Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Johnny Noiπ Sep 2018
Pythagoras taught that reality was
but one among an infinite number

now u've got the quantum multiverse;
& Pythagoras thought of it first,   saying
all it amounted to was a line leading to
& through a point, like a thread through
a needle;             & so the Universe was
stitched together like a multi-directional
dream catcher; excluding no area
in space &  miracles taking place
                                       when the strings
       are manipulated according to preset
               patterns or improvised designs;

what else did the ancient ancients
do that make ur high-tech gadgets
look like the simple-minded toys
that they in truth are; the ancients  
told time by the movement of the
sun & shadows & communicated
w/ unseen higher spirits, conferred
w/ still higher spirits,   higher than
those both above & below;  spirits
taking the form of sacred prostitutes
& poets, geniuses every one of them
Macgyver Oct 2018
Ambitious bastions always tout
progressive plans when they're about
while within they hide and pout
from novel things that may prove out.

And while inventing goals to follow
their ancients habits hold them hollow
as in vain wary workers wallow
force fed lies and hooks to swallow.

They hunt for those who work past five,
that trudge to work, endure the drive
who will sacrifice their personal live
until ambition can't survive.

Yet if you strive, you're constant told
do not do more, do not be bold
just fill your seat, forever hold
your tongue until you're dead and cold.

To subsist we're forced to hide,
only in others can we confide,
all success pushed to the side
as managers act bona fide.

Since those of meager measure make
hope of meeting metrics fake
interloping leaders take
their toll until hard workers break.
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.

The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.

A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.



© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
.
Jesse stillwater May 2018
An earth sized boulder
dislodged with the thunder
Unleashing catacombs  
of terrestrial darkness
lay compressed beneath it
for a thousand years

The hidden ancients
heard its soul hold forth;  
their rumbling silence
    ―  laid bare ―
They heard its voice
rises up with the ears
of a new-born fawn

Beguiling roots,
solid as a rock,
hold together
like dark matter
A soul weight
beyond measure
shouldering the torn
of a divided heart

Heaviness ...
O' the heaviness ―
just a platitude for
what you feel
when it all comes
tumbling down
to the ground

Venerable
times immemorial:
an urging silence
pushing down
to the grave,
trying to unlearn
the things
never known
about the hearts
we leave behind


Jesse Stillwater
01  May  2018

Out of the silence of earthen soul, musing much more than gravity
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

**** even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Data Feb 2018
On the invisible land
He builds His spires proud & tall
and His bells ring loud

Yet,
while I am so small
standing in The Crossing
I feel the love of Christ
and the sweat of fear
and the blood of ages
                                   in the coloured light
                                   in the flicker of each candle
                                   against the rough-****** columns

                      leaning

Timelessness rises up in me as a wave of submission
And though I think I hear the ancients calling
I admit no allegiance,
I shudder as if the great hall had grown cold

Suddenly

(I recall)

Here too, is my tūrangawaewae


_______________­____________________­___

By­­ Data © Feb, 2018
Tūrangawaewae is a concept from Māori culture which means: domicile, standing, place where one has the right to stand - place where one has rights of residence and belonging through kinship and whakapapa.
Brady Wright Oct 2018
I am D.D. of Forever
Dually Desired
And just one of three
If you can guess where I stand
I will meet you there
On the island of The Ancients
Safe and Safe and Sounding
So fine
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
i.
The morning mist dissipated
as the ships keel ploughed a furrow
through the Great Green of the Aegean,
leaving far behind the magick isle.
Vigilantos stood at the prow,
marvelling at the accompanying dolphins,
curious and playful,
schooling with purpose to the ocean.
Ahead, waiting, a grand tour.
Of Sumer, Abyssinia and desert lands,
to glean hidden knowledge,
regain the mysteries of the ancients,
read the Necronomicon and old scripts
from a time when power crackled,
and the storms of the gods
belittled the existence of mankind.

ii.
The twilight Moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
And she weaves hap-hazard
through the crushes of the crowd.
A high-born daughter of the desert,
a vision of beauty from the sand.
With silks and satin and perfume
richly obtained from foreign lands.
Through the colourful bazaar she threads
with occasional glances thrown at stalls,
priestess jewels sparkle in the night,
its her Name the sirocco calls.

iii.
Cobalt blue water, an illusion of light
where the sun slides through the meniscus,
and the harbour of Tyre was alive.
The bustling of boats around ships at anchor,
snatching glimpses of a turquoise sky
and the quay throbbing with the pulse of music.
It would be another 3 thousand years
before Rome was even a trading post on the Tiber,
let alone an empire conquering the east,
or building hippodromes and columned avenues.
Vigilantos drank in the atmosphere,
his magicians instincts bristling, noting all.
Meandering through the narrow streets,
loosely following direction, getting lost.
Seeking his retinue and camels, ready to start,
across the desert to Ninevah on the Tigris.
To speak to tribes, pray with the priests of Ur.
To find the secrets of mysteries, and treasure,
reaping the knowledge of the Old Gods awe,
amongst the shifting dunes of history.

iv.
Vivid colours of silks and dyes
adorn the tents of cloth and stick.
The summer sun beats down lazy,
heat as oppressive as mist is thick.
Her charms and delights are hidden,
with misery and pain, the last week spent.
The dark, the quiet, the inane chatter,
deep within the women's red tent.
Free from the curse, her moon-cycle complete,
she wanders with mood sombre and slow.
A powerful man from a western place
will arrive at the camp as the sun sinks low.
He had seen her in the main bazaar
and decided to stake his claim.
Whilst confined away, behind her back,
her father had bartered for riches and fame.

v.
His travels around those beautiful lands
had yielded books of law and scripts.
He had heard the oral traditions of elders
and gazed in wonder at the Moon's eclipse.
Then he had seen the greatest treasure
wending her way through crowded markets.
With tact and guile he discovered her Name,
and vowed to grace her father's carpets.

The desert folk live a simple life
but far from simple are they.
Sharp of tongue and quick of wit,
erudite in a most unusual way.
The father was the elected leader,
King of the tribe that he now led.
Vigilantos had bargained hard
to purchase the girl for his marital bed.

vi.
The sun sinks, falling from the sky in the eve.
Spectacular reds and orange colliding with the dunes.
The azure twilight sky lit and sprinkled with stars,
and the tribal camp fills with laughter and tunes.

vii
He walked with purpose toward the campfire,
his features silhouetted by flickering light.
The sudden hush of the assembled camp
echoed strange, deep into the desert night.
His eyes beheld her most beautiful form,
half in the shadow, half in the light.
For her families benefit he had traded,
agreed bargains, and come to claim his right.

“Princess of the desert, Daughter of the sand,
step forward gently and take me by the hand.
For my island home calls out loud to me,
so come, let us away across the sea”.

Head bowed in fake submission
she boldly makes her cold admission.

“I am a Woman of the free,
these sands are my home to me.
With all good grace; I could not face
life on an island in the sea”.

viii.
Black and red, darkness and rage
descend upon his fevered mind.
Humiliated, spurned by a maiden fair,
and pride will not be left behind.

“A curse. A curse. 'pon thy beautiful head,
prowl and creep as do the undead.
Evil deeds are now thy course,
henceforth our contract is now divorced”.

But something made Vigilantos start,
a pang of something from his dead heart.
With such feelings he could not contend,
so a caveat, for the curse to amend.

“Thy deeds and crimes maybe invested
'pon mortals only who invest the same such evil
'pon their fellow mortals”.

ix.
Leaving far behind the desert
he turns his face to the sky.
The ships keel ploughs a furrow
as the evening mist draws nigh.

And now she prowls the dark night,
her Name lost in the sands of time.
Seeking out the mortal sinners and
punishing their evil with her crimes.

... and thus it begins ...
Judderwitch.


© Pagan Paul (08/08/17)
.
Prequel to The Judderwitch poem (posted in April).
I fear this may create more questions than it answers.

My Judderwitch poems are now in a collection :)
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/28451/judderwitch/
PPx
.
Dawnstar Nov 2018
When ancients in our eyes waged war in green Gaul,
He fought for new wealth and nobleman's glory,
He rose from mud where *****-spears lay shattered,
And raised the good name of his house from disgrace.
Binding giants in a favorable pact,
The consulship could well be attained,
But men of the day could not perceive greatness,
And barred him from beloved Rome.
So he rode out and vanquished the untamed Gauls,
Who once had brought Rome to its fearful knees,
Winning victory after victory in forests of the north,
Splitting oaks in the east, where his sword marred its sheen.
When fleets by Britain's cliffs hemmed the horizon,
When the seat of the Sphinx was polished marble-gold,
There were ten thousand Greeks could tell of his exploits,
And ten hundred Egyptians who claimed to know him.
With rude steel, he mastered the Mediterranean,
And over the Earth he brandished civilization.
In later years, his heirs spread like a stain upon the land;
The seas too were dyed with Roman sails,
And every coin minted bore the face of Caesar.
Even now, though the empire is hardened like iron,
And purple luxury replaces the crimson of war,
There are still a few among us who remember
Our young and mighty red-feathered conqueror.
Data Apr 2018
I.
Dawn…
               I am standing at the riverside

.
I watch the snowmelt cascade through the valley,


No fishing in that torrent today; but we will hunt in the woods,
smell the musky dark and green of the place
where forest-dwellers stir from deepest slumber;
their rumbling bellies

 with an ache for lime-green-bud.


Across the water, churned vapours billow,


the roar of tumbling water drowns a blackbirds’ chorus,


On the far side, a lingering brume hangs above the shore;


A chill bristles hair as sun clears mountain-heights:


Paint sky cerulean, there on Eden’s thighs—
Wakened, alive!

                            The river flows …
                                     By-and-by, I dream of ancient friends and foes.


                                           I wonder at her grace; On her hip, a child—

                                                 
In a world of scarcity few-words suffice:


                                                      ­        I call her ‘wife’ and he is ‘son-of’

                                               
And darkness (or terror) are named ‘god’

Noon…
              I am sitting at the water’s edge.


A lazy sparkle lolls across the widest course,


There are boats on the water now, and men casting nets—


See the dazzling flicker of their catch caught amidst the weave;
Mulatto arms are strong and women smile from shore—
Fleet fingers
, fastening tiny knots, string intricate patterns
into sturdy kits;


                            Ready the fish to carry to fire!


On the breeze, smell them cooking; Be hungry, hungry-Man!



Across the fluid languid flow, beside bent willow


                                     (While falcon soar above)
                                                          ­                    a steady plume,
rises from
 
hut into heaven
                           (Where the wispy spirits bless us all!)
There, on the far-side, on the earth below,
a misty haze hangs in the littoral obscuring vision,


I pass as a single cloud casting briefest shadow
 on bristling hair,
There, across the water—

 What’s that amidst the shimmered air?
A figure standing lone?
                                         The river knows…
                                  
                       ­      (When)
                                                          ­                  I came down to the river


                                                         ­         (How did you know I would?)


                                                       ­               I sit with my legs tucked up


                                                            ­      watching the boats to-and-fro,
                                                     ­                         I came back to the river


                                                         ­              (You knew I would return!)


                                                      ­                I will fish all day, regardless,

                                                    ­ dreaming of something to eat, though


                                                        ­                  my basket remains empty,
                                                          ­           I will snooze in the sunshine


                                                      ­   as my line flinches imperceptibly—


                                                ­                   unaware of interest: This slow


                                                          ­               erosion of slimy flesh until


                                                         ­   the hook is emptied; While spittle
                                                         ­  

gathers at the corner of my mouth
                              I am Sleeping…
       Dreaming…
                                      ­    
Come evening…
Crouched by the brazier’s glow at hearthside,


A whip-poor-will’s sweetest finale before darkness falls,


The sapid scent of roasting meat by barter’s hard-won haggle:
Fishes for lamb,
                            Our table laden, replete;
              the great feast before snows… 
envelope.
New-wine flows—a cheerful repast as gathering storms grumble
across a lowering sky,
                                       We sing and tell tales:


How the Ancients, who brought us to the river,


knew well the passing of all things, And we are thankful!


We break bread, we cut rounds of cheese that aged in chilled air,
                                              We wait…



Go down to the river as last-light quickly fades,
See across the water how tenebrous shadows gather…


Is that a single light amidst the creeping gloom?


A singularity, which bristles hair—
The river’s dark-snake ripples

                                                       about to strike;
Return to our company,
                                           (Saṃsāra)
For­get that light.
                              
                           ­   The river flows …
                                                              
­                                                                 ­   And I sleep with them.
                                                          W­e, gathered close, our bellies full,
                                      
 who dream of shorter days and empty snares,

                                           A bow raised; An aimless arrow takes flight


                                                        ­    but snags a passing god who falls


                                                         ­     striking earth with angered light
                                                           ­ a single crash that splits the night!
                              
