"ated" poems - Hello Poetry

"ated" poems

They're huddled 'round their periodic lunch tables, square and socially pyramidal, and I'm at the bottom. But they're just fluorine factions, bullies at heart trying to steal my e-lectricity with their negativity. Because I'm light, Ultra-violet violence to the eyes, Magnesium burning. Anti-matter meets matter. And that catalytic, cataclysmic energy is attractive. And they see me. They see, see, see, But I've got too many Cs on this side of my false, metallic personality. I'd better balance myself Or I'm not getting a good reaction. Classic ionic, ironic idiocy. I've bonded with you, just compounding the issues. 'Cause you're a complete acetate without a solution: now all I've got are problems. Dot Diagrams are dotted lines separating you from me, because over the years what was a bond became a partially negative charge against me. I was your oxygen, and you were carbon -ated, bubbly and explosive. We would Combust. But now all's left but to see, oh, two of your new girlfriends flanking your sides, 'cause we've decomposed, split, gone off to better things. Monatomic monotones lace my speech, and I'm pining for something to complete this emp-d shell that is myself. 'Cause I miss what we had. We had chemistry.

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Mar 9, 2013

Mar 9, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC

They're huddled 'round their periodic lunch tables, square and socially pyramidal, and I'm at the bottom. But they're just fluorine factions, bullies at heart trying to steal my e-lectricity with their negativity. Because I'm light, Ultra-violet violence to the eyes, Magnesium burning. Anti-matter meets matter. And that catalytic, cataclysmic energy is attractive. And they see me. They see, see, see, But I've got too many Cs on this side of my false, metallic personality. I'd better balance myself Or I'm not getting a good reaction. Classic ionic, ironic idiocy. I've bonded with you, just compounding the issues. 'Cause you're a complete acetate without a solution: now all I've got are problems. Dot Diagrams are dotted lines separating you from me, because over the years what was a bond became a partially negative charge against me. I was your oxygen, and you were carbon -ated, bubbly and explosive. We would Combust. But now all's left but to see, oh, two of your new girlfriends flanking your sides, 'cause we've decomposed, split, gone off to better things. Monatomic monotones lace my speech, and I'm pining for something to complete this emp-d shell that is myself. 'Cause I miss what we had. We had chemistry.

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We were up all thru out the terrible night sniffling like ******* addicts like sick little youth 1930's depression oh the Great our fat lips hung like dying mosquitoes in the coming brothel of winter and her long scorched dress that I inflamed with my Vietnam stolen lover zippo of gasoline in a Sober frenzy of jealousy now her Glare is angled narrowly at lust tobacco coughing up and down side ways in dreams as if I were a butterfly addicted to cigars we were up all thru out the night counting our skin cells watching the television laugh at our faces He sobbed “how the orange metallic streets bent to our theatrical emotions on 12th street” oh the glory of our thoughts and touch was ransom was devil was god was god watching in his leather seat? Wearing his glasses reading the Bible? Or does he read Russian Literature or does he only read Latin I and I were up all last night guessing Morphine using the Sister's pay-phone copper to connect with silly 3 eyed hipster hookers their eyes wide and green with white salt like a ***** lake that you stumble upon drunkardly with a laughing Angel High on Cough Syrup and mortality amused exhilarated passion-ated by this new opportunity for Adventure's drawback which is death or Boredom MY innocents is deteriorating with Age like the alcoholic richness of 100 year old Wine sadly money monday didn't go to church hope that lady with wisdom in her hands forgives me then I ate now I starve clutching at the windows painting a boy staring at me wondering if I were real As I wonder if his thoughts are my own We were up all night translating the moon's shadows and hiccups into finger paintings and strep throat.

