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Redshift Jul 2013
i like to take pictures of me smiling
because i am a ginger baby
and we were born to grin,
daddy says so.

i like to look at them later
and remind myself how to arrange my lips
my cheeks
and the little rainbows
that live around my eyes
when i cannot think for a second
how on earth
i used to
smile

smile,
baby
they say
and you can have this one
for
free
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i can't believe we only managed to
re-enter plato's dream of a society,
being recited by pauper lovers,
for need of acceptance, but no aerodynamics!
bring me the boeing and i'll bring
the thistles of the **** thing being aired
among curled-up turtles and hedgehogs,
flap flap! ****, spot the seagull
or the copper-head of a churchill shat on
by a pigeon for a good-luck testimony!
and i was wearing my underwear
if you cared to mind; religious schools
forgot the 1960s drug revolution, they were
teaching a concern of sniffing glue...
**** me... glue?! with all that wine!
what an oddity.
Steve D'Beard Dec 2012
I love a good debate,
[science mixed with illusion]
and this year was no exception:
the debate on the best shapes for a kite
from design implementation, inception and execution

some sturdy string and industrial-strength glue
the machinations of whether to use plywood or bamboo
and of course built by your own fair hand
such was the intensity of discussion it continued
with an after-lunch stroll on the beach, where the uncles
drew their prize-winning geometry
with a primitive stick
in the sand

a question on the mathematics of aerodynamics aside
its currently a battle of the cyclic quadrilaterals
and documented film of it successfully tested and tried;
years of perfection honed by the skills of Fatherhood
to know instinctively the difference
between the brilliance of genius
and the borderline
just plain good

If nothing else has come from this
I now
know
[so as not to lose]

K = p/q over 2
or
K = ab – sin Ø

[are the formulas to use]
inspired by those festive drink fuelled debates which are lengthy and complex on simple non-life changing matters like this one... and left their crazy mathematics on a beach for a dog walker to ponder over
brooke Jan 2014
why do we always remember the lips
the glimpse upward, the sigh, the gap
between their teeth? Never the whole
face, the angular pinky in the porch-light
the coarse hairs on a neck, the sight of a
jaw in motion, concave cushion when he
talks, never the whole body,
a single word, a single sound, a small
intonation, a rumble that stays, stays



stays.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014

Think of the last person you loved.
Daniel Samuelson Apr 2014
Daughter of a rocket scientist 
son of a nuclear engineer
and they begat a son

a boy
too starry-eyed to question the stars—
the way they hang in space, the fusion
that keeps them burning brightly,
or how to launch an object past them—
more concerned with the constellations
of perfect freckles found on his beloved's shoulders

a boy 
too enthralled with Existence
and describing it in artful words
to contemplate its composition
or to ponder Existence's place
on Other Worlds

a boy 
enraptured with the Changing of the Seasons—
photosynthesis and 
chloroplasts and 
planetary tilt?
Irrelevant

a boy 
who'd rather write of Love
than consider its chemical makeup
or wonder how or why it is
who'd prefer to write of leaves
dancing spirals in the breeze 
than aerodynamics and 
air resistance and
gravitational pull

a boy 
who sometimes stops 
and only ponders Science
concerning his Genetics
and wonders where it all was lost.
I often joke about my inability in math and science and with regards to my brilliant grandfathers... And I do wonder to where the brains went. No matter. Maybe it's a recessive or silent gene and maybe I'll have genius kids. *Fingers crossed hopefully*
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
the aerodynamics on that ****, past the ****? **** me... miles davis on the trumpet! followed up by john coltrane on the sax.

sure... it's like egg-friend rice, of any kind replicable...
but this is *hoisin
sauce, and soya sauce...
                   jumping at each other in the mix...
   or that's: half an hour, sitting on the window-sill,
   sitting on my foot folded, massaging my ****...
              thinking: there's bound to be a few more
                           inches' worth of ****, stuck up there....
           c'mon heel! massage that **** a bit more,
if we get a few more farts out... we're bound
                                   to get the **** out too!
     that's the funny thing... you can have a lodged ****,
but then you can also ****, and the **** doesn't
come out...
                     how do farts byspass the ****?
   that really is, a weird question...
              it's a bit like comparing it so psychiatry...
all these thoughts (farts) keep coming out...
         past this thick fudge-berg lodged in my head (the ego)...
how did they ever bypass that ****-berg's worth of contemplative
                     and monetary's unit worth of reasoning about,
                                                           in the first place?
               well... if you're going to circumcise people...
might as well call the **** the mind...
                       and make fun out of circumcised freud...
better now? ah hmm mmm?
                  farts the thoughts, thoughts bypassing the lodged
      in **** ****'s worth of ego...
          surely if there's aerodynamics... there must be some
   sort of cognitive-dynamism...  a bypass...
                       people love to simply call it ignorance...
         but it's not...
       oh, lookie here... fits neatly, right into my trouser pocket;
what was it?              
                 farts, thoughts, ego, ****...
                  well.. you know... some of us like the idea of shortcuts.
Zach Gomes Aug 2010
There is an electric hum from traffic lights
Barely audible to the people waiting at the corner
Overwhelmed with confusion over the former
Condition of the economy in spite
Of the surplus of traffic signs
So they stare at traffic signs
The signs don’t mind
They stare right back and watch and contemplate crossing, too
But the signs will stay behind
Because people go
As they please
Under an ashy sky
And flickers
Of lightning
Appearing in the clouds