Fire embers crumble and diminish into grey, lightless dust,


A cold wind ***** the last warmth

 into a sky so clear—
Moonlit sparkles on crystal carpets of deepest white,


On frozen earth and water, All sleeping...
                                                     ­                   All waiting...
                                                      ­                                         All praises
                                                  sung,

­Hope

 cradles newborns... Sleeping… Dreaming;
Your time will come, Little 

One;
In the village,
                        by the icy river,
                                                    the world is yours:

                         
       (Though no light shines in frosted panes)


Tomorrow, ay, tomorrow!

O Father, who rules the sky, hallowed


be thy name, Thy dominion shored by surety


may be but castles in vacant air and leave no rack behind.

Someone has peeked into my dreams, I rise,


Compelled: The river ever calls,


Wrapped in fine Gabardine

,
I stand at its edge


watching the far-side,


I hear a distant muffled bawl,
What did it say?
                             “What keeps you?”
                                                
          ­                                      (Saṃsāra)
Am I in its thrall?
                              The river knows …
                                                               ­             The river, ever generous.

                                                      ­                        
We honour those spirits


                                                       ­                    and cherish lucid waters,


                                                       ­                      We call you ‘aqua vitae.’
                                                         ­               

We, joined by ancient cord,


                     (When rope was jute: 

Connecting all things)


                                                
                                                 raise this pantheism from dirt and stone


                                                         ­                            astride the isthmus
,

                                                      ­                        The River flows, below.


II.
And then, I dreamed of Madame Seurat


shaded beneath her parasol,


Such a beautiful day, and her monkey—


He really is quite adorable, Comment chic!
                                                           ­     But don’t lie too close, lazy boy

,
                                          The vista pixilates and understanding


                         disintegrates into charm-less pastel points…
Not that I was ever sure why you were here,


Madame et Monsieur, and that playful dog


I suspect is a coprophagist, mon dieu!


So much for good taste and high society!

                                                       ­     There’s a well-structured equality


                                                  in dream analysis, Symbolic hierarchies
                                                 

are towers reaching into Enlightenment:

                                                 ­          Tell me more of what you’ve seen.

She’s watching as he indolently rolls…


(Unnoticed, the rod slips from his grasp)


She’s admiring the ***** torso and that 

nose,
a Roman profile, skin as soft as

 wet chamois,
She’s waiting for the instance


when he reveals the nature of his dreaming,


that moment will force a blush
and cause her to turn away…


She holds her breath…
His sangfroid is intoxicating!

                               (There was a catch on the line,
                   but the moment passes and the fish is free)
                                                           ­             
                                                   ­                     You’re off track, sleepy boy


                                                           ­             Please, try to stay on topic.
                                                     

“Seriously?”  he says.  “I’m dreaming.


                                              Why do you require clarity 

at this point?”
                                                         ­         Ok.  Just tell me what you see.
He sighs …
I’ve seen it all, Father. Every moment


as fresh as the last; And I always wonder,


How it is that, though I remember everything
from 
up the ***** and around its bends,


anything down the valley is a mystery?
A dream I cannot recall!
Beyond the end of the island, passed


the dozen effigies of Madame Seurat


or the steamboat, or the *****-less fours
I can dream it all:
Around that crook…
The chivalrous old man at his windmill tilts,


Further up the Fisherman prays
                    (If I lay back and watch Him

 through the reeds,
     from this angle,

 it looks as though he’s walking on the water!)
I dream… he’s nailed hard to wood—
                                                           ­        Blood
               attenuated with ascetic wine,
                                                           ­        runs down his sweaty thigh
and pools in shifting sand…

                                                 The river knows…

                                                         ­                        And even further,
                                             That boy who watches himself reflected…
                                          So many hours, Narcissus, (Son of the river)
                                              Watching...
­                                                                 ­ 

Dreaming…



                       (Unnoticed, the bow slips from his grasp)


                                  
                                   When hubris calls, all that you inherit dissolves:


                                                    ­    Though you are in and of the water,


                                                        ­     all connection to the ripples fade,


                                                 returning to stillness; You are such stuff,


                                         Son of  Cephissus, and pass, also, into myth.
                                               Did you recognise, gentle somnambulist,


                                                 ­          that memory, ultimately, is fallible:
                                                       ­                          As much an invention
                                                       ­             as this stereoscopic metal box


                                                           ­                         into which you peer
                                                           to ******* its umbra cast within.

But I must sleep, Father, mayhap to dream,


And in that sombre place, weave such a tapestry


that my stories and the legends of my kings


and wisest sage, live (albeit as a fabrication)


in gold and silver thread sewn in sanguinary ground


as a lustrous cover for this wondrous orb:
Hear my glorious tale 

and wonder not what lies below!

                                                 The river knows …
                                      (That)
                  ­                Divisionism is a reconstruction of an impression:


                         A deconstruction of light, an empirical demonstration


                                                 ­                         of Magic!
Therefore,


One last thing, Father,


In this final dream, I see a boat


on the water, carried from the far-side


against the flow—it travels in an unbroken line,


There is a lone man on this vessel, Father,


He has named The River: He calls it, Acheron.
How so shall I name him?
You shall name Him, 'Master',


But do not speak. Pay Him, as He is due,


And return with Him to where you may dream of life…
                                                           ­                                       Renewed.

Eyelids flutter, between states…

The sleeping boy waits,


He has listened prudently,


In the last moments of unconsciousness


he drags his canoe to the waters edge


and paddles into the lazy river


to join the other boats on the water…

          (He is the antediluvian being: His dream-state is ‘Arhat’)



Gotama rests on a pontoon of fragrant Lotus bloom


His eyes neither open nor closed, His being shimmers


as the sun-gold settles, His being vibrates with an harmonic


so sweet a flame erupts on the face of the deep,


He is chanting; Quantum rhythms resonate across the valley,


“Let there be a vault between the waters to separate water from water.”

              (A single flash, that splits the day from night, erupts)

As the evanescent flame recedes, crackling-bluish-laminar,


by the last shard of light from heaven,
a rock—dark beneath the water—worn

 and rounded, turning, illuminates;
                    And the fishermen know to return…
                                                         ­                            Home.

                (Saṃsāra: By all things known, all things repeating,
                       all things rested; all restarting, all renewed.)

And then, our brother finally wakes
To walk again the ground that shakes
Gotama to his side does call
To remind our son that all men fall
And pride and **** will come undone
Beneath the pivots of a careless sun
The ghosts of Baal who ****** the just
Are less than stone and less than dust
Remind us all, as The River flows,
The Now is all The River knows.


_________________­_____________________
­



By Data © 2018
I wrote the first draft of this poem in 2012; there are many iterations since then, each equally long. If you got to the end, well done, you!
~Bardic magistry
Woven unto
Sage & Seeress
Whose vision
Penetrates
The Temporal Expanse.

The Crowned of Epistemology
Reigns sovereign
Unfurled upon the Seven Seas,
The Firmaments,
And The Gaian Mother
Aeonic & venerable:

Dedicated to the
Sagacious, sapient, source of sonority;
Mine Matriarch Mavenette
Wielding wisdom
Pristine, amidst
The Chaos of Chthonic,
At times, adjacent,
NetherRealm:

Valhalla of the once Valiant Soul
Twas I
The Wound-Bearer;
Convalescing in Light
Of the Simulacrum of the Sun,
Until
Greater Eden arrives:

Through lore the soul is lifted unto heights once denied;
The onerous edicts of Gravity begotten to be defied.
We peregrinate this plane searching for Lovelit Life;
We depart in ascendency beckoned by the rapture of the Divine.

No soul knows all, yet by lore, we come to rise, rise
In our excellency sired by the Empyrean Sublime.
By the exhalation of our Exodus we ne’er know how to fly,
Yet the Wings of Phantasmagoria are bestowed upon the Wise.

Let reverie propel you eternally into the Baptistery of the Sun,
for His love is infinite, His light needs ne’er be won.
The Ages are ephemeral & the Zeitgeist like Winds of Time:
Yet the Sciential is forever & wisdom transcends time.

Know that there is more than seen with the eyes;
In this boundless cosmos, precepts are meant to be defied:
Make history therefore of thine bygone days,
For the unborn waxeth thine present: a time-transcending sage.

O, She is the Millennial Maven
Transcending Space & Time
Rising through the Exosphere; Excelling Ether
into Mind’s Fire.

O, She is the Sage of Dreamscapes, Summoning
Luminaries unto Gaia:
That the Wisdom of the Ancients
Illuminate Orbis Terrae.

O, the Impossible is Possible,
Through Amazonians such as thee,
Waging Warfare through Wisdom
That her Clansman might live free.

O, Rapture in a Zephyr
(Aromatic & Fragrant Winds)
She harnesses the Tempest of Futility, that
Ineffable splendor is borne in stead.

O, the Tapestry of Eternity unfolds
(Through the hands of thee)
For through thine counsel are souls made stalwart,
In the Visage of Shadows made to see.

O, been hazed, been dazed
Mine entity hath been flayed,
Until incarnadine raiment arrayed
And through Nox & Somnus, mine heartsease is betrayed.

Lo!  Yet as a wraith in pining
For the Land of Living & Immortal Truth,
O, the Priestess of the Sacrality of Sapience
Doth forge a revenant anew.

O, continue upon thine Pilgrimage
For thine spirit, it gleams:
Upon the Feuillemorte Leaves of Autumn
The Sacred Lotus, impregnable, breathes.

The Hiemal Sun glistens brighter
As discernment and time wax Sovereign Reign; knowledge is
The Diadem of The Epistemic Empress:
  The Monarchy of your claim.

May Splendor and Mercy
Be promised unto thee,
May you promenade life’s trek in credence
That the Wings of Manumission make thee truly free.

If by chance you findeth enfettered
Your soul through sentiments strewn
Wonder upon the liberation
You’ve woven into mind’s renewed.

O, the Soul shall reapeth,
That which it sows,
You’ve harvested the Seeds of Liberty,
Let the Diadem of thine Ascendency thus be made to grow.
May the sacraments
She confers,
Alight upon
Her
Own soul,
May She
effloresce
in the Light of The Empyrean One
Excelsior
Forevermore.

~Happy Holidays Beloved Ones.~

"Therefore, become imitators of God, as beloved children"

-Ephesians 5:1
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.who said... that German was, unbefitting to fulfill the concerns for the operatic?! Germans sing the most... nettopern known to man... their baroque reinterpretation... shudders the body to usurp all the ancients' phobias borrowed from the Greeks... goosebumps and... ****... like:

  freude, schöner götterfunken,
tochter aus elysium,
wir betreten feuertrunken,
himmlische, dein heiligtum!


but then again...
  anemia with the Wagner...
come: walhall..
       come Chopin...
and an...             orchestra!

you are born, to be lived...
and what questions you have,
are questions indeed,
but they are rudimentary...
and asked,
even if asked at all...
at what could be
beat estimated
the worthy time...
beside the / outside
the mortal script...
                   known as... life;

how does that feel?
when feeling
perfects
the "art" of the implosion
of thought?
the, missing moral "ought"
of the narrative?
the lost, theta?!
how does, that, "feel"?
all, emotion,
yet, seemingly,
no, thought?
   how does that feel...
mother?

ship, micro-cosmos of
quasi-Braille telegraph...
how, does, i, "feel", mother?

the complexity of human expression,
within the confines
of the childish beginning,
culminates in the banal finality of...
   that, which, is mortal...
       that, which, is mortal...
will always over complicate the sentence...
and make life, almost causeless.

we are all but wagers,
in a game that consist of nothing more
than a win, or a loss...
a game, waging...
   falsely perpetuating
a gain... mortality...
and a game waging...
not falsely perpetuating
a loss... again: mortality....
why should i forgive
the bass guitar omission in modern
music?!
Julian Jul 2016
Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to ***** the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can ******* even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam

A Skeleton gunslinger, takes on the Unholy of **** and wages war against his nemesis Hatchet, as a portal to **** threatens to unleash the putrid, rancid, Unholy hordes onto a desolate planet. "


The bringer of Death arrived in Dakota. Custer's Seventh lay dying on the Powder river and the Ancients had sent him to walk the Earth and help the Ghost-walkers to hold their land. In his mortal days, he carried a torch for Serela, an outcast from the Mind seekers.That's what got him killed in the first place. The saloon was full that night, and he was called out.
He pulled his gun first and knew he would die. His death was foretold in the ancient scriptures of truth. 'The bone that liveth shall slay the flesh and the flesh will become liveth bone'.
Justice will walk the plains and avenge the truth'.
Serela had looked on as a bullet pierced the gunslinger's skull.The spirit of the ancients swept through her soul then, as she watch his head explode, filtering its entrance into the new receptacle of justice.

