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"apostle" poems
*Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem And he called it 'Chops' because that was the name of his dog And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo And he let them sing on the bus And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair And his mother and father kissed alot And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem And he called it 'Autumn' because that was the name of the season And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews And sometimes they would burn holes That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed alot And his father never tucked him in bed at night And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it. Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem And he called it 'Innocence: A Question' because that was the question about his girl And that's what it was all about And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her That was the year Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch And his mother and father never kissed or even talked And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do And at 3am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly. That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing' Because that's what it was really all about And he gave himself an A and a slash on each ****** wrist And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen*
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Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
Absolutely Nothing by Osoanon Nimuss
*Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem And he called it 'Chops' because that was the name of his dog And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo And he let them sing on the bus And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair And his mother and father kissed alot And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem And he called it 'Autumn' because that was the name of the season And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews And sometimes they would burn holes That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed alot And his father never tucked him in bed at night And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it. Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem And he called it 'Innocence: A Question' because that was the question about his girl And that's what it was all about And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her That was the year Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch And his mother and father never kissed or even talked And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do And at 3am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly. That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing' Because that's what it was really all about And he gave himself an A and a slash on each ****** wrist And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen*
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74
**†           †           †     A quorum of biblical scholars turned their doubts into thousands of dollars. Armed with Document Q they revealed nothing new but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars. A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman was renowned as a gospel-tent showman. While the scriptures he twisted, their tithing assisted his rise from poor hick to rich Roman. A sexually diverse professor (assured he was not a transgressor) spoke only of openness glossing sin’s brokenness; rainbows and tolerance—yes sir. A Mormon, who lost his own ephod Realized he was running quite slipshod and invoked Joseph Smith. (Yes, it may be a myth— but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…) A Christian whose faith was prophetic held to views that were truly pathetic. This crazed Pentecostal, not quite an apostle, had taken an End-Times emetic. A sober and staid Presbyterian was distrustful of thoughts millenarian. After smoking some bud, he awoke with a thud; in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian. A preacher who fleeced his disciples overdrew his own balance of scruples. He was finally captured (defrocked and un-raptured) and rent by his destitute pupils. A sister who waxed Pentecostal, mistook herself for an apostle. Speaking pure glossolalia she sure could regale ya’ with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
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Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Christian Types in Limerick
Two thousand years Regressing past the cross Lead bites bitter as bronze Gaza rages The brimstone and fire you promised You delivered Apostle bound crusader Jewish Lucifer
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Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
hell
*Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times."*                     - Matthew the Apostle I Seventy-seven bottles of gin lie in the guts of sensuous men; seventy-seven I forgive you's dissolve in a fanatical mind's resolve. II What offence occurred under Saint Constantine's priggish eye? Was it specious as a Samian's thigh? Or Sumerians receiving alien diplomats? Maybe somewhere far under Moscow Putin's massing cloning vats... III Whatever discursive and belligerent milieu church authority finds most tried and true seems to be the most important decider in the future of things like the Large Hadron Collider. Perhaps, unfoundedly, they find it funny that Higgs (though it seems much like calling the Liberal Party "Whigs") is a name shared by a man and a theoretical particle (though it be libelous in any journalist's article), and thus label similar advancements as "blasphemous". I guess that this is what it is: believing just because. IV Who can know blasphemy from piousness? Maybe all Luther did was obfuscate a prior mess. V Seventy-seven palm-branch-adorned, donkey-riding kings: an automatic-ring-making-machine beleaguering proselyte rings.
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Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 1:40 AM UTC
Palm Sunday Penance
1681 Speech is one symptom of Affection And Silence one— The perfectest communication Is heard of none— Exists and its indorsement Is had within— Behold, said the Apostle, Yet had not seen!