Consider the aerodynamics of taxicabs
You wish humans were so streamlined and yellow
We’re not so bad!
Said a fellow
Accountant using an algebraic formula to attempt to derive
Why you smile for us and I’ve
Noticed, though no one else has, the electric storm churning
Miles above
Polarizing the sky
In silence

They tremble, these, the not-so-poor
It’s that fearful tic, the one we’ve seen before
But you tremble, too
Do you see me quiver
We’ve got that quick jitter
Like a prickling under the skin that’s pulsing through
Our blood the way that caffeine does
Or the wattage exploding in death throes or birth throes
Above us now
Hypnotic
And powerful
Though I cannot tell
Exactly how far away
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i don't why, but it just happens sometimes,
one minute you're listening to Ryan Adams'
self-titled album with that pillar of
rock stay with me reading the Sunday Times
style magazine after having digested
the culture magazine and the Sunday Times
magazine, bobbing along to an article about
the singer Ariana Grande, seeing her almost
kissing a pooch on a skyscraper (*****,
that tongue's been up my ***, so said the pooch)
and you don't get Ryan Adams,
****'s a gridlock, a traffic jam, it doesn't
have a care for Pearl Jam and the wilderness of
Canada... so you switch listening material
to Herbie Hancock's cantaloupe island,
and suddenly you're in Philip Larkin territory...
it's funny to say that slavery of the africans
by the english to colonise the American continent
gave us fewer princes bored by Mozart
stating 'too many notes' - well jazz has enough
too many, notes, because there's this whole impromptu
going on; in my collection of the genre?
a decent list: sonny clark's complete works,
sonny clark's cool struttin',
cannonball aderley's somethin' else,
cedric 'im' brooks united africa,
booker t & the m.g.'s green onions (~jazz),
thelonious monk's monk's blues,
thelonious monk's criss-cross,
egberto gismonti's solo, eric dolphy's out to lunch,
donald byrd's royal flush, duke ellington's soul call,
terry callier's occasional rain, guru's jazzmatazz vol. 1,
miles davis' ******* brew / sketches of spain /
kind of blue / porgy and bess / the complete birth of the cool,
hurbie hancock's takin' off / my point of view,
steve kuhn trio's wisteria, joshua redman's back east,
freddie hubbard's hub-tones, john coltraine's blue train /
a love supreme, nina simone's nina simone at the village gate,
bobby mcferrin's spontaneous innovations,
chet baker's my funny valentine, dexter gordon's go!,
us3's hand on the torch, sonny rollins' ballads,
freddie hubbard's ready for freddie,
art blakey's moanin', kenny burrell's midnight blue,
chick corea's now he sings now he sobs,
mccoy tyner's the real mccoy, dianne reeve's i remember,
duke ellington's money jungle, horace silver's song
for my father, jimmy smith's back at the chicken shack,
wayne shorter's ju lu...
so with this mind, from bukowski the baton was
passed, don't get me wrong, i appreciate classical
music, but jazz is too much poetry,
not really the makings of coupling the two like
the Beats... just that they originate with a sentiment
best stated: 'what the **** was that?'
reverse aerodynamics: actually, no, proper
aerodynamics: you see the plane and then get the score
sheet... those European composers must have
been literally mad, so many instruments encoded,
pitches, larks, stresses of a violin's specific accenting
that wouldn't never sound like a nail scratching
blackboard... i know it's horrid to compliment
slavery... but hell... without it no jazz,
just stuck in a rut with classical whitey boys...
and no jazz no blues... no future rock or pop...
if there's anything to redeem the trade it's this music,
and, let me tell you, jazz is urbanity a soul of
frank o'hara's new york, it's amplified in
a suburban environment, never did suburbia
bordering on countryside feel so cosmopolitan,
but i'm adding this amplification to have been
aided by the number of birds i can spot, lazily
from my window...
and god, i love the fact that in jazz you can
have a specific bloom for each instrument used,
you can have a horn, a sax, a drum a bass solo
all in one go, so it's not as monochromatic as in
rock music (primarily occupied with
lead guitar solos, in the 1970s the drum solos
of john bonham) - all in one go i.e.
the tactful representation of each instrument,
the sort of football match analogy where every
player gets a touch of the ball / limelight.
M Epperly Feb 2012
With you I'm at a lack of words but I'll do my best. 
Good thing we agree on emotions to fill the rest. 
I feel blessed to have been able to meet you
And only you have had the effect on me that you do

