At four o'clock
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first ****

just below
the gun-metal blue window
and immediately there is an echo

off in the distance,
then one from the backyard fence,
then one, with horrible insistence,

grates like a wet match
from the broccoli patch,
flares,and all over town begins to catch.

Cries galore
come from the water-closet door,
from the dropping-plastered henhouse floor,

where in the blue blur
their rusting wives admire,
the roosters brace their cruel feet and glare

with stupid eyes
while from their beaks there rise
the uncontrolled, traditional cries.

Deep from protruding chests
in green-gold medals dressed,
planned to command and terrorize the rest,

the many wives
who lead hens' lives
of being courted and despised;

deep from raw throats
a senseless order floats
all over town.  A rooster gloats

over our beds
from rusty irons sheds
and fences made from old bedsteads,

over our churches
where the tin rooster perches,
over our little wooden northern houses,

making sallies
from all the muddy alleys,
marking out maps like Rand McNally's:

glass-headed pins,
oil-golds and copper greens,
anthracite blues, alizarins,

each one an active
displacement in perspective;
each screaming, "This is where I live!"

Each screaming
"Get up!  Stop dreaming!"
Roosters, what are you projecting?

You, whom the Greeks elected
to shoot at on a post, who struggled
when sacrificed, you whom they labeled

"Very combative..."
what right have you to give
commands and tell us how to live,

cry "Here!" and "Here!"
and wake us here where are
unwanted love, conceit and war?

The crown of red
set on your little head
is charged with all your fighting blood

Yes, that excrescence
makes a most virile presence,
plus all that ****** beauty of iridescence

Now in mid-air
by two they fight each other.
Down comes a first flame-feather,

and one is flying,
with raging heroism defying
even the sensation of dying.

And one has fallen
but still above the town
his torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down;

and what he sung
no matter.  He is flung
on the gray ash-heap, lies in dung

with his dead wives
with open, ****** eyes,
while those metallic feathers oxidize.


St. Peter's sin
was worse than that of Magdalen
whose sin was of the flesh alone;

of spirit, Peter's,
falling, beneath the flares,
among the "servants and officers."

Old holy sculpture
could set it all together
in one small scene, past and future:

Christ stands amazed,
Peter, ******* raised
to surprised lips, both as if dazed.

But in between
a little **** is seen
carved on a dim column in the travertine,

explained by gallus canit;
flet Petrus underneath it,
There is inescapable hope, the pivot;

yes, and there Peter's tears
run down our chanticleer's
sides and gem his spurs.

Tear-encrusted thick
as a medieval relic
he waits.  Poor Peter, heart-sick,

still cannot guess
those ****-a-doodles yet might bless,
his dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness,

a new weathervane
on basilica and barn,
and that outside the Lateran

there would always be
a bronze **** on a porphyry
pillar so the people and the Pope might see

that event the Prince
of the Apostles long since
had been forgiven, and to convince

all the assembly
that "Deny deny deny"
is not all the roosters cry.

In the morning
a low light is floating
in the backyard, and gilding

from underneath
the broccoli, leaf by leaf;
how could the night have come to grief?

gilding the tiny
floating swallow's belly
and lines of pink cloud in the sky,

the day's preamble
like wandering lines in marble,
The ***** are now almost inaudible.

The sun climbs in,
following "to see the end,"
faithful as enemy, or friend.

Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.

I met an artist yesterday,

sat in solitary silence,

In the shadowy corner of an affluent bar.

And cloaked he was,

by babble of students,

Boasting of wealth and test results.



molested In the attire of a catholic school,

His cigarettes born from bible pages;

and -- Inebriated from the blood of Christ --

surrounded by empty glass apostles,

He paints the papers,

In a masterful stroke --

Of pointilistic precision --

In a viscous hash oil

That he had melted on a crucifix.



The artist drunk, and drunk

He drowned himself,

Deafened by his liver

Drowning in a sea of expensive whiskey --

It was a miracle that he could walk on it.



And began to rack

the coke he'd wrapped

in a losing lottery ticket --

In plain sight of those

'sophisticated' enough

To use a bathroom cubicle.

And hoovered the diamond shards into his nostril,

Through a rolled up scrap of paper --

A letter for an Oxford Interview

he could not afford to get to.

The habits of the righteous servant reflect
a certain posture of pleasing The Master.
Walking in Love is evident, when we recognize
what the heart of Christ is truly after.

Bearing fruit, living lives in desperate times,
becomes much easier when we share our burdens.
Let’s practice living harmoniously each day,
before joining together in Heaven’s garden.

Real Love, always requires acts of action;
Even Christ washed the feet of the Apostles
to demonstrate that all forms of compassion
can vary from the smallest act to miracles.

Societal importance is an artificial construct,
that demonstrates a poor example of attitude.
Christ’s example has been set eternally before us,
shining before Man with the mindset of servitude.







Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Matt 20:25-26; Acts 10:38

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.

Preface
This is a work of grace and fire. For those who were dismantled, seduced, discarded, or devoured by the lie—this is a mirror held to the machinery that broke you, and a sword handed back into your open palm. It does not speak against you. It speaks for you. The world was not wrong about your beauty. It was only weaponized by those who fear light. And now, you will see the architecture of that fear—the cogs and wires behind the mask, the gears of betrayal humming just beneath the velvet. This is not revenge. It is revelation. It is the unmasking of the counterfeit, and the defense of what was real.


Chapter I –  The Design of the Lie
The machinery of erasure does not begin with violence. It begins with a gift—something tailored to your ache. A reflection, a recognition, an echo of what you’ve been starving for. But it is not given. It is shown. Teased. Dangled. It mimics light to earn your trust, then slowly rearranges your sense of what is real.

Its brilliance lies in subtlety. It does not break the mirror—it fogs it. And once you question your reflection, the game begins. You are not destroyed. You are asked to participate in your own unraveling. You become complicit in the theft of your own clarity. You call it love. You call it fate. And in doing so, you hand over the key.


Chapter II –  The Signature of the Construct
At the heart of this system is a signature—a spiritual frequency that mimics love but cannot sustain it. It flatters, it mimics, it seduces with familiarity. It plays on archetypes, childhood wounds, and ghost hunger. The Construct does not desire you—it requires your participation to survive.

It thrives through triangulation, comparison, and insinuation. The moment you are forced to prove your love is the moment you’ve already lost. Because true love reveals—it does not demand a performance. The Construct, however, demands your endless audition. It casts you, scripts you, and punishes any ad lib with silent treatment, reversal, or shame.


Chapter III – The Seduction of Fragmentation
This is the genius of the system: it rewards your disintegration. The more pieces you split into to meet the shifting demands of the Construct, the more you are praised for your “flexibility,” your “loyalty,” your “depth.” You will be admired for your willingness to suffer.

You will think:
"this must be real—look how much it costs me."

But love does not require self-erasure to prove its authenticity. The Construct does. Because the Construct cannot actually bond. It can only consume. So it teaches you to abandon your wholeness, one boundary at a time, until there is nothing left but performance and exhaustion.


