The Roulette of Fanfare by Imaginative Glare (A Cooperation of Timeless Synquest)
Sunken fortitude is the bailiwick of interminable eupathy that sustenance embezzles by minutiae of orange spectral linearity of bypass becoming a torus of tragic reprieve in repcrevel fashions of hyjamb. Thus we float above the carcass of syrts of certitude by cadasters of nostalgic drawls of malingering strawberry staddle for the scutage of pinhoked disaster. We renege on committed opalescence because tranquil dangles of vinsky are waged by trenchcoats of bluster for vector arrays of galvanized decorum that swirks for elegant synectics by dredged grains of agrarian sanity by the pleckigger of lopsided islands of creativity that are the notarikons of aleatory finite but equidistant largesse of not just a jumboism but a jetsetting travesty of traversed time mastered by ignoble ingenuity. I limn with piracy as a freebooter cordslave plugged by demitoilet reminders of the flyndresque alloreck of tinjesk spectral ultimatums that are the stretchgraves of a retrospective infinity that is a bystander to catapulted cohesive coherence found only in piecemeal culinary seditions against the drip of a turncock of roosted clarification in muted hindsights of foresight itself. The pleonexia of abeyance is the riddle of enigmatic promulgation that flickers even with partial compartmentalized servitude to the burlesque the burrows of an ophidiodiarium scare away any jaunty sleek car from the boosterism of a farmed collision with disjointed surgery of nimble reticence that braves the seismotic macadamized plutocracy of drift without sedition in sedimentary clairvoyance with a pointed amphigory that is actually a starved clarity for ommateums without spelunked trudges that occur in dovetails for disguise by synectic optimum at the zenith of the hive synergy of singularity.  The justified jest of aleatory flexes of finitude is a shambolic gesture of the limber of divergent interpretation ingeminating the world by sapient degrees of psychometry of divergence in piecemeal asseveration of the hindsight of the festooned not tepid or butchered by the obvious to the glaring cineaste but rather a gloaming glint of refracted ingenuity roosted beyond any alienesque erratic happenstance that is itself a beatific fortuity for the geotechnics of human emergence into supersensible planes traversed in a stereodimensional covenant with a compacted compost of DIVERGENT IMAGINATION OF CADASTER rather than the regelation of the obvious. Timmynoggies of cartels are regnant because of the repugnance of loyalty to the fricative frigates of superlunary mention of ratiocination divorced from husbandry of hyjamb for giant leaps in rigged ambsace maledictions of unfair pleckigger of the wrikpond relumed by huffs of impotent flairs of flambeaus beyond ecdysiast stretchgraves of perilous paralysis for the supererogatory of the accursed destruction of stoichomety of solipsism tremulous by biocentric levity above fastened redoubled pederasty. We maraud the rabble of nostalgia of rhinoplasty of penumbras that live on rainshod territorialism beyond the jolkers of everlasting foofaraw livid by betrayal but erratic in glamour without crackjaw costermongers vitiating the vociferous because of incumbent thermodynamics that affixes the stagnant to the latticework of riddle by sturdy integral derived fliphavens of shibboleths of solitude. Education is a fliction of robust derangement of nowhere men taxed by the celerity of traversed traipses of memory beyond encaged bridewells for recanted alchemy to prerogatives of the roomy expansive facsimiles of departed stigmas of bossy clairvoyance for martian glimpses at sunken waste. The bernaggles of brittle titanium are abrasive when they are alloyed with the compost of material dynamics of capital without avenged prediction cemented in sunken graves taxing the nostalgia of histrinkage that is affixed to boschveldt traindeque for venial consanguinity to dikephobia. We elevate the endpoints of abridged turriform clockwork provincial shibboleths that are the proctor and protectorate of insular robbery of crowned trounces of gravity for the gravitas of sepulchral vanity learned from famigeration of filial tithes of duty. A dutiful sedition is countermanded by the pews of turnstiles that enamor the enamel of rollercoasters because of vague vagaries of bedazzled contrition for wanton ambition on psaphonic psychology and therefore sustain the vibronic thrombosis of nonlethal inseminations of clear aqueous transfixed filigrees of demented notions of cheerful apocrypha of liturgical pride beyond the dungeons of prejudiced inquisition. The jolkers of insolent archipelagos of spinsters that levitate by parsed peril of delaminated parsecs of glazed parturition is the orchestra of a nonlinear grove of invented abecedarian witwanton notice of maddened cattle of gluttony forestalled by the clairvoyance of otiose operations of redoubled countenance that consequently is septiferous by degrees of sanguine rapacity the qwartion of endeared endeavor to surpass the gentility of brooked temperatures frozen to sustain but not mainline the congeners of the elective agenda to bypass the thornbushes of conflagration