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5.1k
Speech is one symptom of Affection
When the streets are made for nothing but thinking     It's the weight of the water that's caused our sinking It's a loss of feeling that's made me lighter It's everything around                               That makes me neutrally bound            The only writers block is the writer It's the kind of thing that makes a man with a pencil and paper a fighter Like the paper's jumping up at you like a, like a alligator                                            But it's hard to chalk down all the mistakes, cause when you're trying so hard you're just being fake You just gotta learn to let it, let it all flow Show your all and let em all know Just how you're feeling that blow, even if it means one or two bad lines, that's how you feel though Cause life ain't a poetry book It's all the points in between the pages that we missed It's all the things that make us factories of emotions, A crook with feelings creeping through the motions Turning pages, trying to **** it all up like the books eroding Don't you talk to me about feeling Naw you ain't know what you be dealing, everyone's got there own **** you can't tell me mines to be concealing See, I'm a material void of expressionism Cause I told everyone what I feel, not for the sake of impressionism They chose to see inside and learn a lesson without all the criticism Everything I've learned is turning me into a crustaceans fossil Hard to the shell but brittle to the touch, and I preach my **** like a god **** apostle You make me feel from the inside and I'll be your crutch, but you're gonna need more than a god **** rock hammer to open me up My words I mend to make up for what I conceal         But as I sit here thinking about how I feel It's gonna take more than this to make me heal Now let me dilute as I talk to the god inside my head and make a deal, something to end the pain and suffering I have concealed at the expense of everything real
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May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
Block talk.
When the streets are made for nothing but thinking     It's the weight of the water that's caused our sinking It's a loss of feeling that's made me lighter It's everything around                               That makes me neutrally bound            The only writers block is the writer It's the kind of thing that makes a man with a pencil and paper a fighter Like the paper's jumping up at you like a, like a alligator                                            But it's hard to chalk down all the mistakes, cause when you're trying so hard you're just being fake You just gotta learn to let it, let it all flow Show your all and let em all know Just how you're feeling that blow, even if it means one or two bad lines, that's how you feel though Cause life ain't a poetry book It's all the points in between the pages that we missed It's all the things that make us factories of emotions, A crook with feelings creeping through the motions Turning pages, trying to **** it all up like the books eroding Don't you talk to me about feeling Naw you ain't know what you be dealing, everyone's got there own **** you can't tell me mines to be concealing See, I'm a material void of expressionism Cause I told everyone what I feel, not for the sake of impressionism They chose to see inside and learn a lesson without all the criticism Everything I've learned is turning me into a crustaceans fossil Hard to the shell but brittle to the touch, and I preach my **** like a god **** apostle You make me feel from the inside and I'll be your crutch, but you're gonna need more than a god **** rock hammer to open me up My words I mend to make up for what I conceal         But as I sit here thinking about how I feel It's gonna take more than this to make me heal Now let me dilute as I talk to the god inside my head and make a deal, something to end the pain and suffering I have concealed at the expense of everything real
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29
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
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Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
i don't talk
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
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70
How can I reach the unreachable.. teach the unteachable who's  comprehension is unbelieveable But the fact  is unbelief is more than lack of knowledge.. Cause the truth is even Satan knows who God is.. Is it blindness... truth on deaf ears.. the embracing of silence.. should there be surpises .. when behind your eyelids enter a random act of violence.. A vision of darkness ..there's no light that why the pupils dilate the use of the iris.. But when use to darkness and the lights hits one close their eyelids.. I.e. Christ the truth the way the light.. Being unsaved is like living in the womb.. Darkness equivalent to that of a tomb.. Flashes of light is like labor contractions.. The unknown conviction hinting.. Considered a distraction.. Pushed out now watch the eyes reaction.. To the light cause from darkness there's a detachment.. If given a chance a adjustment happens.. An embracement of the light.. A rebirth Christ in action. How can i reach the unreachable..teach the unteachable .. With a script the director unknown Its more than the shout of action.. Living life like a movie unaware that the villains not acting.. Now could u imagine.. A movie set full of madness.. All the cast dead like really dead from a stabbing.. No equalizer the villain the only one left standing.. You may say excuse me.. Life is not a movie. Truly But a witness not performing there duty..is bystander.. No innocence exist... No bliss in ignorance... .Cause we all birth into sin. So many questions with wrong answers given like the truth don't exist.... How can I reach the unreachable teach the unteachable who I tell to this body of Christ they should enlist But  when a pass is given and the shot is missed.. It negates the assist.. A reason for the lost of the game.. The thought of a lost soul has me ****** I'm the point guard I help the scorer sustain.. Chris Paul with rock which is the gospel.. Passing the truth like Paul the apostle .. Too many people out for a win like Christ didn't settle the score... Adam severed the relationship but Christ rebuilt the rapport... I am trying to reach and teach but there's no trust any more... Pointing u in the direction of accepting the Lord.., Embrace the word of God that double edge sword.. Them cuts is conviction.. The sword swinging is What it means to be a witness.. Led by the spirit A Christian Yes we are made in Gods image.. Trying to reach every soul because the wins and losses count.. Life is not a scrimmage.. How can one soul have a  blemish.. Only dirt that can touch the soul is the ***** hands of sinning.. How can I reach the unreachable teach the unteachable..Who mistakes knowledge for ignorance... And reject truth because arrogance..