Everything you do and say, we seem to blend
It's weird to say, but I could get used to this trend
You deny it all day long
You're gorgeous, you and that fact need to get along

I love how your smile lights up your face
And only can make my heart race
I can't express the way you feel
And the way you make my heart flutter, it's the real deal

But not necessarily in the way you think
Your mind will be in a roller rink
Round and round in circles
I don't want to hear talk of ridicules

You make me happy like I can't explain
Like aerodynamics lift an aero plane 
I feel like myself once again
Like how my skin feels when it'***** by rain

It's refreshing like the quench of a thirst 
But there is one thing I must say first
You are something special
So amazing it's meeting my thresh hold

You make me want more, bring me to beg for a kiss
I'd drop to my knees for such bliss
The way you look in my eyes
Brings me up more than any of my highs

The connection we share
The way you care
I'm blown away
And here I lay

Wondering what you're thinking
Trying to be smooth with winkings 
I can't believe how hard I try to impress you
The feel of your lips and my urging, it's true

I can't help but think about it
I don't need mapquest to map it
I know what I'd have to do
But it makes me pause, is this the same feeling by you

I really don't know how to bring this to an end
But it's something I want to explore to no end
What fate has for us in store
I have no idea, just know I want more
Moriah Jean Mar 2011
I missed you yesterday.
So I started folding paper planes,
But I knew they'd never reach you.
Aerodynamics         paper              really         up.
                          and            doesn't            a­dd

I switched to folding boats instead,
And they looked strong and sharp.
But they sank even
                                  faster
                   ­                         than
                                   ­                  my
                                                            he­art.
And, no one ever taught me how to sail.

Then, I tried my hand at paper cranes,
Because, I read somewhere,
"One thousand cranes are good for one true wish."
But I stopped after forty-three,
When I ran out of square paper and band-aids.

So, I folded up some stars instead,
But they weren't any good.
They didn't twinkle and they couldn't
                                                        ­          even
                                                  ­                          fall...
(and i stopped wishing on stars years ago).

I gave up on origami; I was never very good.
Paper only likes me when with pen.
Instead, I'll try to reach you
with the words I love to write --
poetry [and] promises [and] dreams
(and maybe a few apologies for loving you all wrong).
All I really wanted to say was,

"Baby, run away with me."

But I didn't think - the words alone - would move you.
© March 9th, 2011 Moriah Jean

For Bryant.
Nike Kaffezakis Sep 2010
Once there was a day
A simple, plain day
With a middle,
Beginning, and end
With a tea time
A lunch time
A dinner time too
The sky was cloudless blue
And there was a bubbly breeze
As only fits a simple day
As this day was

And enjoying this day was a boy
A normal, average boy
With a large smile
Ruffled hair, and ***** face
With two good hands
A strong jaw
Ten toes as well
The boy played happily
His imagination wandered free
As only fits an average boy
As this boy was

On this day, there was a rock
A dull, boring rock
With no real shape,
Color, or value
With a hard surface
A strong mass
And good aerodynamics
A rock that flew throught the air
And shatterd glass
As only fits a thrown rock
As this rock was

This day, there was a plague
A horrendous, devastating plague
With a death toll
Of six billion
With no cure
No treatment
No vaccine
Stored safely in a vile
Until it was let free
As only fits a bioweapon
As this plague was.
Perpetual Motion
The aerodynamics of your words slice through the atmosphere effortlessly.

Their succession is perpetual, reaching each listener that your voice can touch.

Your words are like the steady hands of a surgeon, operating—opening old wounds or closing new ones with precision.

Your words are unbiased, unable to detect any and all human nuances; their only desire is to be heard, echoing in the silence, leaving a mark on every heart they find.
Newton's law: An object in motion stays in motion.
Viseract Nov 2015
Hollow, empty
Devoid of emotion
Unsure as to who I am
No cure, no potion

Mimic the cries
Of our endless lies
Hoping to fit in,
To belong, feel security within

But it scares me,
As I'm sure you can see

I want to be myself
All I need is help
To bring out who I really am
And hope that, socially, this isn't my end

I feel so lost,
So totally unlike what
Everyone expects of me
And what I expect of myself, the whole lot

I look inside myself
And all I see is utter blackness
Not because I am a demon,
But my actions have caused darkness

I didn't believe in myself
I wanted to be someone else
Everything I ever did
Was based off of not being the "weird kid"

The one with the buck-teeth,
That "Aspy", abnormal boy
I wanted to be part of a group
Not a bullies favourite toy

But I also wanted to do what I like,
Talk of dinosaurs, aerodynamics and castles
Not to be just another
Fashion, gaming and acting apostle

Guess that didn't work out so well, now did it?
Because I don't know which parts of me
Are the real me, not the "fitting" in me
That is something I cannot see clearly