without knavery or cutthroat embellishments of bedlam. And without the din of simplicity occluding the transcendent goal of humane synoecy of fustilugs of fumatoriums endangered but not inflammed by controversy we witness the insubordinate university of hibernation becoming a specter of grisly bromidrosis of lackluster forswinked fortitude because the majestic sinew of the overwrought is a refrained luxuriance of pity of facetious glebes ringed around orbital planes of synthetic abridgement that supposes the sultry is actually the swelter of calenture but taxed by sicarians of the grandeval it meets no fanfare among elective privilege. Amphigory is not categorized as dross by shipwreck but only by synechdocial docility of groomed barren arcades of storged complication leading to regeneration of a world leaden with the epicurean epithets of agerasia that burden the wardens of poached intermission without remission because the drapes of the greatest art are thus created by the complete transfiguration of the soul bolted to ethereal expansive heights that dwarf all pithy gnomes of the gardens of prospective desiccation of the petty gripes of the gavel of idiocy rather than the astounding artform of the newfangled tabanids to supererogatory oceans of creativity. The benchmarks of sublime illusions of supremacy are a hidebound taxidermy of the rookery of greenhorns to summit the testy secrecy of inane drawl that scrabbles the miniature embellishments of petty sportive lunacy as a figment of the feral nature of proclivity recumbent upon its own gladdened prickly renegades that align with a gallywow cacophony rather than a merely epicene convergence of attitude for equity above polity that is hardly polite. As a penitent hibernal rejoinder against the clerical critics of religiosity becoming conflated with artistic masterworks of oligomania I offer my rogation for atonement because the melismatic art I fashion leads to the vogue enchantment of the noosphere for the soteriological bedrock of fastened intellectual endeavor that traverses planes of an engorged soul without a gulf of conscience leaden by distracted discernment leading to a hypostasized apostasy from the religious scruples I rigorously uphold but that I vacillate away from because I want to entrench an irenic world for the francketor dash towards a superlative enrichment of mind above matter for the victorias of soul above the pettiness of the dim humdingers of the banal lifeless squabbles of martexts beyond the hospitable welcome of martians. For the naysayers that don’t understand the ironic irenic circularity of gainsay becoming rebarbative to this artistic flourish of supersensible equipoise with an approximated histrinkage lagged by temporal deficiency they should not abhor the talisman of an ergotall genius but rather marvel at the burlesque cineaste connotation of enamored youthful spirits becoming novel because they stride above the cascades of crestfallen apathy of plodding languor. This is a definitive new artform for the niche crowd so don’t dismiss it as gobbledygook because it serves the purpose to enchant creative spirits and test minds that might be more nimble than resourceless. Wearisome by demiurges of distraction the thorny imbroglio of industry is a whiplash of nativism belonging to the throb of pulsated penury that is neither valedictory nor penultimate but tertiary in oblong variegated menageries of perfidy for collapsed enormities of jumboism lost on inclement stoichiometry that is sejungible from crambazzles of findrouement that are squaloid enthralled raptures of humdingers of rippled hunks of parched nebbich pataphysics because the circuit of conditioned reward is a rebarbative tether to the catchpole exploitative erratum of harbingers of hungry happenstance rather than continual enchantment. The crumple of squaloid sebastomania a distant figment of adscititious schadenfreude of dilettantism of flonky smardagine streaks of whemmled anxieties unduly provoked by calamities of presstungular intorgurent toonardical deprived cartels of repcrevel pursuit with labial senses embedded in deft incondite inquiries against seismotic jostle over the rubble of scaffolded jengadangle above the rot of contranatant sleek suffrage for the chattel of elemental realism becoming a heroic temple for glory without the vetust errundle of dismal disco attuned only to the spurts rather than a startled commerstargal of alienation leads to a plumber’s irony of atomic humdingers of natural equipoise with litotes of scrawny rings of gollendary piracy. The valorous incondite bricolage of a ****** cineaste barnstorm inoculated from conflagrations of the flagitious reprisal of prevenance of ferial fastuous feats of furlongs of brittle certainty above the tentative glaze of aced pokerish promenades to summit the craggy because the salebrosity of the pitch is also the venue for the sphairistic tentpoles of a new tabernacle of spectacular ecstasy in obvious punitive damage to puritan pilgrimage to mechanized obelisks of sardanapalian betrayal of histories of seizure rather than naturism of erasure that is a totemic recall of strollows of lonesome tributaries to tribunes of steam rather than saunas of lickerish