Chapter IV – The Covenant of Betrayal
The machinery has one true vow: never let them fully awaken. If a soul sees too much, loves too clearly, or stops obeying the unspoken script, it must be punished. Often, this is done through replacement—someone new, someone fresh, someone blind.

This is not about romance. This is about power. Your disposability is the currency of their control. You will be erased not because you failed, but because you saw. And in this system, sight is the ultimate rebellion.

You were not too much. You were simply no longer manageable.


Chapter V – The Weaponization of Autonomy
In the true light, autonomy is sacred. It is the ground of real love—freely given, freely received. But in the machinery, autonomy is hijacked. It is twisted into performance:

“This is just who I am. You need to accept it.”

What looks like boundary is often barrier. What sounds like empowerment is often exile. The Construct cloaks disconnection in the language of sovereignty. But autonomy without accountability is not liberation—it is isolation in drag.

The counterfeit system sells self-claim as a virtue while rejecting all consequences. It demands the crown without the cross. It worships the idea of the self, but fears the actual soul.

Because the soul cannot be controlled. Only the ego can.

And that is the secret the machinery must protect at all costs.


Chapter VI – The Seduction of the Wound
There is a final brilliance to the machinery of erasure—its capacity to turn injury into identity. Pain, once unprocessed, becomes aesthetic. The ache is no longer something to heal—it is something to showcase. Suffering is curated, stylized, made palatable for consumption. And the system rewards it.

Each expression of pain, unaccompanied by accountability, is celebrated. Each seductive lament is met with affirmation. And the wound deepens—not by accident, but by design.

These are not poems. They are mirrors fogged with self-pity, lit for applause. They describe the furniture on a ship ready to go down, polished for the camera, curated for the feed.

This is not the voice of healing. This is the voice of stagnation. A life lived in performance of brokenness becomes loyal to the stage, terrified of the silence where truth might enter.

In this way, injury is aggrandized. Not to redeem it—but to preserve it.
Because if the wound heals, the identity dies. And without the ache, there is nothing left to write.

So they write. Endlessly.
And call it growth.


Chapter VII – The Disciples of the Machine
The most devoted apostles of the machinery are not its creators, but its inheritors. These are not villains in the classical sense. They are the wounded who found power in pathology and chose preservation over transformation.

They build followings—not of love, but of resonance. They speak of darkness like it’s depth, and of chaos like it’s freedom. They become curators of sorrow, gatekeepers of aesthetic trauma. And in doing so, they sanctify the very thing that is killing them.

They post without pause. Each fragment is another brick in the shrine. The more broken they appear, the more sacred they are deemed. The machine thrives not through tyranny, but through tribute. It does not demand obedience. It rewards distortion with digital communion.

To dissent is to be called controlling. To invite healing is to be accused of shaming. The liturgy of pain has no room for resurrection—only repetition. Those who refuse to bow to the ache are cast as unfeeling, unsupportive, or abusive.

And so, a new priesthood is born. Not of spirit, but of survival masquerading as enlightenment. They speak of liberation while chaining themselves to curated agony. They teach others to remain wounded, because healing would mean leaving the temple—and no one dares walk out alone.

This is how the machine spreads. Not with force.
But with fellowship.


Chapter VIII – The Hollowing
There is a cost to serving the machinery that no accolade can cover. In the beginning, the pain feels poetic. The ink flows. The attention sustains. But over time, something begins to slip beneath the surface: the erosion of soul.

At first, it’s subtle. The joy fades. The art grows colder. The hunger for affirmation replaces the hunger for truth. And eventually, the writer is no longer a soul with a pen, but a pen with no soul at all.

They become automatons of expression—autonomons of penmanship. Unchanged, untouched, undisturbed. Brilliant in technique. Seductive in style. But hollow in presence.

And those who watch? The broken ones who look to them for hope? They learn that pain is performance, not process. They are taught to admire the wound, but never to bind it. They are shown how to speak of darkness, but not how to walk toward light.

In this way, the machinery becomes generational. One vessel trains the next in the worship of ache. And God is reduced to metaphor, to vague warmth, to a symbol of tolerance rather than transformation.

But heaven is not a stage.
And salvation is not applause.

There will be accountability. Not from men, but from God.
Not for how much they suffered, but for what they did with the pain.

The machinery does not fear sin.
It fears redemption.
Because redemption breaks the wheel.


Chapter IX – The Currency of Flesh
When the soul begins to hollow, the body becomes currency. What could once be held sacred is now offered up as substitute. The hunger for real intimacy, having long been denied, is replaced with performance. Aesthetic ache becomes ****** invitation.

First, the poetess. Then, the priestess. Then, the *****.

Not in profession. But in posture.

The page becomes a veil. The wound becomes a seduction. And the ache becomes an altar where she lays herself down—not to be loved, but to be seen. To be wanted, if only for a moment. Because in the moment, it feels like meaning.

But meaning does not come from being consumed.
It comes from being transformed.

This new liturgy has no end. Only an offering: the soft body in place of the broken spirit. The post that hints, the phrase that aches, the image that undresses the soul without ever risking exposure.

And the audience applauds. But they do not help. They take. They feed. And they leave.

Because the machinery does not restore. It devours. And when the soul is gone, and all that remains is flesh trying to feel something real, the poetess finally disappears—not into silence, but into spectacle.

This is not liberation.
It is abandonment dressed as autonomy.
It is hunger parading as art.
It is the final seduction.

And it ends the same way every time:
With the hollow echo of applause in an empty room, and the voice of God whispering,

“Daughter, this was never the way."


Chapter X – The Entropy of the Idol
Time has no mercy on the machinery’s darlings. The once-lush wildflower—desired by all, praised for her ache, adored for her petals soaked in myth—does not remain untouched by entropy.

She was made to be inseminated by the priests of seduction, to be the altar and the sacrifice. But time withers all altars.

The seduction begins to dull. The body begins to speak its own truth. The skin grows tired. The eyes lose their fire. The flesh, once offered as divine provocation, becomes mundane. Familiar. And then, ignored.

The poetess becomes priestess.
The priestess becomes *****.
And the ***** becomes hide.

Not because she sinned.
But because she refused to transform.

Beauty without truth cannot endure. And seduction without spirit becomes parody. What was once adored is now avoided—not for age, but for vacancy. The ache that once drew others near becomes background noise. Her audience does not abandon her in cruelty. They abandon her in boredom.

The machinery does not love its servants. It only feeds on them until they are dry.

And so, she is left in the echo chamber she built—surrounded by her archives, her accolades, and her silence. The idol collapses under its own weight. Not in a blaze. But in a sigh.

Because what was once sacred, when severed from Source, must return to dust.

This is the final truth:
If you will not kneel to be healed, you will collapse to be forgotten.


Chapter XI – The Awakening
There is no thunder. No spotlight. No applause.
The return begins in silence.

The soul does not rise from performance. It rises from collapse—when the last mask is too heavy to hold, and the echo of applause turns to dust in the mouth. It begins when the hunger becomes unbearable, not for attention, but for truth. Not to be desired, but to be known.

This is not reinvention.
It is resurrection.