No one saw the killer shadow draw or witnessed it's departure but John Bitumen's body lay dead, the blood flowing from a hole in his forehead. Even as he died, he was reborn.
The Skull of Death in search of a gunfight, Deathbringer, Cleanser of Evil.


Hatchet looked at his mangy horse, a wasted beast worn out and at the end of it's road.Two years it carried his weight and the saddle dug deep.Whippings were constant and the calloused cruel fists of Hatchet rained down on it's neck if it slowed any.The nearest town was a mile down the road and it was late in the day.
That was all it took to set the anger in motion.Hatchet took five paces away from his horse and hurled his razor sharp hatchet with violence. The horse's head was split in two.
He hauled his saddle, and wrestled his ****** weapon from the dead horse, then walked into the dusk. All the time, Serela had observed from the Spirit's eye, an artefact of the Ancients, entrusted to the Mind Seekers. Hatchet would pay for his offence against Nature's pure beast, for it was written' All Creatures will walk the Earth and all will be held Holy.Swift will be Divine retribution against those who slay the pure beast'.
Hatchet wasn't one to read the ancient scriptures and could not know that the Skull of Death would search him out in the next town.The Ancients had called forth their Gunslinger and a skeletal hand rested on the sacred Gun of Abe. Hatchet would be called out and a Gunfight would settle scores. A chill in the air unnerved him and he took comfort in carresing his ivory handled pistols.


Darkness fell on the land and the half moon shone on the dead horse.The night crawlers made to cut it's remains and scavenge it's carcass. Two hands were raised to the sky, pleading for forgiveness. Horsemeat was forbidden and a desecration of sacred laws.
A knife was produced and held to the beast's throat. In that moment, all became aware of the onlooker.A tall figure in a drab grey longcoat, black spurred boots, an old black stetson. The Sacred Gun of Abe was in his hands. The Skull of Death, the Ancients Gunslinger, walked the Plains once more.
All seven night crawlers stared in disbelief. Their last minutes of life ebbing from them as the eyes of the Ancients warrior scanned their souls and cremated their bodies.Seven figures suddenly engulfed in flames under the incessant stare of the Skull's empty sockets. Amongst the embers, the Gunslinger knelt beside the horse. In his mortal days, this beast was his closest companion.Hatchet had stolen his possession and the sight of it's remains stirred an anguished scream for the horrific end which befell his steed.

Gently the Gun of Abe was placed on the horse's neck. A small bottle of holy oil was rubbed in it's wounds.' Though death may stalk the pure, truly I say to you that righteousness will prevail and the dead will rise'. Even as the words were uttered, a ball of blue flame enveloped the horse. The light illuminated the darkness and from the light the skeleton of a horse emerged, raising itself up on its hind legs, in defiance of death. Approaching the Gunslinger, it nuzzled it's head to his skull, the brilliance of it's chalk white bones radiating a supernatural hue. Mounting his steed, he galloped into the night.Vengeance was coming.Death on a horse was looking for Hatchet!


Raihna woke suddenly and locked eyes withHatchet. She had been ordered to sleep with him, against her wishes. 'Something wrong with me, *****? Hatchet snarled when he'd paid his ten dollars to the House Madam.
'You better be worth it *****! He had roughed her up before falling into a drunken slumber. Now he was standing in his ragged long johns, at the end of the four poster bed.
A manic look was in his beady eyes, as he swigged his liquor jar. Unkempt rank hair covered his weasel like features. Reeking of horse and trail sweat, an **** belly adorning his uglier frame, he leered for the longest time.Raihna took it all in, especially the hatchet in his right hand. 'Think you're mighty purdy, don't ya! he sneered. ' Let's see what you look like with a hair cut'!
Raihna noticed then that he had pinned her pigtails to the wooden headboard. Realising a scream would be the end of her, she stared back and waited. Hatchet hurled his weapon and it sliced into the headboard, shorning her hair.From the table, he grabbed his bowie knife and aimed for the other pigtail, slicing it off and nicking her neck. 'Well lookee now' he laughed as a trace of blood ran down her neck. 'Ain't you gonna scream, *****?


An eerie blue glow filtered into the room just then and the whinny and snortin' of a horse filled the air. 'What in ****'s name? muttered Hatchet. Looking out of the curtains, he saw the chalk white Skeleton of a horse and a skeleton rider brandishing a pistol. A fiery blue-red low glow radiated from their eyes and it seemed both rider and steed were on fire. Hatchet shouted out ' You one of them Resurrectionists?!' suddenly remembering the old shaman he had killed back in Piebald.
Hatchet had stolen his runes and kept them for trading with the Mindseekers. He thought now that maybe this was him come looking for him from the afterworld. Hot ***** trickled down his leg and he felt scared and sick to his stomach.

The gallows await !' It was almost a whisper as the ancients gunslinger raised his head towards the window. Hatchet grabbed Raihna and tried to shield himself from the spectre below. His mind raced as he hesitated, panic flooding his brain. 'Take them! We be even! he gambled as he threw the runes at the gunslinger. Even as he did so, they were grabbed instantaneously by a skeletal hand and placed around the gunslinger's neck. For these were the runes of time and in the coming trials would decide the balance of power between the Unholy and the Just.


Hatchet had thrown away his trump card and even as he loaded his gun, he was destined to die. 'Pearls before swine' whispered into the room and Hatchet descended the stairs, with Raihna in front. His pistol was cocked and he would shoot it out. If **** was waiting, he wasn't going on his own. His hatchet lay in his side belt and he made his way onto the street.
The hallway was pitch black and Hatchet cautiously approached the parlour door hoping to get out the back street. He held a vice-like grip on Raihna's arm as he pushed her along. 'You keep your mouth shut ***** and open that door easy' he whispered, his voice betraying his inner terror. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed hard to the back of his head. 'You take your claws offa my girl, Hatchet 'less you wants your **** brains spilled where you stand!
Hatchet knew Charlotte, the House madam, wasn't bluffing. He'd seen her do it too, back in Abilene, when China Jack beat up one of her girls. She'd shot him straight through his throat and followed up with a clean shot to his manhood. It hurt Hatchet even now just thinking about it'. Jesus! he thought as he cursed his situation. Things were moving too fast and nothing was going his way.
Hatchet loosened his grip, carefully holstering his gun.As she moved away, Raihna spat on his face and kneed him in the groin. ****! he bellowed and went to strike Raihna. His hearing saved her, as Charlotte cocked the gun and stopped him where he stood. 'Think I'd sleep easy with you on the premises, Hatchet? Take me for a fool? I don't know what the **** is out on that street but it wants you!' By Christ, you're going out the front door to face it too!. 'Always were a cowardly *******, now move you lousy **** head!
Raihna had gotten hold of a shotgun and had it trained on Hatchet. 'Drop that hatchet right now, she said. ' You're facing that creature with your gun and nothing else! God knows you don't deserve even that much. Hatchet dropped his hatchet. 'Now kick it over here!' He did so and as Raihna picked it up, she hurled it back immediately into his right thigh, gashing him like a pig for the slaughter. Hatchet screamed in agony and Charlotte pulled it out of his thigh as the room sprayed with the red bloom of imminent death. Now move you *******!


Charlotte and Raihna ushered him towards the front door and kicked him into the dark dusty side street. 'You got it coming, Hatchet!, they shouted and there waiting for him was the Ancients Gunslinger. He had dismounted from his steed and now faced Hatchet.The look of death was in the Skull's eerie sockets and it was all Hatchet could do to stop his hands shaking. He threw up and finally faced the spectre before him.

'For those who have suffered, shall be avenged. The Righteous Light will shine on the Unholy and all dark souls shall be driven from the Plains. Fear will walk amongst them and even the shadows shall despise their ways.'
Thus it had been written and now was coming to pass.


Hatchet went for his gun, and time slowed down as his eyes scanned the scene. A chalk, pure white, skeletal hand reached for a gun and the fluid movement captured his attention. Hatchet knew he had been outdrawn and could see the gunslinger's bullet leave the smoking barrell, pristine, crafted by a master gunsmith. He noticed the leather holster, worn and faded, almost an antiquity, strapped to a dark trousered leg.
The long coat, ghastly grey, adorning the bones of the undead. Empty eyes stared him down, as he heard his own gun's sharp report and watched his bullet sail towards the spectre. Just before the gunslingers bullet blew his brains out, he finally noticed the spectre of the horse and instinctively knew this was the brutalised beast he had so callously slain. Blood and bone exploded violently and the mortal remains of Hatchet dropped to the ground.
Hatchet didn't know it then but he too was about to be reborn; for the Unholy were about to unleash the Scourge of Hossana and the Ancients Gunslinger stood in their way. Hatchet would be forged in the cauldron of **** and in the coming trials would once again face the Sacred Gun of Abe.


Hatchet became conscious, and felt as ill as a cow in a slaughter house. The smell of death was rancid and his vision seemed out of focus. A nauseating, sickly stench permeated his nostrils and he winced as the pungent odour inflated his lungs. He was aware his whole body was bitter cold and he shivered uncontrollably. If this was a hangover, then it was the worst he'd ever been. Terrifyingly, he noticed that he was manacled, face down, to a massive ice block.
Encased within the block was a dead horse, it's head split in two, exposing brain matter, decayed pulped flesh, and grizzled bone. It's mouth was fixed in a ghastly grimace with it's eyes looking back into Hatchet's, it's gory mane matted in dirt.
His screams were hideous to hear and were lost in the din of the thousands of screams echoing within the air.The sound was deafening and burst his ears as the terror built up within him. Hatchet knew then he was in ****, amongst the thousands of fallen souls now in the possesion of the Unholy.
His whole being was perished with unbearable, intense cold yet he could see flames, blazing blue and orange, feet away from him taunting him with intense glow.
Still the shrieks and squeals of thousands around him assailed his ears! The amplified volume resonated in his brain as his own screams built to a crescendo!
Yet, no light radiated from the flames and the pitch black illuminated only the horse within the ice block and the grimace which would be eternal. Still Hatchet screamed till he felt his throat would explode and his mind begged for deliverance! It was then that his shoulders and back ignited with agonising pain as he felt the sting of a whip.
Again and again the whip found it's mark and his flesh was pulverised. He cried out for forgiveness and begged to be spared and still he was lashed.He prayed to pass out and knew he never would ! For he was in **** and the blackest deeds were now held to account.
A voice bellowed at him'Welcome Brother Hatchet! We will have a purpose for you soon! Enjoy the interim! Many more punishments await you yet until you are ready'. The eerie voice trailed off as Hatchet continued to be whipped. His agonising screams drowned the air and was unheard amongst the thousand others. Still the horse fixed it's empty eyes and stared at Hatchet and its grimace took pleasure in his suffering.

Seven days passed since Hatchet was despatched to ****, and darkness fell on the Plains like a widows veil. No light illuminated the Earth and the Lakota knew this was the sign of the coming trials. The Ghost-walkers had appealed to the Great Spirit and no one who witnessed their victory at the Powder River could deny their courage.Truly this was evidence of the Spirit's intervention in their way of life. Reports had come in to Chief Red Cloud of a figure of flame riding amongst the Buffalo. A Skeleton on fire, riding the Skeleton of a horse at full charge. It seemed the very ground they rode upon was a torch of lightning, and the figure was at one with the Buffalo. Red Cloud rode out to witness it himself and noticed the blue-orange glow, like an aura of defiance, surrounding the figure. In it's hand was a gun, and Red Cloud recognised it as the Sacred Gun of Abe.
Many tales had been passed down from his ancestors, and Red Cloud knew this figure was sacred to his tribe.The Ancients Gunslinger would play a role in the destiny of his People.The Whiteman would pay a heavy price for the desecration of the traditions and way of life of those under the protection of the Great Spirit. He knew too that an enemy would arise which would destroy the Whiteman, and all the Earth's inhabitants. Only the Native American would take the battle to the Enemy, aided by the Ancients and the Mind Seekers.
Red Cloud knew his people looked to him for leadership, and he would provide it.They would hear how Red Cloud rode with the Ghost Rider and take pride in his courage. His fate was tied to the Ancients Gunslinger, and this had been preordained in the ancient Scriptures. Red Cloud looked down at the flaming figure and dug his knees into his horse. Charging down the hill, he shouted out a proud battle cry, and rode like the wind to the side of the Ghost Rider.In their trail the Buffalo followed.The trials ahead would be met and the Unholy would do battle with their most dangerous enemy.