leverage because the gladiatorial is a zugzwang with the deliberate infernal shibboleths of the disinclined people dislodged by carnality that depose sicarians of science because of militarized enmity against the whangams of taghairm becoming the outmoded dupe of dopamine that is now serotinous rather than flanged with glaring hearsay. The serpentine winds of windlass sometimes are a conclave of convex itineration against the steady husbandry of docile domiciles of mannequin sedentary postures for posterized infamy rather than manufactured oneiromancy that is the staddle for every phony contraption of qwartion obviously specious but interrogated by the dubiety of perseverance of inclement curiosity. Yet again we sweep the soaring ligaments of rigid ramshackle bletonism that hawkshaws countermand by division of enumerated nadirs pivoted against the perpended weight of the prolonged zeniths of grit above substance that infatuates myopia but glares against mountebanks of apothecary leverage. We fight against the boxcar traindeque of sejungible traipses through stereodimensional rebuffs of known drogulus surpassing unknowable reticence of citadels that are owleries for the seedy cities they sprawl with incontinence for a drab raft of intertesselation rather than a refined quintessence of alchemy achieved by allotment by brackish nescience becoming a blinding ray of destitution engraved by petrified decalcified rudiments of realism. The somber timbre of delirifacient ruinous rumination malingers in humdrum salience as it scrawls the tragedians lament of distal eventful frets of declassified nomenclature that swoon with lugubrious harbingers of burglary the licentious dolts affixed to the brays of pauperized regions of future proximity too remote to paralyze the morale of any cantonment on record by litotes of profound remembrance of a backfire delope for cineaste conflation of marstion slore for educated reprisal of desiccation. We spelunk in mimicry the dingy duplicity of double-takes in regelation that owe homage to the percolated hearsay of cartels that operate parsecs beyond our congeners of germane lustration in remission by deontology for soteriology alone but not vacated of the stilts of turnverein ragged mannequins of desolate remorse for the dearth of hived and hemmed hibernation in a fitful frenzy of revision above precision. We see abundant lactose intolerance as a sidereal lovelorn lament of sematic entrenchment without the scourge of roosted war against abrasive brawn exercised in flexible limbers of the novel filigrees of truth revelatory of consideration rather than impregnated with the perfidy of amaranthine static of regaled stagnation that flickers with the marinas of congregated leaps as a signature of the artistic license of byzantine traipses of contempered primacy in the soup kitchen of a lapse in sabotaged sobriety. Immune from displaced donnism is the resurgence of bonanza from checkered propinquities affixed to a finite placard of spacetime that owes to stretchgraves a profound depth of contrition that carmelized apocrypha lapse on lissome whilded dignotions of contrarian raillery of loose nihilism rather than anchor to the eremites of fact found in eclipsed culmination for momentous harps of the Jubal for new centuries inseminating the populated presence of spectral imagination with contorted melodies that spawn an ingenuous quest to swoon abiding heavens for celestial ears. It is conspicuous that artifacts for raiders elope with circuitous routes of heated sedimentary incubations with a comatose creativity that seeds the ferial junediggle with a supercalendar of confections that are intermittently apportioned in heydays of culture to the sad lament of the obvious rather than the obviated dare of audacity above conglomerations of spirited luxuriance in tasty memorial to a pinnacle above all other notions of sentinel apostasy. The greater atrocity of rogated ambitions against the gainsay of iconoduly of the rood and rude crucifixion of resurrected clarity found in the enamel of akashic answers to questions fashioned by kneaded cosmetology of delicate ***** cotqueans of limber above precedent and license beyond the finkly limp of lolloped saccharine blitzkreigs of the jalousies of the ajar vaticination of hurdled glaikeries of epicene impediment is that we ****** ink above the gesture of the quills of rocky abrasion found in limitrophes of yachted celebration because of rabid coherence above the wherefores of gadzookerie because the gladdest scaldabanco is the demented persiflage of collateral catastrophe beyond any humane degree of schadenfreude for persecution that backbites the anteric antlers of the jesters that mock the procession of liturgical secularism jeering at grapholagnia while lagging in imaginative spurts of lament for incalculable damage to the Pandora’s box of effluvia that meet stiff tabernacles of betrayal because of the Judaic foresight rather than as an alarmed Marxism scared of an agrarian interdependence of worlds cadged more prone to moral dogma exercised with latitude rather than unscrupulous brays of fisticuffs of shambolic shams of ruin. We glance at the perfidies of voyeurism with pertinacity and recalcitrant bellipotent