants to see -

with each passing minute
with each wasted day

Life flashes before eyes
concrete and grass
lying down and getting lost
in a deep death that breeds
everything and nothing,
Dissipating contradictions in the sky.

as with any plaster work, or draping muscles and bones and
organs in skin - i knew i reached a zenith of some sort:
forever introspective, that chance momentum
that never reaches a museum of retrospective
finalised banalities -
and with that's happening in America,
i get a chance glimpse into that part of the world
so bogus, so *****-like, so haphazardly
put together - the chance to see the rats (artists)
jump ship and head to Tangiers, Paris, London
(for the pillars of the movement to come,
London especially, but might i suggest Edinburgh?
the capital of the offshoot that's to come
from Scandinavian novels?) -
i wouldn't suggest heading to Prague -
or Budapest - never to tourist hot-spots, obscurity is
what you need - Edinburgh out of season,
then the theatrical circus isn't there -
***** poetics: poncy monologues and Annabel
art-house flea markets... but that's the beauty,
flea markets in France, charity shops in England...
but i did exhaust this one musical avenue,
i dropped the ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ - it got boring after a while:
all that charged up mythological feeling -
the way we always wanted: myths to feel with,
to eat, rather than the sterile scientific facts...
i've learned enough to later ditch them,
even a Professor of Chemistry will have a postcard
of Edward Hopper's painting by his desk,
that window to view the world that doesn't
necessarily encompass sun moon and constellations...
how anyone would be foolish to scrub off
some inspiration from such things bemuses me,
the lowest of the low of poetic expressions is
sung to things that manage too much: the moon
and the sea tides, the sun and the seasons and
phototropism - it's a double edged sword...
only from one art to another do we get to see
our labourers of attention, else the same old deficit:
god... who in his glee took offence at anyone
having more awe-inspiring sense to please such
things... no alone can you master contemplating
both the beauty and the utilisation behind such
objects as a single man... however well...
it's impossible... you're sharing the bronze platform
with those that simply wrote of the shallow
beauty, and those that found these objects
were not simply aesthetic, but meaningful in
the machinery of things... it was never up to
us to find that electric genius of combining the aesthetics
with the machinery as one...
for in that sense god is a form as fraction
of 9/1, 8/1, 7/1, 6/1, 5/1, 4/1...
the fraction of wholeness... a complete set to start with...
man has already proved the limit as a fraction
with the base 3... 9/3, and that didn't really end well...
at best man is composed of a fraction base of 2...
by sharing the world through marriage to a woman,
or through a learned devotion, a crumb of what a woman
is, a philia (love) of his interests, a soloist voyage...
some just say: you will either take to being faithful
to philology and yourself as its devotee,
or you'll take up a wife... oddly enough chemists are
defilers of marriage having any purpose other than
to distract... but as i said: you can rarely write
decent things when trying to admire celestial spheres...
more ambition comes from the distraction of the zodiac
"prophets" and astrologers... a poem about the moon
is just a poem that is levelled with a poem
about a dustbin... but hey... Top Cat lives in the dustbin,
Neil Armstrong bopped along the lessened gravity
surface... but which is easier to acquire for a smile?
Benny... cue the violin theatrics of lamenting to a comic
end.
well... we have to juggle each other's impressions,
taking at hacking the raw meat will not give any of us
medium-rare barbecue steaks marinated...
taking the moon as something else is: nice...
and you know how nice things end up as... as tacky
suburban *******... if you're going to tackle the
thing with all the rawness... i'd first spend looking
looking at that thing of your attention in a graveyard...
just to get the feel to the idea: well... my fellow daisies
sniffed from the roots up would probably have
said something sulky similar.
but it's like that, you get to exhaust certain musical avenues...
i'm currently at a period where i have enough
stash of jazz records to rekindle my interest in it...
on today's menu? the real McCoy (McCoy Tyner,
Joe Henderson, Ron Carter and Elvin Flynn -
Flynn makes his mark, even though not the star
of the album, Art Blakey has a match) -
then onto the tragedy of Sonny Clark with his
cool struttin' alongside Art Farmer, Jackie McLean,
Paul Chambers and Philly Joe Jones...
i must admit that after watching the film whiplash
my ear-buds staged a coup to move from a certain
type of music into this... and even though
i already said that the climate in America at the moment
is very a second attempt at a Beat movement...
it's very much different... i guess jazz makes all the sense
in a pure urban environment...
jazz and urbanity, the hipster parties where wine flows
like poetry and people get to do their wild marijuana