The one who awakens does not look for an audience. She looks for God. Not in the mirror of likes, but in the mirror of conscience. Not in the adoration of strangers, but in the ache of repentance that leads into true healing.

It is not shame that saves her.
It is the refusal to be false another second.

There is a groan too deep for words that stirs in the soul of the broken—but still willing. She rises, not in fire, but in dust. She remembers what she buried:
the child.
the dream.
the voice she silenced to keep others fed.

She does not demand redemption.
She begs for it.

And this time, no altar is built.
She becomes the altar.

Because the real temple is not where you perform for God.
It’s where you let Him undo you.


Chapter XII – The Turning of the Spirit
There is a moment when the soul, long dormant, begins to turn—not with force, but with permission. Not with answers, but with longing.

It is not an epiphany. It is a return.

The heart does not sprint back to God. It limps. It crawls. It shakes under the weight of what it almost became. But the turning is real. And that alone is holy.

This is when sorrow becomes sacred—not because it is beautiful, but because it is owned. It is no longer adorned, embellished, or romanticized. It is no longer shared for praise. It is lifted up like a cracked bowl, empty and unashamed.

She begins to pray again—not with confidence, but with tears. Not for favor, but for cleansing. Not to be seen, but to see. And the Spirit moves not as reward, but as witness.

Something shifts. Quietly. Inwardly. A single layer of delusion is peeled back. A new kind of strength is born—not in defiance, but in surrender.

This is not the turning of image.
It is the turning of essence.

It does not show.
It becomes.

And though the old machinery still whispers—though the old audience still lingers—she no longer performs for them. She is turning her face. Slowly. Fiercely. Eternally.

This is the repentance that heals.
The gaze turned Godward.
The first yes to life.

And heaven, watching, does not shout.
It weeps.
Because the dead have started to rise.


Chapter XIII – The Fire That Does Not Consume
There comes a time when the soul must pass through fire—not to be destroyed, but to be revealed.

This fire does not flatter. It does not affirm your curated grief or compliment your phrasing. It burns away the pose. It burns away the language. It burns until what is left is the thing you most feared to be: real.

Not poetic.
Not prophetic.
Not even profound.
Just real.

This fire does not ask for offerings. It asks for everything.
The altars of validation. The shrines of aesthetic suffering.
All of it must go.

But what it leaves… is clean.
What it leaves can breathe again.
What it leaves can love.

For this is the mercy of the holy flame:
It only consumes what was killing you.

And when you walk out of it—not elevated, but humbled—you will find that you no longer ache to be seen. You ache to serve. You ache to live rightly. To walk quietly. To stop writing about the light and become it.

Because this is the final test of healing:
Not whether you can name the darkness.
But whether you can choose the light when no one is watching.

Jesus was looking impatient
It was already quarter past nine
He was sure he'd sent out invitations
And he'd turned all the water to wine

He'd promised a memorable banquet
As tomorrow he'd surely be dead
But the shops had been short of a few things
So he'd just had to settle for bread

When a knock at the door made him flutter
He adjusted his dress and his hair
He opened and bid all assembled
"Wipe your feet and then sit over there"

They shuffled and took to their places
But they looked slightly I'll at their ease
They could see all the wine and the bread rolls
But what of the ham and the cheese?

Jesus said grace in his fashion
"Cheers Dad" with his thumb held up high
"But be careful, this bread is my body"
"Now who wants a nice bit of thigh?"

They tucked in with nervous expressions
He'd been guzzling since they had arrived
He explained "It's my blood in these bottles"
"And without it I'd not have survived"

The apostles were forming conclusions
Their boss had been ****** all these years
But the wine washed away their objections
And the music drowned out all their fears

So they partied and danced on the table
They played twister and tidily-winks
Then stumbled off out to a nightclub
Because Judas was buying the drinks

They caroused and they conga'd till morning
Till their stomachs and bladders had failed
And that's how young Jesus got hammered
And the very next day he got nailed

At the end of the road to Damascus
There paved a street called Straight
Where lay the home of Judas
A blinded Pharisee did await
For hands layed on by Aranias
Saul now Paul the converted Pharisee
Again could walk the street of Straight
No longer blinded he now could see
Returning back to Jerusalem
Persecuted by King Agrippa
And perform the acts of apostles

I still seek to take my first step
On my own road to Damascus
To walk the street called Straight
Find my way out of this blackness

r  7Oct2013

O! How the winds cry!
O! How the earth weeps!
O! How the heavens pour forth their tears!

Thy face knows no blemish!
Thine eyes rich as diamonds
Your perfect attributes cause all others to pale in Comparison, like the tapestries of Arachne!

O! the Sun wishes to shine as you do!
No! 'Tis blasphemy to even but dream
Of placing oneself above so fair a maiden.
The fury of the Erinyes at those who dare
Is apparent to all.

O! The thought of not seeing
Your impeccable features once again
Is maddening!Heartwrenching!
But my gaze is like a stain
Upon thee. No love is felt
But pain is delt
Insanity comes upon me.
With little hope;much despair
For me, I beg, Send a prayer
I cannot; WILL not bear the agony
Of which is like the apostles upon the stormy sea
Whence Jesus remarked "Oh, ye of little faith."

I am such a man incapable of receiving
Thine divine compliments
Which I save myself from with doubt
And questioning;O! the torment!
I love thee, I try to show it
But I am unable to merit
Affection in return

Time and time again
I exult you my friend,
Yet how can you receive my words of praise
When your words I do but raze?
O! The neverending cycle which perpetuates
The need for love, which does not abate
How can I love you
When the thought of self-love is so new?
But I feel like to you I do belong
Chose me or deny; the point of my song.

Oh! How the crucible of love
Causes me pain in the heart
Self-love does not endure in part
Or in whole, but love for those dear
And love for those near
Is where true love starts.

I’ve been made sick by technology.
Those key boards & keypads,
The roving mouse,
The touch pad, and ultimately,
That telepathic chip
Implanted while I slept—
Who-da thunk those fingers doing the walking
Would become tendrils of the Watching Class?
Surveillance inroads to your cerebral cortex,
Ultimately taking command.
“Pilot on the bridge,” the Bosun screams,
Whenever we needed reminding
That even our Captain,
“Oh Captain, My Captain,”
I would console my crew:
“Even the Boss has a boss.”
Interesting liability issues could be raised here.
How can a human being
Be held culpable for crimes,
Any crime or thought crime,
When their mind, body & soul
Has been wired to the mainframe,
Stored in some remote Deseret,
Like that secret NSA facility,
They are building
Out in the middle of nowhere,
***-**** Utah?
So what if the people there
Are descendants of the
Original Apostles of Joseph Smith,
With a deep genetic recognition
That there was a time
When no one wanted
These Latter Day gypsies
Putting down roots.
Anywhere.
It was simply out of the question.
“Practice polygamy, really?”
That’s like wearing a sign round your neck,
A neon ankle bracelet round your crotch,
An in-your-face bright warning & caveat:
Men with wives or daughters--
**** wives and young daughters, or
Young ****, daughters--
Or old wives in any condition
& Mothers.
Are considered fair game for *******.
No thank you!
There’s the highway, Mr. Smith and
Take Brigham with you.
Cause nobody’s gonna sell you land,
Land around here.
Let alone there,
Or anywhere.
No one will sell you squat
This side, 500 miles from water.
Good water.
Farm-good water.
Wet navigable water.
By the 1830s,
The free soil
East of Ole Miss
Had pretty much dried up.
Those wacky bigamists
Pushed west again to Illinois—
The Prairie State, after all--
Raw land; still.
Raw people too,
Fearful, intolerant rubes,
Barely familiar with their own Book;
Scarcely needing another.
Our wacky gypsy Saints,
Treated like Christ deniers,
Treated like Jews, for Christ sake!
Joseph & Hiram--
The Smith Brothers
(Note to self:
Check on Mormon cough drop connection)
Slaughtered at Nauvoo.
Their Mormon brethren dispossessed of land again,
Try Missouri next--
Missouri, the show-me the door state--
These so-called Latter Day Saints
Get expelled by gubernatorial proclamation.
Saints pushed ever westward.
Until finding themselves in a place that
Even the ******* Indians didn’t want.
They dug their wells around the Great Salt Lake,
An American Negev chosen by prophecy,
They hunkered down in their desert Tel Beersheba.