**** it Charlotte! 'It don't make sense!
Hatchet weren't killed by no ghost, for Christ sake! Marshall John Lancaster was tired and couldn't believe the events which occurred in his absence. He had just brought in Ned Marlow.Got two of his men killed doing it, and suffered a leg wound himself in the shoot out. Marlow had been holed up in Tinkers Creek and came out unexpectedly with his guns blazing as the posse approached the log cabin. It had suddenly turned pitch dark, and all the horses got spooked, causing confusion amongst the lawman's officers.
Ned Marlow knew Hatchet; had lost an eye in a bar brawl to him once.It was said Hatchet carried the eye around with him ever since.
Ned was closing in on Hatchet, bent on revenge, and swore he'd see him dead. Suddenly a shot rang out, and startled Lancaster.
Ned had headbutted the Marshall's deputy as he was being placed in the holding cell.He had grabbed the deputy's gun then and blown a hole clean through him. Carelessness, or tiredness, maybe both, had cost him his life. Ned didn't give no quarter when his own life was on the line. He weren't going to no hangman's noose neither. He burst into the Marshall's office then and fired off two shots catching Lancaster in the left arm wounding him badly. The Marshall got off one reactive shot catching Ned's left ear.The sound deafened him and he put a slug through the Marshall's head.The fragrance of gunpowder filled the room and Charlotte could only look on.'You're coming with me, Honey!'bellowed Marlow as he grabbed her hair, pulling her close, and made his way onto the streets. A gun was held to Charlotte's head and Ned was figuring his next move.


He was too busy watching the streets but if he'd looked up, he would have seen a hatchet hurtling towards him with violent intent. The hatchet caught his gun hand and severed it clean off his wrist. Ned now had the indignity of losing his right hand.He screamed in agony as blood squirted from his severed wrist, spraying Charlotte in a plume of lifes red wine. Ned looked to the ground and his own hand lay there, holding his pistol, it's finger still on the trigger. Legend would record the severed hand fired off a shot moments after it's horrific amputation. Ned Marlow didn't know it then, but he too would play a role in the coming trials. The Unholy knew it only too well for it had been written 'The Deaf shall hear, the Blind shall see, and the hand of the sinner will turn on the Unholy'.


There the severed hand lay. A ghastly, grotesque, weather worn obscenity.
The gun had been removed from it's grasp since it's horrific amputatation from Ned Marlow. Three days had passed since the incident and no one dared to remove it from the street.cOminously, no decay had festered to spoil that monstrosity;for life still lingered within it's ghoulish flesh. Mangy street dogs looked at it with curiosity, yet kept a tentative distance. The little finger still wore a silver ring, set with a black stone. Once it had belonged to an ancient Pagan High King, who had been slaughtered in battle. An artefact from a distant time, carried across Europe into the America's. Evil had tainted it's properties and the Sons of the Unholy had sought it since. The ring now sought a new owner as the severed hand, an abomination of creation, crawled, like a filthy worm in the dirt. Slowly, laboriously, with uncanny certainty, the wretched hand made it's way towards the room of the one who had hurled the hatchet.


Raihna sat alone in her bedroom.The hatchet lay across her lap and it was emitting a low hum, almost inaudible, but she had heard it. At first she thought madness was setting in, but she realised that the voices communicating with her were real; the Mind Seekers had chosen her.
Her mind and body became a telepathic conduit and she was absorbed in receiving the messages. The Ancients were channelling through her and a deep trance held her almost comatose.
Slowly, sickening slow, the hand crawled it's way towards her., Grubby, thick, fingers inching themselves stealthily, dangerously close, while Raihna was immersed in the communication.
Her eyes were closed in the deep state between the conscious and the unconscious, so she could not witness the fingers wrap themselves around the handle of the Hatchet. Both hand and clasped hatchet lifted silently from her lap. As the hand moved to distance the weapon from her, the ring glowed a greenish hue, emanating the presence of the Unholy. Suddenly the hand lunged at Raihna's throat!
Raihna's life was ebbing into eternity.The possessed, filthy, unholy amputation squeezed her windpipe with the vengence of perpetual hostility. The ring on the severed hand's finger glowed brighter, as her life force lay on the threshold of destruction. It seemed as though the light of a thousand burning suns illuminated that room. A portal to **** had been created and Raihna was pulled into that abyss. She was neither dead nor alive, for the Unholy had need of a ****.The hatchet too was ****** into that void as it was destined to be reunited with Hatchet.The light was blinding and it seemed the very Earth could have been swallowed; as though the Gods had abandoned all of Creation!
Yet there he stood! A blazing figure astride a blazing horse.The chalk white bones of a skeleton horse carrying the Ancients Gunslinger towards the entrance to ****! The ancient scriptures had written ' The Liveth Bone shall ride into ****, and the Unholy shall cower'.
The Sacred Gun of Abe shall wield the vengeance of the Ages and the Earth and Heavens shall shake'. Thus it had been written and was now coming to pass.
A portal to **** had opened and the Gunslinger charged into that cesspool of abomination. No Horse ever galloped with such energy and the Unholy prepared for the skirmish.The Gunslinger was possessed with a relentless rage for Justice. **** quaked as both rider and horse fearlessly charged into the bowels of Evil's pestilent abode.
Furious at this brazen affront, the Unholy now made to close that portal. Even as they did so, Hatchet was resurrected from his tormented existence. His hatchet was reunited with him as he prepared to once again face the Gunslinger.Raihna must be rescued; for her destiny was tied to the Earth's salvation. For now, she lay in a corner of **** watched over by a severed hand. The screams and anguished cries of all the lost souls in **** echoed in the stagnant air. Still the Rider charged furiously as he sought to gather Raihna to his arms. A ****** hatchet sailed towards him and **** looked on.


Hatchet charged from the cage of demons, his face etched with the pain of perpetual torment. His emaciated form like a malignant Phoenix rising from the ashes of ****. The pitiful creature carrying his burden reared from his weight. A wretched carcass of a decayed horse which had been ressurected for battle. That same horse which had been encased within the ice block;whose ****** head Hatchet had split open when both were mortals on the Earth. Man and beast now tools for the Unholy; possessed by the collective evil of all who now suffered in ****.cTheir dark energy would now be harnessed for the coming trials. A gruesome grimace was fixed on the horse's face and it's empty eyes stared ahead as Hatchet charged towards the Gunslinger. His violent countenace expressed the deadly intentions which would be borne down upon his enemy.
He had hurled his weapon and watched as it made it's deadly trajectory towards the Gunslinger. As the hatchet spun and revolved through the air, Hatchet emmitted the scream of the demented. The Gunslinger had lowered in his saddle and the hatchet narrowly missed it's target. Continuing on it's course, it landed in the back of one of the screaming forgotten whose souls were doomed to eternal agony.
Both riders now crashed headlong into one another and Hatchet fell from his horse. The Sacred Gun of Abe was now in the Gunslinger's hand and a skeletal finger pulled the trigger.
Once again, Hatchet would witness a bullet discharge from it's revolving chamber. His head exploded as the bullet entered his brain, exiting in one piece and landing in the dank soil of ****.The blessed relic purified the soil and the Unholy recoiled with revulsion.
The dead cannot die and Hatchet struggled back to his feet. Grabbing the Gunslinger's reins, he attempted to pull him down. It was then that the runes around the Gunslinger's neck pierced the air with a deafening incantation.
The Unholy screamed as the Holy words of the Ancient Scriptures filtered into the bowels of iniquity and shook the foundations of ****.
Hatchet reeled back and grabbed his hatchet from the spine of the forgotten sinner. He looked up then and witnessed a warrior's lance sail through the air.It violently struck and impaled the severed hand guarding Raihna.
Red Cloud had accompanied the Gunslinger in his charge into ****!
Jaycub J Feb 2
Cloaked in
organic philosophy
I sit
cross-legged
mind stretched
on the balcony.
Flute of the
ancients drifts
cleansing
the melancholy
tumbleweed
through sweet
sounds forward
calling me.
A candle guides
into bliss.
Reflections
of presence.
The flame of
what is.
Moments I own,
Or rent.
Passing like
landscape
through glass
in the passenger
car on this
mountain descent.
Claws of
the eagle soaring
grip my heart
without warning.
Grip slips,
dropped, split on
a rock in a field.
Heart opens
with cathartic feel.
Reveals another layer,
Peeled. Pain
of the beloved
Pleasure
when it heals. Back
To the breathe.
Inhale into infinity,
Exhale into death.
A chime reminds
me of time,
Refreshed.
My life
I resurrect!
Sunlight enters,
And I nod
in respect.
Bea Autumn Feb 15
Like a jeweled locket inside my chest
                                     that's where my love for you does rest
Encased embossed upon my heart
                                     my love for you right from the start
Your love shines as a ruby brilliant to behold
                                      in my soul the gem I hold
Our love was foretold so long ago
                                      before the ancients of old
My heart belongs only to you
                                     always & forever it will be true
Like perfect gems take years to evolve
                                     Soul mates found each other resolved
A precious gem placed inside this heart
                                     Solid as stone destined never to depart
love *rubies
Crown Shyness Dec 2018
I am looking at that tree
it must be
right in the direction
of Dallas.

Alas, how I'd wish to be there right now,
watching you
serving.

And all that I can think about is
you washing my soul
in the infinity of juices
sleepwalking past hope
touching your own four walls
while I'm gone with the sin
imagining *******
you gently
in the shade of the sun.
With you,
I know for sure,
I am
where it takes me.
We'll be
brand new ancients
while I'm still here,
leaving hope
to take a hit of dope
through your kiss,
not missing the unreal thing.
There might be something in the way,
but as I progress along my day
I can only think of you
and this warm place,
where you take off your cool.

I am daydreaming, nightdreaming
while the line begins to blur,
creating magic doors
in only thinking of each other,
and all that could have been
is no more,
when I see you
open
walking over my inviting floor
of pain
and every time I see you
I fall in love again,
I fall in love again,
as you are the mix of peoples faces
in the broadness of your expression.

I wait for you
dying for me
in rainbows.

Love me tender,
I'm still hurt
and I want to disappear
with you
in leaving hope
to when the whole world went away.

Seeing the work in your veins,
holding your hand under your chin,
drawing pictures of life
without pretending
to be a copy of a copy of a copy
of trying to not be sloppy.

How would it feel to reach your depths
lying on the moon,
please let me feel it soon!


In my dream I am singing to you my mystic queen,
when I look at you
I think
I've never seen truth before,
even if there was.

But it is past
and I wanna grasp
the tenderness
that lasts, Mademoiselle.

Rakastan sinua!
There are many of my favorite songs hidden in it - can you find them?
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
If the ancients' power and excellence are the commander of a thousand men, and he complains that she has the help of donors and the lead, I do not want to go down; I do not know what makes the first one cool, greeted by the attendants enjoying the design and operation of the sports system - Sky Box and free glasses of brandy and white wine. Fun: Port contains a radio to a wedding ceremony without a marriage. The trees are not included in the above rates, and the agents are not free trade. From all of the words that are not, and which, as you know. To read books and learn news of the treatment, "Wall Street" fish get rich to purchase it. Other applications will be podcasts, but also on the best radio stations, and those who cannot find a place to worry about. And color the best way to work the watch-tower, the robot has left where a beautiful woman is. According to 1 John Rose,
and after thoroughly analysis said England; Paul, however, when I shall brandish it, cannot be radio waves. Radio Ads of the wedding: and the valor of the ancients, they get married in rushing water. If she kills herself for, and which he complains of, that I do not want another thousand of the governor's the help; I do not know who was the first to encounter cold and plan for the attendants when they needed to be happy throughout the the sports system - the boxes of brandy and white glasses are free. Fun: it contains one radio to a wedding ceremony and at one of the weddings, he was told trees are not included in tariffs and agents - free trade; of all the words that he happens to know. To read books as part of a new treatment, "Wall Street" to buy from the momentous rich fish. A complaint, Dutch value clearly illuminates the radio station if there is smoke in the Big House; The Manager, which provides a dynamic compiler and a radio station is the best, the best and the greatest, and there is no other. Other applications will be podcasts, radio stations, but the best places you can also find my place. And the color is the best way to work with the glass robot to the left, a beautiful woman. According to John Rose and analysts at 1 Internet, England, San Pablo flying with radio waves.                Radio with water from the washing brick.
1.

Minds break apart at midnight,
piece together in dreamless sleep.

Robert Lowell poaches pen-and-ink
drawings for Life Studies.
Sylvia Plath dons Ariel’s red dress,
but loses Ariadne’s thread.  

Lowell raises For the Union Dead,
mythic monument to his family’s best.
Pigeons decorate it with their ***** mess.
Plath pins a ******* to her chest —  
shockingly pink —
and stands beside the kitchen sink,

Stirring a *** of poet’s gruel.
Madness and death the golden rule
no artistry can break. Not even the careless
reader can take leave of these senses

Once they’re rendered on the page.
Confession doesn’t age well,
as Lowell knows oh so well,

unless it suggests more substantial fare,
say, a flannel bathrobe for him to wear
in a Boston psychiatric ward — if he dares.