******... but Bukowski changed everything
by bringing a taste of the classical into the scene...
it feels just like that these days...
there's no jazz on the radio...
going back to watches and radios, mono-utility things
that are the glamours of the inoffensive cluttering of a room...
no digital screen... the radio position at the back
of my head, behind me, the little fly-eye Rubik cube
ahead of me...
that's the odd thing with coming with jazz these days...
it's like Bukowski in the shadows of the beat movement
back when it was the beaten track...
so i said that jazz and urbanity are perfect partners...
well... take jazz from an urban environment and put it
in a outer-suburban environment, in a place
about 30 minute walk from farming fields with bulls
and horses... foxes the thieves rummaging in people's
trash... and... as classical music took to
teaching us the language of celestial bodies,
Holst... in this kind of environment jazz does the same...
jazz becomes equal to classical music with celestial
bodies... i'm just wondering if there are enough
instruments to arrange the solar system...
Mercury the Trumpet...
         Venus the Double Bass
Earth the Piano
                       Mars the Drums
Jupiter the Tenor Sax                                   (comparatively,
                Saturn the Soprano Sax                using a Holst
                                                           ­        schematic, the reverse,
                                             yet citing Jupiter, not as a planet,
                                           well, the bellowing voice of paternal fury)
Uranus the Clarinet
                                           (takes sheer magic to play that thing)
so that just leaves us with an Neptune as either
   Alto Sax or Trombone...
but that's how jazz morphed since it last came across
poetry... someone stole it from its urban environment
of busy streets and ugly manners and quick quick snappy
and the millionth time i could compare it to a spontaneous
encounter with someone in a bar... jazz lost its cool there...
people said the same thing about jazz
as Kaiser Joseph II did of Mozart... "too many notes"...
translate this urbanity into an outer-suburban environment
and put it against that kind of backdrop?
well... personally, there are just enough notes in each piece...
you looked outside the window? you could hear
a **** from a mile away and no tree would even sway
in nodding approval even with a galeforce wind slapping
them... jazz lost its synchronisation with the urban environment
it emerged from... but in so doing, it managed to mature
like good wine on the outskirts of large cities,
where it literally became the only thing that could ably
make a Kandinsky moment from semi-detached houses.
NEWSFLASH... what is this concern about art being
subjective? i don't see where these arguments go...
i thought art was about revealing the intimate,
not revealing the objective shallows of a method...
of limited scope like any philosophical systematisation...
if Christopher Columbus ever did things
objectively he might have discovered Lisbon or the Canary Islands...
art can't be objective... trying to argue that art is
"only a subjective" expression... well, if it was to be
a "greater" expression objectively, an artist would
walk into an art gallery, take all the paintings from
the canvases, and turn to the public and say:
now let's see your subjectivity, otherwise go ponce
off the art critics to take something they said to your
date about how: the light contorts the features of expressions
blah blah blah blah blah... the point of art being
superior as a subjective vehicle is so that i can feel someone
else's feelings... as opposed to thinking someone else's thoughts...
art is the sensual, not the premeditated dogmatic funeral -
which all philosophers attend: they're objective to the
point that they're afraid of having a personal attachment
to their outputs - they will hardly ever want to invite
a criticism of their objectivity, because they're such emotional
paupers - they fear criticism of their subjectivity to such
a point, that you can simply look at their pronoun usage
strategy, they really do use these words like kings -
but when Mozart is criticised by the Kaiser... he thought
nothing of it... he actually thought, nothing of it,
perhaps his vanity was wounded, but his virtue wasn't...
which is why he remains with us...
for the fatal wound incurred is not that of virtue,
but that of vanity... and true virtue is unafraid of criticism,
there's this cognitive blockage that enriches the
heart and leaves the mind blank... the sort of blank
that accommodates the Pyramid of Vanity:
bishops, priests, doctors, kings, queens, portrait artists,
Versailles... such things are so ****** void of anything
but scare-mongers, sycophants, leeches and finally tourists...
for whatever you take from the realm of Hades,
there's a stamp-duty on each precious element from that
realm... each thing is stamped: worthless...
you couldn't extract penicillin from Hades...
changing gold into a ring is worthless if such symbolism
of a union of monogamy end with the ring being
nothing more than a thing disputed over the divorce settlement.