But I digress.
We were talking about
That secret NSA complex
Being built in Utah,
Being built right now, July 2013.
When complete
The Watching Class will surely tune
Their screen resolutions
To those of us evincing
An unusually keen interest in
Issues like privacy.
Those among us, for example,
Using noms de internet,
Maintaining multiple email accounts,
Changing passwords
Randomly yet frequently,
Clearing browsing histories hourly,
Deploying anti-viral applications—
People: perhaps, with something to hide.
Those of us driven to paranoia
By the shape of things to come,
Those of us afraid of exposure,
Yet, incapable of staying off-screen,
Impelled by conspiracy fever,
Betraying ourselves on
Blogs and websites,
Leaving digital breadcrumbs behind.

R.J Calzonetti


Screaming cross the skyscraper’s windbreaker tapering

Aether vapour- trailblazing ****-sapien wafers

Of machinations psychotropic doppelgängers

Aristotle throttling menagerie’s philosophically hypnotic obelisks

Mind-boggling astronomical chronological esophagus

Antioxidants phosphorus catastrophic mitochondria

Beyond anaconda onomatopoeia

Of hallucinogenic Armageddon biblical umbilical cords

Swarming northern lights of aurora borealis

The chalice a battleground of Evangelion belladonna

Metalica candelabra swallowing the monochrome Hanukkah

Of a cold winter’s eldritch disintegration photosynthesis

Of innocent infinity stretching wretched beckoning requiem

The words that fall upon my page, are really just a shallow grave

Of the dawn of nighttime in my eyes, calm upon the twilight sun

Wrong is done draped on the blood moon wraiths

Skyscraped fields dusk a hollow thud below the dunes

That thumps the consumption of our fate, fumes to glow in darkness loom

Left blind in light of day you cannot see, the little pieces silver sheen

For blinding light may fade to grey, and I will never have my way

Nightfalls on another daybreak, dawning darkness, sundown on another day

Twilight plays with sparkling haze, the sky a wildfire made ablaze in patchwork scarecrows

Who etch rainbows black as a heart of coal, sold flatlining railroads

Gold wraithlike halos of stained-glass cathedrals unreal in the fever-dream of human beings

Bleeding Elysium from the seabed of dead worlds, gourds of incorporeal cornucopias

Born orchestra morsels of sorrowful oracles predicting crucifixion of ellipsis’ antithesis


(MC) Aurora


Absonant  as my pen writes the twilight, the red swallowed on horizon and bright

As through a sea of blood under my feet and shrinking mast of my mighty ship

A shadow I make on that red snow and peep into my heart’s hollow

It’s deep as much as my pen spake of grief.

I blinded in that last light and hurled like a beast dreading the songs of holy lies

That have just pained in bright and made me grieve.

They dragged me on my wings and deplumate  me as so fallen humans

They wrenched my limbs and rive my heart out and flinger me in air and I laid forever

On the stones that dank my blood.

I wait for the troth  of  demise but betrayed as it didn’t come to detract,

I laid when the horizon grinned red on my face and poured the last ale

And brutally drank the last sip of me.



R.J Calzonetti


People are sleeping under the blankets of a tranquil streetlamp

A sunflower in the damp bed of concrete

Soon they’ll be pushing up daisies

Underneath the foundation of what I stand for

Nip the bud of the flower pedalling the root of all evil like fallen leaves

Breeding paraplegic freedom from the pollen melancholic

Anarchistic polycrystalline shapeshifters drifting vilified

Buried alive like asphalt constellations crowning metallic gallows alcoholic in my solitude

See the clouds bury the ground in half a heaven’s heartbeat

Limbo’s limitless abyss the photosynthesis of the sepulchral diablo

Revenants of redemption dancing with death

Evanescent in its bioluminescent crescent moon spooning illuminated illustrations

Of Himalayan mayhem cremated avarice of ethereal onomatopoeia unravelling catacombs in God’s palindromes

Homeopathic saplings decapitated in the dismembered September wastelands defibrillator

Invigorating the nightshade white wraiths plane-walkers of Apocrypha documenting entropy

Pent up sentience avenging the endless demigods of discombobulated proclamations nocturne graceless, octaves eldritch, evangelic

Elegant elevators to flights of staircases where the air is fragrant with the fragments of stagnant stained glass asterisks

Written gospels to masquerade hostage to the faith the man misplaced the sacred hate, the passageways of apathy apostrophe

Apartheid of serpentine survivors carving smiles on the sidewalks

Farming diamonds and their detox

Arming giants like a phoenix

Carnal nihilists with their secrets

Stardust quiet as the bleachers

Start defiant still a reject

Art discipled to our freedom

Shattered hearts pick up the pieces

Jigsaw puzzles, smothered treasons

Sow the seeds and **** the reaper

Even legions rhyme and reason

Tattered flags without a penance

Good men do not go to heaven

Buy your burden at 7-11

Your exit is the only the next entrance

Resurrection prepubescent

Asymmetric biomechanics

Anguish to be reprimanded

Megalomaniac in our sabbath

Living life is just a sentence

Psalms of seance death’s senescence

Baptize vengeance lest it ventures into heaven

Ventriloquist omniscience of rhythmic equilibrium

Earthly hurricanes reemerging insurgent as the sugarcane purgatory

Primordials metamorphosis contorting rigour Mortis oracles horoscope cloaked in cloaca hallucinations

Induced irradiated amalgamated retaliatory incorporeal chlorophyll

Born from the sorcerers' spell, the cathedral of doubt

The only darkness is within oneself, light shed within a holy shell

Isolation is a lonely hell, scythes of moonlight blight of bells

Nightingales fail to halo word of mouth

Enveloped in the clouds cast shadows hex

But resurrection cannot hide from the eyes of death

Fresh as babies breath

Rank as the body festers effigies

Bless the Nephilim the questions beck

And call for some god to collect the rest

Is there any answer?

