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Micheal Wolf Feb 2013
Phoenician to  Aramaic 950 BC the start of modern writting for others to see
Then Hebrew to  Moabite then Phrygian as well around 800 BC
The written word was now afoot, oh Ammonite as well

Then a split as often comes between one arab and another
Old North Arabian and Old South Arabian argue with each other
So moving west Etruscan came at 700 BC
Then Umbrian and North Picene you heard of them today?

As Lepontic and Tartessian tried to talk to others
Now we start to get a grip and influence the modern
From Lydian to Carian,  Thracian to Venetic
All around the 6th century BC people started jotting

Old Persian came and went Latins still around
Then South Picene and Messapian to Gaulish
Language now ruled the world and all the ways we wrote it

Mixe–Zoque some say isnt really true
But Oscan and Iberian followed on through
So Meroitic,  Faliscan at 300 BC came next
Then Volscian and Middle Indo-Aryan or Prakrit the Ashoka calls it
Then one thats still around Tamil you might know it

Christianity was on its way as Galatian was used
Pahlavi and Celtiberian al cald pre antiquity
Lets move on till after Christ and language moves full on

Bactrian and Proto-Norse in northen europe common
Cham and Mayan, Gothic and Ge'ez and accepted Arabic
Christs been dead 300 yrs and language starts to flourish

Primitive Irish now exists and an odd one called Ekoi
Try to remember though its still only the 4th century

Georgian now is used in a  church in Bethlehem
A bible is written  in Armenian
Kannada in Halmidi
West Germanic to that becomes  Old High German
English now for the first time starts to rear its head

Old English to Korean  Tocharian to  Old Irish
In parts of southern England they even speak Cornish  
Centuries before Pol *** there is now Cambodian
Others speaking Udi, Telugu and Tibetan
Now language is getting modern

Old Malay in the far east to Welsh in my back yard
It wasnt long before the world was writting many forms
Mandarin and English now are common place
A miriad of people and language in their states

So venture forth to foreign lands and visit as a guest
Take a pen and paper to help you on your quest
If you can cross your legs or draw a beer you really cant go wrong
Remember you dont speak their tongue its you not them thats dumb!!!
Ben Meraki May 2020
You think you’re hard ‘cause you threw me in a cold cell?
You think you’re cold ‘cause you giving me the hard sell?
You’ve shown your cards and this game is getting old.
Hell, you just mad ‘cause I’m ******* wit’ your cartel!

Huddle up, cover up.
I’ll call your mother up.
Ask her if she’s proud of her son
Then we’ll snuggle up.
Make another little pig squeal; hit the double-up.
Pack a bowl, lean back and we bubble up.

Another day in the life of a citizen.
Getting chased down by the pigs
‘cause we dissing ‘em.
Wool in your eyes?
That’s their lies.
Don’t be missing ‘em.
Always spoke the words of the truth,
Now I’m spitting ‘em
and I don’t need no introduction.
Please, no interruptions.
Quiet down! We’re here to talk about corruption.
You’ll make a copy, right?
Free for reproduction.
These ******* think that nobody can touch them:

Shouting HANDS UP!
Yeah I see ‘em on the clock.
‘cause your time’s running out.
Tick, tick tock.
You want a witch hunt?
Put me in the dock
And we’ll see who’s the ***** when
You’re ******* on my ****!

‘cause I’m gonna rid your face
Of that smug little grin.
Convinced the world I’d lost it.
Oh! But I’m about to win.
So little pig, little pig, let me begin
‘cause like an anorexic hospital my patience wearing thin!
I said…

Prosecution full of lies and irrelevance
***** please! Don’t insult my intelligence.
You want respect? Well excuse my irreverence,
But a little birdie said you’re fabricating evidence!

Beneficent, benevolent.
Arresting your malevolence.
I’m shattering your elements.
Establishing a precedent.
My work may be inelegant.
My actions are unhesitant.
But when we gonna talk about this ******* elephant?