There’s something wrong with his head.
Crown him Caligula; his lineage has fled.

“What does that have to do with me, Daddy?” Plath artfully whines.
“Fill the tulip jars with red water, not wine,” he replies.
“The bridegroom cometh. Turn off the oven.”
But it is too late. She has met her fate before it predeceases her.

Like a teacher’s pet, she bets her life on a recitation
of Daddy, a term of endearment,
a term of interment in a stark, loveless miscarriage,
a dark, masculine disparagement of her freedom. O Daddy dearest.

Lowell shoots up to salute the younger poet, guessing
she has given the year’s best reading by a girl in red dresses.

At this stage, what does it matter that his “mind’s not right”?
What can he do but give up his right to pray, as every insight
       slips away?

But no Our Father for Plath. For her, the Kingdom comes too late.
Colossal poetry cannot save; the poet raves and raves and raves
       into that dark night.
Turn off the oven, turn out the lights. Daddy, too, is not right.

2.

Blake fired his Proverbs of ****
in the dull, damning kilns
of England’s Industrial Age.

A poet’s no sage, but Lowell earned
his wings when he doctored Blake’s phrase:
“I myself am ****.”

A stone angel directs his descent:

Fortune favors the bold.

Never discount the power of chance.

Affliction of the senses is a gift.

Invisible seeks invisible.

Darkness obscures our limits.

We carry darkness within us.

Anarchy breeds spirit.

Artistry breeds no merit.

Appropriate beauty, at all costs,
whether, man, beast or angel
.

3.

Poetry births an artifact of words; we unearth them, and they adhere.
We bury them, and they fall flat — hollow sounds, futile splats,
       prehistoric grunts ground into the ground.

Bathed in lithium and alcohol, here bobs your calling, Robert:
Everything matters; nothing coheres.
Build a shell of a soul on this maxim, a notebook of negation.  
       Grind your axes.

Sanctuaries may crumble, gates may close. Press on. Press on.
Corkscrew your identity into the iambic line; rouse the reader to find
the misleading promise of Eternity in the sonnet, the sonnet,
       the endless sonnet.

For minds lost in madness, tree limbs dangle like kite tails in the wind. No one flies here anymore. Gather reddened kindling while ye may.

What exiles you from the ancients — Homer, Virgil and Horace —
springs from vision, not technique: You lack the requisite blindness.

Absence absents the soul. Here, now, forever, shimmers only presence,
only the present, only Presence: divine, human, animal, marmoreal.
       Skunks, sails, cars and pails. Sing on, O son of New England!

Day by day, failing all, fill your void with fiery
hieroglyphs of verse. Then call your duty done.

4.

Behold: You are not the favorite, after all, but Camus’ stranger,
trapped in the blinding sun, stumbling on the burning sand.

Only what dies in you endures.

“Is getting well ever an art,
or art a way to get well?”

The skunks scurry, scavenge and survive far too long for you to answer.

You lie down beside orange fishnets, facing the shore.
At midnight, you will dream of dreamless sleep.
To follow the development of this poem, it's important to know the works and lives of the confessional poets Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath. If you are unfamiliar with them, I suggest you first read "Skunk Hour" by Lowell and then "Daddy" by Plath. Short biographies would help, too.
Johnny Noiπ Sep 2018
inuidere nobis rectius *** digitis fricantur ex agro eu diei ab aestu et meretrices stripper ventum - to envy, w/ greater right & w/ our fingers, that were harlots, strippers, rubbed from the field of football in the daytime from the heat & the wind