Even growth can be a cancer

Lifeless corpses once were dancers

Devils waltz on top of canopies

Heaven’s hands have touched serenity

****** brands that crushed His enemies

Stained glass sanguine dismantled entropy

Calamity ran dry insanity dabbling in humanity

Unravelling the candy wrapper saplings of happiness

Pitch black irradiant dull edges sharpening archangels, darkness reincarnating

Blinding bioluminescent glistening abyssal rakshasa sarcophagus parting monarchies

Metamorphosis coruscating fornication immortalization Tartarean

Reverberating ****-sapien scintillating hurricanes palpitation circulating ricocheting oblivion

Shining crepuscular homunculus dully illustrious

Sunless avatars, mannequins of Abaddon stygian as fallen leaves on the breeze of Avalon Evangelion

Incarceration breeding Elysium’s jailors in the cathedral of double helixes

Bethlehem's’ new genesis of Lucifer’s crucifixion

Brighter than a fallen star

Mourning in the dark

Doppelganger apostles night stalkers of phosphorous

Pockmarked arcanum bloodstained in gravestone Salem

Where the braves’ halos dined on maelstroms alone

Heirs succeeding failures of the empty throne

Filled with nothings’ own

Brimming bound by Babylonian poems

Deus ex Machina's apocalypse coughing prophets of Samsara blossoming diabolic

Life is but a Holocaust

Death the moment God forgot

Breath the only psalm we sought

Kept within a hollow box

Shedding devils, angelic, lost

Finding metamorphosis


(MC) Aurora


A world often synonymous with beauty on the horizon,

Meet my eyes you mourned demon load the strength on thee.

Crestfallen light on your wrist burns down your girth

And you can plead, just plead your twilight sun.

Watch the dead sea swallow you in the salts of agony

And drown in the anguish, hundreds of angelic bloodsheds,

Press hold of the thumbprints on your throat, you can't roar.

Sore lugubrious melancholy aired atmosphere,

And downhearted souls dispirited dragons dragged along.

The sob grim hiding in a blue funk rusty smog choking wind,

The nyctophilliac animals howl long the cold-blooded love song

In your lungs and burn.

It's the twilight sun,

Just that twilight sun.

What is real and what is not
All my life I’ve always had dreams
So profound that I find myself stuck.
I pray at night that I be given visions,
I pray at night that I be given answers to life’s mysteries,
And I also pray at night for the path I must follow
Be laid out for me like a blueprint.
In my dreams I can smell, I can taste
I do mathematical problems and the answers are always correct,
I tell the truth and I even lie.
I dream so much that I’m beginning to think
That when you dream that is real life
And when you’re awake you’re really in a dream.
I had a vision once that Stonehenge isn’t a time piece,
It really was doorways for the twelve apostles from the Bible
To meet up at the appointed time
And then to go be with the maker of it all
I had another one before that the asteroid belt
Was just like the game children play in the dirt
Drawing a circle and then trying to knock each other Out of orbit
What I saw it was like two planets smashing like flicking marbles
And the tremendous impact caused all the debris
To be caught in a gravitational pull between Mars and Jupiter.
My visions if written in an earlier time
Could have saved the one who was burned
At the stake and in return would take us all out of the dark ages.
My latest dream last night which caused me to write this was a vision of,
I was in the upper parking lot at the Canadian French Club in my town
And people were gathering all around in a heavy congregation
Next a station wagon pulled up and two medical examiners got out
With jump suits on and patches on their backs saying just that
As they approached the lakes edge I then knew what time it was
And then suddenly a woman with fishing pants on to keep her legs dry
Was caring a man who was blue, cold and clammy
And looked like a large rubber doll in her arms out of the lake
To the shores edge, I then approached and had to have a touch
As the body was dripping with cold water
The lady than took his right hand and began to
Swing his arm fast in my direction flicking water upon my face
And then she said to me, now you have been baptized.
My favorite dreams are the ones where I pre meditate a plan
And then execute it to perfection.

(CARSr. 6-28-12)

She is the typesetter’s “e”

The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.

His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.

In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.

But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******,
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.

She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.

Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
           
 

Driving the congregants
            in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
            hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
            than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.

Parrotic tongues set out
            commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
            misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
            creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
            permeates the entireness
           of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.

Command darkness to produce
            light.
But you turned moonlight into
            tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
            steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
            false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle

Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.

Righteousness afar from the
          apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
          tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
          into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
           to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.

Pastoral advertisers of chattels
           in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
            sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
             the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.

Disentangle faithfuls from the
          webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
          shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
           isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
           separate out afflictions from
           feebleminded faithfuls.

Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?

In the early morning of August,
We headed off to the Great Ocean Road.
The beauty of it all took my breath away.
I can still remember the vivid blue
Of the Ocean,
Of the sky.
Cheveux au vent
The piercingly cold wind
At the Twelve Apostles
Swept us away,
With grace.
In the heart of the Rainforest
We made our way through like warriors,
With glory.
The experience felt like a dream;
It was enchanting
And I loved it.

-12/11/13

© eMs' silent poetry. All Rights Reserved.

When my mind is at rest I think of peace and blissful things
I see the unfettered and innocent smile of a new babe in arms
Or the Omnipotence gilded arms outstretch showering blessings
The shores of a pristine beach with blue waves marking times
Silver sunset sprinkling magic across quiet waters with no stressing
Or me sat at my fathers feet as he reads engrossed in his charmes
My mind rests easy in places of warmth and enriching lovings


My mind has no space to linger in the murkiness of failings
I do not plunge dark dept to court the uninspiring s in terms
To share company with wretches with wasted mental ecthings
Eyes that see dew in darkness and acrimony in fruitless farms
Voices made for howling dirges and apostles of negative cravings
Demented downers who drink from the fountains of fallen vamps
Satiated miserably they seek to retch their stench on followings


My mind finds the luminous stars and praise their spark-lings
It atunes to the silent melodies of sages who now sleep uncramp
It relishes the delights of the million trillion wonders tinklings
Its marvels the joys of the thousand mothers holding new champs
Can share the lifting dreams of hopes for happy new beginnings
Living is never about waste for the Creator avails no dumps
For a mind that lives and grows in the Light is forever inspired and inspiring



Copyright LaurencA.1stAugust2018.All rights reserved

"Alas , alas , the great city,
where  all who had ships at sea.
grew rich by her wealth !
For in one hour she has been laid waste.
Rejoice over her, O heaven,
you saints and apostles and prophets !
For God has given judgment for you against her ."

"With such violence Babylon the great city
will be thrown down ,
and will be found no more;
and the sound of harpists
and minstrels and of flutists and trumpeters
will be heard in you no more ;
and the sound of the millstone
will be heard in you no more;
and the light of a lamp
will shine in you no more;
and the voice of bridegroom and bride
will be heard in you no more ;
for your merchants were the magnates of the earth,
and all nations were deceived by your sorcery.
And in you was found the blood of prophets and of saints.
and of all who have been slaughtered on earth"

Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.

The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.

Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with  Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.

Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ******* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with

Christ and his apostles
had but bread and wine to share.
At that Last Supper many came
to a table nearly bare.