I just want to be myself
Not a creation moulded by society
But I don't exactly have a choice now, do I?
I must face the humility.
For the record, this isn't one of those poems that poets write about someone else. This is about me
Jill Aug 15
Stupidly genius, moronic and shrewd people eat their fast food on fine China
Failing is vertical, errors are slander
Their gross insults impacting easy digestion
Hyperbole falsehood messiah

Piercingly silent and ardently soft people keep their opinions on fences
Insults are weaponry not to be yielded
Their platitudes cradling fragile personas
Perversely destructive defences

Classically learned and bookishly rich people carry their privilege with kindness
Science is built with colonial scaffolds
Their method constraining all true innovation
Parochial qualified blindness

Shockingly worthy and recklessly small people polish their boots with lead solder
Gravity holding them grounded and upright
Their bootlaces impacting aerodynamics
Inferior sturdy upholder

Gallantly serving and fearlessly trained people douse the political embers
Fire escape blocked with hobnails and lumber
Their pickaxes caught in the thick poison ivy
Nugatory self-rule defenders

The silent, the learned, the worthy, the trained people trade voyeurism for vision
Hologram values are no longer trump cards
Their gazes averted from hate-dripping sophists
Integrity first coalition
©2024
Abi Winder Aug 18
i’m nineteen.
and i’ll never be able to tell you how life works.
or how people exist.
or how cranes build themselves.

i’ll never be able to explain to you how planes fly.
because i know it has something to do with
****** and aerodynamics
but please don’t ask me to explain because truthfully i have no idea.

i’ll never be able to explain the vastness of space.
or what setting to wash my clothes on.
or how to not fall apart.
or the temperature you are supposed to brew your tea at.

i’m nineteen.
but i am able to tell you that life gets better.
and that some people are good.
and that to exist we must learn to trust.

i’ll be able to tell you that despite trying not to
you’ll still inherit things from both of your parents.
you’ll secretly hope that you are more like your mother
and i will loudly hope that you only get your fathers good.

i’ll be able to tell you to keep going.
because one day you’ll look back and be thankful you didn’t give up.
i’ll be able to tell you that it’s important to learn new things.
and that everything goes down a little better with tea (despite the temperature it’s brewed at).
Redaviel Feb 2020
How do I get her attention?
If a nervous greeting is a paper airplane
And a stranger's smile the nervous breeze
Then maybe I'll start with aerodynamics
But she isn't a pilot, she's maybe a mechanic
She might notice that my airplane has faulty wings
And the breeze carried little weight or feel
But I know that my engine's well-maintained
And the screws and bolts in my head are fine
If my hopes dance around thin ropes
And flying is but a hopeless romantic's dream
Then I wish that the wind bring us together
And we'll maintain what will let us fly in love
Personal poem - to Joyce
After revoking themselves from the transposed swords that slightly decreased in size, they uncrossed them to size it to the historical size that actually conserved them. They were the existing Xiphos that began to be delineated over sixty centimeters, which figured from what separated them before turning through the nearby heights of the Thuellai. After separating both when detaching themselves from the ribs of the Xiphos, they thus penetrated the light of the Empyrean, cutting the bastions of the dreamlike attire that had them articulated, nailing each of the Xiphos in the calcaneus as Vernarth executed before entering in the fight of the site of Gaugamela with the Falangists. In this way, they both took the Xiphos and synchronously pierced the crossed swords in each calcaneal bone of each foot, but across so as not to incite the Gods of Olympus, to hold the Angels and the God of the Seventh Heaven. They were left with the iron-bronze on their feet with a short encysted difference, and with the spears that the hoplites mainly before adopted with Vernarth in the charge of the Phalanx that was towards the shadow of a famous change of climate control that was splendid of the dying Kassotide, making these swords more invulnerable and deleterious.

Seventh Necropolis of Messolonghi
Parapsychological  Ellipsis

Vernarth came as if they had just come out of the Kassotide escarpment, resembling the imitations of repetitive interference on the assessment of re-invading Xerxes in what personifies him. Alexander the Great had already expedition this sea of the Hellespont and this time he would do it together with his egregious Commander Vernarth. What they had to reach together were the dominated geographical limits and their experiences, even what the conquest of Heles meant due to his resurrection from mythology or submitology, perhaps inquiring this as if it had not existed, or if it had been more preponderant when leaving his image as a hagiography that received a concussion and that pain never lets him overcome being on guard towards the front of the wind that hurts the autobiographies, of whom if he knows how to read the degree of the works with his maximum oratory, metaphorizing and adjusting in revolting voices alembicated of Messolonghi Seventh Cemetery.