You know it’s tragic
How you cannot see the logic.
******* neurons are nomadic,
Your intelligence sporadic.
    Ugh!
You’re an infection, I’m the,
Antibiotic.
Sick enough to turn a man
******* spasmodic episodic.

Drink swill from your buckets
While you steal from our pockets.
Red pill. Better **** it cos you’re,
**** out of luck.

Deep-roots to your habits.
Blue suits to the Sabbat.
You’re Masonic yet moronic,
And you know I’ve ******* had it
With this *******!

Cos you’re full of ****.
Forked tongues set to stun with a full clip.
You’re just a bully and
I’m sick of all your school ****.
Law unto yourself
But I won’t let you enforce it,

‘cause I came to rescue an angel,
Heaven-sent,
and I can smell what kind of **** this is.
Yeah, it’s evident
You’ve been intimidating witnesses.
Like FGM.
You kidnapped Themis and Astraea
And circumcised their ******* – is

This a ******* joke?
Are you for real *******?
It’s the Devil you invoke.
What’s the deal *******?
This a dreadnought you provoked
And I’m steel *******!
Now it’s time you ******* spoke.
Take the wheel *******…

What, you got nothing to say,
And it’s too late to pray?
Justice coming your way,
Now truth has entered the fray.

So I’m passing the mic
‘cause we gonna indict.
Focus the limelight.

******* be ammonite!
Thanks for reading. This is written about AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE in the UK. Rated as no.2 most CORRUPT force in the country. Bringing malicious prosecutions against me to protect their own. Forcing vulnerable young women to sign false statements. Chased me out of my own town. Never play chess with a grand-master!

My next piece is called 'Checkmate' ;)
! Made himself the sky!
Venus took her fingers,
amniotic earth aura
Faded and frigid Venusian;
Bring to me Heimat ...!

In the dream my love,
Ghiberti blew through your elbows
floriarena the ammonites,
sea shoreline ...
region of my glance.

I touched her soft back,
and to rotate;
Ghiberti bring to me Heimat,
floriarena  from your region
where we saw one day
walking the stone sea.

When in a casual insight love,
my encourage love;
He acknowledged your life
siluet and Tuscan figure,
made himself aqua emerald your face
streamly explosion made himself ...
your eyes full of water,
they gave to me;
the unknown universe,
hundred time  water ...

clematis verbal slender,
You touched your lips
my shading roam step ...
dark black shadows;
... Universe, almost bluish ...

You Heimat clematis!
with the force of my love look,
ordained the word love
pine  love  walks like mist;
with igneous light monodia
whose love is my heart.

My heart is your life,
your eyes its shine;
when I look Into Your Eyes,
"My universal heaven,
I sleep waiting for your life
to love the flourishing sea "

Now it is winter,
and the wet shores of your kingdom
I think I see you in the morning;
walk with your hips made Nautilus ...

When you look at me smile sitting
play with your vulnerable figure;
her translucent ...
It appears only in the mornings ...


Heimat ammonites sleeps ...
sleeping in my footsteps ...
marking soft sea;
translucid happy that my eyes,
I bring in the morning ...

By early Sea,
the stretch your eyes and your mouth sideways
It is filled with fluid ammonites,
and you return orange the viaduct ...

The assembly gave my love thy hands;
these mobile pieces of air,
They are talking about me ...
and speaking my deep image,
My heart pounded in his voice.

How often gray sea
wash your beautiful cheek ...?
and you away from here ...
you ignored if it was night or stormy day ...


The truth is for today
you pronounce my name,
so I'll touch your lips inside;
as glanders viaduct ...
take your eyes full of light ..., the sea soon ...
the stretch your eyes and your mouth sideways,
fill with your ammonites
Orange becoming the viaduct ...

When I usually remember transfigured moon,
July cold complicity ...
It makes me get you on those points of your face,
where innocent love your sound pronounce my name
as if his arms would carry my name ...

Palest cold!
undulate like the sea,
and the sea blows like you
when I'm gone,
White ammonite not fall into wailing ...
because their translucent and dense tears,
disintegrate their coordinated fingers
these compounds and sand ...
They will not go by sea glanders;
but their soft sandy feet
shelled die teardrops wherever
without a single step to ...

