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november Jul 2014
did you know
the shade of
your skin
appropriates some behavior
and not others?
your world
already knows how
to treat you
nameless one
If Memnon's mother mourned, Achilles's mother mourned,
and our sad fates can touch great goddesses,
then weep, and loose your hair in grief you never earned,
Elegy, now ah! too much like your name.
That bard whose work was yours, who gave you fame, Tibullus,
burns on the mounded pyre, a lifeless corpse.
See Venus's boy, bearing his quiver upside down;
his bow is broken and his torch is quenched;
look how he goes dejected: his wings trail on the ground;
he smites his naked breast with violent hand;
his tears dampen the curls that fall around his neck,
and heaving sobs keep breaking on his lips.
(Just so he went out, fair Iulus, from your house,
they say, at his brother Aeneas's funeral.)
No less was Venus stunned by her Tibullus's death
than when the fierce boar smote her lover's thigh.
They say we bards are sacred, favorites of the gods,
and even that there's something holy in us,
but that churl Death defiles every sacred thing:
his shadowy hand appropriates us all.
Was Orpheus saved by his father and mother, who were gods,
or by his songs that tamed the astonished beasts?
They say that that same father sang 'Linos! Ai, Linos! '
deep in the woods on his reluctant lyre.
And Homer, too, from whom, as from an endless fount,
bards' lips are moistened with the Muses' waters,
one last day pulled him under Avernus's murky wave:
his songs alone escaped the greedy pyre.
The work of bards endures: Troy's famous sufferings,
and the endless shroud, undone by nightly fraud.
So Nemesis and Delia: both their names will live,
the one his first, the one his latest love.
But what use now your rites? What use the Egyptian rattle?
What use, to have slept alone in an empty bed?
When harsh fate steals away the good (forgive my words!)
I almost want to believe there are no gods.
Live virtuous: you will die. Respect the gods: grim Death
will drag you from their altars to your grave.
Write glorious verse, and see! here Tibullus lies:
one small urn holds the dust of what he was.
Is it you the blazing pyre bears off, O sacred bard,
not dreading to be fed upon your breast?
Flames that dare so great a blasphemy would burn
the golden temples of the blessed gods!
She turned aside her gaze who rules Mt. Eryx's heights,
and some say she could not restrain her tears.
And yet it's better thus than if Phaeacia's land
had strewn mere dirt on your neglected grave.
Here, as you fled life, your mother closed your streaming
eyes, and brought her last gifts to your ashes.
Here your sister joined your mother in her grief
and came with loosened hair all disarrayed.
And with their kisses Nemesis and your first love
joined theirs, and did not leave your pyre forsaken,
and Delia, as she left, said, 'Happier far your love
for me: you lived, while I was still your flame.'
'Why, ' Nemesis replied, 'do you grieve for my loss?
Dying, he clutched me with his failing hand.'
If anything remains of us but name and shade,
Elysium's vale will be Tibullus's home,
and you will greet him, learned Catullus, ivy bound
on your young brow, with Calvus at your side,
and you (if it is false that you betrayed your friend)
Gallus, careless of your blood and soul.
These shades will be your comrades, if any shades there are:
you have joined the blessed, elegant Tibullus.
May your bones find repose within their sheltering urn,
and may earth not lie heavy on your ashes.
judy smith Feb 2017
In 1983, the Fashion Design Council burst on to the Melbourne scene like a Liverpool kiss to the mainstream fashion industry. Inspired by punk's DIY aesthetic and armed with an audaciously grandiose title, an earnest manifesto and a grant from the Victorian government, FDC founders Robert Buckingham, Kate Durham and Robert Pearce were determined to showcase the burgeoning Melbourne design scene in all its outrageous glory.

"People resented hearing about Karl Lagerfeld," says Durham. "Our movement was against the mainstream and the way Australians and magazines like Vogue treated Australian designers."

Over its 10-year lifespan, the FDC launched such emerging designers as Jenny Bannister, Christopher Graf and Martin Grant. But what was perhaps most exciting was the FDC's ecumenical approach. Architects, filmmakers, artists and musicians all partied together at runway shows held in nightclubs.