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Mar 17, 2014

Mar 17, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC

We were up all thru out the terrible night sniffling like ******* addicts like sick little youth 1930's depression oh the Great our fat lips hung like dying mosquitoes in the coming brothel of winter and her long scorched dress that I inflamed with my Vietnam stolen lover zippo of gasoline in a Sober frenzy of jealousy now her Glare is angled narrowly at lust tobacco coughing up and down side ways in dreams as if I were a butterfly addicted to cigars we were up all thru out the night counting our skin cells watching the television laugh at our faces He sobbed “how the orange metallic streets bent to our theatrical emotions on 12th street” oh the glory of our thoughts and touch was ransom was devil was god was god watching in his leather seat? Wearing his glasses reading the Bible? Or does he read Russian Literature or does he only read Latin I and I were up all last night guessing Morphine using the Sister's pay-phone copper to connect with silly 3 eyed hipster hookers their eyes wide and green with white salt like a ***** lake that you stumble upon drunkardly with a laughing Angel High on Cough Syrup and mortality amused exhilarated passion-ated by this new opportunity for Adventure's drawback which is death or Boredom MY innocents is deteriorating with Age like the alcoholic richness of 100 year old Wine sadly money monday didn't go to church hope that lady with wisdom in her hands forgives me then I ate now I starve clutching at the windows painting a boy staring at me wondering if I were real As I wonder if his thoughts are my own We were up all night translating the moon's shadows and hiccups into finger paintings and strep throat.

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your left breast; we were talkin' about cosmonauts. heads in the clouds with no want or worry to never see this sphere's crust. we would disconnect from they. with no lies from the eyes we open'd palms in welcoming fashions. your right breast; lying on fetid couch, nodding off and the ambience was a dri- ving bass line. little trickle, claiming no worse than usual. nod, and trail'd off. slurs and abbrevi- ated acronyms. sta- nding in awe of emoti- onless lack of reaction.

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Feb 11, 2013

Feb 11, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC

your left breast; we were talkin' about cosmonauts. heads in the clouds with no want or worry to never see this sphere's crust. we would disconnect from they. with no lies from the eyes we open'd palms in welcoming fashions. your right breast; lying on fetid couch, nodding off and the ambience was a dri- ving bass line. little trickle, claiming no worse than usual. nod, and trail'd off. slurs and abbrevi- ated acronyms. sta- nding in awe of emoti- onless lack of reaction.

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P erception of perfection you peep through, Pasty pallid skin, polished and hairless too. O rifices overloaded with objects inserted, Onus on organs contorted and inverted. R ated R for restricted but, Revered in every racing, raving heart. N o escape, never real, a never-ending reel, Note now how it is the act and the squeal, never the feel. I t is its own doom, on a breakfast platter, glittering, S erving your imagination an unforgettable, unfulfilable fantasy. A lways present to build a prison cell and still calls you free. T rue to itself but a lie nevertheless, R uinous rapture you have there, rupturing a future, A way from the light to higher heights of depravity fly, P ursue a mirage, put on its chains now. *Did you fall too? I was hoping you'd give me a hand.*

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Jun 17, 2015

Jun 17, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC

Did You Fall Too?

P erception of perfection you peep through, Pasty pallid skin, polished and hairless too. O rifices overloaded with objects inserted, Onus on organs contorted and inverted. R ated R for restricted but, Revered in every racing, raving heart. N o escape, never real, a never-ending reel, Note now how it is the act and the squeal, never the feel. I t is its own doom, on a breakfast platter, glittering, S erving your imagination an unforgettable, unfulfilable fantasy. A lways present to build a prison cell and still calls you free. T rue to itself but a lie nevertheless, R uinous rapture you have there, rupturing a future, A way from the light to higher heights of depravity fly, P ursue a mirage, put on its chains now. *Did you fall too? I was hoping you'd give me a hand.*

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This earthly body is incomprehensible. Piles of cells which make muscle, bone and nerv(ous)es. This earthly body too heavy for a spirit--too light to touch the ground. I beg you not to weigh me down. Please don't weigh me down. I try in earnest to touch your face, to feel for only a moment sweet flickers of skin on skin, but I grasp right through you. I felt about a ghost town, ghosted around; marveled upon shivers of what I knew was dead. I walked so insolently as the living through fields that whisper passage and rivers calling out on moments gripped in sun. I walked right through you. Ghosted around. Scoffed at fading memories empty pitying passages long since written down: I read you like fiction, ghost town: fancied myself so solid among your intangible willows. Ghosting around. Now come to find seeking skin on mine I breeze right through you. I try a second time, a third and come to find it's I who's too light for living. It is I who passes through the solid walls and wails in caves; it's I who fade into night irepperable by light. I who watched the world so arrogantly as the living like it would pass before MY eyes. But here I waver unbreakable in the shaking shining of many tiny lights. Ghost am I.