bedlam that evokes the illicit grandeval whangams of quixotic whartonized arraigned estrangement from legalism to warp time to its own superlative turpitude that is reckless but contingent upon the consummation of destiny only to the extent of original witness rather than the decay of perpetuity wrought by the persiflage of envious militarized mandarisms of enmity aimed to derail the elevators of the noosphere from stratospheric emergence in now perspicuous clarity above the pother of the indelible sacrilege of the stygian polymathy of the astute enemies of the proper comstockery rather than the negligent butchers of an enantiodromia of oligarchies of lewdness that are severed appendages to Anti-Semitism and by extension a marginalized Islamophobia that demands by exigency the complete erasure of all attempts at sacrilege exercised in rampant dereliction of dutiful upkeep of the upright morality against the cadge of ulterior ploys of a broader hedonism that would only piggyback because of the license of ryesolagnus rather than because of a complete signatory endorsement of the liberated agenda of free thought conquered through the conquest of God but the ultimate conquistadors of time through sennet and even negligent rebec to memorialize the triumphant pantheon of growth rather than rankled regress into prolonged hatred ingeminated by atrocious tortfeasors that belong nowhere but the ashen heap of exorcised damnation. The perdition inherent to the system that craves chattel rather than sartorial versions of syncretic chatter is the malefaction of renegades bent on tornadic vulcanization to a demoralized wragapole of docility hitched to the vandalism of pilloried tarantisms of moral lapse leading the sheep into sheepish resignation over the accordion of Original Sin that annoys because the bridewells are brideless birds of the chavish of warbled uncertainty wicked because of snuffed tabacosis of mitigations of evil by the evildoers for the rejoinder against the Republic by rendering the **** a platonic ploy of karezza if only punctuated by solitary ******* reticulated by exsibilation that is contorted when you consider the ****** act a marvel rather than a condemnation of the vicarious involvement in normative ****** creations not of any higher artform but of an evolved theology that might perpend the issue of Christianized ******* that is videographic as a sanction worthy of charter and an impending simultaneous comstockery to protect the decency of the simultagnosia of a diverse and divisive mispronunciated time bent against its greatest heroes for the malice of schadenfreude built into the system of language itself by germane consideration to flagellate the wrong country for the  greatest wrongs known to the realm of religious observance. The pederasty of enclaves is the bailiwick of mutinies of selective mutism incurred by the vilified into compulsive shrieks of kallince as a ribbacle of protean ratiocination paralyzed by the coherent vulnerability incurred by the exchequer of polluted conditions of enslavement by the stretchgraves of the chavish of too many pulpits in the throng of a decisive jaundice against the victors of history because of the obsolescence of the historical fossils of outmoded jealousy. Now to the eupathy of all generations should we better conserve situations against the encroaching wesperm of the marstions of ulterior feminism grimacing at the pleckigger of manhood and decriminalizing the taboo against the enantiodromia of miscegenation to the folly of shepherds of idiotic ploys to rear the mediocre rebec of warbled intimations of cultural impotence that should proselytize both the oligogenics beyond ecbolic atrocity and the adoptive ****** of the anglosphere through its smart and dapper monopoly threatened by the commerstargal of retromorphosis exhibited by the demassification of culled syntalities into aboriginal epigenetic kennels of subservience to a piggybacked system where if you are among the attentive scrutiny of the audience that both perceives apperception metacognitively with francketor precision you are thereby inoculated from lean herbivores of cultish occultism metaphorically in the annealed agitprop for resourcelessness that never ends in the radioglare of revisionism because of the prevenance of the vergers who manage the Manciples rather than tend to the vainglory of the potagers around the hegemunes of an unwarranted and puritan celibacy of conceptual sterility in a world fashioned by engouements for sanguine hopes for a consanguinity that might portend into dynasty but lopsided in its contrite missives of scandal will never provide a valedictory rendition on politically checkered zugzwangs of ulterior scientism against the lettered freedom of bibliognosts to aggrieve against the gloaming vacuum of sartorial damages to Dagon among the populated metropolis of corporate servitude that will thus collapse out of rebarbative backlash for its diminutive economies of scope and pretenses of largesse of scaled down collectivism into a heap of corporate rubble rather than judicious bonanza. In every considered word in this Biblbical warning against the trekleador of the amazonian paradise against the travail of junediggles