Our world today is filled with lies and painful rage
Wars, destruction, and fear with senseless hate
Many Leaders’ obsessions to become super great
Led to Killings without thinking of the one who creates
Don’t they worry about the day in hell they’d suffocate
Or is it lack of faith, yet thinking everything is fate
All they worry about is how history will narrate
Heroes, or villains, depends on how you translate  
sometimes depends on how your faith accommodates
Christians believe their faith is superior you shall celebrate
Muslims believe heaven is through their way you must navigate
Didn’t God tell you to him only you must dedicate?
And killing your own is a sin that he shall not tolerate
Yet behind the mask of religion you all instigate
A war of self- interest then meaninglessly advocate
“The older you grew, the wiser you became”
Oh, Wait, wait, wait! could you illustrate?
Because our leaders have grown into a psychological stage of “Childate”
Making decisions that even a child wouldn’t appropriate
Now I tell you, the end of the world we shall anticipate
For peace is far, far, far away from the stairs of our gates
Pray to the only God who taught us how to appreciate
And hope that one day Humans will better communicate

She, betrayed, in histrionic flow,
Heart akimbo, flailing at the sky,
Fired with voyeuristic need-to-know,
Rages at the outing of a lie.

He, defensive, understanding, sure,
Accommodates the outburst in his stride.
Lassoes her with a practiced sinecure;
Instinctive gesture, expertly applied.

She, bewildered, aimless and morose –
(He, distracted by the barmaid’s hips) –
Casts aside the guilt-effacing rose;
Repealed devotion scrawled upon her lips.

No star asks the heaven about its shimmering on an aphostic curtain
No raindrop ever puts its case before the clouds

No flower swiftly shuts its door too see the bees
No branch goes up when fruits are pregnant

Obedience is nature by birth
My father's soul bid us goodbye cheerfully

The Almighty wants this from all human biengs
Parents from their sons and daughters

Teachers from their different pupils
And we from each other in society

This laces us in sync and a new relation is built
That accommodates humbleness and honour

Children must develop this habit and this be inveterate
Like their luscious breakfast at each reddish rise

And plant this in their schools and homes
Where juniors will smell this and crave to do more

Love Accommodates
My sweetheart let us be on the same grid
In the flow,we will be able to understand desire
Let us communicate with an open heart to bid
It will settle all issues to be liberal to aspire

Beat to beat travels heat to give warmth to love
Time and space give us more liberty to initiate
The process becomes eternal guided from above
What a love experience its wonderful and great

Hand in hand we can touch horizons to conquer
Every place of solace and every heavenly paradise
So let us ask ourselves a question at the spur
Are we sure to accommodate disparities being wise

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan

Vernarth calls Theus, Etréstles calls Vikentios, liberation is near! Dyonisius has to leave for Spinalonga with Wonthelimar and his entourage. Particles of liberation were divided with the immortality proposals of Wonthelimar and Marielle Quentinnais, transmitting ribs of the Speleothemes that harassed them extraterrestrially, until they became theologized in Theus, Vikentios's brother, committing himself to Elefthería or Freedom of praxis, before the gold, in their own alienating chance, are distinguished in the centers of knowledge of Spinalonga, as an entity of the five crosses of Theus, for the conceptualization of this human islet as a sentimental skin of the plague in Vernarth's parapsychology, through Wonthelimar for experience the intersection of Theusiles in honor of Theus with his comrade Vikentios for a priori and a posteriori, with events that will take place in this leprosarium. Kalydon bears a strong similarity to Kalidona in Messolonghi's Koumeterium. Being multi-assigned to Elounda northeast of Crete, like northeast Gethsemane, or the affliction ***** of the right lobe of Golgotha. Volume VII, is the compendium of Wonthelimar twice VV, with its double iteration, that is, VII, this acronym would facilitate access to the area of the future Leprosarium, a posteriori near said peninsula, and ditched from the continent that knew how to distance it as its adopted daughter Spinalonga "Long Splinter" who was now divorcing the peninsula. The fortification of the Venetian raids before the attacks of pirates.

Wonthelimar is seen in the mirror of the Chauvet lagoon, and before the prefixed arch of the Manes Apsidas, when they took the island in advance before they entered this artificial island flood of luminescence in 1578 by the Venetians who presumably feared the meddling by the Apsidas to seize the island, then leaving Crete plunged into a hostile coastline elevated in the foundational cavity of the Essene crewed vessels, they fit into the ship's bow that will be placed on the opposite side of the peninsula, thus avoiding that the ships would list by the low bottom that fluctuated between both portions of earth separated prematurely. The Greek impregnability did not bow before the otomanians by hiding, like Markos Botsaris in Messolonghi with themselves thus subduing them, considering more than sixteen hundred years of the chronological gap that separated this grievance that transcended under the ramparts, putting the settlement of the Tome VII, that is, from the acronym of Wonthelimar and its parapsychological union, which finally came to the aid of the Christians who fled from the Otomanians when they were empowered from the island, with the revolt of 1866, here the rebellious Christians pressed for the Turks to leave the site of a siege in 1903. Specifically from Lerapreta, the Kyrios of Vernarth appeared opening paths from Lasithi, the purpose of this a posteriori parapsychology of Vernarth, would bilocate with their expedition masters, preparing to welcome their ***** relatives on the island from the migration of the ottoman us. Forever as a ***** limen, to be bilocated in the Profitis Ilias, after burying all the lepers commemorating them of restored morbidity after forty days, just as it was in Jericho with the Mashiach, and the Apsidas Manes escaping from the Mashiach.

