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sticky kisses for the missus just
to prove that i'm no wuss
and if it tastes good enough for you
it's good enough for me too.
don't you miss the blissful ignorance
chinese whispers and rumours
written on the tarmac in chalk
for the wind to pick up
and carry on to other schoolyards
eat lots of pineapple, it'll make you taste good.
did she eat ten a penny aniseed sweets for me?
she seeps liquid liquorice
that binds my teeth in a bittersweet grimace
stretching from ear to ear. she hates the taste
and i hate to share my just desserts.
innocence is a burden that burns
like empty lungs, and no breathing in
again until i get what i want,
bad enough to make the children
want to **** themselves. when they want
sticky kisses before bedtime.
anxiousgeek Feb 2017
Sometimes all we have
are dreams like aniseed
a strange moment
we can't quite identify.
Or enjoy.

I breathe in stale air
sleep on sheets
rucked up beneath me
wake to lines imprinted
on slack skin.

I twist into them
sweet and bitter dreams
that go together
better than I sleep.
These are long nights.

Another bedtime,
slipping into darkness
or slipping away
who's to know the difference
in the light of day.

r.l.w
Diab did Nov 2013
I'm innocent 
everything goes opposite
LiFe has no abashment 
Problems are objects
Life is aberrant 
shoots hard bullets 
I'm innocent 
Life is full of coincidences
Hope people understand 
Life ? People abases 
Its a painful wound
No more absolves 
I'm innocent
I'm tired of myself
Sick of being the same
I feel like a werewolf 
Me , I did defame 
Myself is just a calf 
I'm innocent 
This what life wants 
No more tolerate
Live in aborts 
Small sins accumulate 
Chokes me with ascots 
I'm innocent 
I don't want this
Live in aversion 
It's only my bris 
Love must accretion 
Or live like the ******* nazis 
I'm innocent 
I NEED her back
Important in my life circle
keeps me on the track 
Every word is a canticle 
Wrack hack her lack clack 
I'm innocent 
She's the one i NEED
My life is She
Sweet, tasty like the aniseed 
The most important strophe 
Makes it shinny and adorned 
I'm innocent
I don't want drugs
I hate to scab 
Its not brags 
It hurts like a stab
Drugs is crags 

Edit by: Melanie on this fourteenth day of September, twenty thirteen
Sara L Russell Jun 2012
She stares into a pool reflecting midnight stars
A scrying glass of mystic mystery
A portal to dimensions where the brave may pass
Without a password or a golden key.

The shimmer of green oceans in the mind's third eye
Reflects a myriad of distant lands
A chalice raised; a sip that brings the lips to sigh
Wingbeating spirit hears and understands.

The trees are hung with lanterns giving amber light
The sky's festooned with stars in veils of cloud
Reflecting in her eyes. In decadent delight
She takes another sip and sighs aloud.

The light green potion lingers lightly on her tonge
Unfolding tastes of mint and aniseed
Promising deeper pleasure while the night is young
Where evening moths and fairies stop to feed.
beth winters Feb 2011
and they'll be sun, and fresh pages, text spilling, twisted, frothing at(out of) the mouth, they will be ghosts, transparent, don't touch wet paint, fingernail ghosts. symbiotic isn't smooth, biological, organic twining of vines you could cut with a nail, picture frames of postcards of gilt china and five sixteenth caviar plates. rhythms follow their own pattern, a set onetwoirresponsiblenumber of a monday pattern, rash birds, ink birds beat in the thrumming warm alive of you. curled, embryonic coats in white and grey form three barriers in notes of bibliophilia. sleeping aniseed furls sails of pretty youth and immortality, secrets -hush!- in a tiny box of a hand, palm first and shining.
bleh Sep 2016
soft asphalt hills
breathe your way
in burgundy sleeves
frayed rusted shoefoil
of cobbled years

scatter your papers
march aniseed dreams
indent the sandstone wall
with your ha'penny smile

you, too, were a child of bones
upon the sea of bleached clay
ground saul and peter
breath of crimson lines

learning to crawl
through leather-bound walls
but getting caught
coiled on the grief
of noontide pebbles

the misery of whim
quiet dignity of nothing
gentle pride of the abyss

find cheap relief
in twelve chamber meals
lard and mushy peas in
tiled up garden rows

worn down by
the soft focus sun
passing by

call for your step daughter
sit her down
comb her hair
peel her clothes
like mandarin folds

a tar voyeurism
bored of lust
but locked in cruelty
out of old habit

admit it,
don't you want to
burn the beds
just to see whose sleeping?
to find your face,
among the retreating blisters?