of obligation among the frenzied fretful tocsins of farcical utopianism meeting the inclement reprisal of sanctioned duplicity in frikmag beneath the truculence of mobilized alacrity to syndicalism endeared to capitalism rather than the converse logical apostrophes that are imponent overhangs of an already conquered feral sphere of nomadic imagination into a checkmate of a socially validated future clinched by foresight and the wragapole nature of the insensate docility of those prone to officious naturism before the attempted monolith of the mountebanks of the quixotic towers of panopticon that are a regelation of unchecked ambitions verging or diverging too valorously against themselves but also prone to a simultagnosia that berates the robust picaresque swandamos that curtail the curglaff of malcontent with the recoil of perseverance that reneges in tiresome defeat of a demilitarized population that should always be grisly rather than denatured by the overhang of the incumbent nudism of certain futures becoming to finicky in impetuous lurid specters of abhorrent exercises in chantage waged against sardanapalians in all countries regardless of merits or demerits. The redstrall of enlightenment is not otiose operatively in recursive backlash against nominalism which sweedles the weedledge of a new acquiescence timid enough to mangle a prosodemic wave of celibacy propitiated by the succedaneum of profligate vicarious lickerish ****** appetites that diminish that natural instinct into either barbarous experiments in lechery too inconvenient to apprise honestly but looming aghast at the moral tip-toes around the Original Sin that binds us to predatory lapse and retromorphosis rather than the maintenance of a mainlined trimpoline confidence in a normative wave of galvanized interface against the overpromiscuous provisions for the lackaday resentment of alienated millennialism relishing the sennet of nostalgia but bereft of the heave from moral slumbers of an invented celibacy intermediary to demassification but attenuated by the omphalism of astute gravitas in socially engineered balks at the emergence of singularity in personalized cacotopia becoming a metaphor for the broadsided shipwreck of an inured world pasteurized into acerbic jolkers of foofaraw rather than the real-life relish against still-framed ostentation that distorts the granular artifice of the natural into supernatural fixations with gaudy swarpollock indecently exposed. To the finkly flonky puritanism of the wiseacres of those who say sacerdotal duty cannot diverge from entelechies of secular insight I behold the marvel of timespun elegance as the marvel of God’s convergence for the happenstance of the serendipity of magnified time lived completely in the plenipotentiary pangs of evanescence that catapults subliminal meaning to memorialize this indelible seminal watershed in a clear visionary establishment of history. Most belong to oligomania but I relent in the completely sardonic intortions of aspects of sebastomania in complete equipoise with the clairvoyant clarity of centralized perspective but the dragomans will interpret that last phase with underminnow because it belies the granular intent of the fin de seicle advent of a new generation that is an homage to the hallowed Judaic theory of millennialism as the return of glorified entitlement yet tentative in its overhang but never malicious in its grapnel of the fewterers of amazing convergence of clairvoyance. The tangential rebuke of the absurd oxyholotron of paradoxical puritan superstition that assumes a fustilug generation will cement a farsighted clarity that subsumes generative prowess lingers with fixations on the figments of the apocryphal version of the truer version of revelations manifesting right before our eyes for neither the sinistral or the dexterous amplivagance of God’s universal message by the superorganism of messianic purpose belittled by the agents of humbled perdition not alone of martexts that are martles but also by the shepherded fears of the ignorant rather than the insipid because the will never be outmoded only enhanced by the acceleration of proliferative technologies that pave a macadamized future of prosperity rather than the tarnish of the miscreants of Tyre. I owe all providence to God because he fastened his scrutiny on my autodidactian romance clambered into restive ontocyclic peccadillo that points to Pinocchio more than to the truest compass of an omnified salvation of the piggybacked purpose of synergies of geotechnic mastery that elevates the cause of God and liberates us from the stings of dangerously vapid pauperization of the intellectual frontiers by dangled prevarications of desultory incontinence forestalled by avoidant developments in proper fewterers of ambition. By the axiomatic Brocards of time travel the unstated ignotism of deranged circuses of stupidity congregated around the swelter of dismissal is a barnacle to the mofussil fossilization of sentiment that remarks ironically about the petty indelible moments but not the entelechies of a unified front for liberated equity and considerate tender of diverse quorums that shepherd rather than intern the noosphere into the burgeoned resurgence