The eschatology of liberation is confessed with the mythological and parapsychological transformation of Spinalonga as attempts at the misery that evaded the wretched custodians of the Christians who organized themselves from the apocryphal prefixal German or acronym of Wonthelimar as Wo "where, and Thelimar, from the Greek Tou Limar, which would mean "decompose." Finally pointing out the hybrid imprint of the appellation granted by the Manes Apsidas who had stayed on the reef since it was abandoned by a priest. This Tou Limen was an appellation that was provided to weaken them from all the deprivation of Faith in the Christians on this island. The schematic parallel stretched between the two stages with the smallest concatenation since the first century AD. C., until 1600, making this quantum leap the Christian science that understood the democratic causality of extemporaneous events, without having any dimension or category of thought for those who differ or not, especially when the bodies and souls of Christians are They pirated everything, and of themselves, generating condemning existential stress as a source of static synergy, and of God-Mundis in the sketch of science that leads religious man to unite with existential cavemen, in the utilitarian health passages in Jerusalem, specifically in *** Bei Himnon, as a bilocation base in Spinalonga on the face of the leprosarium that was created as the first holocaust or body dump in 1900 without the ápsychos (without a soul), asking for compassion towards the praetorian militiamen masses of the remote past.

The dilemma is create-destroy since Wonthelimar had been moving rapidly through the intraterrestrial slabs near the Kalydon peninsula, before reaching the Kyrios entrusted by Vernarth in Lerapetra, Lasithi. Here they would join with Theus and Vikentios, two Orthodox Christians who were waiting for this procession to later return to Kalydon. The coordinates were alienated in the dilemmas of an anxious Anthropokairós or psychic fear of a past that was three-dimensionally present, towards a future between two different temporal quanta. The entourage was united with a great will to move great tons of time that were intertwined with the almost extinct nature, but noble in resisting that so many fools fought in lands that will never belong to anyone, especially when the storm of the apocalypse thunders the primeval. that Atlas sustains so as not to sink us with his pole, and save all unconverted humanity, making servitudes towards the land of putrid leaf and not the other way around, after so many failed attempts of a Hyletica, or usurpations of matters that are alien to him. certain improper uses such as the mantle of the precious ozone of Eden. The enthronement of the creator will be on the created and will be present, and yes it will be! De Spinalonga with his holocaust of matter will magnetize the mutuality of perished matter in the paw of evils that could not understand his soul matter.

Theus enthroned in Kalydon, here he waited for Wonthelimar before crossing to the islet. His brother Vikéntiko was objectifying himself with his spur scientist in the opening of a new rebirth, in this navel that will seek to untie the aphonia that was difficult with the smallest ellipsis that it implies, by intimidating the miserable prospect that nothing will be redeemable, even later to raise the standards of truly real and not virtual freedom, when the Vexillum that Wonthelimar brought to institute the Genius Loci of Spinalonga appeared. He came along with Marielle, Dyonisius, and Vlad Strigoi. The ethical debate from now on will focus on how to exalt the lepers and *** Bei Himnon and Spinalonga after the Manes Apsidas disassociated themselves from the ethical debate on the island after the departure of the Otomaniacs. The critical evolution will be for the hopeless of a definitive residence that conceptualizes the abandoned, and totally destitute of the chamber or convalescence session, taking them to the Mysterium Ecclesiae, carrying in themselves doctrinals that have supremacy and predominance of the relief of the drama of an existence gray and dark, of those who lie under dire diseases, with advanced duels and an exempt dogmatic formula.