"It was an inventive time when people came together and made people notice fashion," says Durham.

Among the creative congregation, Durham remembers artist Rosslynd Piggott, who constructed dresses of strange boats with children in them and filmmaker Philip Brophy, who used "naff" Butterick dress patterns. Elsewhere, an engineer made a pop-riveted ball dress out of sheet metal. The crossover between music, art, graphic design and film extended to architects such as Biltmoderne (an early incarnation of celebrated architects Wood Marsh) who designed the FDC's favourite runway and watering hole, Inflation nightclub.

"Clothing was confronting," says Durham. "It was brash and tribe-oriented. It was quite good if you weren't good-looking. People liked the idea that this or that clothing style was going to win you friends."

Today, however, even Karl Lagerfeld has a punk collection. To complicate matters, "fast fashion" appropriates the avant-garde at impossibly low prices. The digital era too has caused the fashion world to splinter and bifurcate. What's a young contemporary designer to do?

"The physical collective is no longer that important," says Robyn Healy, co-curator of the exhibition High Risk Dressing/Critical Fashion, which uses the FDC as a lens to view the current fashion landscape. "These are designers who are highly networked through social media who put their work up on websites."

Fashion designers still use music, film and architecture, but in different ways. Where FDC members might document its runway shows with video, studios such as Pageant use video as the runway show and post them online. Social media is perhaps the big disrupter. Where FDC designers might collaborate with architects, today it's webdesigners.

"Space has changed," says Healy. "Web designers might be the equivalent of the architect today. It's a different use of space."

As grandiose as the FDC, yet perhaps even more ambitious in scope, is contemporary designer Matthew Linde's online store *** gallery, Centre for Style. Like the FDC, it offers space for "artists who aren't at all designers per-se, but they're dealing with a borrowed language from fashion", Linde told i-D magazine.

"It's an extraordinary juggernaut across the world with a huge amount of Instagram followers," says co-curator Fleur Watson. "[Linde] has created a brand that uses social media in an interesting avant-garde way."

Yet unlike their often untrained FDC counterparts, these designers are perhaps the first generation of PhD designers, notes Watson. "Robert Pearce had a belief in culture changing the world. That's what these new designers are reflecting on in their research, their position in the fashion world and how do they change the way fashion works?"

While it's also true that new technologies offer exciting possibilities in embedded fabrics and experimentation with 3D printing, fast fashion has created certain expectations.

As Cassandra Wheat of the Chorus fashion label laments: "It's just hard for people to understand the complexity and the value that goes into production without being really exposed to it. They think they should have a T-shirt for cheaper than their sandwich."