a shallow water charlatan
slice off your wings
feed them to your pets,
laugh as they choke
on feathers and blood

  just like
the gulls outside,
always humming the same **** tune
for generation after generation,

yet still
they go out to sea to die
as they say, anyway
chimaera Apr 2015
Gritty paths,
escorting
whispering creeks;

stirred orchards,
laying a blossom
in aniseed breath;

a house in ruins.
Home.
Hardly.
26.4.2015
"Villageoise" - intended to mean a composition having a village as a theme...
Olivia Kent May 2015
Staring in the mirror.
What's staring back at me.
A naked flower with falling petals.
Bare and exposed.
Clothed in streaks of green leaves.
Vine I believe.
Dolmades' with uncooked lamb.
More likely mutton alternatively.
Served up with ouzo.
Staggering about in aniseed dreams.
Feed your eyes.
On what you cannot see.
Fired from elastic catapult flying free.
Cupids arrow missed.
Guess he's always pi**ed.
At the bottom of his list.
In a filing cabinet somewhere.
Let the world forget.
No regrets.
(c)Livvi MMXV
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
even i'm surprised at my palette...
i shouldn't be enjoying this...
this being a Bohemian absinthe liquor...
some strange pellets at the bottom
of the bottle... coming in at 60% proof
(read, past participle, i.e. "red":
not, reed, to)
my guess was... coriander seeds...
but no...
        it tastes like absinthe does:
few things put me off... easting or drinking-wise...
szechuan pepper: certainly turns me off...
the spice with the added tongue numbing...
evil food ingredient in the wrong hands...
but... aniseed? **** me... even i'm bewildered...
why do i appreciate this flavour?
well... it's absinthe...
it's a long way away from herr whiskers
and ms. amber of the whiskey...
or sweeter, finer than silk:
the greatest thing to come out of
the u.s. of A... bourbon...
this Bohemian absinthe "liquor" has all
the aniseed: Annie... not ANY: seed...
but an added twist...
the bitterness of an IPA: indian pale ale...
bitterness... that's another dimension
i appreciate...
mr. Joshua was defeated by a Crimean
Cossack... a balance of racial-baiting
has been achieved...
long distant cousin... actually:
no cousin at all...
   one's a Slav the "other" (me) a Slav...
lost the supposed attached E...
Germs & Germans in Berlin...
in London... once upon a time...
i much prefer etymology to Darwinism...
i like the history of words...
"like"... faux pas...
        ooh! ooh!
touchy-feely...
           my ooh to your: ouch...
lick some ice...
        it's an implosion of the burning
sensation...
humanitarian aid for
lobsters... it's apparently humane
to freeze them... first...
rather than boil them: outright...
and such are the concerns of English politicians
these days...
if i were asked... relatively speaking:
freezing something: alive...
is... more time spent on the same sort
of agony jested with boiling them
outright...
the usual Hapsburg absinthe: 90+% proof
tended to be sweeter...
i even allowed myself the whole
ritual of soaking up a cube of sugar
with the "stuff" and setting it alight...
i'd roam in havoc while displaying this
burning sugar-cube to
inanimate things in the kitchen:
catching a 2nd tier better shift at
proofing myself for bones & tendons:
and... ****** expressions that
i could turn into cold lamb poker...
etymology rather Darwinism...
Darwinism is big in the Anglophone sphere
of the world...
it's like... Copernicus in Poland...
a... an... ahem: a "national treasure":
a bit like Judie Dench...
but outside? history killer theory...
like: living in stasis: living with static...
from the ape to the current man:
the same old boorish ******* excuse:
but it's the 21st century...
                                                    and?!
everything was to be solved in...
the, 21st century?
everything was to become apparent...
clearer... rainbow lights flickers: "better"?
the excuse of all excuses:
but it's the 21st century...
it's a century not distinguished from
all the others that have passed...
well... there are some additions i wasn't
expected... electric bicycles...
moi... i like the idea of generating my own
momentum... it's not enough
to just press a foot on the peddle
of a oil drinking dachshund / horse...
i'm Pontius Pilate when i'm on a bicycle...
i've washed my feet clean on the matter
of having a carbon footprint...
count one of my awkward farts
as loosening up constipation:
not one with the cow brigade...
holidaying?
Havering County Park...
trees... forests & ****...
deer... foxes... horses...
the one time i visited Kenya i lounged...
and fed greedy macaques bags of sugar
and tea... and we lounged on the balcony
while security guards on site aimed
at them with slingshots...
- hardly think that the piano (only)
rendition of Wagner's:
Valhalla: the gods' entrance into...
is somehow anaemic...
then again... if Chopin or Debussy
or Satie were to be orchestrated...
just this once piece...
it's not anaemic... it's profound:
as ever a piano is... crashing down
in metaphors... it's not Ysaÿe
with his violin... you'd need a Westminster Bridge
for that, mate...
and a stray cat to keep you company...
you can reduce a Wagnerian
symphony to a mere: ahem...
ridicule on the piano...
but you can hardly make a Chopin out
of a Schopenhauer (shopping hour,
joke... like there's no joke: ha ha,
to begin with)
- my my... what happened
to these native folk... who told black comedy
jokes... it's like... they have been
stripped bare-back backwards....
and can't tell a saucy... acid proof joke
these days!
ah: i guess the imagination also dies...
a certain death: not the sort of death
associated with memory:
that fickle creature to begin with...
i guess it comes with the grounds to
make one's effort in...
the dodo undermining project of
the most schematised of men...
i guess i'm trying to posit a +1 scenario...
in a way that... Bukowski was chased for not
gearing up to the suicide squad while
Edward Hopper spent his days...
******* joyfully in Mexico...
- one of my pet peeves is...
how the English shorten names...
Edith becomes Edie...
Abigail becomes... Abs...
Matisyahu... Matthew becomes... door...
Matt...
Peter becomes Pete...
Thomas becomes Tom...
Jacob... well i like this one...
Jakub in ****** becomes Kuba...
you could even write this in katakana...
i abhor how the English shorten: "pet"
the most crucial nouns associated with a person...
i like the fullest of the full of the noun...
like... an apple is... not an app...
start off with yeast: end up with the Zeppelin:
ist...
for ****'s sake!
i'm chasing Zeppelins in my mind...
all the psychopaths are already leash-free...
i'm the schizoid... "problematic": üns...