The astrophysics of Spinalonga shows here a universe that distances itself from inextricable nothing, and nothing that alludes to navigating or discovering the point of a ba-ab point, with astrophysical interlocutors that emanate from the realities of stories, which occur more prone to whom be able to resist morbidity with total Christian doctrine, although still asserting itself in coming cycles where Christians are observed fleeing the formulations of a great theologian astrophysicist named Mashiach, who will unite them with the lipoid of Orion, or with the two quantum bracers of *** Bei Himnom and Spinalonga. The quantum record can be cited with immaterial alchemy that emerges from a retrograde biological evolution, for those who believe in archaeology as a state and complement of the logic of the omnipresent-bilocated God in Vernarth parapsychologies, going back to times that passed, passed and they will pass in any dimension of the common man, and whoever is added in the impersonal value in a dynasty of Christian thought, which accommodates the Lodging Ghost of Theus, together with the Mashiach, for a holistic with new body prototypes and souls, which would redesign a paradise definitive. The gaps will give guessed…! And the whole will be to create supposed voids under the law of the conjectured whole, here the continents will pilgrim, containing the same Rabbi co-responsible for all dualism that is ingratiated with divine omnipotence.

Low are freedoms as a final cause, an efficient cause that brings together greater merits of acquiring the personal vote, by acquiring inimitable tenors throughout the cosmos and archetype of man, which does not end with its used prototype substance, relating as one created after the creator told him that he would never abandon him, perhaps being Theus? Spinalonga, a city of the leprosarium, was distinguished from the apprehensions of the Anthropokairos and from the privations of the Apsidas Manes, without pain or fears that will redouble the rudders that unite it to this geomantic duplicity, uncreating mutations that would not appear in the limited collective imagination, rather in the existence that everything is at once, especially when the verb recovers the creative act, towards divine infinity, in Vernarth's kenosis or empty will, purging all of humanity ... It will be more meat on Patmos.

It the competition bro, It’s the competition bro.
Its them against us, it us against them.
Reactions rooted in our brain stem, **** them means win.
We compete against our own human skin,
our own akin, Luke Anakin, I’m your father.
Competition have you Kane and Able, killing your own brother.
Competition is division, submission, inferiority, hierarchy, inequality, habituated, into a sophisticated jungle of pleasure and identity.  
Can’t realize equality within a system grounded in competitive mentalities,
the Olympics, our games, who you rooting for? Lebron James, it’s all the same.
You can stand against hate, you can hate injustice, throw you money and morals, type a tweet and rest on your laurels,
but till competition dies,  it matters not what's spoken oral.
It’s all a power struggle, its us against them, and somehow the ideal is everybody wins?
The hierarchy continues and you are a part of what's condemned. Lets not continue to pretend that its all racial,
competition accommodates all ends.    
This dynamic wont change, don’t hold your breathe, number one death is cardiac arrest.
Fatality by food, that’s fear and survival, too much is never enough….don’t be fooled or get political correct tough, competition is cannibal, makes us remain animals,
breeds one to see threat, to defeat and make victory one’s meat, to compete and civilly eat another person's heart beat.

I

Battered by a brute
Nor’easter, the cottage
rocks in rough wind,
teeters on tall stilts,
architecture animated
by howling provocations
until even the somnolent
wine glasses begin to sway;
suspended and racked in rows
below kitchen cabinets,
crystal clinks on crystal,
clear bells signaling alarm—
the storm forewarned is upon us.

II

This seaside aerie rises
high above sand dunes,
undulating driftwalls
feathered with sea oats.
Protected by weathered
shingles and salt-pocked
windows never shuttered,
the house stands sentry,
stoic structure overlooking
the Graveyard of the Atlantic,
the vast saltwater cemetery
where untold ships and sailors
have come to wreck and ruin,
subverted by shifting sandbars
and chancy wayward currents.

Buried in navigational Neverland,
vessels slumber in oceanic silence
on a seabed as soft as coffin plush.
***** convene in chambers of ruin,
scuttling over rotted mainsail masts;
the jellyfish hover, ghostlike, in hulls
above steerage skeletons bedecked
in crenulated shells and sea anemones.
Plankton settles on shipwreck rust:
pervasive spores, mausoleum dust.
And draped across each wreck,
a pelagic pall of melancholy.  

III

On summer nights, children
chase ghost *****, freezing
them with flashlights, scooping
them into buckets brimming
with a berserk racket of claws
and shells scratching circular
walls of makeshift plastic crypts.
From the top deck, we follow
disembodied beams of light
zigzagging in darkness,
graveyard robbers darting
above holes in the sand,
black portals, each one
the size of a child’s fist.

IV

Years ago, so-called
wreckers would hang
lanterns from horses’
necks and lead the beasts
up and down the beach,
yellow beacons signaling
as though from distant ships
buoyed on placid waters.
The lights lured desperate
vessels inland, unsuspecting
captains and crews crashing
ashore in blind catastrophe.
At daybreak, islanders
scavenged the spoils
of their subterfuge—
silver chalices,
jeweled goblets,
golden cups and bowls—
treasures cast to rapacious
hands upon an indifferent tide.
And of course the corpses came,
caught between shore and sea,
rolling in breakers, stuck
in salty purgatory, churning,
shell-pocked and unsanctified.