The vapors of evil followed the converted spaces of other bodies that regained life, here the ears were clipped with songs from Hades, which from Messolonghi came to constitute before the fight with the revived war spirits of Dario III. Before reaching Skalá they felt impassive nascent airs that were emanated from the underworld, from where the tribulation would constitute unhappy chambers that revealed the bodies of the Achaemenids who woke up bilocadly in Patmos, they were transhumed from the aldehyde vapors that made them breathe themselves and supposedly insightful. The visions of this cemetery were made vacant to receive the casts that would fall after the fight on the heights of Skalá, where the weak and daring would be condemned before the natural graves that would reconvert them into precious ornaments of the Kassotide Trench from Delphi, to revive them in the stench that is greater than that of the corruptible human being.
The Seventh Cemetery would be the genesis of the global warming concept of the modern world grafted onto the atmospheric leitmotif of the Kassotides. The Anunnaki will rebuild the bones of those who no longer had them, and of the shattered bodies that were advancing in those who would occupy the void of the Messolonghi necropolis with dust from rubble from other bones covered with Cinnabar decanted with the Antiphon, and with the airs of trial where all the prescriptions lyricized a general funeral apostille that authorized an eternal dimension, which swirled through the dry nails of some who did not overcome the fear of existing, knowing that they would risk a thousand years without the universe that made them the son of a father from Andromeda, where enemies and friends would decree the global changes that would originate from the first-century b. C., the first consigne of the meetings that would alert the efficacy of containing a ****** and constant abyss of supernatural power, further away than that of a God who leaves behind the atonements that sustained him in the immediate ideology from the Seventh Heaven to the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi that tried to intercede between syntagmas that came from the shady fifth of the Helleniká Necropolis. The weaknesses that actually had to be imposed were increasing, and everything that could be solved becomes a disturbing renter of Drestnia, who would intervene with the enlightened when coming from Kalidona. Many stayed in the circles of abstention derived from the first Messolonghi Cemetery, from where Drestnia was alienated to get rid of attachments to mortuary remains, which every hundred centuries were physically and psychically absent from all the astral storms of Andromeda.

The climatic changes began to take shape in the whole world from the paralysis of the office of the Oracles of Delphi in 391 b.C. Since the moat of the Kassotides began to vary its alchemical tributary, after centuries in the bars of the bastions of the feminine brotherhood of Pythias and Sybilla's, everything was detached towards the physics of the globe with incessant rectangular impulses that emanated cylindrical emanations that radiated from Messolonghi, cleaning itself of the implanted grafts that were intended to replace the ex-karst nature of the Dodecanese, in the aerodynamics from which the impatient eyes look. The seventh necropolis was dissipating from three hundred cylindrical hectares, which would finally bequeath to the Archon who would define waiting for the de-demonization of the colossal shadows, after the few minutes of existence that were subtracted.
Seventh Necropolis of Messolonghi
Spílaiaus, noticing that Vernarth felt unprotected on the iridescent Nimbus, greeted Zefian; he was in the Phlegrean Fields reliving the Sibylline Treatises of the Pytia Cumea, when the last death rattle of the Universe began to beat with force Zefian sent from his Thracian Gold Quiver right next to where the Sibylline Treatises could materialize again by withdrawing the Arrow of the Vóreios where it began to protrude from the Doric stylobats of the Megaron, everything was comparable to the Parnassus from which Leto; Apollo's mother would grant them Vernarth's Megaronic Songs, making up for her withdrawal since he was saved from the fire in 548 BC.  from the Acropolis, being able to assent to the presence of Triads Women who moaned at him due to his deserted unbalanced voice without being able to receive his exclamations. Zefian then before the lightness of his cosmic phalanges withdrew the Fourth Arrow from the Phlegrean Fields; before it from the volcanic caldera, he released the nine books recovered in total from the six cremated, to then be pierced by Zefian's Arrow to finally project them towards the contiguities of Prophyits Ilias where their spirits appeared here with such reflections of Miletus conversing with each other that the beauty of Coronis was not enough tenor of Paralesias of the Firmament of Apollo, so the Heavens of Patmos had to be opened with the nine sybilline books along with Vernarth's Hellenic Trilogy to establish the Duoverse as paralesias of the world that would restart from the Ádyton to save the Inheritance and his astrophysicist strangulation.
Both vicissitudes of the Fourth Arrow were heading at incalculable speeds to collide and merge with the Arrow that pierced Apollo's Lynothorax to the detriment of Coronis, thus abandoning transcripts of the oracles that crossed paths in the Seventh Hour of Paralysis to later touch with holistic chrysanthemums with their pointed ivory ornaments that hung from the Universe wrapped in an omphalos, which became a Kosmous of wands encrusted with igneous flames to burn to a great degree among the stylobates that the upper canopy prevented from being incinerated from the rest, protecting the parapets from the Megaron that depended on the nearby Cloud of the Iridescent Nimbus where Vernarth resided in the armband patterns of the monarch Croesus.