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May 15, 2013

May 15, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC

This earthly body is incomprehensible. Piles of cells which make muscle, bone and nerv(ous)es. This earthly body too heavy for a spirit--too light to touch the ground. I beg you not to weigh me down. Please don't weigh me down. I try in earnest to touch your face, to feel for only a moment sweet flickers of skin on skin, but I grasp right through you. I felt about a ghost town, ghosted around; marveled upon shivers of what I knew was dead. I walked so insolently as the living through fields that whisper passage and rivers calling out on moments gripped in sun. I walked right through you. Ghosted around. Scoffed at fading memories empty pitying passages long since written down: I read you like fiction, ghost town: fancied myself so solid among your intangible willows. Ghosting around. Now come to find seeking skin on mine I breeze right through you. I try a second time, a third and come to find it's I who's too light for living. It is I who passes through the solid walls and wails in caves; it's I who fade into night irepperable by light. I who watched the world so arrogantly as the living like it would pass before MY eyes. But here I waver unbreakable in the shaking shining of many tiny lights. Ghost am I.

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I gawk at the way your calloused hands can graze my skin scraping apart what little sanity I've got left-- pieces of fabric- ated thoughts and memories litter our feet like fallen leaves in Autumn. I laugh at the way you rock cliches silently into omission, cleaning the rest of the world of originality and three word stories that play like music boxes sprinkling magic into my ears like I was a child again. I even dance in rooms with that creaking wood sound we love, easing into step with our momentum on heavy nights of weary thoughts that rattled our minds tired, breathing heavily and easily all throughout our little drumming and howls, making songs from free style instruments. I think of how I still hum myself to sleep with our tempo long after the music box has stopped playing.

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Apr 27, 2013

Apr 27, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC

Our Little Music Box

I gawk at the way your calloused hands can graze my skin scraping apart what little sanity I've got left-- pieces of fabric- ated thoughts and memories litter our feet like fallen leaves in Autumn. I laugh at the way you rock cliches silently into omission, cleaning the rest of the world of originality and three word stories that play like music boxes sprinkling magic into my ears like I was a child again. I even dance in rooms with that creaking wood sound we love, easing into step with our momentum on heavy nights of weary thoughts that rattled our minds tired, breathing heavily and easily all throughout our little drumming and howls, making songs from free style instruments. I think of how I still hum myself to sleep with our tempo long after the music box has stopped playing.

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And it kills me to know that you would much rather open a bottle of raspberry ***** than open up yourself to me.

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Nov 22, 2014

Nov 22, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC

hailey-hernandez

And it kills me to know that you would much rather open a bottle of raspberry ***** than open up yourself to me.

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“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?” you say between impossibly tiny sips of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea— or at least I think that’s what you said; I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which your incomprehensibly long nose hairs mingled with your bristly auburn mustache as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole) to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness. But I reply: “Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway? Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff? Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!” Heh. But my dialectical cynicism is no match for your allegorical bullshit-ism: “Ah, but we create meaning! The lonely abyss of individual experience, when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore— Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!” I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo. When my eyes return to the table, I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon. I painted a Pollock-esque piece in 9th grade. My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses, the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them while she said something about the creative subconscious. The first drip took some self-convincing; the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me with the possibility of mistake. At first I pretended I was ******* himself, trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought. It didn’t work. My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did. I began with green for no reason at all, and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed but that I couldn’t explain. Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me. “Would you like a sip?” I can’t avoid a smile because **** this tea does taste like sunshine.