"Ammonite glassy smell ...
I love to see you...,
shims because my reason and my love
here by the Sea "

Nepente taking at twilight,
to slide your goddess yarn;
i return pretend that Venus,
God as a deluded ...

Today when I closed my house,
and I stretched my arms out
I felt cold ...
and said to the cold ...:
"Look to your beloved,
never tired in looking at you ...
and if you feel my own cold,
remember you will love.


José Luis Carreño Troncoso  Copyright  15
Tuscany Middle Love Ceppi
Lendon Partain Mar 2013
The sand hides the sun.
Through a fog of particulate silica.
Distorted.
For the first time in my life,
I may look upon that glowing
bearing, for minutes straight.

Innards swallow,
That rock it flings,
Paints on the light.
Now the water vapor hangs,
Amongst its spiny rays,
Creating a mist of cloudy haze.
My eyes must seek to,
Penetrate.
Alas they lose this skirmish fray.
The sun cannot hide its specter.
The doppelganger image always,
Dapper and prim.
Amongst the thoughts in rift entrails of brain,
I think i am my brain. I don't think that when, head cut from body,
Shall my soul reside where my heart was;
Instead I may see, conscious, from where the two parted.
Creating a scar from which to view this hazed sun.
Ever notice,
How the eyes,
Are the only,
Place,
You can,
See from...

I can be an Ammonite with many chambers calcified.
Ghost fossil human head.
A ghost in a shell.
My eyes will carve shapes from the clouds.
Vernarth says: “Nocturnal mutism, nocturnal stuttering, goes from the fragile phrasing, peripheral phrase, hovering last word, where my loudspeaker hits, dissonant Sagittarius, I must prepare my denarius, not but, beforehand, cheers of hope to Zion, who among the bush of the millionaire wind that travels from Pluto to Mercury, each day that we map ourselves, trying to be more earth than in its own flowering. Paradiso Omega, nap of the oldest dream, adobe path. My  to fly Anne genuflects her heart towards Mariah from Heaven, in the title of hundreds of throats and gargles of the pyogenic sediment rambling. Oh so long night!, so clear firmament born of the fallen ether of the great Heaven so clear and enlightening Compass 37 on the quilt of God, three by three towards one, linking above the easy pit and dreams, dying Paradiso, Agonizing Horcondising, a fragile mass disoriented, discouraged, with numeral letters and quadruple letters, stone after stone of forage falling on the cinnabar sky "

Joshua de Piedra from the high pinnacle exclaimed…: “Stone after stone in its correction is born of a new silence eternal bond. It eats it during the day, it eats at night, just like the galaxies licking the frivolous awakening from a starless night, but being the substance of stars liquefied with a whip. Pilgrimage or Path of the Cross, on the stony ground of Uncle Hugh's house, in the other similar, my Anne's house, further on in the hidden and clayey chaos, the last Indigenous in Western clothing, working and stuffing the wells with green size, distributing alms for his apprentices, I keep looking from the high hill earlier. Kaitelka the whale and a Dwarf Leviathan; steward of the unnameable, perhaps of an unknown Cyprian squirrel censoring Noah in his animals empowered to tell him about a magnificent episode.  Each species balancing its essence to make the most grandiloquent dossier in the world, to join them and value them towards the unknown peasant world. The big apple to go, with its tailcoat worms, well dressed and united by the march of the rock sentinel Evangelus. Kaitelca alpha and omega cetacean, fluffy with bast for all the most lost seas of the watery world. She so down cetacean, she throws herself into the sea in fears in this gloomy space, exhausted warehouse, lifesaver between lives of lives, like wishes without delay, to beat the divergent period, falling on the flat ceiling. Enter to sail through the mud of Iodine, of this great Parnassus of all iodine, the Messiah was squeezing his robe of love all over the upper margin of the face, Jesus light, loving great pilgrims who helped me to urbanize the skeleton of this great demolition, of a great geyser on its oceanic back, distributing gifts through the tangled brow of the Horcón and Cantillana massif.  Freshwater meringue, fluffy flowers, incense, fuchsias, and Calypso smoke migrating from house to house in Sudpichi.  Adelimpia, holding the cord of the axis of the fatigued planet, Queen Anne restored the acute respiratory meridians, which moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed, cursed globe moving to another galaxy towards its 9600 years of expansion. The stumbling of the sun's rays, crowded on the back of the Jacinta, which multiplied on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages of millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world. The world has no end, God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are ..., being less true. Rather, we are the waste of the almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of creation that was felt wandering, perhaps it was its breathing, of its lipped wise crater, in the most irresistible protoforms, devoutly preparing turgid liquids for driving through every dinner, without stars tasting their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick his honey-like him, we run out of a famished minute of life not lived”