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May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
Reach
How can I reach the unreachable.. teach the unteachable who's  comprehension is unbelieveable But the fact  is unbelief is more than lack of knowledge.. Cause the truth is even Satan knows who God is.. Is it blindness... truth on deaf ears.. the embracing of silence.. should there be surpises .. when behind your eyelids enter a random act of violence.. A vision of darkness ..there's no light that why the pupils dilate the use of the iris.. But when use to darkness and the lights hits one close their eyelids.. I.e. Christ the truth the way the light.. Being unsaved is like living in the womb.. Darkness equivalent to that of a tomb.. Flashes of light is like labor contractions.. The unknown conviction hinting.. Considered a distraction.. Pushed out now watch the eyes reaction.. To the light cause from darkness there's a detachment.. If given a chance a adjustment happens.. An embracement of the light.. A rebirth Christ in action. How can i reach the unreachable..teach the unteachable .. With a script the director unknown Its more than the shout of action.. Living life like a movie unaware that the villains not acting.. Now could u imagine.. A movie set full of madness.. All the cast dead like really dead from a stabbing.. No equalizer the villain the only one left standing.. You may say excuse me.. Life is not a movie. Truly But a witness not performing there duty..is bystander.. No innocence exist... No bliss in ignorance... .Cause we all birth into sin. So many questions with wrong answers given like the truth don't exist.... How can I reach the unreachable teach the unteachable who I tell to this body of Christ they should enlist But  when a pass is given and the shot is missed.. It negates the assist.. A reason for the lost of the game.. The thought of a lost soul has me ****** I'm the point guard I help the scorer sustain.. Chris Paul with rock which is the gospel.. Passing the truth like Paul the apostle .. Too many people out for a win like Christ didn't settle the score... Adam severed the relationship but Christ rebuilt the rapport... I am trying to reach and teach but there's no trust any more... Pointing u in the direction of accepting the Lord.., Embrace the word of God that double edge sword.. Them cuts is conviction.. The sword swinging is What it means to be a witness.. Led by the spirit A Christian Yes we are made in Gods image.. Trying to reach every soul because the wins and losses count.. Life is not a scrimmage.. How can one soul have a  blemish.. Only dirt that can touch the soul is the ***** hands of sinning.. How can I reach the unreachable teach the unteachable..Who mistakes knowledge for ignorance... And reject truth because arrogance..