your language is all tatters... tartan...
churns & chores...
if i were a closest neighbour:
geographically or / and historically...
a Spaniard... a German...
a Fwench-man...
ha ha... English being so unanimous in the lingua
franca domain could be obliterate
on the focus of nuance...

you can: rather: you could have had all the pride
that comes with the implosion of Empire...
but...
no luck... no here: not right now...
how the cards folded how...
so little of England actually remains at its
epicentre... das kapital...
frivolous women who... can... will...
cats have it all...
i like these bonsai specimens...
a dog is a creature most associated with men:
i don't like leashes...
cats allow me the leisure of:
no walking the **** out...
no leash... why would i want a substitute for...
ahem... "company"?

Edith should not be Edie...
write me that one... phonetically...
E-D... ****'s sake Edith!
Abigail becoming: Abs... is it... "cute"?!
i like the name: Abigail...
why a shortening "comparison"
with a six pack of Fosters?!
not matched up to a 6 footer of prospect
dating material of a man in the torso region?
- i abhor this sentiment in English...
shortening names...
one wouldn't shorten the noun:
trousers... trou?
pet names me not like...
apes are for us!
       Darwinism didn't simply bother a vanity
of man, according to Freud...
while Marx based his ideology on...
Hegel's lecture notes.. it's not like
he read the phenomenology of spirit...
                          Darwinism for me kills the concept...
nay! more the concern for history!
Darwinism doesn't **** off a human vanity:
what does Darwinism present:
everything has a purpose..
nature abhors vacuums..
physics, satellites... Newtonian projectiles
might like them so much...
in nature everything has a purpose...
there is no "room"... cube worth of "thought"...
how romance biased to suppose:
Devonshire had anything original to
posit... Darwinism in a nut-shell:
nature abhors vacuums
all is used to use...

what's allowed in the Anglo-sphere Empire
implosion: dicta...
curry curry curry...
we're all supposed to taste the food of
a superiority complex... prior to what happened
when Genghis Khan reached...
Crimea?!
squint eye:: BAL-WA-RUK...

i have here... a list of ingredients of the absinthe
i'm drinking


my foremost mistake was...
associating females within the confines
of deities..
i sketched them...
one: young... peering into a mirror
seeing herself old...
some others... i didn't have a **** of envy
for i sketched them...
too bad..

like the mythological drive for the will
of the Nazis...
sourcing their fakery in Scandinavia...
me?! Aryan... Samaritans...
pleb as whole...people most grieved...
start to chant in katakana...
in a makeshift of...

no... purely...  consonants...
the vowels extend the breath...
the consonants give base...
CHANT CHANT CHANT...
  
the list of ingredients of "that" Bohemian absinthe...
i'm aiming for the coriander pellets...
no chance: ****'s sake:
i'm not reading Czech... no ******
with a second name like
Conrad....
   how about Lothar....ever... would?
yew...

              awry: you: this... yew... yes?! no?!
whichever... right about... now!
Donna Mar 2018
so the drink was on
form and it didn't want to
stop flowing at all