Says the spirit Leiak:

“Without a doubt, without drooling, without Buddha… the tendrils of the universe flamed, like rolling pickets within his hearing sea ear.  Striped with wounded marks in zigzag, by the middle row between the unarmed infidels.  Filled with the greatest amazement, massacred with laughter riddled with the non-shining meteor. From temple to temple, without Buddha close to him, he continues lost on the path of valleys among several, by the waves of chimneys like the snout of a mastiff with typhus, infected badly that detonates a thousand times, circular or macrocosmic chemistry in submissive grounds, to drink, where no one is wrong. Pendency of the lymphatic jellyfish, among the meek otolith of Kaitelka, almost deaf, of so many prayers of impious savages to hunt her ..., she continues begging for mercy as a species, she shakes and shakes as if eliminating the supposed flea jellyfish in whirlwinds of babies in her ears of children's stories. Anne came out of her basket as if she had been picked up from the Nile, but in reality, she was close to Chocalan, Popeta, or Polulo, lit up like coal from a steppe oven. I continued walking shirtless on an insomniac night, waiting in the decimals of the full moon, some indebted Solaris of the evangelist, in a space that slowly locked the crooked tongue of sleep, locked by the treacherous luck of doubt. Plague and doubt, plague and nail, which opens the vast sea, unsanitary radio, from the messianic ****** of the muses to Botticelli blaspheming. Anne, a diva of the division of past lives, does not die in misapplication against all odds like a thousand sperms of an ensign, making her stipends simple, to buy sensitive chaste little flowers in suitcases of her super-saucy folds ..., there is no probing look similar to the ocean Cousteau's journey, through which the lost retina drains, lies the selective gaze, covered by the Guardian, who looks before the denigrated sap unfolds, which wears away scarlet fever, the gaze of substance, in front of thousands of sayings, plagiarizing Tramontane rumors "

Queen Anne rolls up her sleeves, collects ashes from the ill-fated victims sifted, by the tobacco, a very good service from the fumes of venerable lost in disbelief, this painting becomes vague and with a sordid diametric image and silent cataclysm. The confine of evil godson in a duo and verse of the Universe, of the concrete displaced with pieces of the tobacco, has been spoiled. Joshua de Piedra with filings in his stomach was with hundreds of particles tickling the metaverse on the beards of extraterrestrial comets. Heaven and Hell, interrupted sleep, fatal nap, draconian wind, Ultrasensitive Glory of austere forces, as long as you are alive, you are prey to it. Ignorance continues to spend the night in the empty vapors of the valley of chaos, duels of masses of sleeping consciences underlying the erosive *****, Queen Anne, is gathered at a gallop by Joshua de Piedra, blindfolds him so that he does not numb more body incense and set on a spring flower. By the knees, they are incinerated, but sometimes they are half-burned, burning like incense with Joshua in reversible adulation, of the rawest exquisiteness of essence of escapes of blossoming in chains, with the drama of carcinoma petals in anti-carcinoma times and of eternal life external. At the Post Office, the postman envelopes the new vignettes, new gardens of relevant highlights. The friend Joshua links the trough of flames escaping from his domain, at a faster pace for other readings, varying in shreds of first-time, delineating, and walking breaths that are lost in the misty vividness.