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62
An Open Letter to Really Important People                      The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement            A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness We post this serious looking document Bloated with long vocabulary words Sodden with weak dependent clauses Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go To the GossipNet all serious like And everyone has to pay attention to us Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know - You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name Signatories: Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie. Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X (Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
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Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
An Open Letter to Really Important People / The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
An Open Letter to Really Important People                      The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement            A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness We post this serious looking document Bloated with long vocabulary words Sodden with weak dependent clauses Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go To the GossipNet all serious like And everyone has to pay attention to us Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know - You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name Signatories: Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie. Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X (Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
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18
The old order changeth, yielding place to new -Tennyson, Idylls of the King Like dinosaurs our institutions gasp In spasms of existential death; they pass At first unnoticed by the casual unobserver Who trips over a covenant that isn’t there If you vote they give you a sticker The ephemeral Constitution changed Like sweaty skivvies by each president Law libraries catalogued for pulp By obedient functionaries in tees If you vote they give you a sticker The faithful escorted out of the cathedral By a bored security guard on overtime The altar linens for sale at Goodwill And the sanctuary repurposed on T.V. If you vote they give you a sticker Some of The Just Plain Folks cheer for the Reds And the others cheer only for the Blues As the reincarnation of Jack Chick Blesses their four-wheelers and plastic caps If you vote they give you a sticker Election placards on abandoned buildings Promise again prosperity for all The **** lab cooks behind The Kute Kidz Private Academy of the Dance and Math If you vote they give you a sticker An outreach of the Bright Light Free Will Missionary Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ Of the Lamb Sanctified 501C The Reverend Doctor Master Bishop Billy-Bob Hairdo PhD, DD a-brangin’ Messages and His Esteemed Lady Apostle Heather If you vote they give you a sticker And blessed be the Holy AR-15 God gave to His People to defend themselves Here in the freest country in the world Which you can find behind the barbed-wire fence If you vote they give you a sticker While fleets of luxury presidential jets Arc high over our public housing projects Reminding us of our prosperity Here in the richest country in the world If you vote they give you a sticker And them Jews for Jesus I guess they’re all right But them other Jews they just ain’t no good Nor them Cath’lics nor them Mormons neither And don’t you get me started on them Baptists (We seem to have been otherwise engaged) “The old order changeth, yielding place to new” – (But neither cares at all for me or you) But if you vote they give you a sticker
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Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 7:30 AM UTC
Election Day: Executive Inaction with Moderate Prejudice in Fits of Absent-Mindedness
The old order changeth, yielding place to new -Tennyson, Idylls of the King Like dinosaurs our institutions gasp In spasms of existential death; they pass At first unnoticed by the casual unobserver Who trips over a covenant that isn’t there If you vote they give you a sticker The ephemeral Constitution changed Like sweaty skivvies by each president Law libraries catalogued for pulp By obedient functionaries in tees If you vote they give you a sticker The faithful escorted out of the cathedral By a bored security guard on overtime The altar linens for sale at Goodwill And the sanctuary repurposed on T.V. If you vote they give you a sticker Some of The Just Plain Folks cheer for the Reds And the others cheer only for the Blues As the reincarnation of Jack Chick Blesses their four-wheelers and plastic caps If you vote they give you a sticker Election placards on abandoned buildings Promise again prosperity for all The **** lab cooks behind The Kute Kidz Private Academy of the Dance and Math If you vote they give you a sticker An outreach of the Bright Light Free Will Missionary Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ Of the Lamb Sanctified 501C The Reverend Doctor Master Bishop Billy-Bob Hairdo PhD, DD a-brangin’ Messages and His Esteemed Lady Apostle Heather If you vote they give you a sticker And blessed be the Holy AR-15 God gave to His People to defend themselves Here in the freest country in the world Which you can find behind the barbed-wire fence If you vote they give you a sticker While fleets of luxury presidential jets Arc high over our public housing projects Reminding us of our prosperity Here in the richest country in the world If you vote they give you a sticker And them Jews for Jesus I guess they’re all right But them other Jews they just ain’t no good Nor them Cath’lics nor them Mormons neither And don’t you get me started on them Baptists (We seem to have been otherwise engaged) “The old order changeth, yielding place to new” – (But neither cares at all for me or you) But if you vote they give you a sticker
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49
i. Agone day's, I kneweth not amour' mine godly Apostle I only understood fear, sorrow's, none outlook for tomorrow; Though I kneweth, ourn creator wouldst send me a seraph Twas I, was only a serf, I didn't not deserve a queen and a angel. ii. I never couldst discover where that secret treasure was hidden I looked, and waited, and hoped, also hopeless on the find; I wore mine heart on mine sleeve, waiting, waiting, none to be, But now I do knoweth, Jehovah hadst his plan, thee: one in tan. iii. Yahweh tooketh away, all the substandard's and ourn past strife's Just at his right moment, in his will, not ourn own, he made right; He parted the sea's, and moonlit dream's, for me and thee lover For me and thee queen, forever to be; eternally husband an wife. ©Brandon Nagley ©Earl jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose) ©Lonesome poet's poetry
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Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
Ang mag-asawa ( Husband and wife) filipino tongue
I'm ****** off with Robert Frost And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost. I ain't happy with Aristotle, And especially John, the weird Apostle. Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats, Blake, Byron or Yeats; Each and every one you see, (if you're ready for some truth) Took their themes from me. Don't look aghast, Don't tsk and titter, Their thievery's left me Mean and bitter. Just because they said it first, Doesn't mean I find it just. It doesn't give them ownership Of my themes and authorship. I write of Roads, Good and Evil, God and Satan, love and leaving. I know I'm internally bleating, But I can't abide this metric beating. Although they're merely dust and bones, They don't have the right to own All the great lines I have sown: The best laid plans of mice and men. (I said that before Robbie Burns). Let me make this poeticaly clear; ***If I was there, or he were here, I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare***.
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May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
Robbie Burns Is a Plagiarist
I went to church but I couldn’t really believe in God. The trouble was my mind was closed to the possibility. I could not accept that there was something more to our existence. Something impacting our lives that we can’t see or touch? Most of all, I wanted to make my own choices And not think they were wrong. I killed God within me, all by myself. Thomas, the Apostle, did not believe others. They told him, “We have seen the Lord”! But Thomas couldn’t accept truth. He said, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hand And put my finger into the nailmarks and Put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” John 20:25 God showed up and gave him the chance. I always wanted proof like Thomas received. Didn’t really want to put my hands into terrible wounds… That sounded a bit disgusting. I had no understanding that my wounds; were His wounds. As I lived with deceit and rejection and dishonesty I WAS placing my hand into His nailmarks. When we least expected it, God will show up. “Weeping comes for the night; but at dawn there will be rejoicing.” Psalm 30:6
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Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
Doubting Thomas
A student of the crowded breeze. On a whim Raise like the dandelions' seed, Vibrantly dissent like, in fall, trees' leaves. An apostle of purpose beyond what one sees for the unknown is nothing and possibility. Our lessons are on the topic of practical whimsy, in their way; the wind that cools your face also fans a flame and guides the rain. The Sensei go by many names, I know them from the roles they play: Boreas shepherds my turmoil, A tempest; senseless, cold and violent as if without vision only vengeance. Notus shows my passion; A gust to an ember on dry land, Unreasonable, unpredictable and destructive without a plan. Zephyr entices my love; A subtle intimate current for dance, The beauty of birds and bees flying from flower to flower and branch to branch. Eurus reflects my way; A flurry that moves the sand. The removal of sediment, the return to foundation born from action mixed with patience. They can only guide me I can ride the winds of the odyssey or resign to the winds of dreams but I know I Am A student of the breeze.