During the course of the exhibition Chorus will produce its monthly collection from one of the newly designed spaces within the gallery. The exhibition's curators have commissioned three contemporary architects who, like its '80s counterparts, work across the arts, to interpret FDC-inspired spaces. Matthew Bird's Inflation-influenced bar acts as a meeting place for the exhibition's forums and discussions on the contemporary state of fashion. Sibling architects abstracts the retail space, while Wowowa's office design resembles a fishbowl. For Watson, the exposed shopfront/office has as much front as Myer's. Its architecture suggests the type of brazen confidence every generation of fashion design needs. Says Watson: "Fake it till you make it."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2017
Carrie Ross Nov 2011
A frat boy's superficial nightmare
selfishly appropriates the dance floor with her all too big of a ***
with two legs like a grand piana
thank God mommy didn't name her “Hannah”
she ain't too nifty
but tries with the hope of one day weighing less than 250
with her love handles only do so with extreme caution
don't you dare mention how you sit next to her in a class of 60  
though her desk is situated at the other end of the room
tell her she's pretty
but move into ultrasound when completing the phrase with a direct reference to plump or ugliness laugh if you find this funny
and don't if you don't
but don't don't don't tell me to leave subversion
to people who actually know how it works
because I do
but I do not think it's appropriate to call this satire
because it's so close to what I've heard and what so many young women hear on a daily basis
so please
remember your acne
your pygmy genitalia
and the embarrassing fact that you
and the last carbon-based life form you had as a ****** partner
share a set of grandparents
be a gentleman
keep your chauvinistic squeals to a minimum as you compare such women out of your league
to pigs because your tail couldn't be more of a spiral at this point
*******
get out of the way to make room for us sea cows
immaturity
jealousy
****** frustration aside
whether you like it or not
this is where we ******* swim
Marco Buschini Jun 2021
An undercurrent of coolness
Murmurs in the distance,
As the night shadows
Over a language of a thousand tongues.
A bite of indifference
bitterly breaks the silence.
The transformation looms.
A darting melody shoots across the sky,
As the pure light of my mind
Seeks a dance of flavour.
A Labour of gratitude
Lays abandoned on the riverbank.
I seek no mercy,
Just the stillness of the night.
And when will the golden sky appear?
The ignition of the fire inside
permeates the soul,
As the blend of existence
Bursts into life.
The shape of romance
plays into my hands,
As the inner mirror reflects innocence.
The autumnal ether switches sides,
As the world appropriates Timeflow.
The syllables and parables
crack the taste of forgiveness,
And when we finally deliver remembrance,
life will be ours.
Kabelo Maverick Feb 2015
Spirit fooled, my roots are blue now…
a birth insemination façade, it’s all really just a departure station
Blood is overrated like heirlooms now,
my earth interpretation of the Son is really just a miniature statue
From good to bad, popped the lid off by shoplifting,
Coz’ I’m from the hood and glad I can prop what I pulled off by uplifting.
This conniving side, Kundalini said it’s critical…
I remember the pain of discomfort in jail...
Sleeping inside that biting minky next to a Criminal clustered my praying effort to make bail. Spitting fire across with rage, the only love I can feel is from my Mother, so beware of blind fury...My Siblings’ wires are crossed with age, they only love what they can feel from Matter and Affairs , as if bewitched by Muti. I don’t have friends, rather Associates, there’s nothing like a relationship controlled by a timely device. The Real Ones are under the Sand, I call them Appropriates…She was ahead of her Creation ship but opposed by a tide of an untimely demise. Now I’m in solitude on this table surrounded by demons, but Jesu still breaks bread…A Soldier should learn to stay stable even though his bound to say “Yes” to deal with fake Men.
So fasten your seatbelt and countdown the launch sequence
Ready to blast off this sieged land compound, notch the frequence…
My name is Maverick©
Mike Essig Dec 2015
the constant of fluxation

truth merely a moving power
mortality merely mereness

a genuine body
sincere energy
a spiritual purpose

quarks, leptons, bosons, berryyawns. mesons
lead to electrons, electronic, electric, energy

this too is a syntax

letters, words, phrases, sentences & soforth

syntax added meaning unfolds
the human becomes

a life lived with intelligence, patience and whimsy

unfolding
like a lily

syntax sails a real world
but only one of many

mind without cause is a noisome thing
it is possible that your ears will bleed


meanings
        diverge
               for
                  different
                           readers


there is really only one sentence per reader

for each line only
one proper break
    or silly jabber
         becomes toxic tropes

     it can take days to understand one idea

I have never understood the
significance of garter belts

proceed with addition

let us go then you and I
out beneath the weeping sky
and attempt to make something new
from what has been

Allow the brain's raw edge
to blow away the fluff and
bore down to pure syntax
unadorned.

most ideas are only nostalgia

writing on the computer
an imaginary ribbon types back

purge the fluff

blow away the frills

what really remains?

Culture?

the moaning and bleating
of cattle from a
moving truck's ***
                   doomed

consider all poetry
               a Lost and Found of consciousness

plagiarism an invention of  
lady freshman English teachers
with withered ******* seeking job security

oh poets of the world
find your lines here
be glad they were chosen
no longer in old ink frozen

made new  made new  made new

Born Again!