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Aug 12, 2014

Aug 12, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC

El[ev]ated [Non]sense

“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?” you say between impossibly tiny sips of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea— or at least I think that’s what you said; I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which your incomprehensibly long nose hairs mingled with your bristly auburn mustache as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole) to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness. But I reply: “Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway? Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff? Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!” Heh. But my dialectical cynicism is no match for your allegorical bullshit-ism: “Ah, but we create meaning! The lonely abyss of individual experience, when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore— Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!” I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo. When my eyes return to the table, I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon. I painted a Pollock-esque piece in 9th grade. My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses, the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them while she said something about the creative subconscious. The first drip took some self-convincing; the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me with the possibility of mistake. At first I pretended I was ******* himself, trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought. It didn’t work. My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did. I began with green for no reason at all, and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed but that I couldn’t explain. Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me. “Would you like a sip?” I can’t avoid a smile because **** this tea does taste like sunshine.

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Sometimes I feel so lonely, I just sink into the bed and bring the covers around, fabricated an embrace.

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Mar 18, 2014

Mar 18, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC

Sometimes I feel so lonely, I just sink into the bed and bring the covers around, fabricated an embrace.

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I wonder about freedom. A universal right to be, who and what and where we want, gripe and moan and even taunt. Type in our own, homemade font. Or, launch a raft into the sea. To find a place that is more liber-ated, still. But greed turns choice to tyrany. The motto? Give it all to me! Need a house? Chop down a tree. Each day is such a thrill! Until those pitter patters Turn into stomping boots. Asking who will pay the bill? Tearing down each homebrew still. Whats for dinner. More pig swill?! We're looking for recruits. Who want to live a better way In a world much less corrupt. We'll have good rules to keep in us line So prisons won't explode again this time. With committers of some petty crime. Or just failing to keep up.

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Nov 23, 2014

Nov 23, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC

Liberty or Death ?

I wonder about freedom. A universal right to be, who and what and where we want, gripe and moan and even taunt. Type in our own, homemade font. Or, launch a raft into the sea. To find a place that is more liber-ated, still. But greed turns choice to tyrany. The motto? Give it all to me! Need a house? Chop down a tree. Each day is such a thrill! Until those pitter patters Turn into stomping boots. Asking who will pay the bill? Tearing down each homebrew still. Whats for dinner. More pig swill?! We're looking for recruits. Who want to live a better way In a world much less corrupt. We'll have good rules to keep in us line So prisons won't explode again this time. With committers of some petty crime. Or just failing to keep up.

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I don't think about you at all, do I? You are imagine-ary. I imagine, dear reader, each key you see strike sound in your mind one key ringinatime ring of rings and one time and another timed half meant to be gin but genius we dis sip cip ated ante anti cipt mist scryptic letter let us let this be true me and you, imagine we liv in the words we make peace as effort an anomo nemo thingo non namable ibility ifity boo... that has worked several times for me I daren't say it is in evit able vitaminwise e-normous meaning lies in e, pluralized, unumus easy and free are we, the society so named. An I and I an I and I an III and eye am I Horus was the story, I, the eye. Perhaps the one Odin made sacred, the eye given for an eye, the stories mention with a wink. Blink. And we passed aha in a a a a a a a a O me ga damnitalt erhell For a moment there, I thought this as real as it felt at the time.

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Jul 4, 2019

Jul 4, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC

Comhellahiawattaha ha, so there ye go

I don't think about you at all, do I? You are imagine-ary. I imagine, dear reader, each key you see strike sound in your mind one key ringinatime ring of rings and one time and another timed half meant to be gin but genius we dis sip cip ated ante anti cipt mist scryptic letter let us let this be true me and you, imagine we liv in the words we make peace as effort an anomo nemo thingo non namable ibility ifity boo... that has worked several times for me I daren't say it is in evit able vitaminwise e-normous meaning lies in e, pluralized, unumus easy and free are we, the society so named. An I and I an I and I an III and eye am I Horus was the story, I, the eye. Perhaps the one Odin made sacred, the eye given for an eye, the stories mention with a wink. Blink. And we passed aha in a a a a a a a a O me ga damnitalt erhell For a moment there, I thought this as real as it felt at the time.