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Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC
Muses//Masters
The First Apostle Did you know your calling? When He first met you Demonized-Prostitute Transformed by His healing hand Your love-turned passion Inseparably bound to his being Scorned for your lavish yearning Prophetically anointing perfume-blood Head to hands to dusty broken feet Your walk with Him closer to death The rugged weight of dry wood Heavy heart anointed in knowing tears You stood by his side-abandoned By pharisaical disciples cowards call His love grafted into bone and sinew The empty mocking tomb Like your barren heart Devoid-all you lived for Rudely taken away Then He touches you again With glorious anointing Head to heart to weary feet With apostolic "Go-Tell" command Demonized-Prostitute Apostle-Evangelist Stanley Arumugam
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Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
The First Apostle
"No man loves God who hates his kind; Who tramples on his Brother's heart and soul. Who seeks to shackle, cloud or fog the mind By fears of Hell has not perceived our goal. God-sent are all religions blest; And Christ; the Way, the Truth and Life To give the heavy-laden rest And peace from Sorrow, Sin and Strife. At His request the Universal Spirit came To all the churches; not to one alone; On Pentecostal morn a tongue of flame Round each apostle as a halo shone. Since then, as vultures ravenous with greed, We oft have battled for an empty name And sought by dogma, edict, creed, To send each other to the flame. Is Christ then divided? Was Cephas or Paul Nailed to the Cross to die ? If not: Then why these divisions at all? Christ's love doth enfold you and I. His pure sweet love is not confined By creeds which segregate and raise a wall. His love enfolds, embraces Humankind; No matter what ourselves or him we call. Then why not take Him at His word? Why hold to creeds which tear apart ? But one thing matters be it heard, That brother-love fill every heart. There is but one thing that the world has need to know; There is but one balm for all our human woe; There is but one way that leads to heaven above; That way is human sympathy and love." MAX HEINDAL •||~•¥•~^\\:://^~•¥•~||•
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Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Creed of Christ by Max Heindel
The people in this place —what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they do- ing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the in- scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the in- quisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not tru- ly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly rein- gested, merged into that far- off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
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Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
ambigram xii
The people in this place —what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they do- ing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the in- scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the in- quisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not tru- ly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly rein- gested, merged into that far- off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
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Gold is dust, and silver sand: Money made via vices is silly, For it will by and by fly away surely. Some people get riches by contraband, Ruining others just for them to live In luxury, like bees in a cosy hive. Debauchery and lechery are a woe: Girls chasing is many a man's hobby, Running daily the full course of adultery Or fornication. Some are soaked to sorrow Drown in ***** A married woman, besides her Hubby and God, may have another "helper." Yet, the beloved apostle Paul in the Book Of books, saith: "Godliness with contentment Great gain is." Every earthly enjoyment And achievement lacking holiness is a fluke. Unless the flesh to the Spirit becomes a slave, Worldly pleasures will the body often crave. Greatness is not in the muchness of things, But is rather in possessing the fulness of God. Many whom this vain world doth highly laud Are mostly before heaven very low beings. They are the richest in life that have Jesus As Lord and Saviour, who chose to be righteous.
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Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
"Godliness Is Great Gain"
The people in this place —what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they do- ing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the in- scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the in- quisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not tru- ly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly rein- gested, merged into that far- off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
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Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
ambigram xii
The people in this place —what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they do- ing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the in- scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the in- quisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not tru- ly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly rein- gested, merged into that far- off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
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The people in this place —what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they do- ing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the in- scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the in- quisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not tru- ly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly rein- gested, merged into that far- off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
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Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
ambigram xii
The people in this place —what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they do- ing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the in- scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the in- quisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not tru- ly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly rein- gested, merged into that far- off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
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They are the ones That rule the world for fun They disseminate the guns And tell us to run So we flee From their disease That will not cease Power is control that money buys Burying us in gold and petty lies They tell us the well has run dry While we watch them fly Fences of barbed wire For us to admire Inferno funeral pyres Burn our desires When they rattle We're the cattle That goes to battle They talk to us with false information And real bullets They say it is our fault for instigation The trigger they pull it When their saccharine voice Offers a laughable choice Forsake love and compassion To adopt their fashion Of society crashing They used to use lashings Now they use time Punishing those who aren't complicit in their crimes They put us in prison If we don't agree with their decisions Decimating Bedouin life So they can profit from strife People ask who "they" are The easiest answer is not me And the problems aren't too far For anybody to see That there is a "they" Not intent on doomsday But numb to the death of strangers Which puts us all in danger I could point to examples like Lockheed Martin and Shell As two companies that put us in hell Or a country like North Korea That has violent ideas Or a man like Donald Trump Who is a parasitic lump They convince us they don't exist So we don't resist While they insist We enlist In their army Of harming Starring Them We hem And haw While they write laws That point out our flaws That are minimal compared to theirs Yet they are the fortunate heirs Who decide the code of conduct Which is whatever sells their product From plastic to bombs Killing dolphins and moms They feel they can't be wrong When might Is right The meek take flight But there is poison in the air And they don't even care They **** the Earth And ****** its inhabitants What are we worth When it's to the rich we gravitate? There is an apostle Who's turned into a fossil That is converted into fuel So they can keep their pull And use us as tools To unearth jewels And hoard them Because we can't afford them We surrender our resources to a select few To do what they choose Until we all lose And can't see the light of day Who else to blame but "they"?