(can i get an amen...)

the Poet appropriates and incorporates
making the old new

oh! bursting creation!

fresh fire from fallen twigs

make it new! make it new! make it new!
(old ez bombastic but on point)

everything you
imagine is possible

alphabet, words, syntax = narrative
narrative the only reality
and you are The Magus
with power to create

but this calls for courage

again it is an alphabet
making a word endowed
by syntax with meaning

meaning as always
just one of so many
possible realities

created out of lack of time

if there were world enough and time
you could embrace multitudes

you could spasm out
a plethora
of galaxies nebula planets

only cursed by time
is limitation introduced

know the silent voice of the gods made visible

find the Center of Self
just what is and no more
    sentence
            syntax
                  skein

unr­avelling back to the Source

we are more
than we can ever be

  ~mce
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
A lofty elevation,
A plumose cowl,
An irrefutable will.
Discretion: his calling card,
A birch-white arrow through
Viscous mauve shadows.
The strigine thief
Who appropriates your form
From the ground upward.
Predacious eyes perceive flesh and bone,
Discarded like chaff
Upon autumns threshing floor.
His talons disclosed,
Your legs shrouded
By his imperious wing.
Vaporous, you stand,
Your torso drawn ambiguous,
Upon the horizons ochre fabric.
Silken hair falls
Obliquely around your shoulders
Coalescing with the gathering mist.
Like the astringent hues in your puerile eyes,
I will fade from this night.
The evidence etched, evermore
Inside two darkling vessels.

I witnessed it all.




©*Thomas Gabriel
Franchesca Dec 2016
I reminisced about our memories and my soul walked out of me to try and reconnect with yours but I was rejected. I listened to our song and my heart cried. I was breathless. I thought I was okay. I even had something new but when it came down to it, I sat there ,alone with my empty chest, needing the oxygen to be restored. You asked for my heart and you tore it down and I couldn't get it back. The sense of love I couldn't get that back. You did this. No wait, I did. Love is a choice and I chose to love you. I chose you but in the end. You didn't chose me. Because I was never really an option to your heart. You took my heart out while you were inside of me, mentally. I sat in a bright, sunny room and somehow it is still dark. My mind is on replay with all our bad days and yet what's left of my heart was still aching for yours. The only thing that uplifted me was the rain. It was already sad so there's no place for my emotions to make it worse. The rain was my happy place. Where things can be sad but it all appropriates with the mood. The sad rain was my happiness. In art class we were taught on curves. As I glowed, I noticed the curve I was thinking about was your pathetic smile. Love is an overrated movie that everyone raves about but once they get a preview, they wish they hadn't watched it at all. You were the most beautiful, surreal yet sorrowing film I've ever seen. That is why it hurt. Because I once loved you. Your presence made my skin want to jump on top of yours. I wanted all of your embrace. All that you can give. But that was only what I wanted. In life things aren't given to you at a very second. Sometimes never at all. Your laugh was a symphony that matched the way my heart beated for yours. Sometimes I wonder. What I'd be like. What you'd be like if you were mine but I guess that's the mystery to it all. I loved you and you weren't even mine. I craved you and I hadn't had the slightest taste in forever. I wanted you. Forever. My mind split into 2 parts but you always brought it into one. She thought that love was never truly at happen at this age but then again what if it's the right person. That's when you came in. You completed me and my thoughts even when I didn't want you to. You ripped me out of my dignity and grace. I  couldn't even look you in the face. It was getting hard to be around you again. I had to stop before it was the end. I stopped. Yes I stopped. All the pain and the sorrow, washed away. Maybe all I needed, was the rain.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
the section in question is as mentioned in rachmaninoff’s
vocalise (op. 34 no. 14), first some symbology of numbers
in relation to kant’s thesis:

in a sequence
                                 (end)                                             (beginning)
                                           1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

   upon reaching 1 and
subsequently              0,

i find this to be unsatisfactory in terms of the kantian
equation 0 = negation,
unless there be an affirmation of non-negation, the use
of zero would have to take the form of coordinates,
thus the sequence would be as above but it would end
thus: (0, 0, 0) - given that the above sequence can be
seen a linear, given that it might reflect the essence time,
ending the sequence with 0 would only provide
“the end of time,” hence the need to change the whole
sequence ending with the other essence, space - and thus
the loss of negation, given from the beginning (0, 0, 0)
the following sequences are provide:
(1, 1, 1), (2, 2, 2), (3, 3, 3) (x, y, z), etc., which is the affirmation
i was looking for - movement in a three dimensional space,
the only other affirmative possibility is by ending the
sequence with ∞, which is transcendental positivism
aligned with ending the sequence with (0, 0, 0),
and not transcendental negativism of merely using 0;
nonetheless, this is my introductory fascination
as on offshoot of what is about to be translated
(i can't read philosophy in english, hence this translation
comes from a translation of german translated
into polish and now translated into english) -