Fizzy dizzy pop
brandy and Coke happily
enter my big mouth

So there we were me
and my lovely Deano
havin a great good dance

we took over the
dance floor , o it was so nice
we giggled and swayed

to 80's music
Big balloons hues of universe
Floated delicately

Pretty names blossomed
Happy Birthday wishes bloomed
Lots of lovely food

okay so we had
a few shots , *** we
now have dragons mouths

we taste aniseed
It was rather revolting
But it made us smile

I danced with my great
kids we had such a lovely
time we all smiled lots

O the food was so
scrumptious , chicken in wraps dipped
in chilli silly

red sunset sauce o
it tasted divine , me and
Dean ate it all up

Oh no my daughter
puked it over my sons van
Oh dear she's collapsed

*** I've put
my hand in her puke , oh jeez
The joys of a mum!!!

Hey I go indoors
Albie our pup as pooped twice
in our living room

Two large parcels on
my floor bless him and he
waggled his cute tail

My neighbour is in
a right old state too , they are
our lovely sweet friends

O the night is dark
The moon as just disappeared
And pavements are dark

The air is chilly
The trees look like big shadows
Cars parked silently

House is so quiet
Dogs are all dreamy sweetly
Everyone is drunk

But not nasty drunk
Merrily drunk with 'I love
you' cuddle kissy

Frizzy pop wizzy
Nizzy dizzy lizzy pop
Jazzy mazzey lop

Sparkling champagne
Bubbly gently softly
hic ups a big burp

White silky table
seat covers looking rather
dashing dreesed on chairs

Gives a really nice
authentic feel of kindness
filled with magic stars

I close my eyes and
my mind is spinning around
And I feel sick too
Oh jeez a goodold  ***** not good for u but. Once in awhile it's nice to just have lots of fun ***;**
We laugh and quite hysterically
as they ****** me and by me
we
mean you.

Chrystallised calamity trapped in
amber permanently,
an eternity of diffused light.

And it's the cutting edge that cuts us clean,
the torso of the queen told well the story
wherein the demons dwell.

The modern mobsters.

They're selling people on the market stalls
with popcorn mix and aniseed *****
and dontya know
people sell very well as ornaments
to decorate the boardrooms of
bored business men.

Swift was wrong,
we're the midgets and the giants were with us all along
it's just we couldn't see them with our eyes
lashed to the treadmill.

By any stretch a longer stretch of my imagination
would get me two to ten
in the pen'
upstate,

but they clap me in irons and
throw away the key
and that screws me
for everything.

There's nothing quite like a memorial
to remind you we should all be thankful
for something.
Avouleance Oct 2018
Ringing red lips, resounding around the room.
Aniseed accent, lingering for me to lick off long after.
Trembling taste.
And you smell blindingly bright.
While your pheromones take lightest flight on softest feathers.

And in a million more ways than I can convey.
You impress yourself upon me.
But I can’t say.
Because the words are wrong.
Not at all applicable.

No one knows what it means for eyes to chime.
Or how a song can spin.

I worry when the iceberg looks down and sees only the surface of the sea.
What it must think.
Wondering why it doesn’t sink.

And all I want to tell you is
You’re more.
Final Ellipsis Chapter XXXI
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichi
Transversal Valleys  The  Ferments - Parapsychological Regression

Vernarth says:
“In this regression, I was fascinated in the final capitulars mode, in the lands of the transversal valleys of Alhué, Pichi- Chile. Where I have the cradle of incipient mythology, among spirits sheltered in valleys of dusty roads and the fringed concessions of the Lord of Death, in the full lands of the Collateral Valleys, Land of Borker, Kaitelka, Leiak, Espantacuculi, Autraldisis, Hyperdisis, Universe Zig Zag, Wasos, Spermazoid Fable and Mountaineers etc; that will make up the mythological and fabulous beings glossary in this region of the Transparent imaginary castle; that it is my residence and my parents without limits or parallels in a large estate of divine blood and myself; Vernarth de Sudpichi, Wernarth-Werthian of compulsion and steely romanticism, of the majestic living spirit of the astral Commander of Alexander the Great of Macedon. Here I am also Macedonian, in the domains of my ancestors with more than seven hundred years, which will be held in this savage auction of all the Horcondising ranchers, in convalescence before my purgation. All will be deprived of their normality, and I not of the mine! But in this regression, I have to set off with all my ancestors to the high mighty Horcondising; Castle of our aristocratic lineage that will take me to my father Bernardolipo and my mother Luccica; making me her son again and Hetairoi Commander of the magnanimous Phalanges of Alexander the Great.