V

Tonight a yellow mote of light
floats miles from shore, some ship
flickering like a votive stowed
upon a headstone’s crown.

And the half-drunk bottle
of pinot noir in the ship’s
decanter has me thinking:
When my time comes round,
wait for a moonless night,
black funeral gown
of sky embroidered  
with stars and satellites,
and sneak to the end
of the Avon fishing pier
and release the ashes
from whatever vessel
you’ve decided best
accommodates me.
Scatter finite confetti
to an infinite tomb,
ashes dissolving
unceremoniously
in saltwater,
subsumed.

Next morning,
perhaps catch sight
of a spirited sailboat
tacking over waves,
sails billowing in wind
like the unfurled wings
of a sea bird, full of grace,
alighting from grave to grave to grave.

Emotions are my lesson on what can hurt my pride
This is something of digression through how I live my life
Tainted like a disease I exclude myself from the obscene
With the means to indulge I rather not intervene
Cause there is anger entwined and my actions may be attracting
And progression is effective and might be a distraction
So a act of silence is common to one's things
But belligerence  accommodates inevitable change
Thus, what was lost shall be another aberration
For which it stands for your toleration
Under fraud and nothing at all.

Whilst patrolling my fortified, Nazified, sub-tropical Florida region
I see that **** George Zimmerman's whiter than a blond Norwegian
in his self-appointed role as a *****-shooting Europoidal European
who pimps ***** to roll dipsomaniacs at Sanford's American Legion "Only **** babies in self-defense" is the unaborted rule that I live by
& "don't never impregnate no black gal who was born a black guy"
It's a-o.k. to give Sanford pigs some name that's but a phony handle
ike Kent C. Well, **** Too Tight, Robin Banks &/or Tony Candle,
Gaye Barr, Anita Bath, Harry Azcrac, Dixie Normus, Stony Mantle,
Nida ***, Lou Stools, Buster Cherry, Dixon Butts or Bony Randall,
plus Argentina's well-rotted, crapped-out actress hag Olga Zubarry,
who lived to bury ****-*****: Pork Chop Annie & Polka Jew Perry Mongols grow Occidentalized by Walmart's imported Chinese trick
& even ******-rich richer than a Bakersfield-deported Chicano hick Litters of swimmin' kittens are escaping Oscar like did Felix Unger
from the Apocalypse of Fukushima's China syndromic helix hunger Polite folk accommodate futt-bucking ******* by calling them gays
just as Wendy's accommodates idiotic patrons by giving them trays
For U.S. marines *** rights are earned during their boot-camp days
like when David Hasselhoff spent his T.V. time bay-watching bays,
in the era Reagan occupied his senile mind hoarding guns with rays while selling Latin American Marxists missiles to prove crime pays during our presidential-election cycle in its suspended-reality phase when Hawaiian babes charge nothing for their flowery, virginal leis
to celebrate the Hawaiian Babes' Free Flowery, Virginal Leis craze featuring tropical ******* & purpley nips guaranteed to amaze
in the orchid-rained-in-depths of our historically blue-blooded haze upon the moon's far side where-from souls are dispatched by Grays
there are no Jimmy Swaggart-$10-Johns anointing ***** with praise
while damning hell-fire Christians to the horror of a martyred blaze

Why are people so resistant
to just being people
with/to/around other people?!

People act like
you have to be in a relationship
to have any kind of relationship
and I'm ******* sick of it.

Does anyone else see how this is absurd?
Does anyone see what the **** we're doing?
Would we even ******* care if we did?

Likely not:
we're just a bunch of ******* doppelgangers:
complacent, Orwellian, pharmacological guinea pigs
with a fear of change and betrayal so deep
that we do nothing but betray and change
so rapidly that we can't even be sure
of which alliances are genuine
and which are malign.

Why can't people just ******* be people?
Why do we feel so compelled to be alien?
Why do we prove them right?
Why can't we just BE?!