Gandolfini came by honestly,
his girth and double chin.
The mayonnaise he relished
May be what did him in.

He enjoyed a glass, or two, of beer
He liked his King Prawns fried.
He downed a pint of Morgan’s ***
with foie gras on the side.
Two Pina Coladas for dessert.
But surely that’s no sin.
Some speculate t’was the massive tab
That led to Tony’s end.

It's Sunday,
shall I perch on the edge of a pew in the church and be bored by the drone of words said to be set in a stone?or
shall I turn on the pages of that rock of ages and be battered quite senseless by the relentless epistles sent off by apostles or just whistle a tune because the pub opens soon?
It's Sunday and the weather is fine,time enough to pray on any other day
and today is not like any other,'oh brother' you'd better believe,better receive it into your heart,this is the start and
it's Sunday.

The vertical of the routing kinetics was far from the contemplation of the gods of the catastrophes, accepting that they had to save these souls that were tied before the inclination of the southern part of the island when it loomed in the height, related and when the lord He appeared to Saint Paul in Damascus for the reconversion of souls. Fury dried the air and became unbreathable as it exploded before the astonished gaze of those lacerated by the ins and outs of the earth, seeing that Saturn, Mars, and Jupiter came into conjunction, when the sun revolved around itself, accelerating its kinetics perigee. The misgivings took hold and the feet of all were static without, finding footholds in some astromethereology, to ask the archangels for the vindicatory fiery flame, far away in the arid atmosphere that Mercury produced when he wanted to abstain and block the unbridled Sun. The intense and changing winds emanated from the caverns, like micro hurricanes that constellated Aorion and Taurus. The darkness came out of the Pleiades from the dark Manes who envisioned the codes and omens for those who were not empowered by the claws when they aligned themselves in Taurus, and Mycenae anticipated said forecast in the Agios Andreas chorography, which on this occasion was trilocated, to resist in the same chorus of Patras, where the Apostle Andrew was announcing them between kings and generals. Everything argued from the veins of the meanders where it could be described that thunder came out from the clouds and that they were absorbed by the cracks preceded by the vigorous bells, and the bellowing of Vernarth as if they were in the hypocenter of the Arbela site, when all soldiers ran after other human species and Brisehal bellowed at them, emulating his master's senses of terror. The roar of combat was comparable to the convulsions of men running toward the lows of the earth, spitting foul-smelling whiffs from within. The galleries were hidden above and below the earth, the blows were overwhelmed by compact solid plates that flew over the lost earth, the Stymphans protected with their bronze wings the lacerated and Marie des Vallées, who in turn encouraged Vernarth who fought to protect Theus and Vikentios with Wonthelimar near masses pierced by the blast of the fiery wind. Some adobes were classified within the taxonomy of the brick that was fortified in the corners of the Hellenic temple that resisted with their flying buttresses when the parapet was raised, and they settled again after an undulating goal of venerable swaying to a Sybilla in trance. The waves ceased the high tide wind and the contrary Metelmi winds were made worse by any anger in the wreckage of a forge when the *** scarce to open the Apollo wasteland.

They all had to wait forty-five days, sheltered in the meanders. When the sea was collected after having overcome the masses of hydrosism, in any exhibition in front of anyone saying goodbye with inept imploration. Vernarth was possessed in some declines with the support of his donkeys, who had come from the Eclectic Portal to assist him in the face of this typology that only with them could he minimize. In the sixth version of his reposes, Vernarth gave them up due to the delirium of repentance, which revealed the image of the Twelve Apostles, before the scientists approached from Vernarth's Rhema who quantified the approach to austerities, which could not even be gathered in all the libraries of the World, not least in the insight of who can describe it extrinsically in the Parnassus or the Acropolis. The whole irrational focus was deified in the externalities of all the slight edges of the Milky Way, creating arcane incense fires in what is said of the trials adjacent to the springs of knowledge, to console the mourners towards a Tractatus where they will revolutionize the meanings of the signifier.

Zefian says upon emerging: “what collision affects the movements of the world when the body vibrates with confusion and not with emotion! The Fourth Sagita collided with Mercury and the Sun, everything took hold from the Aurion Belt, for them, the uneasiness is reflected in the death, by not resisting the rude speed of the ancient episodes, which in turn are in the geological testimonies from where all geological ethical matrix is born. As dignity is aquatic given its immense containment of the sinful solid, the solids want to get out of their penitentiary causes, with a habitual bustle breaking down in the valleys and mountains, which only the land contains and not the sea. When the ocean shakes, it lashes with the Aurion club at its antagonists, who could be imaginary or its own ethics that cross the seas and takes hold in amphibious larvics lands "

Zefian leaves and begins to order and incur in the surfaces that became tenuous and discreet in the labyrinth of the Tractatus and in the linguistic signs of retro life, which came to redeem their progeny that lay in the same spheres that the earth itself possessed, flooded with silt in the superimposed light of the fire as a collateral external factor that moved with all lightness, throughout the circular surface as if snatching the dynasty that the Peri Kosmous claimed, leaving it in the fractal of the nullity of the excursion, with the factorial of starting Relevant areas that do not tremble, until the soul of the world was in the trance of the same excursion, while time froze as inert matter, and real-time emerged from the thread of the excursion's digression when the mountains were not sinking, probably being so. ? That verisimilarly it would pre-exist after the final excursion where it showed its splendid chorography authentically intact.

adrift on a sea swept
with the restless discontent and
heartfelt sweet dreams
drifting among images and arguments
backwater saints and apostles of
criminals on election trails
floating donkeys and elephants........
out here in the simple beauty of
the ever present tides of
humanities daily ritual conversations........
out here in the warm sea cold sand
i followed her pretty picture to her page
found the words she painted
the image of her desirable hearts landscape
full of sunlight dancing among the summer leaves
this lovely heart in this
strange and fascinating sea
where all is not what it appears to be...
the sailors sing while they labor building better ships
and faster dreams.......
tell me some nice tale
you backwater saints with kind hearts
give me a dream for tonight full
of summer leaves in sunlight
of smiles shared

I brought her one flower
from the cemetery I borrowed
love leads to death
but it can work the other way
so the blackbird on the telephone wire say
I brought her one flower
a bouquet -- wasteful, sour
too many kisses cheapen
how else to pay by the hour
so the meadowlark's **** showers
I brought her one flower
in a corduroy suit, sunglassed tower
a corkscrew and 12 apostles
too far from shore, too young to cry
so the stupid penguin tries to fly
I brought her one flower
in some water, a tired bower
"I didn't try my hardest."
"I know." Wish my *** to the moon
So the robin lets out a morose croon

When you told me, I wanted to punch you the **** out
I wanted to cry; to tear everything off the walls.
I wanted to climb out of my skin and watch someone else go through the pain.
The pain of loving someone too much, too soon and not being enough.

Wait, i'm not done yet.

When I thought of us. It was just us. No future. Just us.
And that, was the most beautiful idea I'd ever gotten stuck on. But you're gone.
That was hard to write.
You're a ghost.
I just had the most wonderful night of my life and you expect me to just leave?
You're a sick sadist.
Get help.