antonyms of pure reason
the third conflict between transcendental ideas

                     thesis                                                  antithes­is
causality in agreement with the          freedom does not exist, yet
laws of nature isn't the only                 everything in the world happens
causality, from which all                      only according to the laws of
phenomena can be explained               nature.
in the world. for explaining them
it is also necessary to accept the
(self-accomplishing) causality
through freedom.

                    proof                              ­                                 proof
let us accept, that there is no other     accept, that freedom exists in a
causality other than the one in            transcendental understanding of
agreement with the laws of nature;    the word as a particular type of
thus everything, that is happening     causality, according to which
appropriates a preceding state, after  events in the world could take
which its next successive state is         place, namely the ability to begin
not sheltered from a certain rule.        in a way that's absolute of a
                                                              ­    certain state, and also in the
                                                                ­ same way, its series of successive
                                                     ­            *implications.
Deep Oct 2021
This is my home now,
God knows for how many years more!
The stack of books
upright arranged
in the shape of my dreams looks
disorderly and unorganized,
Loneliness in the shape of an injured cat
Invades the room, meowing, every night,
sniffs scattered objects,
And eventually rests in my lap
effusing air of some stale memories,

As the days move on like a tired traveler,
The stains on the wall are clearing
to my eyes,
Sticky notes like land mafias
appropriates space from the wall,
Che Guvera with a clenched fist
returns a red salute,

The 'fist' forwarded memory of past,
and one by one
Dreadful images reemerged in my mind;
Mother in hospital bed, pale and weak,
gasping for breath,
I sat beside her
waiting for magic,
Several breakups
especially the last one
that hurt most
where I choose this not  her,
And last but not least
my COMRADE days
participating in protests,
bearing batons, and living
like revolutionaries
fighting the corruption in
the system,

But now I yearn to be
part of the system,
As this series of pictures end
The motivation I consumed earlier,
watching twenty minutes
long video subsides,
And all of a sudden I rummage the bed sheet
to look for a hidden pack of cigarettes
which I bought yesterday,

Choices change as we proceed on
in life,
I do regret some of my decisions
and regret them badly,
I have cried at night,
Laughed like a hyena,
I'm weak feigning to be strong,
I see many reasons to quit this task
but one that keeps me
going on is the picture of an ailing mother
dying in a government hospital.
I don't know how this poem started and I still don't know how it ended. Maybe it's just me restlessly trying to finish this poem
Lawrence Hall Nov 2016
After Thanksgiving - We Are One Debris

A paper napkin with a turkey on it
Discarded outside by an errant child
Culturally appropriates among the leaves
It seems to want to join its fallen brothers

Raw and natural in their native state
In multicultural deconstructions
Like, you know, all spiritual and stuff
Becoming one existential leaf-mold