Spílaiaus replies to Vernarth: “From this promontory, I go to your parents, I tell you that I see signs of great parapets where the center of the Kosmous rises; “The Ádyton, is closely linked to the fusion of the Quarta Saeta, and Septenario del Ibic or Virola to the depths of the Katabainen; whose Katabasis grows through places of impious land from a Megaron that is nothing more than traces of Lycurgus in limber blood that the tabernacle could not contain, nor could it dispossess for a chalice the firmness of an instigated Christus that could now flow and be reborn by submitting to Cyrus, and other satraps of the past, referring to the fact that Vernarth's asceticism depended on the minimum luminance that could come out of Tartar. Vernarth, distinguished himself more calmly when he perceived that Eurydice filled him with greater agreement with the one who is delimited from an underground room, than from a sub-empyrean who began to separate him from the parapets of the Megaron with the shape of a Howling Kosmous burnishing from the same district Strategoi.

In this way, the Adyton was made up of a temple with Seven Steps until the arrival of the fusion of Zefian's Arrow to collide with that of Apollo, then both being the curtain of the interface of the Duoverse that became oracular with the presence of Jerome de Estridón, and Spílaiaus taking them to the Forests of Parnassus and Kanthillana with the Pythonesses in the spurious Oracular of the nuptials. The Sybilla Herofila is present with her veil with the darkness of Castalia, with ceremonious gestures also in front of her the Sybilla Cumea for the brothers of Delphi and Adyton who reopen it with the power of their God, who was accumulating access to an infinite where nothing isolates it, not even from the sip of a sea that does not grant the gift of quenched thirst, then the Psiloi custodians as advisers of their "V" of the pentagram would take charge of the Oracle's minions to unite the center of the Kosmous with the Universe-Duoverse where he rested on the niche of Hestia.

Apollo emerges between some proxenos that accompanied him before noticing the impact of the Arrowheads, and compasses between proxenos that would admit the New Duoverse of the Oracle of Adyton, for a new universe that was gestating from a polymer towards a multidimensional height that rotated to exhibit only the edge that would admit the mass of Saetas to create rings of vibration, and frequency of Apollo in front of Vernarth looking from the magnanimous lookouts of all Greece. This is where the shepherd Coretas juxtaposed himself with his flock to swarm in the thin strips of landslides that would be left by the atomic detonations of both colliding Arrows, whose cracks would drop obtuse crude oil down mysterious empty cliffs in the face of a Greece that would be born before Anthropotite or humanity, only eclipsing Vernarth in the company of the atomic hatching in the middle of the sieve of the same faces of his entourage that will make him return every day of his transition, like fiery Ashin of the Roman Vestal in assiduity of Naples.
Apollo indicates to Vernarth: “If you stay alone in the drift of Astro Cirrus, you stay with the shadow of Coronis, or you will tell me that it dissipates from the discharges of Tarquino Prisco, you must treasure your Trilogy as a pendulum on the towpath of the Dodona or from the hiding places of the fetish between leaves of the inventory that unknown is not by an auspice that will open from the greatest Paradise ”

In advance of the hallmarks of the Itheoi Duoverse; with the Pre-Kelesete or Possession, they decide to contribute the Anticipatory that will open the doors of the Soul that they have to enter the Universe of San Juan Apóstol, from then on a whopping bump are unleashed with the hatching of Saetas between Zefian and Apollo. The Cabal skirmish was accomplished in the dark! The macro transport of spiritual masses begin to coexist transporting the end of the Himation Ceremonial, later until an impartial right here appeared from Camphor, it was his signature Macrowave protoform of the Himation itself; called Camphor-Xórki (syllabus). The Pre-Kalesete began its walk through the Nothing when Vernarth tried to look down on the limpid spheres of Patmos seeing the holistic whole involved in a Greece that was hailed from the Hatching Arrows coming from the last breath near the Camphor-Xórki of San Juan Apóstol where the Xorkí began to syllable “O θάνατός σου είναι τώρα Ζωή – Your Death is now Life”, from the Quantum atomic that began spelling out by Vernarth's Stóma; or beginning of his astonishing mouth that was regurgitating the oscillating lapses between the Keselete and Xorkí.

With expeditious speed came the Arrows of the Phlegrean Fields, forking one by one until the Fourth Sagittal that was isolated in the evolution of myriads of stars that were made up of the proximity of the Nimbus where Vernarth provided himself in decades of nebula Celestines that shone to tear pimps fibers that still aspired to hijack the remains of the Millitum Vernarth, in the form of clusters of radio galaxies that moved towards the reddish, expanding from the Campos Phlegraios in Naples itself; like geological hydrothermal fissures that clustered behind a sudden crimson blue of the great Universal that split receiving the Saeta Prima from said field of fire. The gravitational completion of the curve generated the Saeta Prima that was made conventional with assistant telescopes, before exultant excesses of wanting to see it as a Quasar that descended from Andromeda together with the Auriga, in such a radio galaxy journey to melt the bars of the Universe to be distended by Vernarth's bombastic Stóma that expressed itself more than his dwarfed senses by the Galaxy that was propelled by the waning of the radiance of the Quasars.