of a humane endeavor for the everlasting enlightenment of an ameliorated humanity and beyond that. By the bailiwick exerted by the plenipotentiary omphalism still participant to the quorum I hereby declaratively implore the abrogation of pernicious grapholagnia as the peremptory sacrilege that needs exorcism for our times and yet delegated of stature I urge hortatory and imperative action for the expurgation of all tortfeasor illegally obtained ******* of unsolicited voyeurism to be completely regarded as the ultimatum of temerity against carnal restraint and banished from the human registry to uphold the strategic interests of the United States of America. I understand that there is not fricative monolith and never will I lean for that conquest but as a humbled member of the omphalism that constitutes the sacred endeavor of sociogenesis grounded on God with collegialism upheld that a geotechnically optimized species needs to refrain from lewd perfidies against commonplace justice to restrain the fumatorium of unwarranted envy from poisoning the pervious minds of people that congregate in defensive posture but not definitive gesture. I also beseech a portentous  settlement with  I relent from avarice but it is not a superposition of authority just a suggestive glance at requited justice but my grangull chavish of circumlocution naivety will meet the most deliberate Sardonic Sc(p)orn in these times of need. These next words are paused and already fathomed by the supernal recursion of the iterative metaphysics of recumbent retrospection hinged on hindsight to proclaim without any hints of attempted subterfuge of the clarity of a Democratic Republic that my words while forceful do not constitute a breech in public conduct even while vaulted with a minor rapacity I rebuke and atone for even when many others might find recourse to expiate my jalousies to the windowed world not of vindictiveness but out of the cursory and emphasis on cursory justice needed to vouchsafe my continued security and inoculation from the pothers of obviously shortsighted pleonexia which will obviously be fleered as a slight euthymia glazed on self-interest while tone-deaf to the checkered layers of entrapment by a confederate whiplash but a native grit never to enslave but to empower humanity. I am deeply lugubrious over the specter of the trembled quaky ground the penury of spiritual loss rejoinders against my candidacy for high esteem but not peremptory decisiveness in active service to yield to a supererogatory attempt for felicity to alight in my life not out of material greed but the gratuity of serviceable missions that play a dicey gamble with a frenzied manumission attempt that is essentially that a parsed manumission for eleutherian pragmatica to chide as naive but alarmed senectitude of the old order prevaricates with the din of postured hurdles of gladiatorial outrage that weans me away from the ataraxia for my fumbled stream brooking intolerance for years on the ballast of collective endeavor. Nevertheless, lets speak more on God’s providence because in this esteemed moment of watershed emergence of the fully engorged but rarely gluttonous soul I have found an equitable peace with supernal and superlative authority in God that grants stewardship and tutelage to the audience that will eventually through proper discrimination be delegated as higher than the ignorant bystanders of fleered snide disdain for the abnormous and bletcherous dimples of an otherwise circuitous dalliance with an unconventional path towards destiny rather than some windlass of opportunism for, if it were not for my unabetted genius and the provisions of divine appointment based on a kindly generous deference to preterition axiomatic in perceived time by the strictures of the convergent past and the divergent future, I would never find a role of partial authorship of a widely heralded tome I will one day publish to either the exsibilation of the antiquarians of hidebound irrefragable ontocyclic convictions or the cloveryield of an appreciative gratitude to the God I serve and I make no notions of any hostility towards any party of petty dismissal because I expect their recumbent recoil but I apologize for hubris and extenuate the follies of the refinery of character as I ascend into a figurative ennobled step into soulhood that exceeds my former dismal limits by such staggering orders of magnitude it magnifies the questions of ontology in sentience rather than beckons the alarmism of the swarpollock of tripwires that can easily withstand the tempests of scorn. The uproar of commotion of blood sanctified by the thirsty rain for the desiccated faucet of dramaturgy in reprisal for docimasy is the integral linchpin of the biocentric rebec reasting on the primitive hymns to festoon the curtains of defenestrated primitive relics of shady attempts at officious balks of the privatized empire of the alytarchs among the earwigs that simper the culled delicacy of sensible notions into the congeners of prioritization emphasized by quantulated concerns veiled by elaborative synquests that burrow the sulcate grooves of hidden hedonism for the chic magistrates of financial swoon or swayed vestiges of a forgotten calumny