Wait! One more thing.

Why am I sat here in my favourite cafe. waiting for you?
Hoping you'll use your initiative to come back for me?
I want to see you casually stroll in, surprise me with flowers (which no one has ever done before.) and kiss me like you mean it.
Please pick me.

Pick me.

Agápi mou, how I dote thee mine
baby of potentate vision's; thou
art the foregone one of stringed
song's, that young lover's seeketh
To hath. Atop the thysiastery of
Ourn affection, I shalt layeth
Ourn all mine amour, near
The pearly gates, I'll meet
Thee at the door. The entry-
Way wherein only select few
Shalt pass, the liquid water there hath
Life, none hopelessness nor any bad; just garden's of
Succulent features, history's apostles there to be ourn new
Teachers, wherein the pictures art surreal, what's thine is mine, and what's mine is thine; feeling paradise complete us in lively field's.


©Brandon Nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane sardua Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou) dedicated

With thirty pieces at your feet
Isaiah's prophecy: made complete.
Your infamy sealed with a kiss
May be more compelling
Than your place on Satan's list.
Though history be untelling,
Through you His will be done
To ensure your friend
Go down as His forgiving son.
You both knew before
The bread was dipped,
The soldiers: he wanted tipped.
Apostles fell from twelve to eleven.
You secured your spot in heaven.

I weep, for the naïvety of martyrs
Those that bear great weight that only gets harder
But with every step, they feel they push farther
Until their legs are sliced off as they start to feel taller.

I apologize, but I think we are vile
When death knocks on your door the brave men can all smile
Until their remains are organized into a pile
We approach the gas chambers in single file.

You can bury my heart down at Wounded Knee,
Where mothers cry and children flee
The rich laid claim on all the land they could see
They sought revolution but the Sioux weren't free.

White males easily succumb to their greed
Laughing uncontrolled while the innocent bleed
You can mourn their passing with your apostles creed
At least when warriors fall in battle, in death they are freed,

From all the filth, upon this desolate earth
We **** for monetary paper yet what is it worth?
I hope a ghost kills the machine in a single burst
I have seen truth in the darkness and I long for rebirth.  

I fear I have become lost in infinite totalities
Those that drain away my vigor and vitality
I feel that existence is nothing more than a parody,
And that we are the source of ultimate  hilarity.

I have sought to transcend, with zealous fervor
But I fear that my wisdom has become lost in the server
I can't earn her respect any more than I've hurt her
Destruction of love is something far worse than ******.

Chapter XXVI
Messiah of Judah IV part
Miracle  V - Gethsemane / Aramaic Phylogeny

They come out of Bethlehem, all on the Giant Camels. Of the seven spaces in the column, the last one that was occupied was the seventh where King David was going. Of the five spaces that remained, the Cherubim were going they were playing with Raeder and Petrobus; they would shine with their adventures flying towards the heights of the majestic Sun. The cherubs tinkled with the tinges of angelic Abrahamic beings, involved in the adoration and praise of the Caravan. Cherubs are mentioned for the first time on the route back to Jerusalem, with the great participation of bumblebees, bees and wasps, all flying alongside the Cherubs, Raeder and Petrobus and Alikanto. They would all stay up to seven hundred meters before reaching the eight gates and returning to the garden of Gethsemane. They were surrounded by dance in the Aramaic phylogeny. The bumblebees were embedded in the hills laden with echoes outside of man…., Putting themselves to the east of the Garden of Eden in rows of Cherubim, with a burning sword that was stirring everywhere, to guard the path of the tree of life. Ezekiel describes “four living beings” as the same beings as the cherubim, each had four faces that were like man, lion, ox and eagle - and each had four wings. Regarding the appearance of the cherubim: "there was in them the likeness of a man" These cherubs used two of their wings to fly and the other two to cover their bodies.

Beneath their wings, the cherubs seemed to have the shape, or likeness, of a man's hand that resembled the Aramaic phylogeny, which linked the organic environmental pollinations of the Lepidoptera, which were carrying the fertilizing spheres to reach the scrawny angiosperms. The Christic language was inaugurating on the fringe of the frolicking land, which awaited the inauguration of the Linguistic Phylogeny, to attend to the edicts for the perenniality of language, which relates Gethsemane to the olive presses, the cherubs flapping their wings to reach the father - Abba. With the flashes of the Apocalypse the Cherubs danced happily, magnifying the presence of the Apostle in the Hexagonal Birthright with the holiness and power of God. This is one of their main responsibilities throughout the scrawny abbey of members mobilizing to meet one of the twelve apostles with propaedeutic assonance attached to the twelve giga camels, in addition to singing praises to Iahvé, they also served as a visible reminder of the majesty and glory of the Messiah.

The Apostle says by parasychological regression: “A fascinating walking route in Jerusalem begins at the top of the Mount of Olives and curiously leads us to the route that will be taken after the evangelical legs of the camelids that will take them to the Holy Sepulcher, continuing through the Damascus Gate ..., here the camelids were restless! Very close you could see the topography on the top of the Mount, between the route of the feet of Bethany and Jerusalem, the Garden of Gethsemane appeared to us full of Cherubim ..., Joshua's prayers in Aramaic are felt sneaking into the camels' snores as they felt the prayers before his arrest in the Orchard. "

In here, at that moment, it happens that the bumblebees arrested the apostle, taking him to a specific sector of the garden, where sacred water and humid wind continue to flow, having olive trees growing in the garden of the embossment with huge risers, to be bordered by the oil pipeline in olives to grace the Lord on the laurels in Daphnomancy, as a holistic form of divination by which they are intended to make predictions using the leaves and branches of the laurel, chewing the leaves beforehand and then igniting them towards the crackling of the sacred fire of Aramaic Gethsemane that lit the Joshua's sacred paths and feet, and the Cherubim also carried on their four wings, with four laurels on each laureate wing. Thickened with palm energy, they walked towards the main entrance of the alzamara. They arrive in the surroundings of Gethsemane, surrounded by the Daphnomancy of the laurels that the Cherubs, the bumblebees and others carried on their wings that would be in charge of inseminating the pollinating particles in the angiosperms, thus they would rescue the smallest words and their verbal serial in the words that were transferred from the Kafarsuseh stable in Betehelem, so as not to misplace the Aramaic word, being thus redistributed to Gethsemane, by the Lepidoptera and bumblebees, wasps and bees.

This inter-organic phenomenon would make re-couple the verbalized accents of Joshua in mature and unborn age, in such a way as to preserve the Aramaic dialect, to re-clone the same groupings and intentions as the environmental phylogeny of the dialect, in cultural ritual that would write it. with the insects and the Cherubs, to re-enchant all the pluralities that would be arranged in the Garden, to energize the oil pipelines for the salvific and appearing of the image of Saint John the Apostle, King David, Vernarth, Etréstles, Eurydice and the remaining that compose them beyond the seventh camelids until reaching the last one; the Fifth Cherub who will be the scribe present with Peter and the two sons of Zebedee; only one with the close in great courage San John.