Filtered through November’s hipster glasses
A paper napkin with a turkey on it
Parable Dying with God: “In the seventh year BC, a Bedouin was going through the desert of the rabbinical princes, this man was going with his beard of a scribe or rabbi hurrying him, consequently and obtaining a doctorate in the law of the flock with camel hair that strangled by the neck and marked him with a thick and contoured baldric, for the first manly minutes of his vocal settlement that invited him to fully insert himself in Judea, in the Holy Spirit and in the fire of two Glasses of Vine, before two heralds and Masters who carried in their hands a silver dressing table, with kites of Abraham's vines, and which also hung from his back in gutted viper hides, shaking with proselytes that unclamped more life from a root and from the angelic tree. When he approached with a ceremonial formalism, the Bedouin focused between them, in the universe that separated them from the fangs of the vipers that surrounded him from the outburst of their fangs that he smeared with ink and litmus to write again to his family that in the vicinity awaited him. In case he did not arrive before the sixth day of the birth of Mariah of Nazareth, saying in his epistle: “Pretended and worthy tree of my family, I reveal to you a few days after my arrival in Nazareth, that I carry with me a good flock and vines that they are scattered in his Phylakterion, in two wineskins that supported following my epistle - continue with a pistol…; “Between the offense of my past lives and how not to separate myself from the water that still flows under it, I manifest miracles before my disciples, breaths, and before the rite of writing to them between two sitting next to me in the middle of the desert, to toast in two wineskins with wine and sticky fats drained from the Mezuzá, to then sit in front of you, in the distance of my arm that is not greater than the hand that separates from my wrist, and she herself from my elbow, telling them that in the saddlebags in my pantry, I carry the custody of two heads of crows that flee from the prejudiced pitchfork of my flock, separating the litter that splashes in my mouth with sieves and appropriates, with grains and wines that the fire will never extinguish "

Knowing that the heralds who accompanied him saw how they were exalted from the rancor of overseas and their designs, they became monarchical in their adherence by protecting them from where they were, without knowing if they were with their family, but if they were paralyzed by an idolatry of the sun and his fever in the ordinance of the Bedouin genre.

It continues: “with an irregular viper's tooth I write my feelings to you, as in daring baptismal purification of water that runs through the grains of the sands without evaporating, only in the cushion of Wine between Two, which I support with my heralds and their intricate gargles, with humility among them, shouting the ardor of the dove that will come from heaven with its holy solitude, individualized in the beings of the straying of the truth... "

Impelled by his epistle, the Bedouin absorbed himself from the beasts of the sunset and his communal patronage in other Bedouins who sat in their alleys through the desert, from other quarantines of wine and prayer, that tormented their thirst and hunger, before the surviving limb of devouring children who will never die for others who will satisfy their appetite, to control thirst and hunger, in bodies that will never feel it.

The Bedouin continues; "As the birthright of food in the bread and wine, during long episodes, I have separated from you. Today I proclaim myself in eternal patriarchy for the kinship of purging in this life, and their abstinence from death, mother and children will be seated on my right and my flock on the left, merging with the remains of the right hand...; in the anguish of my flesh, which cannot shine in yours, to supply them with miracles, isolation, and constraints of the attribute of a God-Man in the hoarse opening of the night "

After gathering the ink from the viper's fang…, he raised his arm that dripped the same other sooty serum, which differed from the smiling night to warm him with sweetness from what remained to write. Perhaps it would be Dying with God, prevented by himself that he did not do it in a hundred or a millennium where he declared the independence of a spirit, or in another faculty that provides extra-personal satisfaction of flushing on the battlements that awaited him to make crows and doves rest, and in all the lapses that do not speak of another chance that is not his own figure of breath, knocking on the gates of heaven to extend his prayers in existence and his sacred appointment with the most illustrious mystique.

The Bedouin continues “neither hunger nor thirst I will entrust to whoever does not know how to guide my flock, less the guardian who does not pick me up from stumbling from the empty desert that hurts and cuts more to whoever wants to be rescued from the pillars of the chandelier. I cannot resist your opinion, but I know that they are far from doing it, as father and son in golden graves with doctrines of name, before my superiors desire to catch on from some capes in Jordan, prompting the temptation to run between fires and mists of black prodigy and to die with God in the dry grass of the Lily "

Before the sophistry of probabilities from a quantum of the desert, this same one contracted and invigorated his ring finger to finish the lines that separated him from oblivion by his divine wine, which remained in his wineskin and then finished it together with his heralds, which They solemnly outsourced themselves to take them with the strength of the Simun that evaporated from the sweat and the suspension of the silica that suffocated them, rising swiftly for a third Wine proposal between two, inciting themselves in the power of their plenaries and the herds that they carried to their children minors.