I'll tell you ******* why:
it accommodates some people's POWER
and I'll say it again
POWER
here, once more
TO GET IT IN
THROUGH OUR THICK-***, NUMB, AND EMPTY SKULLS:


**POWER

Vice may temporarily prosper, virtue dominates
Love is to conquer world hatred but has to leave
Beauty is good in life which comes ,accommodates
You are a part of heart we are bound to believe  

What I pay and what I get that is but my sacrifice
Humans are strange commodity change but faces
Devilish or angelic, we just have to pay the price
But remains virtually are nothing but all the traces

My beloved let me take you on a strange oasis
Where we can have survival on different stature
Where we can deal with each other with justice
I want to taste your taste and flavor of flavor

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

There is infinity in our words
In our minds
And in our numbers
There is infinity in this sentence
In more ways than one
How do I know?
I know because I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you know that I know etc
There’s comparatively little paper & ink
So I’ll keep this short:
It creates the problems that it solves, in infinite ways
It giveth & it taketh away
Yet somehow we are still left with it
Or in it , I should say
For who are we without it?
It sanctions the question
Sponsors the answers
It seems to enjoy speculation
It doesn’t stop
Yet it never starts
It is the original contradiction
Which bears our calendars
Winds out clocks
Confounds us with death
It is too big to be invisible
And too small to be palpable
And it holds whole worlds in between
All sorts of worlds, all of them,
Yet it is nothing more than nothing
Turned inside out,
An impostor,
An enchanter desperate for subjects,
A master of mirrors with light & shadow that seizes us in catoptric curls,
An impostor wanted
For questioning:
We have scoured snowy horizons amid snow storms,
Amid sand storm we have ploughed sandy horizons,
We found footsteps in sand,
Shadows on snow
Which we failed to recognize as our own,
We followed imprints left by windy stars
We thought we were perennial nomads just like them,
We called out behind closed eyes into glow-wormed horizons
And with abdication, fear & envy we took the echoes for something else:
An impostor
Yet between the calls
Within resonance
There was silence
Impossible silence
Suspended silence
Differentiating silence
Connecting silence
Silence that does not change yet accommodates out whims
Silence that cannot be spoken yet remains a word
Silence that promotes the hunger of hope,
That drives anticipation,
Silence that is so vast it is impersonal
Yet so finely tuned it apprehends the one
Silence that is something more than everything turned inside out:
A nothing that confound
A grounding nothing
An unnerving nothing
A nothing that is vital,
And the more we hear this nothing the less nothing we hear:
- Patterns of eternity
- Internal symbolism
- Longing
Yet if we were to linger forever
How things would lose their power to move us.

For me,
you and I
Are perfectly Fit
for this time
But the
fear accommodates
In my mind. .

What will it
turn out to be
with time?
A question
which haunts me often,
tormenting
mostly at night.

You might say
not to think so much,
but I wish you
could understand
You are not a mere person
to hangout with.

You are more than that!
A friend, a companion
with whom I fell in love.
An asset for me
which remains
undefined!

Love you to the core.

I woke up late to catch the frightening bus;
Who accommodates billions of passenger just to get to their destination;
This happens inside the loop of time,
The sound of the underpass felt like I was inside the cathedral;
Seeing straight faces with no reaction at all;
I asked myself if these are the same people I saw yesterday;
The echoing sound of their footsteps lead me to consciousness;
Asking myself, do I really belong here?
Do I really need to do this?
The echoes from the cathedral made me feel bad about myself;
And cut off my confidence once again;
I realized that everyone works hard just to get to the top;
And here I am feeling so worthless;
A failure to my parents;
And I just wanted to end my life;
Because I always compare myself to others;
Searching what lacks in me;
So I started walking like what other people do;
Mimicking their movements like a professional;
Standing straight, chin up;
Breathing the same air and feels empty inside;
Am I really happy with the setting of the story?
I felt nauseous, I thought I was gonna throw up;
The welcoming step of the entrance cut the trance that I was in;
The greetings of the unfamiliar faces;
Dazed me into a robot of fear;
They once obliged me to be like this and not to be like that;
Weekdays I get to be the one wearing the fancy clothe;
They say you’ll look more professional and everyone will respect you;
Information that frustrates me;
I wanted to become myself again;
Freedom was lost because of me;
My fear, my lack of confidence to present the one who hides;
Who hides inside this charade;
This charade that gave every yonder stars the regret;
We’ve wasted our life doing things we don’t like.

By Jennifersoter Ezewi

The powerful village
Who looks deserted
And accommodates more.

This village has more children
Outside her province
Toiling for survival each day.

She keeps calm and expectant
Wishing to see them at the end
of the year.

Some pays homage to her
While some calls her evil
And still denies the fact that they ever came in contact with her
Thereby calling a civilized soil
Sweet mother.

This powerful village produces
the best anywhere
And still looks timid in some places.