His Holiness Joshua said: “Abba…, Father, all things are possible for you; take this cup away from me; but not what I want, but what you. Then Joshua came and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, Simon, are you sleeping? Have not you been able to watch one hour? Watch and pray, lest you enter into temptation; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak. Again he went and prayed, saying the same words. When he returned, he found them sleeping again, because their eyes were heavy with sleep; and they did not know what to answer him. He came the third time, and said to them: Sleep now, and rest. Enough, the hour has come; behold; the Son of Man is delivered into the hands of sinners. Get up, come on; behold, the one who gives me is approaching. ". From a few lively little, henchmen lights were seen to the greater discontent ..., they were the executioners, attached to the hostile broken leaf of the laurel that fell on his back" On fire and cracking in all their offspring "

The anticipated visions were fertilized by the Cherubim, who advanced events in the chronological life of the apostle, which was related to his life as an apostle and evangelist of the new succession after returning from exile. It was coming close and entering by a path, it was a path where the lines of oil pipelines were that crossed the subsoil of Gethsemane.
Fifth Cherub Septuagint: “As a scribe of the Hexagonal Birthright, I refer to two hundred years before the birth of Jesus, where he developed a Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures that became widely accepted as a legitimate (even inspired) translation. Tradition relates how King Ptolemy II of Egypt established a vast library in Alexandria. However, it was not complete, and I wanted to have a copy of the Hebrew Scriptures in it. Ptolemy sent representatives to Jerusalem and invited the Jewish elders to prepare a New Greek translation of the text. Seventy-two elders, six from each of the 12 tribes of Israel, came to Egypt to fulfill the request. And like your Santiago you will write with me the allegory that will shine more in Alexandria. They were driven to the lonely island of Pharos, where at the end of 72 days, their work was completed. King Ptolemy was pleased with the result and placed it in his library. When the task was completed, the translators compared them all and each was found to be miraculously identical to the others. The result later became known as the Septuagint (from the Greek word for 70) and was especially popular with Greek-speaking Jews during the following centuries. Hebrew was displaced and Aramaic prevailed, which is the New Testament language that will influence the eclectic Aramaic language that was also promoted to heaven with Joshua to communicate with all the preaching of his Father, in the sacred phylogeny with the Lepidoptera and her entourage. "I am sitting on the last camel, and I know I will be the first.

Ellipsis  Prophet  Elijah: “They were on Mount Carmel, when I summoned the faithful of Baal, Ashera and others. I summoned them to seal a new covenant on the slopes that pointed to the barking in Jezrael, from which a long and cursed drought was lamenting. At the moment all the congregants were absorbed by the imprecation he made before Ahab, inquiring the abandoned Baal and killing the 450 pagan prophets, they called Baal in several days and nights and did not answer, Elijah mocked him saying: “Call him with all his strength. Maybe he fell asleep and needs someone to wake him up. “The people gathered on the mountain, and then Elias told them: “You have to make up your mind. If Jehovah is the true God, follow him. But if Baal is the true god, follow him. Let's do a test: the 450 prophets of Baal must prepare an offering and call their god. I'm also going to prepare an offering and call on Jehovah. The god who responds by sending fire is the true God. “The people accepted. Elijah put his offering on an altar and poured a lot of water on it. Then he prayed, "O Jehovah, let the people see that you are the true God." Immediately Jehovah sent fire from heaven to burn the offering. The people shouted, "Jehovah is the true God!" Now Elijah said, "Don't let any prophet of Baal escape." That day, they killed the 450 prophets of Baal. Then a little cloud appeared over the sea, and Elijah said to Ahab, “Here comes a storm. Prepare your car and go home”. The sky was filled with black clouds, the wind blew and it began to rain very hard. The drought is finally over. Ahab left in his car as fast as he could. Jehovah helped Elijah to run faster than the chariot. But were all Elijah's problems over?

The ground shakes and the initiations of the aramic roots appear, after the intervention of the fifth Cherubim and the prophet Elijah on Mount Carmel, the Phylogeny is testament to the links that flow between the subterfuges of the re-dogmatized civilizations by obviating languages and pagan dogmas. In this genealogy, there were the bumblebees, bees, wasps and Lepidoptera dispersing all this storm and rain before they all reached the arenas of Gethsemane, with the perfect annexation between the idiomatic form and the species communicated with the living expressions where so many times the Joshua's feet circled the Gethsemane tapestry. Without doubt here these species will establish the DNA, and its molecules for the successful genetic derivation for an evolutionary environmental testament in the establishment of pollination in the orchard.

Phylogenic dogma: The coincidences in morphological and embryological themes will be located in the garden, with a great genetic relationship and evolutionary similarity. To the garden, to eternalize the concatenations of both topographic niches, in such a way as to root the Aramaic in every organic element and not, to provide the great prevalence of an eternal pacifying and luminous discourse in creation that does not pass away, but rather is It reactivates with these procedures in a new phase that will be inaugurated by the Apostle and Vernarth, reestablishing the premature hegemony of the garden, as a link between birth and resurrection.   From the ratio Nazareth - Bethelem / Kafarsesuh - Getsemani. Of these diversifications, the key will appear with the trees and their adaptation to the environment and the new Methodist dogmatics, to adapt it to the material and immaterial elements as a habitat of paradise in Judah, with adequate species and aware of their own self-preservation and self-evolution.    At the Service of Joshua, preserving the Aramaic dialect as the axis.

Vernarth says: “In Greek mythology, Ilithia-Eileithyi, is our Hellenic goddess of births and midwives. In the cave of Amnisos-Crete it was related to the annual birth of the divine child, and its cult is connected with Enesidaon  the - shaker of the earth, who was the chthonic aspect of the god Poseidon. My divine child has similar "Behold the Fifth Miracle" coincidences both in a cave or stable. Ilithia is seen with the torch carrying light for the children to come to the world of the Messiah. Now we will shake the orchard, from its nascent oleaginous ducts in which we will have the salvific light that will flow from the hyposa secretion of the candelabra with the olive oil before a new messianic verdict, where we will populate the cave of the earth as a great similar light which will accompany the Shemesh-Sol philosophy, bearing witness to the Messiah and reconciling us with his instructions as it was in Jezrael and now in the orchard.

Under  edit

the kid who smoked *** with me every night on my ratty couch
now has Elder slapped in front of his name,  a closet full of suits and matching socks, a two year sentence and a destination
Apostles who make nothing short of six figures
drop holy oil on his head and say words that are supposed to bless and 'set apart'
because now he is not just any kid,
he is a kid who must knock on doors and teach others that they aren't good enough.

from the age of 8 when he was dunked in some water and asked if he would join the army of Christ
like some kind of secret club on the playground
he was told that he would need to save money for this day
i guess the church spends too much money on political campaigns against human rights
to pay for their own missionary costs

here he is 10 years later
too afraid to tell his parents that he believes in God about as much as he believes in the Easter Bunny
because if he did, his mom and dad would be
frowned upon
whispered about
forever made the talk of the neighborhood
can you blame him?
he loves them

i wrap up a copy of Siddhartha in our favorite skate magazine
and leave a note that reads:

                                                 your own happiness is worth fighting for
                                                 best on your adventures