Says Leiak: “After making a round, Adelimpia with Hugh and Bernardolipo, restart their adventure, almost at the top of the Horcondising massif, collecting riches from between stranded galleys, and vaults dragged by the cataclysm towards this consistent mountainous ..., The amounts of coins from different origins were countless, from all those wealthy who stole from all their belongings, the tainted and intrepid wisdom, getting rid of everything before confronting the thunderous flashes of the Guardian, to subtract intelligent action from the oppressive limit in maintaining the Gnostic parallel. Adelimpia saw how the thousands of nausea cleaned themselves, before liquids and gastric ills, of which they are the bad residences, deciding to die acidly or spiritually towards an alkaline light.  Karmic oppression, anhydrous bubbles, carbonating every breathing capsule of compassionate life. Every day there is more foul-smelling hunger in men of acid rust, for the good spirits of the dipsomaniac in the diet of the most lost undefeated blind, a universal record of walking impoverished at the end of his objectivity. Adelimpia…., And Carmina; maiden of the extravagant silence is linked to the ox Xenon, master of his pumpkin ox, collects bubbling fragments from their stomachs of acid and fragmented, with unfortunate applicants to obtain him, all of them exalted before his prayers, as well as that fleece that the other possessed ox; Cricket that was grazing in the radiant spaces of the grasslands, ruminating lost ties for the good of all and being able to observe in the distance going beyond all sensitive imagination, being me Leiak, the spirit of Vernarth who looks over where he does not it does, sometimes incomprehensibly because of its purging. "

Joshua de Piedra says: “Horcondising, land of Spa, of beautification to correct your beautiful osteological inhabitant, your beautiful pro-lieutenant inhabitant, I believed that wealth would flow from my hands to finance my own poverty. Horcondising, is my nurse Luz, tracing with her blood the route of the Talami reign, everything continues without direction, the lustrín lost his paste of ruby cream and powders, of the conductor who governs their destinies in my hands ..., and it is required. Horcondising, badly and fearfully I say genuflected, here are my riches, but I swear by the most sacred, that I never thought I was so poor at the same time, in the presence of the almighty. Karmic planet, you come like bread and honey from a dazzled bee, you come to fill us with light through the horns of the cat, mounted on the back of the rooster, mounted on the roan bovine. Horcondising ... What a memory! When I was running fast through good waters and Sudpichi, I saw in line some swindlers in uncertain Faith, loudly dismantling the stunning consciousness of possessing without letting those who do not have know, and what it is to lack, what is the love of the slightest doubled second, until it brings honey and milk to the mouth of the beggar and with new clothes, around the circular saffron, the light of isolation and God's judgment on Hommo Sapiens. Baba, Vrja Ananda, I know that to ascend you have to put clean, white clothes on the wind, lavender with druid purple and stuffed on the petioles that fell on the stumpy back of the little elephant. I never got tired, I always laughed and the manly wind stretched my cheeks of purple roses, to laugh at the feminine world like a new man being born from the darkness of loneliness, in a new man, with a new life, in a deranged valley of Solitude, gaseous, ulcerative and asphaltic soil, of Horcondising, in the blaze of a fierce virtuous lantern ..., lying with its lost light on the rich and poor, entangled in resin from a hopper and a villain with feet tired from walking. As immeasurable to act I continue, although there is too much, among which nothing was ever forbidden from an ominous advance. But more awaits me, whoever wants numb oppressive anti-libertarian oppression, I will continue to ruin myself after this world, in the jaws of the rogue armchair of emptiness, with strong and pious prayer, strong and pious karmic augury to ruin the ruffian, that he holds and looks at you like a kitchen log in his dispensary. Karma comes to without and are, with are without are, with dream sounds, hallucinated sounds to realize the truth of accuracy. I have no vocabulary when I am hungry or thirsty for Faith or equanimity, but rather, more than all the power of the high massif to fall on the despotic ripper and cutthroat, accursed beings of the night darkness! I decree worse evil than all the bad curses to which it provokes by a glance, and stuns you like an ant in the fragrant countryside. Karma, baba nam kevalam, anti-karmic, to anyone who doubles your life, to **** you more than three times, without falling into the arms of Forgione or a Buddhist Monk tired of getting tired, self-love and improper Karma from now on everyone and all who with their deeds and gaze invade them with disloyal flatteries and evils, the true triumph of Truth and Equality so that it is equal to all resigned, looking less like the worldly offering of goodness, but rather bad at last of counts. Francesco, are you coming right...? Here I wait for you, low-cut I will also get in line to be supplanted. My story will be vital and oppressive, full of capital, anti-charitable because I have never been able to understand it. I know that powerful affiliations will come, and I will be in your lap, and all those who process your consummation and death will fall, a bad omen of their whim like any piece. Force the spirit that outside is evil, always yours, Master...! I am going, I am going, each one who looks at me as his prey will have to govern and feed him, for better or for worse, and otherwise, I will be eternally burned along with all his progeny in the Horcondising. "