The powerful village where all
and sundries comes from
Who still accommodates them
at the point of retirement

Even when she had been neglected
She still welcomes them at the
point of exit
Giving them a comfortable
Portion of farewell.

and a verse, like all others, by those not contending for gravestones visited post-mortem, post-fancy, post-zeitgeist, post-whatever-it-is-that-makes-people-visit-jim-morrison's-grave-­leave-a-spliff-****-off-not-smoke-it-allowing-some-***-to-take-th­e-advantage (at the pèr[e] lachai[se]ª) - and it still is, the most vandalised grave in the world, and kept that way... unlike that ****** who chipped off part of the gravestone from ed gein's grave, did some voodoo praying: give me a heart of stone, and strong bowels!

you know what they call whiskey
and bourbon and cognac back
east? perfumes...
    then again, i don't blame them -
but back east the girls drink
beer with blackcurrant juice
and sip it using straws -
  and there's certainly no ale: or cider...
and ***** is drank blue (extra cold) -
and never on an empty stomach -
and always in shots that feel
like downing gomme sugar syrup...
         me? i like the perfumery liquors,
thing with ***** if you're
mixing and on an empty stomach:
you need sharpshooters to tell you
there's alcohol in the brew -
but add some whiskey and the smoking
wood, and the caramel,
   and the thought of salmon
in their scotch sushi form of smoked
rushes through ahead of ms. pepsi.

ªpèr[e] lachai[se] -
  the french are more deviatory than
the english when it comes to clear
syllable cutting - oh the french can
bake you a fine my my a very fine croissant,
but? they're, ha ha, terrible phonetic
butchers...
      the brackets? exclusion points -
although written, not said...
      then again the lachai[se]
is debateable - but that invokes their
cousin's lingo, namely the german
geschärft und stehen neben zu ein spiegel S,
   la-chez... or láchez (without the english
conduct of eradicating multi-syllable
  germanic);
  it's still going to be pèr[e] lachai[se] =
pèr la-chez or pèr láchez -
   and even then it becomes: *sharpened
even further: things don't come cheap -
and the french as the biggest culprits of
writing one way, and speaking another!
the reason why french, is probably
the only language that makes it difficult
to learn, therefore keep a native language,
therefore establish bilingualism,
       therefore have acquired proper
diacritical fusion for a passable accent -
likewise for the french to lose their
diacritical specificality -
        is because english can accommodate
a wide range of accents,
even though english is also culprit in
avoiding clear syllable inccissions -
    but the english accommodates the pict
talk, the cymru talk,
  the gaels the french: H and the R -
the germans: mein goot ęglish axezoont;
nonetheless, the french are bigger phonetic
culprits than the english...
     perhaps that's why i never "bothered"
to learn the ****** frog-stomp:
no... i just preferred the evolution of a letter,
i.e. R... i preferred the english tongue
numbing version to the french harking it...
as i made fun of that tarantula bite
of the english tongue: while retaining my
slavic trill of R.

i am both

         thespian,

                  and ******...

the chikatilo
                    bullett...

   that slowly,
started eating away,

from the back
of the cranium...

   mouth-like-a-mushroom...

apparently you can only
read german philosophers,
if not wholly,
then "only" slightly
                     demented.

- because why would people
   do so?
the odd chance people
achieve
introspection of a sparrows'
song, lifting up
the labour equating itself
to literacy...

           bequeath cameo
          within the confines of
the opportunity to
assert the sigh orientated around
a prime, performance?

     i don't appreciate
reinstating Hippocratic orthodoxy...
when...
            ah...
              worth the excuse,
of liberty,
      and the boring lives
      reduced to reiterating: trivia...
it almost makes my life
worth: the presumption
of the thrill prior to a grave....

have i lived, the,
     only life?
                        no...
        but have i lived
a life, most alone?

that said,
    what would you say,
about, said example:
            without
                emphasis?

all that remains of me,
is a "question"
         regarding the technicality
of usage, with
a language, rather than as:
a language...

           can't exactly fake
a disembodiment...
              no one actually bothers
to pursue a reiteration
of such technicality...
       unless it be a technicality,
that language
  accommodates,
but reiterates itself from making
a use of.

We wake in a fresh sunflower field,

A bright, honey-coated sunrise revealed.


Familiar tunes call to thee,  

“It’s good to see you again, this is a home to me.”


Later, with noon allure rising,  

My open arms grip your sizing.


Like swaying branches on this sunny day,

We whisper warmth in everything we say.  


With quiet, unnoticed time moving on,  

We lay softly on the purple patched lawn.


The budding spices in our evening breeze,

Soon accommodates the buzzing of the frogs and bees.


We dance as serene as how the day flew by,

And rest our backs against the orange sky.  


Eventually, the stars shine above with a spin,

Our next lovely day will again soon begin.