The Primal Saeta is abducted in the intermediate vortex of the Quasars, it remains in the orbit of the Nimbus where Vernarth remained in photometric that allowed him to reflect it in its silhouette with the closest astral referent of Orion. The Secunda Saeta came out of the transversal valleys, this came with the agreement of the Pre-Keselete of Saint John the Apostle bathed in ultra-luminous infrared Ouranos, making vibrating strings of the frequency of the Universe in an ultra-luminous dream emanating from molecular gas, adapting to the new fusion of Zefian's Prima and Secunda Saeta with the determination to split the monoxide at the base of the Nimbus from the acroteria that still accompanied it with the universal entity of the Empyrean as hydrogen that formulated the Saetas clash in homologation of the same aerodynamics prop of the Xiphos, from solid metal to liquid in pearly spirals from the magnitude collapse of the Tercia Saeta, this would bring the same from the Horkun hydrothermal or Horcondising Mountain with thousandths of a thousand light years that would unify on their Solid and Liquid pedestals as the Fifth Essence of the Horkun, the Third Bolt arrived between five Kyrios who followed her through the atrium that was beyond the Hydor that incarnated in collusion with her deformation to soon reform, beginning to go towards the manifest of shared energy towards magnitudes divided by the coefficient 0.7 Micron of atomic energy levitating from the quasar equivalent that stretched from the luminous zenithal meridian in front of the mast of the Four Leaf Clover, which pretended to be a Cherub still emanating from nothing, towards the fractal splendor of the Patmos region ten times greater than the hydrothermal that reconfigured Greece at a distance of ten molecular cycles minus a molecular trace of the carbonate crystal. The diameters of the absolute observable were coming out to the delight of a Hellenic Ego observable in the wide Cosmos rendered in anti-gravity of the Fourth Arrow; being competent to see how he appropriated a snowy-blue sky that softened with the obstructed eyes of Saint John the Apostle, granting more than ninety percent of the explosiveness of the Quarta Saeta above the infrared that dominated the collisions, leaving them inactive for only seven seconds before concluding the snowy waves with the dense and glacial gas helically topped by few waves of any gas that sprout from each galaxy that never ended as an isolated Nimbus as Kant preceded, in a time that becomes more extensive than our own light that lives in its bright end. The dislocated morphology of the Fourth Saeta would ignite the border of the Pre-Keselete from the Phlegrean Fields, Kimolos, the Horkun, and Patmos in an unleashed spiral since the matter was uncontrolled from other unknown matter between myriads of collisions caused by Zefian to the limit that cuts his inspiration, only falling asleep all the previously mentioned Duoverse with Vernath's Megaronic Odes in Epilogue of Xorkí, from here towards the metallic lithic tip of the Xiphos with its spelled enchantment.

Megaronic Odes

"You see from the Enchantment in which all matter becomes Free, You see how each one of them after being Four will now be one that speaks of their very existence that you do everything... you realize that the noise of the Duoverse is born from the Xorkí, where everything dark turns grey... and black is Xorkí.

“Everything that has four digits moves with your four wings, everything that you call Quarta Saeta is a Xorkí syllable…”
Camphor is the heat of friction of the contracted memory, it is here that all pain that is in this field of tragedy urges it, and leaves you distrustful of sap that is another that you lead to the Pre-Keselete as an environment of infernal turns that seem to be good of a good that is born to crash fatally. I want to tell you with these Megaronic Odes that I write, which do not belong to me, they are concise clashes of two atomic ignition fields of the Keselete and Xorkí of San Juan Apóstol that make me not mortified, that you will destine me to the gross speed of the blinking of my Hellenes eyes quicker than those of enchanted thought.

“I need to tell you that between La Prima and Quarta Saeta, my charms between frictions will rest on herbs from Corinto and Sudpichi, I will join the choir that will begin to rise for me, it will do so for you who have just begun to know me, soon we will see you, my dear Adelfos"

"As for the Primal and Quarta Saeta, it is the fanfare of a being that would visit every night, it would invite you to live your own experience that was seen to shine for the last time while being handcuffed to an agro bush, which would sustain itself against an enchantment of the Xorkí in a revived future of the brand new Vernarth with his prodded and resonant Xiphos”

Vernarth utters: “Eurydice... here I am, a closed pilgrimage looms towards the dim light with the nocturnal phrase of him endowing me through the conclusive!! Father... Mother, Myloi of the Sad Wind, here I am with your Primordial Arrow endorsing Pillows, beloved Adelfós, the Rabih San Juan? Almighty God bless you from this Quilt holding our spirited hope of seeing you again! "