So Joshua spoke when making a wooden whistle. He cut his index finger with transparent grease, and saw a viscous bleeding liquid fall into the constant complaint, from each head of frustrated saboteurs, and mercilessly squandered by those who aim at you every day to finish you and beg your entire eternal psychic substance, without Numbers or paternal letters, Vernarth and the Hexagonal Birthright, attended with great enthusiasm this regression, knowing that he was in their nation and domains where their mythological beings accompanied them beyond all vision. They all remain normal; doing everyday things, but Vernarth's voice accompanied them from an altar in a vivid voice and with great clarity in the voice that expressed their pilgrimage.

Vernath says with an infernal tone: “The Horcondising rack runs out of people benches, to attend to their requests the sky has become convex and unattended, to walk down the fragile plateau crouching down, weightless trees rub their bruised roots on the scrubbed Living spirits over each parlor, each present master along with his present consort seemed like perfect strangers, each separated by name in their new and uncertain divided destiny. All by putting the hand where the ulcer makes intermittent unhealthy purulence, on whether we are and correspond what we are or those who manage to have in this twisted life without a surplus, and what would it be if we had surplus ...? Rows of speakers and auditors are compressed, trying to want to be understood, but the words are keys and conclaves of high architecture sifted, of the wild despair in which we are beasts escaping from an eternal safari of thunder and cannon, vaping fumaroles of ancestry and drinking Bourbon to the thunder of the steely ***** on the orphanage of looming. Here Fray Andresito unfolds his body, you know it here is…! Right here he aimed at the weakest, the strongest, perhaps being a slave. What a difficult word to define... This cell without adjoining limits, called Atman, or female soul engendering another female soul, in the arms of the sorcerer, whose packaging and the serial knot would be made by a novice, who did not know if it was tightly closed, so as not to know if it would be fine in the future and reopen it with light in Gandhi's eyes, or by a child in care appointments without his arms to approach his mother cradle, perhaps being ivy or algae that sway his breaths vain…, from the flickering of the dotted throbbing of the Sun in flight through the lost night of the altarpiece, putting silicone because it comes out of the picture. Today a being was born in the arms of the almighty, a being anointed in the placenta of golden liquid and augrum, filling everyone and everyone leaving them speechless… ”.