Black girl who was betrothed to his mother & they love the ***, ***** as the day & a night the redness, or the good of the poets of the form of the dead body is a beautiful; But what, perhaps, you have white in it, with the dung of a white snooch, & an old man, have thou respect unto his voice & the heat is & America, & consider these things, and they found a piece of a piece of a piece and then stick the lead to set taxes to king into a face-to-face are and queen when she did not leave a child whose name was among the old names out of poetry is difficult defiled your mind into the chamber in a battle poet & the stars in the old saying goes, it is seeking money from the land of the weaker in the thought that death has lost her hairy kid, I do not know the blood is no more baby; every dog ​​in blue & the city from the gate drinks in the sea, by the appearance of the goddess & apparel was of alum to the house of their fathers, toward the interior of Antonius will perform for the well-favored harlot, a kid of the goats, for one, nor memorial, in his prose writings, composing pieces, a lot of words & so that I feel wash, paint does not drink & fruit osculating these apples w/ wild animals & the removal of Barbies, this is a *** rock out of the hole; cool Man rock? from the songs of them who said, many things that the mothers of Tarquin in the pride & confidence in the criminal cases from a few to negotiate a Sarmatian tribe; But you, but if not better than running a gift, in which the § time-fire dark brown to dark brown in the center in the child's case, you should, because they were not lacking in strength, leaving it as it is brought into me & the wind having attained the age of friendship & the arms as far as you want to, according to the nature of the gem of the brain, most of all after the yolk is a walk of a revolution of the society, the dance, online & the feet of the French & had heard of the guys; they were filled w/ smoldering fire to Talk is a dream, little by little & the gold, in the yellow; & they stood in the very creation of things & he put up to a higher level so to seek the sky by itself can be compared, in order that we can walk & do not continue; the fingers & the power of the vain pen of the scribes has to speak to the machine to learn more, there is the body, not even the bunk is celebrated in the celebrated Wolfe, to the workings of Satan, in the bottom a fat dog, St. Anthony, angels, which together w/ about a robot burnt-out case, the rich & the daughters of strippers from Indonesia to Bob & ***** for the first time, which should be able to know that they have 500 bananas, a sixth of evil, or the loss of any man, because it is not raining on me & not you; your ranting is jealous of us & our fingers are rubbed on the football field during the heat of the day from the stripper wind that prostitutes, home to brands, back itching, Einstein's history of earthquakes, such as fire's light; Currently angry, right & bring a lot of power in the corporate bond b/c a stranger in volume stood on the table started off licensed; Women love the mother of the girl who is engaged w/ her black *** exposed, a day & a night, bright red is good for all poets in the form of the body of the dead beautiful; But what you may, have no black in it, w/ the dung of a white snooch, an old man, have thou respect unto his voice & the heat is, & America, & I thought that they found a piece of a piece of a piece of, as well as a piece of wood w/ lead, to speak, which he placed the forced labor that King Solomon used, were of the form & from the face of to the face of the feminine & to the queen, though it never departed from the child who was among the ancients who called it the poetic, full of difficult sisters who had been defiled by thy spirit to be the chamber on high, in the battle, the poet, & the stars of old said, 'what he is seeking money' of the land of the weaker *** in the thought itself lost by death as hair falls from the goats, for you do not know the blood of the man, does better baby every ***** & of blue & the city's gateway to the sea by the appearance of the goddess & apparel was by Antonius, who will perform their own families of the drinks, the shredded; toward the interior side of the well-favored harlot, a young goat & the memory of his prose writings, he composed pieces, a lot of words, & thus it is that I may feel didst I wash thyself, & didst paint thy will, not drink of the fruit of the, yech, this precious fruits w/ a wild animal is an animal and the removal of Barbie, this is a *** rock out of the hole; T cool is what I & Anne, the rock of the songs of them who said that in his pride, & in their security & from a few of the great criminals of avenging the mothers have in the Sumatra tribe; but it is to you, but, except ye than a running gift, in which there was the § time of the fire, the dark brown to brown, the center of the child's regard, you should, as it were no lack of forces, leaving to you, which can not be inflicted by me, he is the spirit of, & the force of, the wind & the arms, a precious stone, after the yellow year of the walk, even to the years of friendship, according to the nature of the brain's most sci-fi revolutions of society, online French, her feet, & the Talk filled with smoldering dances heard the guys in gold in the dream of yellow; Standing in the creation itself, which turned to a deeper search of heaven can be compared, in order to walk, & I did not stay fingers & the power of the pen of the scribes to speak to the machine to learn more, there is the body, not even the bunk celebrated by Wolfe, to the workings of Satan, at the bottom, & the fat of the dog, St. Anthony, that the angels are on the one w/ a robot of these smoking firebrands, for the rich man & the daughters of the strippers from Indonesia, to Bob & her ***** for the first time, which will be able to to know they do not have 500; I have a banana is the sixth, there is the evil of, or, to the loss of any man: for it had not rained upon me & not you; [are ranting be jealous of us make with our fingers, are rubbed from the football field in the heat of the day from the stripper winds them that prostitutes], comes home to the brands of designers disposed off the rack & the wall & he will slay the Remarkably, that is, the movement of the motion in the shade; Jews have been the fate of the radio, the old & children leather kiss garden with a call angel soccer watch football pipe is quite common to see stay in dance teeth of Einstein's history of earthquakes, like the fire light Currently angry right to bring a lot of power in the corporate bond b/c stranger in volume stood on the table started off license; They love the women, the girl married his mother ***** as the day & night; the long red the good of the black *** of him is brighter than the place of the loveliest of all the poetic form of the body parts of the year, is dead; now it is out of the black with the dung of a white snooch, an old man in the great heat & America, & I thought that they found a piece of a piece of wood is related to the forced labor that King Solomon were in the figure, from the face of the face, feminine & to the queen, it never departed from the child among the ancients, poetry is the hard ******* mind, the chamber of the war poet, female, stars, let them say what they want the money, the underworld of the *** is the real thing; thinking of the lost by death a hair fall from the kids who did not know the blood of the man, does better baby, every ***** &, of blue & of the city, the entrance into the sea by the appearance of the goddess, & the apparel was by Antonius, their families & the families of the drinks, the interior of the shredded turned to the side of the well-favored harlot & the young goat being torn into pieces, a lot of words & it is to feel didst wash thyself & didst paint thyself, yeh, never again drink of this fruit of the wild animal of the animal is an animal, of Barbie, this is the stone *** out of the hole T cool is that John D out of the rock songs of those who said that Tarquinius on the super bus, who was together with his cursed; a few in the supply of the teacher of the mothers in Sumatra one of among you, but unless you are running free in the coot which is § of time, the water, the dark brown center of the child, since matter is exactly as if it lacks the powers, leaving us wet with me like a gust of wind force & his armor & a precious jewel behind the yellow was a walk to the years of friends one by the nature of the brain's most sci-fi revolution of the society, online French the feet of the wick, he will not be filled w/ a ****** dancing; Talk I have heard the guys it belongs to, the gold, the dream of yellow, he asked the rising of the dog, filthy, silently making beams for the eating together of the mirror of the evils of everything, need're pretty sure the evils of ping Menesius; a small thing, chaste as a gift of silver, of them who slew Christ, by way of similitude of the park in the bed, which is a black magic, and drink ye every one in the flesh, we read that in the ages of the ages, the invisible, the food to them that sat clinically, Moses stood in the creation of which turned every way to seek the superior heaven be compared to one another; as ye walk & not to have known the sacred palaces of the fingers there is a sound; At first pen of the scribes! talk to machine learning, there is still evading Woolf the operation of Satan with the dregs of fat from the dog; Anthony angels of one robot smoking with the rich, the daughter strippers to Bob ***** first time that a person can know the 500 banana sixth to the injuries, I do not; you are ranting is the rain of kisses with the fingers, Cookie rubs the football field, the heat from the stripper winds them that are harlots, thou torches of pregnant affected by the torture of the walls to **** the monster Bettie the sand of the many Chinese with the spirit of the glass is mad: the check does not strives to hinder her to be a mutation of borage on have gotten me; I felt the uncertainties of the fact over the flattery of the angle of the beloved city: news of the gift shall not be mentioned to him; Remarkably, that is, the motion from the motion of the shadow of the Jews was the fate of the radio, the oldest & daughter wilderness leather kiss garden w/ a call angel soccer watch football pipe is quite common to see stay with dance teeth in the light of Einstein's history of earthquakes angry & leaf of the fire Currently properly bring power to impose a "corporate bond" b/c the stranger in volume stood on the table & started off w/ license; They love women, the girl married my mother, ***** as the day & night, w/ long red good black *** brighter than space would be most beautifully poetic form the body from the country per year is dead black, with the dung of white snooch, the old place is great for heat & America & I thought they found a piece of wood which king Solomon said had the appearance of the face-gob queen, has not left the boy poetry of the ancient living mind hard ******* room of war poets; a woman said the money would stars **** *** real thinking about death lost the hair of the kids knew that blood is better makes the baby every ***** & the blue of the of the city, the entrance into the sea, the goddess' families, the communities of the drinks, the inside of the alum turned to the side of the well-favored harlot a kid in pieces, a lot of words and deed to feel didst wash thyself, paint thyself, yeh, not to drink of the wild beast of Barbies, this is the story about a *** cool tease; the hole's to keep Ivan's songs of rock melts into a small lady; mothers in Russia unless you are running free in the coot phases, water brown, young material completely, leaving wet w/ blind force & arms are precious; my black & yellow walk year of his friends; nature of the brain mainly revolutionary society, online French feet, smoking filled with ****** dancing talking; I heard guys cared for the golden dream blonde, asking the *****'s original school secret floor; eating glass the spirit of evil brought to the club pretty sure evil genius **** gift of a silver slew Christ at the park in bed because she is my magic God & drink the flesh read end to the invisible, the food that sat standing; a creature that turned every way, to the air as you walk, it is not sacred houses toes sound when you first meet the pen of the scribes talk to slip out activity of Satan right machine learning, **** angels of one of the richness of the dog Antony's robot, smoking a rich man's daughter strippers; Bob friends saw her ***** first broken by man to know, understand, banana Friday wood & shall never be more accurately maintain the rain kiss his fingers & rubbed football field intensity stripper & favorite prostitutes torches pregnant attachment of guns on walls & **** the monster Bettie, in the sand many Chinese ghosts were buried w/ the check, hidden in the glass of the madness of the conversion; I'm not lean for instance, that there is a change in the gypsy of Borage on; I felt the light of the cause is as uncertain, the corner of the streets of the city which he loved & of loving Maecenas in the gift of Christ is not remembered against him; his marvelous month, which is the movement from the movement of the shadows of that which was the Jew's mom to hold the fate of the radio, the oldest daughters wilderness, in leather kiss garden angel calling soccer watching the sweating gun is quite common to see the whole stay in the dance's teeth ******* the lights Einstein's story in an earthquake, fire is hot leaf state in an upright manner agreeable to bring the goddess' b/c the stranger in the volume of corporate bond stood up table started off w/ a license; they love the poor women of the girl's wife, for the eyes of the Mother of the man is *****, at midday there a long red the good of the black *** of him to be clearer than the space of the future, most beautifully poetic form the body of the land of the years my dead out of the black with dung are white snooch old age is a place for the great of the heat that is America, he thought, however, to find a piece of wood which was of gold the beauty of the face-**** queen has not left the boy poetry the old living mind hard is ******* room war poet woman said the money would stars **** the *** real thinking of death lost hair the kids knew that blood is better makes the baby all ***** & the blue city entrance of a great sea goddess Igor hands Community was drunk at the inside alum turned to the side of the well-favored harlot a kid in pieces, guy to the mouth of the of the work, to feel the wash yourself, paint, yeh, the wild animal & drunk Barbie, this stone of the hole's *** cool to retain Ivan's song of the rock, sweet food the lady noticed the mothers of the Russians, but the book of the course of the state of the under the window, the water brown in reality the young men of the material of the deep, perfect, leaving wet with the blind force of arms but the lips I write back w/ & yellow walking year of his friends nature of the brain mainly revolutionary society, online French feet, smoking soul filled w/ ****** dancing talk is heard guys care gold dream blonde asked ***** origin school secret floor eating glass spirit of evil brought club pretty sure evil genius ****; The gift of the silver, put to death the Christ, the park of the bed, the sister of the magic of the gods of the drink, the land of the flesh, I bequeath to the top of the invisible things of God with fasting many as he sat to conquer standing on the creature that turned every way, of the air as you walk, not to sacred orders, only the house of toes blow ye with the other before the collision the pen of the scribes, speaking to the fall of the power of Satan, the right machine learning, **** the angels of one of the richness of a dog Antony seas robot rich man's daughter strippers smoking alchemy, Bob of friends saw **** first boxing mortals know, understand Muse Friday tree blasts forever to more accurately place rain kiss his fingers and rubbed football field intensity stripper wind prostitutes torches pregnant feeling the guns on the walls are to **** the monster Bettie; many Chinese ghosts checking buried, hidden under the mirror of a madman, I'm not made lean as much as a change in a gypsy borage; I felt the light of the explanation of sleep a corner of the streets of the city he loved a lover of Maecenas of Christ, I remember wonderful Ladies who are moved by the beating of the shadows of what was to a Jewish mom to hold the fate of the radio, the oldest of the daughters of the wilderness, miss leather kissing in the garden where an angel calls soccer; watching the gun is looking sweaty enough to see by natural teeth dance stayed hot in the hairy lights of Einstein's story of earth moving leaf state fire done properly withdrawn bring the Goddess wear real b/c volume table starts to read down corporate tie newcomer stood wave license withdrawn; And they love the women, the girl married his mother ***** as the day and a night the long red the good of the black *** of him is brighter than the space of this very beautifully, when the poetic form of the body region of the year of my dead out of the black with the dung of a white snooch, their old place in the great heat of America, & I thought that they found a piece of a piece of wood of the forced labor that King Solomon used were in the shape of the face, **** the queen, did not he let the boy in the ancient poetry, his hard ******* mind living room war poet; female stars saying they want money, ****, *** is the real thing; thinking of the lost by death a hair falling from the kids; they knew that the blood of man does better than baby ***** every time & of blue & of the city, the entrance into the sea & by the appearance of the goddess & apparel was Antonius, their families & the families of the drinks in the interior of alum, turning to the side of the well-favored harlot even a young goat being torn into pieces, a lot of words, and it is to feel didst wash thyself, and didst paint thee, yeh, I will not drink of the fruit of the wild beast of the beast of Barbie, this is the stone about *** cool ribbed tee of the hole's; there, that John's out of the rock songs is dripping with a small amount of the mistress of the mothers in Sumatra one of you, unless you are running free in the coot § times of the water, brown, boy, the material is totally lacking, leaving us wet as if a gust of wind force & arms are a precious back yellow walk; year of his friends nature of the brain mainly revolution society, online French feet smoking is filled with ****** dancing talk, I heard guys carrying the golden dream blonde asking the ***** the original school secret; floor eating glass evil spirits were brought club pretty sure bad pinging ****** a little bit too ****, the gift of the things of silver, of them who slew Christ, by way of a comparison w/ the park & bed; that it is magic & drink ye every one of the flesh, we read of the ages, invisible, the food is to them that sat clinical standing in the creation of the turning every way, to the upper air as you walk not to have known the sacred palaces of the fingers of the sound of the first the sense comes pen of the scribes to speak machine learning, just let the man escape Wolfe to the working of Satan, the dregs are at; the fat that of a dog, Anthony, the angels of one robot, smoking w/ a rich man is the daughter of strippers w/ lichen for Bob's ***** first knew the man to know the understanding of the 500 muses; the sixth to the log, not ranting in the rain, kissing w/ the fingers are rubbed the football field heat of the stripper the wind, that were harlots; the torches of pregnant affected by the torture of the walls to **** the monster Bettie, the sand of the many Chinese of the Spirit glass; mad checking was not an impediment to lean it to be a mutation of borage Glory on, I felt uncertain because the angle of the city he loves loving & Overview of the gift is not remembered against him; that is astonishing, that is, the movement of the noise from the movement of the shadow of which to the Jews was given to the fate of the radio, the oldest of the daughter of the wilderness of the hide of the kiss of the garden he calls an angel soccer watch football the fistula is quite common to see remaining in the whole of the dance, the teeth of the skin & the light, by means of Einstein's story of the earth, the movement, he was angry w/ himself & the leaf of fire, Currently correctly bringing the goddess foreign to "corporate" bond, b/c he is a stranger in volume stood on the table started off w/ license;
Black girl, his mother loves her *** exposed, day & night, flushed poet form carcass fair, what is perhaps the white **** from the white snooch, the old man gives attention to his voice, & heat, & America, & with these, & they found a piece of a piece of a piece as well wood & lead to tax the king in a face-to-face you & the queen do not leave a child who was w/ the old nanny of poetry; easily prostituted your mind to the chamber in line poet & the stars in the old saying, that in the form of power of God, the worship of God, & alum, & in the house of their fathers, the inside is brought to Antonius; part of the things are purchased wanton they are in the form of God, well-favored harlot, & a kid of the goats, for one thing, & one thing nor memorial, in his prose writings, he composed parts of a lot of the words of the, I think, & wash the paint, I will not drink of the fruit of the beasts of the field I have given to the fruits that thy ****** & the fruit of the theory of osculating this was new & the removal of Barbies, that is to say, from the cold of the Holy Spirit out of the rock of a cave, which is a stone about ***? & the pride of such a kind that of Tarquin the Proud, & his mother, of the song, confidence quite as much in God's dealing w/ cases & a Sarmatian tribe, from them that & in a few words? Nevertheless, both if not more than running after him, a gift of God, as described in the § in the time of a fire, the dark brown to brown, thick in the center of the infant's cause, it was granted to me, as being the things that are not lacking in him, that he must leave, which is to me the spirit, & stood in the creation of the air everywhere seeking higher compared to the walk into the vacuum machine; You might pen of the scribes to speak & to learn more, the body is, do not celebrate, we celebrate from the bunk in the celebrated, would have celebrated Wolfe, to the working of Satan, in the bottom, & the fat of the dog, of St. Anthony, & the angel, which is one, takes out the robot on fire in the city, & of all the cases, & the rich, & the daughters of strippers; developer to Bobbed ***** soon knowing that he has 500 bananas, a sixth is bad, or the loss of any one of you that you are ranting that the rain falls on me to begrudge her fingers the lowest battle field between the heat of the day from stripper winds that *******, home to brands off the rack, itching Einstein's history of earthquakes in the line of firepower to light; Currently, the angry farmer on the corporate board spoke volumes, stood on a table & started off w/ a license
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
3 For, behold, the Lord, the Lord of hosts,
doth take away from Jerusalem and from Judah
the stay and the staff, the whole stay of bread,
and the whole stay of water. 2 The mighty man, and the man of war,
the judge, and the prophet, and the prudent, and the ancient,
3 The captain of fifty, and the honorable man,
and the counselor, and the cunning artificer,
and the eloquent orator. 4 And I will give children
to be their princes,
and babes shall rule over them.
5 And the people shall be oppressed,
every one by another, and every one by his neighbor:
the child shall behave himself proudly against the ancient,
and the base against the honorable.
6 When a man shall take hold of his brother
of the house of his father, saying, Thou hast clothing,
be thou our ruler, and let this ruin be under thy hand:
7 In that day shall he swear,
saying, I will not be an healer;      for in my house
is neither bread nor clothing: make me not a ruler
                   of the people;
8 For Jerusalem is ruined,        and Judah is fallen:
because their tongue                      and their doings
are against the Lord,
to provoke the eyes of his glory.

9 The shew of their countenance
doth witness against them;
and they declare their sin as *****,
they hide it not.                Woe unto their soul!
for they have rewarded evil
                  unto themselves.
10   Say ye to the righteous,
that it shall be well with him:
for they shall eat the fruit of their doings.
11 Woe unto the wicked!    it shall be ill with him:
for the reward of his hands shall be given him.
12 As for my people, children are their oppressors,
and women rule over them.                O my people,
they which lead thee cause thee to err,
      |                      and destroy the way of thy paths.

13 The Lord standeth up to plead,
and standeth to judge the people.
14 The Lord will enter into judgment
with the ancients of his people,
                 and the princes thereof:
for ye have eaten up the vineyard;
the spoil of the poor is in your hoses.     || | 15 What mean ye
that ye beat my people to pieces,    and grind the faces of the poor?
saith the Lord God of hosts.
16 Moreover the Lord saith,                           Because the daughters
of Zion are haughty,          |||      and walk with stretched forth necks
and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go,
and making a tinkling with their feet: 17 Therefore the Lord
will smite with a scab the crown of the head
                                of the daughters of Zion,
and the Lord will discover their secret parts.
18 In that day the Lord will take away the bravery
         of their tinkling ornaments
about their feet,       and their cauls,
and their round tires like the moon,
19 The chains, and the bracelets,    and the mufflers,
20 The bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs,
and the headbands, and the tablets, and the earrings,
21 The rings, and nose jewels,
22 The changeable suits of apparel,
and the mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping pins,
23 The glasses, and the fine linen,            and the hoods,
                                 and the veils.

24 And it shall come to pass,
that instead of sweet smell there shall be stink;
and instead of a girdle a rent; and instead of well
set hair baldness; and instead of a stomacher
a girding of sackcloth;             |                                       and burning, itching
                ***** instead of beautiful & moist.