Between The Prima and Quarta Saeta, enormous hydrothermal plasmas of the drained Don would be cited, which would conglomerate between the interdimensional of the four Saetas, to later send them from the "Heroon Hurkun Funeral Home of Kanthillana", from there to Lefkandi for the transition of his cremated body that began to revive from there ipso facto, later from the Phlegrean Fields with the Fourth Arrow that Zefian would finally bring with the III Trilogy of Vernarth Hellenic being transferred from the iron prop, supremely seconded by settling in the Prophytis Ilias to revive in autonomous descent of the body of a “Hero in his Heroon who will be reborn from his immolated body”. Incontinently, the arrows will be spaced through the interdimensional strapping of all of Greece to revive its awakening just as it happened with Erestles in Messolonghi; but this time of Orion's Wagon breaking with its coined bar eternity in its Hurkun chamber. In this way, Vernarth is distracted by looking at him at three hundred and sixty degrees looking at the Prima, and from this Secunda Saeta seeing how he rose and accelerated his trajectory adjacent to the Tercia and Quarta that would take him towards a failed break over Thyatira; with the Son of Yahweh, who has eyes like a flame of fire or Aish, and feet similar to going burnishing the bronze chaff towards Patmos to revive immediately with the subrogation of his body in the company of the almighty Mashiaj, Saint John the Apostle and the granted Right of the Hexagonal Birth, with the posterity of prosapies remaining everlasting to resurrect him from the neophyte and Hellenic Hortus Heliacus.
Quantum & Alchemy  https://www.academia.edu/105786699/Hortus_Heliacus_Hellenic
karizma May 2023
The trajectory of my heart meeting yours
Is like an airplane taking off in the middle of the night and not making any noise
I stay up and wish I don’t torpedo
But it's all wishful thinking and pipe dreams I can’t keep filling up notebooks with dreams I can’t quite hold onto
Your love is so quiet
Like the gentle footsteps of me trying to not wake you
And the gentle touching of my toes on your forearm
I crawl up and wish
Love always remains silent in your arms
I know you think I’m amazing but sometimes I lay in your arms and wonder if I didn’t dance that night
Maybe you’d be happier today
I pray one day
My love is quiet for you
Maybe it already is
I used to sit in the sun for hours
I don’t think I need to do that anymore
Your love glows warm in the night
The tunnel doesn’t end
But your love glows warm in the fight
It always will
Until my  heart crawls into itself
And I shrivel up like a dying rose
Just for you,
Always just for you
My heart is a ******* arrow. Coming str8 up the *** of the competition.
Not hell or high water can stop me from ******* this ***** up.
Im like tom cruise on benzos talking about scientology.
Im that delusional.
But hey im a good person. Think i might get a *** change
Ya know do some proper consultation first. Than cut that ******* off.
Its not my fault i was born with such a ******* good looking *****.
Goonna be hard to say good bye to.
Should donate it to the space snd science center so they can show visitors its immaculate aerodynamics.
Weve had some great times .
But its time to let her die young.
Francine Farina Sep 2020
The old car sat
rusting under
some tall oak trees

The Chevrolet emblem
could still be seen
across the front

It had to be at least
50 years since
it was on the highway

Ghost riders appeared
on autumn nights
and took this baby for a spin

Children in the neighborhood
testified to that

A pretty lady with
her kerchief blowing
in the wind was often
the driver

She liked to push the
gas pedal to the floor
and race past the
other cars on the road

Sometimes a thin man
in a business suit
would get behind
the wheel and
off to his office
he would go

The Chevy must have
been brand new
back then and something
to see
Shiny hub caps
and white wall tires
Plus fins in the back
to add class and
help with aerodynamics

But now she sat
slowly rotting
only moving in
the imagination of
some 10 year olds
Onoma Jun 8
overbleached flies

kickstart empty space--

recalling the aerodynamics

of UFOs.

thru the buffered streaks of a

living room window, creating

an oddly euphoric tension in

a neutral observer.
Walter Alter Aug 2023
at last he knows what
has been kicking his *** all these years
living a slow trauma smelling of empire
guardians of civilization on strike or asleep
concluding that non-conformists are all alike
but wait I am harsh this is all from memory
must have been the Kristalnacht last night
the simple concept fire is hot
does not have a subjective alternative
I tell you this with both lips
eyes watering from the smoke and prayers
in an instructive grand demonstration
of just the right amount
at just the right time
fortunately the farm subsidies
kept his garden of delight
in full Amsterdam trim
until Dr. *******opened his skull
in a state sanctioned inquiry
involving all manner of pageantry
gave me a jolly good boot up the ***
I'll tell you that right here right there
tweetering bluebirds now circle my head
the hum of life in there somewhere
most thoughts are unoriginal anyhow
you don't need a text balloon to survive
but it's a lot more contemporary
makes the aerodynamics a little smoother
my geneticist says I must be careful
several members of my family
have perished from documented cases
of spontaneous human combustion
must have fallen off the chameleon ride
but no matter they love you one day
hate your ashes the next go figure
not all internal signal input is valid
for this reason scalpels have been handed out
a National Dissection Day special
Nurse Lefty in her lightning bug suit
was just trying to get the job done
after the renunciation of befuddlement
and the realization she had fingers
that were much different from her toes
oh boy we're on another subject already
rhyming crocodile and Nile somehow
fighting fire with smoke see above
partially eaten in spite of the effort
even the effort was eaten
cough cough

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

— The End —