Its ancestry of eternal way comes from mutual funds, equivalent prices in promoting values, on falls and rises, in franc growth, and various financial statements to beat dividends. The lines of people obediently migrated to the Horcondising, they never thought that they would be a great family, all in chains of multicolored and endless shapes, all in the high mountain at more than three thousand meters, and no higher, because in this Age again life, I cannot count more than thousands, in which the hundreds stay up late every day on this streetcar called the alliance. Branches of salty puree and ammonite soups with coriander, in the transversal valleys, to the southeast, with verve envelopes and their large moral excess on their backs and their hope of leaving all their treasures on the sidelines, before entering the muddy showers. when swarming with turbulent regrets and losing all ego money, highlighting a new epidermis, with an unprotected but opulent soul. Each being devoid of the word and thought, was trans walking through the heavenly ranks, with buzzing in their hearing aids attenuated and a smelly shanghai screeching, nothing would be left to pour into the channels near the almighty, the one who picked them up from the ground satin in some small sulfur coins and bleeding hollow, nothing will charge to their accounts or in their excess pride, only white skin in dark skin, and dark turning to dawn gray dermis, for exclusiveness, only lost in the jungle of ignorance shipwrecked tundra. Grandmother Adelimpia cleaned with sweepers and pine feather dusters, wormwood trunk and molle, and with the ceiling. My Anne, swept the flat floor with her wedding dress, years ago seasoned ..., Hugh and Bernardolipo laced some wines pigeonholed in the devil's segment, so as not to lose track of the high hill, which could be seen falling on the witnesses of the fallen Calvary Before the world ends for many, but not for the Huasos. The auction continued; Anne still had an end-of-the-world fever, with so many degrees…. Don't worry Anne, a Mapu aboriginal boy; the one with the sinister ..., brings a good herb to improve you, it is said that he comes from less to more, with his face like a beautiful farm landscape, stream water that quiets fevers and ills of charm. Have faith, says the elder Sylph Angelita Huenuman, reborn to Anne…: “The bark of that oak will be demolished and crumbled to cover you from evil and worse evil charm. Tomorrow on the high snow-covered peak, sweet cakes will fall steamed with berries and flavored almonds in your Word, which always deserves to smile to the limit, you are the omega star stele that will know how to smile, you will see it just like your Joshua de Piedra; which is an eternal incense of ruse, you will be dressed as a coco channel between aromas of eternity like spring light and first communion, between your snowy new garland of sap and in which you are always like a web-footed dreamy bird, moving away from the Aculeo lagoon, away from the giant hermit emerging from a nucleus of water and its pool, sobbing on each step of lake light of ascending sketch and of a lagoon avoiding new despised damage "
Alpha Day, Alpha Night, Omega Day Omega Night
Through a split lip
red foam,
froghopper froth
fizzing, haemoglobin, half-life
sitting thickly-thick,
on a paving stone.
Looking like Clinton’s cards
think human hearts
are shaped like.

But mine’s an artichoke
a watery phloem thistle core
folded in fronds and furs,
bristles of cowlick baleen,
sailing, ship-lapped bark,
darkness and birdcages.

Mine’s a rigour-mortis pill bug
potato fly, oddball, ***** slug
an ammonite, a butterfly tongue,
a bending toe curled in ecstasy.
Exponential shell chambers and septums
ending alongside everything.

And the guts of my heart
incessantly churn mechanically,
maniacally and obliviously rhythmically
Keeping me malleable
soft,
moving,
un-enveloped by beetle wings.

Just like the platelets
of my hardening spit-heart
are, blackening blood,
amber caught bugs,
clay in mud,
elliptical,
eclipsing.
Nothing

like we think it is.
<3

Thoughts on how our hearts are nothing like their symbolic counterparts, or like anyone else's. They're ***** and alive, and, when drawn out, just feel dead.
Julianna Eisner May 2014
cavern alit with
cascading twilights
of imagined particles,
an array of twinkles
                    like mist,
                 only softly.
reflecting off an endless iris
like an eternal cartwheel
of                light and dark
and             in and out
and that boundless space in                 between
that passes like a
fault line in a blink
that dissolves
the one
before
and greets
the one
after.
abridged by the procession of
catena that
                         o                      
                l                      a
                       ­                   t
f                                                  ­        S                                    

away.

The spirit of adventure springs eternal

                    where shimmers reflect in
                         swirls like ammonite
                              and ripples like none.

and back again.

                              in a unified braid,
                   that weaves together
  blendings like this and that

to discern and disregard
and that boundless space in                 between.
In solitude, the quell, the split of nonexistent
that quickly shook away -
There are no camps,
so rid the tents.
Martin Narrod Jan 2018
Bumble

How do you decide what to take from a burning building? Objects? A ring? A Journal? Your father? Your daughter? Your grandmother? Your birth certificate? How does a child decide who lives and who stays? One day there’s a fire, and it’s your house, it starts in your room, you can tell yourself you’ve already packed a bag, but who can say where it is?