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I'm not sleepy, and there ai n't no place I'm going to, this is it now, … then I come again, return, interrupting my self with crosscurrents, these are those riptides in opposing forces shifting enemies to good fellow earthling survivors, spinning in the system, pole to pole and back never the same river twice, but always the pattern, meandering, serpentine, path of least resisting we know we are of the samesame value, goodwise. truewise freemade with a will to live in happy, the state of mind, ever after all of that… from now on whatever ever changes, we are in the mix, this is id est time-ated, tict to silent breathing commas, in our mutual mind space aloud at any given instant or moment, moment works instant in season out of season, how did you make sense of that? This way, right. I knew at the moment then it was past, this is ever after, never the same, fluid-ity enticed to artifice interfaces, knows to gnose, epistemic tehkne sci-psy-psi with use, knowing takes on a second nature, less guessing, let the cloud calculate the tip, wait what is this tip, this social debt, I owe the server? Stupid question, certain impulses urge me to declare, look it up, but you know, if you were the server, you know… if you were the aimer, you know, if you were the trigger, you wait to be the joke that starts the whole world laughing. ------ Survival of the we-ity bits of wits, was we an effort to imagine? We, the idea. Who imagined that? I could not form an image, imagine, yes form, in form fit an i-dea ology **** where did she come from, wait, is she the mother of all living? who told this story, after whatever resulted in now, when we know, we all are related, matrilineally, mom-wise, ...? if we were to reason, for a moment, of the expansive sort, see without the knack for vision my people perish. So seeing eyes and hearing ears, goodsense forethought, backup senses great ideas in the ongoing perfection of ever after, post Disney ification of the servant corp, and creds to Berners-Lee and the CERN concern for how ideas may evolve from necessity inventing Frank Zappa in time to fix Romania's budget.

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Dec 7, 2020

Dec 7, 2020 at 1:47 AM UTC

Survival of the we-ity bits of wits

I'm not sleepy, and there ai n't no place I'm going to, this is it now, … then I come again, return, interrupting my self with crosscurrents, these are those riptides in opposing forces shifting enemies to good fellow earthling survivors, spinning in the system, pole to pole and back never the same river twice, but always the pattern, meandering, serpentine, path of least resisting we know we are of the samesame value, goodwise. truewise freemade with a will to live in happy, the state of mind, ever after all of that… from now on whatever ever changes, we are in the mix, this is id est time-ated, tict to silent breathing commas, in our mutual mind space aloud at any given instant or moment, moment works instant in season out of season, how did you make sense of that? This way, right. I knew at the moment then it was past, this is ever after, never the same, fluid-ity enticed to artifice interfaces, knows to gnose, epistemic tehkne sci-psy-psi with use, knowing takes on a second nature, less guessing, let the cloud calculate the tip, wait what is this tip, this social debt, I owe the server? Stupid question, certain impulses urge me to declare, look it up, but you know, if you were the server, you know… if you were the aimer, you know, if you were the trigger, you wait to be the joke that starts the whole world laughing. ------ Survival of the we-ity bits of wits, was we an effort to imagine? We, the idea. Who imagined that? I could not form an image, imagine, yes form, in form fit an i-dea ology **** where did she come from, wait, is she the mother of all living? who told this story, after whatever resulted in now, when we know, we all are related, matrilineally, mom-wise, ...? if we were to reason, for a moment, of the expansive sort, see without the knack for vision my people perish. So seeing eyes and hearing ears, goodsense forethought, backup senses great ideas in the ongoing perfection of ever after, post Disney ification of the servant corp, and creds to Berners-Lee and the CERN concern for how ideas may evolve from necessity inventing Frank Zappa in time to fix Romania's budget.