25        |    |  Thy men shall fall by the sword,
                         and thy mighty in the war.
26 And her gates shall lament and mourn;
and she being desolate shall sit upon the ground.                    Re: Six pipe warm-up,          absolved from BoobsForTips
to beat a monster, white, averted face,       |         Numbers Digital Vivaldi:
The heat of the Fair Ladies of the cycles
that are in the good of the Factotums of the Business Valoretric;
they have thereby had the General                               of the Only
Loudspeaker's place blame on anyone that vectors.    Pulp
To talk til nine at night,            the cold of the foreigner
or to move into the future to change the sweat
                                            of thy tiny Heisenberg-****
Mesh
Lay up the Unless shirt feel part of the Ottoman Empire
opposites opposite direction to lay on the curricular
standing up for the newly penned Beam forever
a half arch-born parents who struggle and can imagine
wearing the right drug;  ADHD is sheathed in research
to create the false appearance
CAEC Darkness LIES A little to the right) image of the ancient (Law)
and football. *** discrimination        "Nothing has changed, run (LAX)
Normal proportions (+) and a good solution seems to be a mistake.
Windows - France ( "A"), and so on. || ||| | The fear
(Republic) (Portugal), IPA (death) / Djip Varshaja / service.
                      And this one could ask for a doctor developer.
The lack of defects (separately), (               ) (           ); Gorgon (no less)
The advanced mode:
What it is to your reputation? Me: I Run to the Romans.
Philip does not have the ability to consider.        Darwin
email contacts, please, no information.
In addition to the police. It is not a mutation; The magic is man.
When an application, the effect of Humic States
Coach languages and many courses we finish at the end of time.
It is based on Gaul (naphtha) Budget (Nations)
API (Asia) / Dɪpoeɪv / Kumari (SP)   is simple.
(Music Direct) of Rigel and Turkey IV    
                       (at least unit), and (+)
| And make east juice - - - - - - - - -
Azur ( "or"), French, or French!
(Not to mention that the worry is not true)
and a "debt" IPA (United Kingdom)        ( 'strong' club)
/ Dɪpoeɪv / ****** - SAP (Fuchs easy network Featured
(Link) Micro (This is most likely to be out of ignorance;
The current wisdom,                   and the patient is a man who needs online.
(A refugee is an integrity | (NC) in the interim. ||
Johnny Noiπ Sep 2018
They love other women's ****** mothers;
w/ an eye for the ***** mother of the girl
the day the life of a good red & black donkey,
the space poet's body; that beautiful head
of the years long defunct hot snooch & black feet  
w/ the white old manure technique; think of the
Americans w/ their young  left choosing Jesus Green
& finding gold poetry;              the beauty of the way
of life the mind of a child,      the ancients of the sun;
the money to work hard, ******* place to visit their state,
with the stars of a woman,
of the poet to the name of
the future of **** & women,
the death of the word of the
goddess of the blood is called
the sea of ​​her ***** does the real thinking;
            lost his good kids in the goats' hair,
big baby blue,           the better the hand
for they knew the door of the lunar days
of the heavens lives,   making the whole,
however, strong drink, & said,
Igor of history, m-theory gone cold
like the star of St. Pink
three miles from the rock with a wild cat feel;          
widely Medusa's public works ****
undergraduate mouth opening of Barbie;
book of ornaments, time's clinical edge,
yellow mothers;      yech, brown nature *****
eating worms,          running sweetly through the leaves,
                                    to keep putting in a lady Russian,
Ivan friend's brain;               wet song society
especially for boys, only open the     windows for the smoking firebrands;               the ****** of the material
of the heights of being filled        w/ the blind
& perfect guys I am writing to dancing the matter,
he asked fiction's revolution to say, the soul of 'evil',
under the spirit of this form in turn they care to hear
the secret of the modern eating;     Talk as the toes of the six
a lot of stripper the mirror of the legs
of the blonde ***** voice of the gods,
the prophet, we read of his sister & brought him to the field of the history
    of the music school of his dreams;
fall are Muses gonna lives alchemy,              empty, dying, walking w/out understanding glassy ***** smoke & science forever, angel,
simply said the buried computer meaning talking education,
concealed gun, Chinese Christian, imagine how he feels
his lover saw to the radio arena properly; repented by killing monsters to maintain the body to remember my daughter;
she knew the midday meal, we must first be
moved to a table w/ natural skinny ghost town
Friday guns & gypsy dances around the corner
ardently sensing teeth in the temple & bringing
the planet heat lights mom Einstein's abstract
wave plastic leather paradise: Jack,The soil is
enough to hold a shade; he stood, & kissed him,
& the ways of the invisible in-the light
of the wilderness of the ****** of ladies w/ the faces of harlots,
they are given a reward;             he was seen to play plural
& fell it what takes to stand up as far as it leaves the second watch
of the flames,      they call the old man going abroad Latin,
perhaps, to move the public he does not seem to be sweaty
w/ new Readings;    is  hot the fate of the center of the skin,
which is he was alive,             or the truth of taking to wearing his clothes,
& starting a teenage                return to the goddess' knees,
to speak of the roll                                  & leave the *****,
the happiness of a stomacher,                  a witch;
part of making them to pass *****, wide open & dying in *****,
of course, heads of grain, thin, Null & [           ]       |  
is the link between the mountains,
the mistress                of the queen,                      |       thou tongue
of the insane ones who breathe in the middle of Asia,
a part of their opposite extremes,                    BEAC ***, he was a grown;    
A knowledge of the languages of​​ propaganda;
Eve dreaming sitting on a white couch belched
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
.                                              for V. &c.                                    .

Love is love, because it needs to be satisfied,
you need to be united. Desire; love, feelings,
daily treatment problems... / Cardinal death,
love, love, do you love it? I love you. I love you.
What do you know about my love, happiness,
happiness, happiness and planning? Data is safe,
but warm, warm, warm, warm, warm, warm,
warm, warm, warm, warm, warm. But don't
love blindly, devoutly approach the pilgrimage
of faith, approve, praise others with your voice,
that others may find the content of this idea.
If you like this spirit of despair and honor,
the war in your country will be different.
This disease is love and a love which is a payment
that the family has already paid and their vows provide
ideas for therapeutic drugs and a spirit of happiness
and assurance. I am afraid of the fear of depression and
pain, the beginning of the crown, I will not say
that he will help eat my sacrifice, or distribute
the drugs. Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love
1:1 You have no greater happiness than love,
you have the benefits of love. Blessings and happiness,
happiness, happiness, happiness, harmony and love.
I see things. Desire doesn't look like you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I am the leader of love,
love, and love. Accommodations: clothing, psychiatry,
clothes and shelter, high temperature and the high fever
of a clothesline / clothes. Do you pray with strong
light to absorb the heat of summer?Love is love,
it wants to please God, so you must love unity as well.
love; everyday feelings of love, love, emotions,
emotions ... / heart death, spirit of disease, faith,
love, love, I love you? I love you; I love you;
For love, happiness, happiness, happiness, and the plan
says what do you do / server package out of my knowledge?
The data is safe, but warm is warm, hot, hot, warm,
warm, warm, warm, warm, warm, warm of fast
and healthy. But it is not blind the way prayer can be,
to be promoted to the pilgrimage of faith, to advance,
to be praised by others or to the voice, or the other
to refer to the content of this proposition.
And the heat of war in his country would be different
if we loved a torturer of this Spirit and his honor rising.
This disease is love and love is the flow of circulation
through families and its vows of alcohol provides
a crystalline form of medical needs and a spirit of joy
and friendliness. I will not fear of pain or punishment,
how the crown has started and explained that it would
help me to take care of my sacrifice to be distributing
the medicine, nor is it anything else in them. Love, love,
love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, worry that
you do not feel as much as on the day of the day.
1:1 You are above all the love of great excitement
and not of love, but good luck. Prosperity and happiness,
happiness, joy, happiness, harmony, love. sees things.
Love does not love him. I love you; I love you;
I love you; I love you; I am the leader of love, love, love.
Heat and high fever for bed, dress, emotional shelter,
clothes and shelter, clothes / lines everyday.
Prayer assemblies with a difficult fire to heat a different
amount of heat in the summer? Love is love,
because you want to be satisfied, you need to be united.
Desire; love, feelings, daily healing problems ... /
Cardinal death, love, love, do you love it? I love you.
I love you. What do you do in my knowledge for love,
happiness, happiness, happiness, and plan? The data is safe,
but warm, warm, warm, warm, warm, warm, warm,
warm, warm, warm, warm. Be not blind in your prayerful
approach to the pilgrimage of faith, improvement,
praise of others and others voices, others may find the content
of this idea. And if you like this spirit of despair
and your honor, the war of war in your country
will be different. This disease is love and love,
it is a payment that has been shed by a family,
that the oath provides the idea of ​​healing medicines
and a happy spirit and assurance.
I fear fear of depression, suffering, beginning
of the crown and I do not say that he will help
to eat my sacrifice to distribute the medicine.
Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love,
love 1:1 You do not have the greatest pleasure
and love of all, you have the love of the benefits.
Blessings and happiness, happiness, happiness,
happiness, harmony, love. I look at things. Desire
does not like you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I am the leader of love, love, love.
Accommodations, wedding dress, psychiatry,
clothing and shelter, heat and high fever for clothes
/ clothes. Do you pray with a hard light to absorb
the heat of summer? Love is love, he only wants to please
God, so you must love and unity. love; daily feelings of love,
love, emotions, feelings ... / heart death, disease spirit,
faith, love, love you; I love you; I love you; I love you;
To love, happiness, happiness, happiness,
and the plan says what are you doing / server package
on my knowledge? The data is safe, but hot is hot, hot,
hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot heat by the fast
and healthy. It is not, however, the blind, the manners
of prayer can be, advanced in her pilgrimage of faith,
went forth, is praised by others, or by Voice, or the other
is to the content of this proposal. And the heat of war
on his country would be different if we love one
torturer of this Spirit and the price of it is increasing;
This disease is love, and love is the flow of traffic
through families and vows of alcohol provides
a crystalline form of medical needs and spirit
of cheerful and friendly. I will put out the fear
of the fear of pain, of punishment, the manner
of Earl began and explained to her to help take care
of my sacrifice might be to distribute the remedy,
nor is anything else in them. Love, love, love, love,
love, love, love, love, worry that you do not experience
as much as in the day of 1:1 You are over all things,
the love of the great enthusiasm, and not from love,
but good luck. Prosperity and happiness, happiness,
joy, happiness, harmony, love; he sees the things;
Love is not love him; I love you; I love you; I love you;
I love you; I am the leader of love, you love, you love.
Heat and high fever for the bed, dress, emotional shelter,
clothing and shelter, clothing / lines every day;
Prayer assembly with a difficult fire to heat a different
amount of heat in the summer? Definitions of heat noun
the quality of being hot; high temperature. it is sensitive
to both heat and cold synonyms: warmth, hotness,
warmness, high temperature, hot weather, warm
weather, sultriness, mugginess, humidity, heat wave,
'hot spell intensity of feeling, especially of anger or excitement.
words few men would dare use to another, even in the heat
of anger synonyms: passion, intensity, vehemence, warmth,
fervor, fervency, enthusiasm, excitement, agitation, anger,
fury verb make or become hot or warm. the room faces north
and is difficult to heat synonyms: warm, warm up, heat up,
make hot, make warm, reheat, cook, microwave, nuke,
zap; become hot, become warm, get hotter, get warmer,
increase in temperature' Translations of heat noun calor
HEAT, warmth, ardor, glow, summer, fever aestus tide,
HEAT, surge, agitation, flaring heat, glow ardor ardor,
HEAT, eagerness, flame, glow, burning fire fervor HEAT,
glow, passion, ardor, seething, commotion flamma flame,
HEAT, blaze, Fire, passion, Love;
cancer, crab, HEAT, claw, Nipper, south incendium
burning, conflagration, fervor, HEAT, Fire, arson
incaendium wildfire, HEAT, conflagration, burning,
arson, firebrand incoendium swelter, HEAT, wildfire,
conflagration, burning, arson vapor vapor, HEAT,
steam, smoke, warmth, vapour vapos vapor, HEAT,
steam, smoke, warmth, vapour ignis Fire, light, HEAT,
flame, conflagration, beacon libido ****, libido, whimsy,
desire, WHIM, HEAT lubido ****, WHIM, HEAT, desire,
caprice, libido missus cast, sending, HEAT, shot,
throwing, hurling motiuncula HEAT, cauma caldor HEAT,
warmth cauma HEAT verb calefacio warm, heat, melt,
thaw, excite, anger calfacio warm, heat, melt, thaw, excite,
anger concalefacio warm, warm thoroughly, heat, calefy
concalfacio warm, heat, warm thoroughly, calefy incalfacio
warm, heat incalefacio warm, heat fervefacio
simmer, heat, boil, melt suffervefacio warm, hot, heat
subfervefacio warm, hot, heat tepefacio warm, heat
suffio incense, burn, fumigate, besmoke, perfume, sear
subfio incense, fumigate, besmoke, perfume, burn, sear
vaporo vapor, heat, steam, warm, smoke, vapour calefacto
thaw, heat, warm, melt calfacto warm, heat, melt, thaw
calesco warm, grow warm, heat, warm up, grow hot,
become hot incalesco warm, heat, catch fire, passion
concalesco heat, warm, become warm, become thoroughly
warm, glow, flush accendo inflame, kindle, light, fan,
ignite, fire incendo burn, kindle, fire, inflame, ignite,
light incaendo incense, light, light up, burn, fire, ignify
incoendo incense, light, light up, burn, fire, ignify incandesco
whiten, incandesce, fire, heat intepesco warm,
heat infervesco boil, warm, heat percoquom bake,
heat, ripen, scorch, blacken exuro burn up, consume,
burn down, burn out, burn to ashes, set on fire calficio
make warm, heat, excite, Rouse, vex, trouble Love is the first fish.
1: 1 is not true, but the truth. Some time after application.
(Category). Today (average) in London (a) white wine or red wine
(for example, people's health) (the "brain").
They say the colors of colors and curiously colors
[2] gardens, along with other food and bacteria. |||| ||||
1. I am £ 13,000. Research (room) and image (4)
provided by local police. || However, it is fine, it is easy to find. 1. Genetewiwi yešenišikitine French colors and later years.
Los Angeles, New Loreši, New Holy Roman Emperor
Julian the Emperor sixth program in Russia and found
"two" trainingbefichēšikorochi
French philosopher and shoes in Europe.
For as you have drunk the water,
it is in itself, is slow to anger, and of great kindness,
and he came and dwelt in his own house, is it?
I have been using very good technology,
but in the book that he wanted to say that peace,
coffee and Canada by the Canadian past history.
In the morning, a dentist's city, the historical yeshife.
Every week the children.
Yiha Jacob, and "women (and others playing in the text)
are the lowest in London and" Islam is "to help as soon
as possible through war," of the sort "to tell the truth,
in fact, compete (12) for the musicians everywhere
the ability to game for a long time,
doctors colors Skoseg one of the major
French 6 visitors in this way is that it is a horse different.
In king Julian 15, and the protection of the peace movement,
France, France created the crew of "God and Christ
in the form of a glass  or medical bir ' archet'ene gigabytes,
one of the two or glass
yešišileše ouoiav glasses. German Gomel called out to me
and said: "I am members of the Federation" .Love first fish.
Love is the first fish. 1: 1 and he true.After ESQ.
Information (section). On the right is used
(among other things) allows girls (among others)
the end of the season to sign T (a) does not include /
encapsulate the red as a group of wines from the wine
region of London, said. Different colors and skin colors
The terms [2] Extinktorium in the gardens
of broken blood vessels to the paths of salvation
There are in good health. |||| |||| 1 1. I am a thief
of 13,000 pounds. Prescribed by the case (local)
products graphic (4) to local officials. || Sometimes
it's easy. And all the words are good. 1. In the Sanskrit
and six years the colors in the garden with the French
in the sky? Because of two men is the same
as the art of Tele-N. clear the air Los Angeles
And his mother, the queen, and of Julian the throne
had six of the first poets of the French, the Russian
and the European side in the summer, a lot of Falakarokrax at home;
1 to begin to ask: What do we do after drinking port
poverty at home? I pierced
Pedicures ME COME you are noble;
And as far as the gates of the connecting points,
do not need to us and a cloud without a book
in peace; She began to remember the words
of our ancestors, Gliding away, from the top,
in the crag of the rock that is, in so far
as he perceives himself to be a wall,
mountain and young people in Canada
These machines november
There will be a father reading
about Bettie's in the books of history;
New member is a dentist in Germany ...
And the Guy came to the convent in a tunic
of his hour was come which is not only
the way they are given to the twelve,
The Golem in Europe, "1, the column began
to love fight.True in the first, true, true, true,
true is returned The Esq.Test (section)
is a condition that girls (Among others)
Perth (among others) to the end each cone T (a)
does not include / Glory side If the color
is the wine to drink in London say the skin,
they do not differ in the garden and I am your God
and I have parks and blood came out of the health ||
standing [2] The four extinctorium skin. |||||||
The thieves 1,000,13 8 grams (12) that produce
1 and crops, is the host of a fisherman, that is.
The Gauls, Sanskritian of colors In the six
hundredth in the garden, in the sky: Technically,
in the same Tele- For two Angels plan
The spirit is ordinarily the Emperor Juliana,
Queen certain French Europe developments
Wide 15 of life, the song of the Russian
And peaceful option open
That's vorite sun "and one of the ones healing
football, or the middle of the crystal;
THOMAS come about Glasscrax
"The lives and told the council:
The condition is the big mouth of Arty Spreader
"MECOME not at work
he began to teach his ancients mention
is the access to the EP and in Canada free
in the mountains; timber mid-January. Father Bettie
The universality of Christ in human history, German
role-playing had taken the city that would bear
no grievance against the rest of Europe
and the wind blows and Dada's Fly has gone, saying:
"I am in the camp." Love is the first fish. 1: 1 = You.
Love ...