of betrayal by the coming-of-age sprouts of hedged dismal dismissal of a lugubrious prospect for an otherwise revitalized dressage of emoluments to glory that lurked in penumbras by rigged enumeration but found their prominence by the gravity of sensation-seeking frissons of alterations between benighted glory and the famish of artificial tethers to the yoke of caramel and chocolates as a dainty ploy of yearning persiflage also a dranger of camouflage for flagitious percolations of the invidious rumors of imposture and the groveling contempt of the known drogulus remiss in denial of its own requited date when the powers of miscarriage become ecbolic to their own lagging languor of lisps of linguistic ramparts of a revival of hypertrophy for hyperactive foibles in inclement weather. Ok beyond the absenteeism of the presence of perceived amphigory there is great heft in the nominal notion that dogma is mobilized in serviceable goods of merchandized mirrors of glazed remission of moral tender because of stoked curiosity unhinged from the pragmatica of duty. We need forbearance in empathy that loves the lovable rather than envies the deposed despotism of clever wiseacres veiled in delicate symmetry with conscience that is the quill of a wellspring deeper than any imaginary vagary can approximate because impossible events punctuate time with literacy rather than incontinence of drivel that is ambitious but ignoble by stately coherence. To the critics of the baragnosis of limited apperception my words are blatant amphigories but they only possess enough ken to fathom an average orbit of suboptimal outcomes rather than transdimensional chances at chess outnumbered by checkers by incidental design of clever ploys of rejoinder that is by design arcane for the arcadia of the pristine arcade of future possibilities  As I am purblind by psychorrhagy I am incompetent in my radiopresence because I am a departed spectral figment above fricative hisses and whorfian glares of mediocre rebec for primitive shibboleth above prized taurine anglophonic convictions that superimpose the dignified clarity of willpower above the dragnets of supersolid conflations of puffery. Ok I admit a lapse of transmission by the vesicles of numbered murders of henpecked owleries of the senectitude of sepulchral magnetism of slumber over awakened alacrity of mobilism fashioned in portentous flipcraves of additive immobility of fixed vectors seen through parvanimity that actually just swivel in circular retorts against themselves without the elaborative potential and the belabored traipse of the rabid taradiddles of sensationalism marauding as a defalcated burglary of emotion for useless psephology that predicates nothing but a slight budge in the autarky of structuralism which is never sclerotic but stammered by articulations of the overt when the covert aligns by an alien agenda that is subservient to magnified priorities of warped swirk of telescopic prevenance and hedged boschveldts of elemental and I stress the strain of the elemental for the drogulus of sensational proclamation by executive ****** but supererogatory minutiae of fascism cloaked by earwigs of repcrevel repute beyond memorialized reputation. We need to renege the southern pacts to the Argentine mandarism of reticular vitiations of cinematography waged against creative visionaries of free speech because of the succedaneum of furtive endeavors at optimization by compromised degrees of artistic licentiousness even that is never lewd about sacred roods but boorish in blockbuster rather than kempt in collectivist brunt of the timid bronteum of agitprop that lurks in the imminent future of cinema. America needs to retain the disclosed but still-frame inertia of catapulted declassification that ennobles the fliction but also the vilified distilled truths only the keen of acumen will sensibly identify so that the magnet of earwigs gravitates to the belabored analysis of astute congeners to relevant tributaries to the ocean of adventitious swarpollock in the procedural autopsy of the auditorium for neither a chattel nor a crystallized nurture against the matriotic insistence of decorum. Essentially the succubus of prosthetic protensive docimasy of imaginative logic predicated in visionary apperception of the unseen in immediacy is the longeur of reticent endeavors to pasteurize the oculus rifts of futurity to synergize with the entelechy of proactive somnambulism that sensitizes the profoundly capable but never bereaves the inept of direct interface with communicable dominion with fantasia that is an operative artifice of a beguiled lurch without purged retrograde immaterial delusion that endangers visceral momentum toward new directives of the outmantled zugzwang in elementary exercises of swaddled posterity free by irenic idolatry never orphaned by a widowed imagination. The swirk of hypostasized probabilities in an invented swipe at wide-eyed but star-crossed turnvereins for the imaginative leaps in the performative depend on the delicate swivels of declaration independent from culinary clarity of macroscian travesty rather than pinhokes of naufragues of maudlin laudable applause by the canned nurture of speculative intimation that