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Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:38 AM UTC
They
They are the ones That rule the world for fun They disseminate the guns And tell us to run So we flee From their disease That will not cease Power is control that money buys Burying us in gold and petty lies They tell us the well has run dry While we watch them fly Fences of barbed wire For us to admire Inferno funeral pyres Burn our desires When they rattle We're the cattle That goes to battle They talk to us with false information And real bullets They say it is our fault for instigation The trigger they pull it When their saccharine voice Offers a laughable choice Forsake love and compassion To adopt their fashion Of society crashing They used to use lashings Now they use time Punishing those who aren't complicit in their crimes They put us in prison If we don't agree with their decisions Decimating Bedouin life So they can profit from strife People ask who "they" are The easiest answer is not me And the problems aren't too far For anybody to see That there is a "they" Not intent on doomsday But numb to the death of strangers Which puts us all in danger I could point to examples like Lockheed Martin and Shell As two companies that put us in hell Or a country like North Korea That has violent ideas Or a man like Donald Trump Who is a parasitic lump They convince us they don't exist So we don't resist While they insist We enlist In their army Of harming Starring Them We hem And haw While they write laws That point out our flaws That are minimal compared to theirs Yet they are the fortunate heirs Who decide the code of conduct Which is whatever sells their product From plastic to bombs Killing dolphins and moms They feel they can't be wrong When might Is right The meek take flight But there is poison in the air And they don't even care They **** the Earth And ****** its inhabitants What are we worth When it's to the rich we gravitate? There is an apostle Who's turned into a fossil That is converted into fuel So they can keep their pull And use us as tools To unearth jewels And hoard them Because we can't afford them We surrender our resources to a select few To do what they choose Until we all lose And can't see the light of day Who else to blame but "they"?
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Call delicate sirens of the working class! half-bum minimum wage poverty line subsidy sages hollow of materialism devils, devoid of darkness internal fire strike rage and hellion god bowels light flickering shallow men. The rich men. The truly poor men living in clouded manors on Ignorance Avenue. Delicate sirens not so poor after all, not so empty or so full. God is the prayer call and siren droll and *** roll-in-sleep afternoon shore-breeze faint of hope approaching winter-fall showering divinity flowers the same material as Peter's scraggly beard while he coughs his angelic bronchitis wheezes, purifying the western air. Peter is apostle his snores are their own gospel the doves in his dreams will always be there. The battle goes on the bottle goes up the rattle hollers out the chatter not without. Sirens call! Call with short breaths as the world cyclones through universal woe.
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Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Sirens
62 “Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself I’d notice nobody! “Sown in corruption”! Not so fast! Apostle is askew! Corinthians 1. 15. narrates A Circumstance or two!
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2.1k
Sown in dishonor
The people in this place —what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they do- ing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the in- scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the in- quisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not tru- ly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly rein- gested, merged into that far- off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
0
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
ambigram xii
The people in this place —what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they do- ing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the in- scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the in- quisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not tru- ly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly rein- gested, merged into that far- off world we can no longer be in. The people in this place—what are they doing here? They come and go like actors in a play whose star will very soon begin to show himself, although we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru- tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in a while he too is slowly reingested, merged into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Continue reading...
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