Love is love. Because then you wish you were
still not satisfied, it is necessary to stay at the same time.
relationship; Like in doubt for peace, for the day ... /
mate, death, love, love it! I love you. I love you.
What do you know about love, happiness, prosperity
and planning? Data is not safe to be so hot.
And the blind faith of the voices of the others
to praise him however, I cannot come near you
and make you better so that I might see what
would be the ideas of others. Pain honors his country
to change. Death is the separation of love
and the love of the above, the more the spirit
of his oath, and in general the reward of the
experiments with drugs changed in the faith
and to be happy. [Time], pain, suffering, and they
do not fear that the crown has to be in the food and drugs.
Love, love, love, love, love, love, love is not a good:
1: 1 oppose each other. You will get a good love.
The benefits of happiness and love. But what did you see?
You do not want to see. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I am a teacher of love
and affection. Instead, dress, food, clothing, mental flow,
height and tall clothing. I want you to commit
to the hot summer.
Johnny Noiπ Aug 2018
The Beforetimes is that period
of time that was ancient when
the ancients were still modern.
Each new day we learn something valuable amidst the pain inside we gain
what are the marching orders let me be the first to explain:
A coward dies 1,000 deaths a saint dies but one
in the ancients circle let them mark down but none
beauty in the famous beast lie down gently and repeat
a ballpark figure that one deserves to recapture

love has its roots down deep and structured for all to notice
how you had fought so hard and fierce my one truest love is gone from here
a challenge to be free is a question of time my one solution is using my mind
living on the edge and its going to my head sitting up at night all alone in bed
following the rainbow to the sky I see a reflection of you pass me by
Our war were in is almost over its so hard to believe I lost my lover...,

pierce the moon beam to the center of the heart
Johnny Noiπ Aug 2018
the ancients would be offended
at being called ancient; so ahead
of anything that came after that
modern technology hasn't caught
up to them yet & won't;    
it's specialty
pure destruction,
digging holes,    fiery
explosions &                  deadly gas
clouds that will malignantly affect
generations to come on the cellular  
& chromosomal level
[besides polluting the water
supply w/ psychoactive chemicals];
               certain things the ancients
built are still standing & other thing
so grand although gone,
we still know about them [Palla
Athena, Colossus of Rhodes,
    Delphic Oracle; &c., &c.;
Stonehenge, Easter Island,
    pyramids, to whole lost cities;
    my buddy posted a Polaroid
online of our old neighborhood
c.1974; everything in the
                picture is gone
Properly or improperly...connected,
Wired...or rewired,
Banded, disbanded or not,
Augmented in a virtual reality;

The world evolves from evening to morning,
With miracles every sunup,
Brilliant minds vending awesome,
Of things never before seen,

But are these...really?
The ancients, haven't they?
Surely extraterrestrial,
Bifrost, Valhalla... Asgard?
Tech today sees manaybamazing feats of wonder and spectacle that makes you wonder if something out worldly maybe behind such divine inspirations. CURIOUS.
Butch Decatoria Nov 2018
(For Black History Month 1998)


i have a wish
to be profound...
   to be proud and stronger
   and carry myself like the **** poets on Def Jam
voices of Kenya and kings, emblazoned
with wisdom, respected / permanence
tanned in words of Malcolm & Martin's reign...
   to have passions of Nubian queens
   wear a crown to herald my approach
head held high
   without raising a calloused hand,
   copper polished hearts
A presence that only demands simplistic
of silences in the awe, the inspired
unchallenged in my reverence--an African / American ability
   choreography / invention
   the first to dance, when others fear to
to keep it real and say it loud
my human wishes, strong, profound, proud...
sometimes
   gentille...

i wanna be black...
like King Cobra, a hood to umbrella fright
with venom from just my stereotypical sight
   immobilize and paint caucasians whiter
   to be well endowed yet humbly
complicated,
angry but with proven reasons unrequited,
to be singled out by mere appearance
alone, a Halley Berry poster, child - dealing drugs,
   respected yet in the poetry of chains
   creative even in these multi-colored pains
from a thousand lands of strife
music is sister, artistic is brother life
become ingenious
   saxophones in the moody blues,
   athlete of hurtles, jazz / boxing fights / sang...
gold medals, worthy for full frontal
news...

do i amuse you, with these longings?
think do you - it's a cursed delight?
   but life only
   excels with each challenge: our battles
against ignorance / shame defines
the worth we're given
our lot mostly restricted, our lions tamed
perseveres - tho' weep the dust of our ancients names,
and bleeds these,
our cotton soft truths some mistakes
   and Dolby stereotypes revealed
   re-assigned
now worn like brand new:
a garden painted stronger
roots - and robes of shackles' / thorns
sharp with unlocked prejudices
   brown can do no more (for you sir)
   criminal confidences find the unmoving wave of faith
a prominent jaw-line, obelisk-lips
kiss and smack / wet with loving lengths
it is ... no hurt in these earthen eyes
   evident
   stoic, strength, serenity
mine to dance and sing my apathy instead...
about the history, i wish to dis
yes, re-avow
empty empathies before,
   experience my thousands, marching
   Melato’s at the founding fathers' doors, will show
you how to open house
these ghettos of / our violent villages / of tar & soot
shadow our poor ever the more
our stars shine on
   broadway be our stage / Stomps / in the heart, hopes,
   styles rap / songs to battle racial profiles
racial cops in devil blue,
beating brothas, home video tell our news,
while our rich forget the rest
******* **** in their cribs
re-pimped, yes, ******* new money & *****
   of course, they are the talented ...
   almost gods on Apollo / knock on wood...
the music is still
the song still is
the foot is stampeding
the noise will be loud,

i will be proud
i will be profound
   in this time of redefinition,
i will be strong
(i wanna be black) like Etta James
at last...
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
If the strength and superiority of the ancients
is the commander of thousands and he complains
that he has help from the donors and leadership,
I do not want to go down; I do not know what
makes the first classic, recognized servants use
the design and operation of the sports system -
Sky Box and free glasses of cognac and white
wine. Fun: the port contains a radio for a wedding
without a wedding. Trees are not included in the
above rates, and agents are not free trade. Of all
words that are not and which, as you know.
To be able to read books and learn about the
treatment, the Wall Street fish were enriched
to buy it. Other |\applications will be podcasts,
but also the best radio stations and those who
can not find a place to worry. And paint the best
way to work on the observation tower, the robot
left a beautiful woman there. According to 1 John
Rose, and after careful analysis he said England;
Paul, however, when I wave him, there can be
no radio waves. Radio messages about the wedding:
a bravery of the ancients, get married in fast water.
If she kills herself and complains that I do not want
another thousand governors to help me; I do not
know who first met with the cold and planned the
servants, when they had to be happy in the whole
sports system - boxes of cognac and white glasses
are free. Fun: has one radio for the wedding ceremony,
and on one of the weddings, he said that the trees
are not included in the tariffs, and the agents are
free trade; all the words he knows. Read books as
part of the new Wall Street treatment to buy from
significant rich fish. The complaint, the Dutch value
brightly illuminates the radio station if there is smoke
in Big House; The manager who provides the
dynamic compiler and radio station is the best,
best and largest, and there is no other. Other
applications will be podcasts, radio stations,
but in the best places you can also find your place.
Color is the best way to work with a glass robot
on the left, a beautiful woman. According to John
Rose and Internet analysts in England, San Pablo
is flying with radio waves. Radio with water from
                                                    | bricks | to wash.|

— The End —