Vernarth, beyond a before, collects honey from the ******* of a pale blowfly. By opening his sclera, with a bad step, he tries to continue dreaming, to subtract minutes from the contained time and neutered micro space of his Period. What would Mr. Hefestos say, if the light of Jesus would be the basis of a tri-founder Chronophone, starting a spectral casting, Ideal to roll from the top, among so many organic masses and his round neck? On this clinging to the jars of altered bacteria that ran in terror through the native forest, their languages continued to ferment, devoid of terrifying languages, in which their piggy banks and clods of fear were drained, that new fabric roofs rise through the raids. failed. Sour loves and sour laborious flashes on his empty molars, sublingual substances bubbling intraorally and intraorganically. Through the other orifices and interstices, new intestinal sounds drawn, calm the rhythm not only of the distended ignorance of my sustenance from apples and bacteria trembling between my steps to redeem. Some celeripedes sharpen their stride, and others weakly digest the faded day of advancing without trick or fiction, to that anorexic politics, of not stopping walking, even if the cold makes me amnesiac, I will sit naked at dawn to paint on the exhausted mural, I will wait the downpour of colors to rearrange this sad and melancholic song. They will explode as with their marsupial bags on the grouped beings that were waiting to be surveyed to persuade the bad omen of being auctioned to another rank confessed aphonic ferment, in this vessel on a stove of so much frank sliding, without stopping without false support, ending the day from where I left, at the table next to my feline Goddess Pirucha, free from this press, which does not issue any limits, only seconds that run with gasping flares at myself running with my back to my identical, arriving where my anachronistic intervals speak, my new births. If it is that I break off the cliff and am born again in new strides, if I am or was I...?

Vernarth says:
“At five in the morning we sit down to watch the exhausting specters, royal masters come for you and me to give the diadem or mushroom halo over the Horcondising. Adelimpia my grandmother, takes between her hands, tireless lines by palmist possess, in her iris laser, makes her see more than read with blisters in her eyes from so much reading, poppies in her hands from so much watering the mountainous skies. They get up, Kaitelka takes all the Downian language, Aunt Trueno, fight the pyre of loyal false clowns and bio dreams, to reprimand the living eternally, what I collect from today will be wood for my candle, so in the Ganges of Pichi I will rasmillar the ashes of other handsome brave men trying to die. When I return, my right hand will fit each year of my obituary anniversary, I will try to understand the shadow of pus from Thanatos lecturing to know, to die, maybe a thousand years will take me, but the Ceibo tree of my duplicate coral house will always take me where my Christ, making me thunder of years of round and round, to take me from my brothers and to roam the pasture tenderly by the thin clouds covering me on my pyre. Bernardolipo my grandfather, is with strands of alfalfa and in the hands of others, horses lacking in vitamins, lacking green palaces, salmon paths to announce with horns before leaving, with an arrival from the west to the east, both to narrow in their sleeves wounded, already drying off from the serous mountain spittle, in a pornographic nap of young killers. They close the portal of my Uncle Hugo, full of olive edges and dowels, whims and conditions of stars between grounds, in the well-run teeth of some swallowed shadows of the badly created threshold. Eight in roundabout…, eight feet looking at the night ground, rags that take the paste from their shoes, in the luster of beautiful life, and that is where I stay walking. They take their rakes of grafted winter plum housed in the suppuration of the caterpillar, with their interminable divine garments, with divine grace to overshadow it, she does for me what I do for her, every pain of the soul suffered by jealousy pain who wants to moo in the secretion of the wound, every little thing, every little life, preceded by the donor Pichi- bio, or microscopic life that strides along the cobblestones of the dying Bohemian lamp. They have to make captivating sounds, lurking sounds, Corti pipe ***** sweetness, sonic plant - sonic biblo in order to use it in sounds without clothes, which were once made of very generous acetate, or pieces to pay attention, when a green cricket sobs , for the departure of her beloved red cricket mother. How incapable we are of collecting memories never remembered, like the minimum dividing phrase between my heart and that of the cricket in the small corner of its left thorax. It's half past five, very close to the monk's valley, the Scarecrow, on his knees was picking up one of his gold teeth, the slime from the tapestry of his floor shone, and his clavicle was *****, almost cybernetic, moving away from one of his incisors gold teeth. When my maternal grandmother was surprised by Queen Anne, he blushed and gulped down another drain. Adelimpia, Bernardolipo, Aunt Trueno, and Anne or Queen Anne appeared, dancing in broken measures of Brahms dances, to meet the Horcondising massif, to open routes to the end of a purgative phase. The scarecrow, fell apart and covered his face, but when he connoted that he felt emotions, he joined them, so that in the dark dawn more stars could be seen as in the oven roasted milk, in stormy shadows and stormy ladles, for the snack of the cloudy adventure to reach the dreaded corner of beyond the Sudpichi that was left behind. The man of the cornfields, scare crows, stood out in the day, sharpened the night, to arrive quickly at the tabernacle of Joshua de Piedra, to finish the ranks of the proscenium, of the souls of the new space to dwell. When walking, between paths blown by the trapped chest of the giant melancholic flat-footed ogre, who was trapped in rags, but smelling of chamomile with blooming mistletoe shoots, lighting a corner match in the Zig Zag Universe.