The insolence of the person who called himself or named himself did not possess the incarnate verb that made him release the viper's tusk from his right hand, pre-existing elegies that held him in servitude, suffocating in the dark clouds, pointed out by the lamps that held him. from Aorion, as part of a gaunt progeny of immortal spirit. In this unthinkable way, the Simun withdrew absorbed, taking the viper and its inked tusk of speculation and triumphant apocalypse, to some corners of some prostitutes who were undermined in the keys of the redeemer's free will, depriving themselves before all who remained in the shin guards of man, and what is vulnerable from head to toe. The Bedouin, forcing himself to reconcile, jumps on the little blade of the Simun and climbs on it, to go after the viper's tusk, burning with courage in the ministry of temptation and the epistle that sinned before his eyes wanting to rewrite himself, to revive in it and leave aside the razors that circumcise the urgency and disobedience, on the hair of the camels that went with him, the honey that was in his head next to his hands that had stowed it, with some bees full of holy water feeding on temptations in which they have to flourish and in the hives of derision that were hung saying to him save yourself "

(Procorus was forced to deal with the battlements of the Bedouin station that wanted to continue in him, but determined to take the place of his consort, to finish drinking the wine of two and to help him Die with God)
Parable Dying with God
Angelo Iudici Jan 2022
Brilliance beholds the good and wise
Everything's vividly warm and alive
Heavenly such a place
This real sight before thee eyes

Of what such occasion appropriates this vision
Of what deed, action, or decision creates what I envision

Heaven such a glow
As I turn and see
The chorus of angels I wished would truly be

Halos and Wings
Harps and Strings
The act of good
The chorus sings
Be Good
Travis Green Feb 2023
His irreproachable smoking swagger is attention-grabbing
His wicked pink lips are so delicious to kiss
To feel him through and through
His aggressive devilish beard

His attractive compassionate eyes
Make me wanna drive into another lifetime
To combine with his energizing and striking design
Give me lush rushes

When my hands touch his impressive luxuriant eyebrows
Ignite my entireness
Pervade me with your breathtaking
And invigorating taste

Let his sweet nectar
Flow down my throat
Engross my dope, showy boat
Make me float in the waves
Of is glowing and soul-stirring machoness

My immaculate top-class smash
My luscious, robust, and clean-cut buck
I am digging his splashy fashion sense
His full-featured flex-worthy finesse

I fall into his awesome artful ardor
I am at the altar of his red-hot sparkling marvelousness
Caught up in how he shines and smiles
How he enlivens my existence
With his infinite splendorous masculinity

Beastly-built brick, delicious slick whip
I delight in him to the highest degree
The coldest grandiose dopeness
That appropriates my heart and soul

He seduces and woos me from head to foot
He keeps me shook
With a smooth, super cool look
That has me hooked on his badass groovy attraction
Norbert Tasev Jan 2022
In the memories of broken Hells, our luck and grief often turn; If we are looking for a friend and an enemy, we are already investigating! The Dark sends us non-bargaining Morse signs from another, unknown world! The beating gods of the Heart have lost their favor many times! Being, like a water jug filled to the brim, pulls us deep! The blinding of dogs of conscience echoes all the way to the shells of our listening ears! In our dreams of Sisyphus, every stone and rock recreates itself as a judgmental judgment!
 
Anxiety moved as a single body in us! In Congo space, our gift-fortune strikes here and there: the reaping laurels of silent opportunity were not reserved for us by the little kings of Being! In the long hours of our loneliness, we should first deal with atrophy together! The retained heat waves of memories hardly hurt anymore, yet they are necessary for us to reconcile with ourselves!
 
The familiar unrest swirled round and round! A stone block of silence breathes in our heads; we were forced to measure the night with bouncing weights! Our windows, still guarding our consciences, testify to our minds of fog-piercing Truths when asked! It is also a fertile, silent envelope flowing to our pounding hearts; all goodbyes converge as an outer glaze! Our predictable stick dreams are less and less alerting us to emergencies; the final formula for deprived expulsion is suicidal intent; direct inaccuracy appropriates instinctive
 
our senses and makes us back down! Conscious sleepers can't even wake up with the muffler! Our prodigal souls have become overturned trash; among perishable treasures, when can we finally find treasures?!

— The End —