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before my cause cuz, because we must, i must, he ***** she ***** can i be cancerous society imagery of sleepy kleepy keeps me going with the system is a few stains of you inside of me I am not sure yet if we missed em ****** ripped, tipper slick dipper keep tripper keeptripper keeptripper i am so laid down lay me so far down im slipper gun skipper cold finger, lead slinger trigger me must me dont never back down never submit i must admit that its a bit of bite good for ya main to feel my blood run thru again i am so beautiful beauty collateral every year i grow older i am three years younger feeding your hunger loose to fit my noose and pull it snug around my wrists oh this is how it dis- owns me remember February when your bones and joints was moving looping into an ******** lost details you didn't mention fool me once and if ya fool me i think you're really rich believe me fuller *** of gold below me as if as if i'm really tripping *** holer of my collar irrelevant what is it i like two eyelids folding over one free am asian asian this asian that every sip of it im taken no i am not even im fakin slow me broken roll me faded like i Californ-i-ated dosed politicians my trippy **** im missin it is my one and only mission google Zechariah Sitchin.

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Apr 12, 2017

Apr 12, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC

Lay Down (Soldier)

before my cause cuz, because we must, i must, he ***** she ***** can i be cancerous society imagery of sleepy kleepy keeps me going with the system is a few stains of you inside of me I am not sure yet if we missed em ****** ripped, tipper slick dipper keep tripper keeptripper keeptripper i am so laid down lay me so far down im slipper gun skipper cold finger, lead slinger trigger me must me dont never back down never submit i must admit that its a bit of bite good for ya main to feel my blood run thru again i am so beautiful beauty collateral every year i grow older i am three years younger feeding your hunger loose to fit my noose and pull it snug around my wrists oh this is how it dis- owns me remember February when your bones and joints was moving looping into an ******** lost details you didn't mention fool me once and if ya fool me i think you're really rich believe me fuller *** of gold below me as if as if i'm really tripping *** holer of my collar irrelevant what is it i like two eyelids folding over one free am asian asian this asian that every sip of it im taken no i am not even im fakin slow me broken roll me faded like i Californ-i-ated dosed politicians my trippy **** im missin it is my one and only mission google Zechariah Sitchin.

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See the reasons warring who fools fools for money then makes the king pay that one m'y be the culprit whence came the king thing? I mean it did not pop full formed into mito mom one fining day as a re of sun set its eye on a particular nail hole in the tin roof corrugated good word, rug ated, like walked on, y'llthank? a collective loss of soul noticed by the few mad men who felt some call to lie'n when facts, camera obscura facts, proved they saw I saw light bent through a nail hole brought the sunset to my wall or all of it that mattered, the part I saw... face? No, yeah, I could see that, If I could see what you say you suppose supports your pre-sense presence if it ivity whither Grammarelyearly versions howled as I claimed the idle words holding true riches from the stone re jected jeckled and hidden, lapis, was there a gem with in and a gen with out? Ah, he sang that line Ragpicker evolved to Recycling Frontliner Earth day Youtube stars what a job. Save the world... stumbled and lost the thread fracture ice cracked ice mud shrunk in from hidden edges where the weakest or most open imagine you are with me in the mud bubbling old ideas settle peace fully here fully there, the ever over flowing where we met. ?¿ yen yanker ****** ain't it?¿ hiero-glyphic ifs effeing ity ness. per se. mud shrunk in from hidden n-degree edges where the weakest or most open bonds are loosed on earth as they are ever let go let be let until he be taken, obscureference, Bubble Bible fact' never acted as if I knew he who letteth shall let until he be taken out of the way. may be today. lest we forget imagine you are with me in the mud