Here the Cyprian squirrel smokes, hiding from rays and sparks, not situated internal winds, in the name of the dragged crushed leaves of certain minks of the crusades in Jerusalem and in the cut off Merovingian lives, placebo, gyroscope, trident, where my worst go balloons and emetic parties riding them in the microscopic rising of my Sun, in a cascade of external cries, where I pronounced the symbols of terror, in which Lepanto's blood runs. Serene faint orchid black blood; fled widow amidst stoning or slicing pyres.  Turbine oar, which circulates my right and left hand. The sand lapse twists, twists and becomes wet, ruminant fear of simply not sleeping, eternal chews of the moth-eaten wood of Nazareno, unsnailed nails that swallow my petite ivy hands. The four petards, with their shadows on their backs in late nights of bats from Nostradamus's closet, in this black and sweaty commoner night, I will dress with them, the clothes that will be spun in prophecies, as if walking through the sand of heaven in peace and final , in the dihedral of his own soul, and his temple adding zeroes in the depths of indisposed Love, of sudden love, of love that rises in angular planks and they rise with their little sticks from the devil's triangle, which thus took me at once in the brandy near the shadow of the epitaph of the stream and the smelly sky, ramshackle Heaven ..., Eden of pale exile. The tangent wind, touched the untouchable wind, walking in circles in the arms of a Samurai that glassy ..., in white stupor danced through the green grassland, in the stupid and feverish field, leaning towards a gentle rabbit, among swirls of the gene of a rodent crossing the legs of my grandmother Adelimpia, who moved her cane between the sheets of the new calendar, the year of the rabbit. Go upstairs with the others, stupefied by the moody fumaroles burning, I see the roofs of the Horcondising, I see their sweaty beams of gut fat from ****** henbane, thick veined beams, catching rodent teeth and rearing new claws, to tremble by the Ceiling veins drunk amidst plague scandals dying on the first try. Leiak, omnipresent vague spirit of the gentle water dancer, lives on the water with his chin and slug, his jocular back is seen, breaking the lines of wells between flesh and silhouettes.  Before the First Station, the first of the three remaining nights before reaching the Joshua de Piedra volcano. "



Apostle Saint John continues in a parapsychological trance:

“Queen Anne and Aunt Thunder look at each other with rye crumbs in their hands, walking along the swaying floor; the Goddesses are silent when they breathe again. Vernarth's father; Bernardolipo laces a log and a piece of cheese. Hungry cats jump to the tabletop, Hugh Uncle from Vernarth, lights the log, keeps nosing with thick-gauge chocolate, shafts of white chocolate and southern marshmallow. His grandmother Adelimpia bathes his hands in beautiful water, takes his bow, rolls up his sleeves and jumps to the round dough and to the celestine stone, cooking beautiful tortilla water, baptized on the edges of each penetrating eye. Leiak spirit, runs and superimposes the screen, in dinner show, for four that bulge guts before the tasty bread, Hugh, lifts his envelope from the front end, Bernardolipo takes out his imperfect hat, they eat Christmas rolls, with soft aniseed and nutty aromas as in threads. They eat within the ten minutes that Leiak allows him to eat, otherwise his peer monks of silence will ****** the thick crumbs from his tortillas, which run to his house in an anodyne mouth, cradling funny hallucinations, full belly, full of sleep, without owners, in vocal horns that sound the night, to get up later. Tired and fermented, they sit down to eat, to look reclining, on the warm ground of Heaven, and the heel of the entire green north continues walking along the estuary. Adelimpia sews a sock every night, to put it on the very top, so she would have two more socks left to knit, until she arrived at her high school, to meet Joshua de Piedra, to start the glorified wind, to mediate and reach eternal heaven with a stone, to the empty believers of the beautiful death, of the beautiful deaths of the Horcondising. Here they sleep, they travel, they stretch their hands to heaven, Adelimpia as a seal, now the King of Heaven is wearing, in the first idiomatic reverie that appears, Hildegard von Bingen…, and she collected flowers on the backs of the rabbits with blessed multicolored t-shirts. She tells them komme susser tot - wie ist diese Blau Rabbit? They reply Schoen hilde Blau - the wallhalla will go with us with messages and flowers, to distribute its pollen throughout the world. In the distance, circular northern lights hiccupped as they fell, endless troops opened the plague on the ground, mocking the imprint of the sandals of venerated magicians, of inordinate quadruped *****; Jacinta and Centella, brought the pantry, on the left back and on the third rib the image of Francesco Forgione, who on it had a bundle of corn bread, and milk from a cute sheep that they brought from the garden to taste the days of meek food items, and others in the plates covered by required hands, bread with raisins of old people served on the plateau. Centella with a good ***, she walked with her mother Jacinta, with a disorder of tender and finesse, next to two small donkeys hired from other dreams of a manger, with the muscular leaves of the oak, making the eyelids of the whale heavy down Kaitelka who sang next to the scare crows in delicious hibernation times, on the terrace where there never was one. Acacian sepals and tales of resinous sailors fell, as in the cellars of an entire ancient history, on the archaic and twinkling stables of the Horcondising, the sylphic kites flee swirling over the frightened green sky, like all the hands up on the shoulders of some mountain people , defying bad sleep before they wake up and spill their fury of corrosive acid on the supposedly nobles who wish to pass and cross the bleachers of their island feats, under a humble shoulder of tender feats, of dry leaves on the skirts of the good Lord; owner of the water and of all the eroded gorges of the waterfalls and combinations of the god of the rain that is about to fall.
Adelimpia prepared cornbread and rye from good waters, Aunt Thunder washed the waistbands, the scarecrows cleaned the rattle of his eardrum towards an empire of sounds and a planet of celestial waves, with bread without crumbs, in the face of the pandemonium that was coming. Pocket of loose thread, that is lost in the night and that springs from the day, with ostentatious manners, and how close are they?  While they read all the multicolored letters on the ground about the ceremonial flood. Joshua saw them as a colored fumarole, spoiling their shrunken auras, under the boot of a role stealth, where the brush lunge for her boots begins, which later loom among the epistolary letters of good from Zefián; steward of the greater demon, who would be forced to make the main stained glass, standing on the poles in each hermit tree to recruit the lordship riders of the massive autumn, in an eternal wailing of birch trees in harmony. Uncle Hugh, is a current that builds and circulates against gravity, outlines the chair, mother nature of the new hints of floating islands trying to touch the godmothers of the golden valley and the mysterious shine of their Huasos eyes, still drunk among their jugs of gunman colt. It cuts through the wind like an eternal wind from the Australdisis galaxy, like a snowball in the belly of a marmot, like lost fingers wearing shoes, and without gloves, as if getting lost to find oneself again preferring pale-flow sleds, to cross mounted on the loud silence in the snow at the top and its song. Queen Anne embraces the imagery of her husband Joshua, life and song, it came from the good, wild to beat the yesteryear, I live among trees handcuffed in the mist of the well armed. I bring pellets for my Winchester tired of his locked case, here he spent a whole day in the Lonquen meadows when his plow got jammed, plowing hard rocky backs and soldiers, today my beautiful sower in Valle de Oro, is dredged by the sacred image of our rosary, good Mary, who never tires of putting pillows on our prayers, like sticks in the air in her diluvium eyes. Larks appear, eating nits on the greasy hair of the evil devil, on the copulation of her planted females, ebbing and with amended pleasures, delimited, and atrophied awards for trophies of the good moment for dividing the entire time. She became uncomfortable walking and breathing, our tongues would become thin, and our arms would get tangled in the sticky grass. Leeches rubbed their exposed areas, gargles and spit, cut every minute of being able to regret the atomized step in their entire body. Time was wasting, there were no beings that injured themselves without knowing why they flagellated themselves on earth, since one day a calf suckled them at night on the hillside, running in better circles because of the milk they drank…. blowflies polished their aged wings, butterfly princesses undo their corset, making the world of Vernarth towards a little more toast of bells and books in the right pocket of the Christian beetle, who tried to read it further from the exile and illiteracy of an anthropoid that obscures its oblong patchwork, continuing in the work of educating oneself, of high eternal reigns trained and of forests of currents under the clouds of the night of the abandoned city.