Since I was fourteen *** has let me feel like I was alive, I always thought that great *** meant somebody cried, that somebody got hurt, that if you weren’t hiding from somebody else than you had to be hiding from yourselves. That’s when I pulled out an old notebook and began reading back the lips of lovers, running my fingers over their handwriting like brushing my mouth over the raised ink of my lover’s tattoos. Who decides when everything you call your life uproots itself and walks away from you one morning while you’re still laying in bed? Who decides when every rule and mannerism you’ve become acclimated to shifts and changes and the way you felt anger is now the way you feel fright, the way you felt lust is now what you call sadness, the way you lived in happiness is now what you know to be all on your own, and what you told yourself was love is now nothing at all.

There is a bed with the sheets nearly hanging off, the blankets lying on the floor, three pillows colors you’ve never seen. This bed is in a room you’ve never walked into, in a house you’ve passed a million times, in towns you’ve visited but only to top off your gas tank or looked at while riding through it on a train. It’s in this room, on this bed where your whole life is unbound, it’s here where the cover on the book of your life falls off and disappears into a story of someone else’s, and while you still bite your dedication page as your own, the publisher’s page, the dedication page, and even the title page are all altogether gone, and no matter how old you are or how quickly you move, nor how attentive or well prepared you might be, there is nothing you can do except curl yourself into an ammonite and lock up everything you’ve ever claimed to be yours, light your candles and cigarettes, and put a record on the record player. There is no place like home that couldn’t become yours anymore.

You drink hard liquor from the bottle until you can touch the faces that you’ve lost, you can turn the hot water up in the shower until you don’t hear their voices anymore. There’s nothing like the sound of quiet that peels off the skin, or the sound of loud music blaring into your ears that you can play if you need to hold it back in.

You can **** the war and hate and heartache out of the brains and legs and holes of someone you barely know, but in a burst of snowy sunlight you’re only adding numbers to a score that heeds no winners at all. There’s no one that never shivers, no one that has never gotten splinters, there’s no one who is never been sick, there’s only the one’s who know what life is, and the one’s that lie about it. Only when you’ve lost your head can you see with your ears. I’ve found faces in my underwear that run fierce with rivers of tears. This is the waste that makes waste, this is the nerves that end nerves. This is the patch I placed on the moon, and the cold that stings every part of the body I know.

There is a bed somewhere, there is a town of people waiting to **** the person who lives in that room. There is the fire that consumes the bed, there is a child waiting there that’ll someday have to choose.
Mary Gay Kearns May 2019
The wonders of a morning
Is watching Evelyn dress
She does it as slow as a feather
Falling from a great Oak tree.

Each item of clothing lifted
From the floor where it rested
Pants, socks t-shirt, pinafore,
Cardigan, shoes, coat.

The show complete
The child ready for school
Shows her shells
From her small collection
Ammonite, cowie, conch and
Waves goodbye.

Love Maryxxx
A W Bullen Sep 2018
Of late
the sergeant thrill-to-burn,
remains, at best unorthodox,
a cutter’s stock of winsome blend
compiled in slim anthologies.
To date, an urgent threnody
bates, cider- pressed, impertinent
as bargain basement demagogues
renounce their crass belief.

Rude, canon-balled, eccentrics
venting, hurt- inflected metaphors,
unpoured memento-mori, cursing
absence of reprieve.
Misfortune flavoured pockets, line
the boxcar-lite Praetorian,
event amended anecdotes, plied
ammonite in grief.
The blossoms of the pink cherry tree
fall with a calmness through the air,
landing prettily on your coiled form,
this one on your rose red cheek
as you breathe with the universe.
Lying in prayer like an ammonite,
waiting for me to straighten you out,
and I am here, my sweetheart.
Coil no more, reach for the sky with me
and graze the great blue ocean
dangling above our beautiful heads.

— The End —