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Jan 18, 2019

Jan 18, 2019 at 10:23 PM UTC

A reason for or by reason of, this or that

See the reasons warring who fools fools for money then makes the king pay that one m'y be the culprit whence came the king thing? I mean it did not pop full formed into mito mom one fining day as a re of sun set its eye on a particular nail hole in the tin roof corrugated good word, rug ated, like walked on, y'llthank? a collective loss of soul noticed by the few mad men who felt some call to lie'n when facts, camera obscura facts, proved they saw I saw light bent through a nail hole brought the sunset to my wall or all of it that mattered, the part I saw... face? No, yeah, I could see that, If I could see what you say you suppose supports your pre-sense presence if it ivity whither Grammarelyearly versions howled as I claimed the idle words holding true riches from the stone re jected jeckled and hidden, lapis, was there a gem with in and a gen with out? Ah, he sang that line Ragpicker evolved to Recycling Frontliner Earth day Youtube stars what a job. Save the world... stumbled and lost the thread fracture ice cracked ice mud shrunk in from hidden edges where the weakest or most open imagine you are with me in the mud bubbling old ideas settle peace fully here fully there, the ever over flowing where we met. ?¿ yen yanker ****** ain't it?¿ hiero-glyphic ifs effeing ity ness. per se. mud shrunk in from hidden n-degree edges where the weakest or most open bonds are loosed on earth as they are ever let go let be let until he be taken, obscureference, Bubble Bible fact' never acted as if I knew he who letteth shall let until he be taken out of the way. may be today. lest we forget imagine you are with me in the mud

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{editer note: ******* title nixed as non sensicle, but his contract gave him title rights if the inner net ever was re-al-ized, so his title was: De-fine ite religion to its ment tent, intended to set a course on defining religion, then faith and seeing what would happen next, because we went some ways with that idea we we, integrit I ated we we know how important your valuing peace is to the value of peace. Butterfly hurricanes in the Bermuda triangle, that's just gas, like when a newborn smiles at the twinkle in his grandma's eye. But let your peace come into a place, see if, still see if still be still again slower still your will be done on earth how? right? who can do what God would do if he were you?} In my mind, my perfectly calmable mind I am culpable for drawing your attention, claims the flame to the moth who exclaims, idea, I die for do I care que? sera sera Madre mia sang that song right along made her matter, like she was dancing for me, baby, who twisted that little head who told you that little lie why, why, why, baby, why give me a reason for the faith that is in you or we all die anyway the idea is first, always, right? The thought before there's a word or any no, no. nothing is impossible, so something must be. My thanks, a shout out to A. Conan Doyle, a sir or something I believe, He gave us both the 5% solution and the Piltdown Hoax. Timed for real ation, or revelation 20 years after 20 landmarks surfaced. Holmes winked at Jesus, I know what you mean. Something is possible. Nothing is not. Yes. Good News. Quite.

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Dec 17, 2018

Dec 17, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC

The best tale I caught today

{editer note: ******* title nixed as non sensicle, but his contract gave him title rights if the inner net ever was re-al-ized, so his title was: De-fine ite religion to its ment tent, intended to set a course on defining religion, then faith and seeing what would happen next, because we went some ways with that idea we we, integrit I ated we we know how important your valuing peace is to the value of peace. Butterfly hurricanes in the Bermuda triangle, that's just gas, like when a newborn smiles at the twinkle in his grandma's eye. But let your peace come into a place, see if, still see if still be still again slower still your will be done on earth how? right? who can do what God would do if he were you?} In my mind, my perfectly calmable mind I am culpable for drawing your attention, claims the flame to the moth who exclaims, idea, I die for do I care que? sera sera Madre mia sang that song right along made her matter, like she was dancing for me, baby, who twisted that little head who told you that little lie why, why, why, baby, why give me a reason for the faith that is in you or we all die anyway the idea is first, always, right? The thought before there's a word or any no, no. nothing is impossible, so something must be. My thanks, a shout out to A. Conan Doyle, a sir or something I believe, He gave us both the 5% solution and the Piltdown Hoax. Timed for real ation, or revelation 20 years after 20 landmarks surfaced. Holmes winked at Jesus, I know what you mean. Something is possible. Nothing is not. Yes. Good News. Quite.

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