They ferment, and their fingers and toes fall, from thousands of losses in this neglected city, distilled into fermentation eclogue, with malformed sins ascending by the bridle of Vernarth's grandfather; by flanking the great nose of his dilated and degenerate black horse, with an equine shape that transported him from individual to individual and hyper static, subtracting the ferment of his failed and frustrated past mistakes. Its hooves measured twenty-one meters in diameter; its **** seemed to be made of pincers that would crack any tender drawing on the yellowish sky of ceibo trees, of the stormy fermentation in the Horcondising. Adelimpia and Ann, counted and counted on the beads of the sacred rosewood, Hugh sweated his hands, in prone fluctuations of interaction, the Scarecrow and Kaitelca jumped on giant oblong drums, talking about the hidden meadows, and the words crossed for squander them on the repentant. On the left side the round shadow of the prophetic Evil chanted in reverberations with the waves of the curls of the massif, he was almost about to ***** between his eyebrows, the vain opera of Horcondising that did not sound, but if loudly they were corrugated the slopes mourning towards the navel of the hundred feet, which suffered denoting the strips of the nearby town hall, like a transparent soul, carrying in its lacerated hands some pity of retreating and reviving, what the true architecture of life, more than the form ..., makes the light that penetrates solids. In this way the rocky massif pulverized rugged reliefs, like annelids wheezing through the tops of the Infradeep openings, with three groups of three hundred beings, which seemed to be three groups of thousands emerging from their caverns in anguish of the worst confinement of disbelief. Adelimpia, held the cord of the axis of the weary planet, Anne restored the acute crucifix meridians that moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed ..., like a cursed globe moving to another nebula, towards one of its 9600 years in expansion, after oscillating in one of its solar rays, which gathered on the back of the mule Jacinta, multiplying on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages in millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world”

The world has no end; God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are axiomatic. Rather, we are the junk of an almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of a creation that felt itself wandering, perhaps without its breathing, in its lipped wise orifice of the most repressible protoforms that continue to devoutly prepare bilious liquids to lead us.   For each dinner, without having stars enjoying themselves in their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick her honey like herself; we are exhausted from a starving minute of non-coexisting life. Hugh and Aunt Thunder, held the mats, so that their own belongings would not be blown up, they, especially Hugh; He sliced a bottle of live jet Tinto in his hands to quell his revolted thirst. Perhaps they wanted to give back to the world a blood source, once and for all to give drink to those who deserve to be it as innocent angels, walking with their calloused plants on vehement fire, to just get to the tithe and not be upset with so much terror. Along the esoteric shore of the river of leaves of Talamí, this is where they will run through pasty meadows and trembling horses, through the easy or the difficult bond imprisoned and paired with the misty physiognomy in mere restlessness. “Alpha day, alpha night, Omega day Omega Night...”
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichi
00gauge.

It's about Hades degrees in the shade
luckily
I have a litre of ice cold lemonade,
it's a brand I've never had before
called Anis,
an aniseed tang to it and I quite like it.

This heat makes things look hazy
and I'm too lazy to get up and
adjust the contrast,
think the vertical hold might be
a bit dodgy too,

I really like this lemonade.
Simon Holzmann Jun 2020
Went back to the river and its waters still flowed
Like they did when I was younger and lost in the world
And time was drawn by its white-capped rapids
And boys were still playing in its treacherous mud.

Mushrooms and fishbone, aniseed whiff
Traces of apple and rosewood mold.

Went back to the lake with its water still calm
Mirror-like settled and brushed by the dawn
Upset by waves of careless wishes
Made by hearts of aimless mood.

Time paints heavy with water like this
A landscape of sorrow and dreams and bliss.

Sat down at the banks, felt lost at home
A visitor I was, now and back then.
Something leaned heavy on my shoulders and heart
Like a friend all tired, how we’ve grown apart.

A fruit all shriveled in the grass by the trunk
Waters uprooted and blossoms undone.

Whatever makes you happy, can’t be owned.
Let it flow unbounded and winding just so.
Come back to its shores and come undone
Return to where it has all begun.

Time paints heavy with water like this
A landscape of sorrow and dreams and bliss.
It was our savior
to see it's rhythmic flashings
or too jagged rocks
our ship was dashing

I woke our sweet captain
told him we have gone hard to port
he said well-done number one
I will put that in the report

I went back deckside
the wind did howl and hiss
the sea was fantastically cold
icicles formed from the frozen mist

We dropped anchor
and from our captains, permission was granted
to take a boat out to the lighthouse
I and seven sea dogs were alighted  

By rocks spiteful and cold
we alighted and boldly so
to gain reach to the lighthouse
all of us did in sodden clothes did go

The door was open
a light glow lonely like a happy smile
so one by one we walked in
not with a smile just a grin

It was alive
the whole lighthouse was alive
it was breathing and pulsating
green with the power of aniseed

Up the glistening spiral staircase, we did ascend
to the keeper our lifesaver
there he sat all in black
and said one of you will be me

And it happened
never again to be free
for now, the lighthouse keeper is me
just the jagged rocks now and the sea will be


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Simon Holzmann Jun 2020
I want it to lean heavily on my shoulder like a tired friend;
Tell me of its secrets with earthy hints of walnut and aniseed;
Lure me into warm melancholy with traces of apple and rosewood.

— The End —