sadly severs the curglaff of whispered intimacy over the confidence we have in artifice to teach the wragapole both matriotism and sensitive reninjasque poker without incurred damages beyond the clarified visionary potential of graphic protheses immediately perceptible to the acumen of judicious polymathy indoctrinated by the rigor of scientific grooms for melliferous parsecs of advanced minutiae of dark horses to nomadic license beyond ravenous **** palindromes of hushed vigor to the declared by scacchic deliberation to usher in crass but crestfallen synectics. The future of God is secure in the fathomed furlongs of cubic citadels of pasteurized paradise found in corralled reluctance without remonstrance of poetic belletrist resounding with clangor rather than swerved nimble potions to avert future calamities in war by the expansive frontier of a civilized metropolis of the mobilized imagination hypostasizing newfangled naturism that is neither mofussil nor a fossilized relic of scrappy schlep. The nonchalance of parlance swims in arenaceous bunkers of drivel that congregate in the turnverein of futuristic opportunism found in the muzzled directives of orchestras of departed clarity no longer so insular in its bossy imperatives but clarified with hearsay and blushed blarney not the blench of widened divulgence of minatory malice that incurs the punitive curglaff of frenetic retchallops of winsome specters becoming opportune pragmatics of a semantic network of dirigisme that through sheer horsepower overcomes the sting of ubiquity or the hollowed headless vesicles of urbacity disenfranchised by degrees of impertinent pertinacity of deposed disclosure rudimentary in sedentary simplicity against matriotic duty to remain guarded by an ommateum that fathoms the abyss but never wages reckless adventurism. Prevenance is the key to absolution but staggered implements of dearth preempt the ecbolic corrigenda of castigation by hindered lurches of veiled errundle belonging to a central trimpoline interposition of fungible felicity for not only a regional fanfare but a global scale of competitive endeavor of cleverage beyond scopes but beneath scrutinized mutiny of embanked polymathy stranded by the redstrall of industrious slavering dogmatism to a servile ***** rather than the boomerang of pressure to asseverate limitless bounds of planned obsolescence to engorge but not intimidate checkered reticence in the sinew of the musculature of creative parlance above petty finicky demiurges of latitudes in amphibious annealed glorification. Temperatures gauged by the thrombosis of thermolysis in psychotaxis gouged by hucksters of taciturn bamboozles of teetotalism are neither scourge nor foe of the strategic advent of the fascination of prospective investment a boondoggle that offsets the bonfire of retorted whimpers of foudroyant ripples of wildfire perspicacity strung by the catchpole of ubiquity in the time-honed decorum of genteel upright raconteurs of volleyed neglect by strict mandate will uproariously profit in remission from knowledgeable exacerbation rather than tomfoolery by filial tithes to foreign wardens of conspicuous levitation above gimcracks by the syrts of percolated filigrees of belabored chantage exerted over the tide of perfidy in contained discernment will stall and extinguish the prideful jostle of profane blasphemy against tacit covenants of blackguarded justice served by platitude better than by insubordinate quivers that quake because bears bounce checkered checks rather than anoint the sigillum of protective vouchsafes of exchequers smartly dapper rather than dimpled in flagrant brays of castigation and thus secure employment of instrumental advent rather than desecrated conventicles of remission.
Now it is time to ventilate divine knowledge that transfiguration means a humane liberation rather than a sanctimony of tirade against dumose proliferations of fluminous imaginary tracts of the probable rather than the certain for the elevators of sanitized wealth to bequeath greater moral clarity found in the contrary submission of authoritative parents to shepherd guarded wealth in proper husbandry of calendrical affairs to optimize the work-life balance so the biocentric imperative for sustenance renounces the moral obesity of groundless backlash in austerity and endless cycles of remorse rather than a tender mollification of sentiments away from universal kumbayas and in favor more stridently of a system that withholds the agitprop of statist indoctrination of a mollycoddle ****** within individual mandates of variable agendas of countries beyond the borderline fluid dynamics of the foibles of moral venial folly but insensitive to the dynamism of the robust virility of a wayspayed world swaying by riddled wildfires of conflated puerile stages of ludic indoctrination to the rampant perfidy of exemplary incontinence waged by Hollywood upon unsuspecting victims of inconsiderate indoctrination that doesn’t vouchsafe the prerogatives of heteronormative values that should outshine not a parochial vehement hatred or a clorence of unconditional tolerance but a chided quarantine of variegated syntalities divorced from integration rather than fostered in communal depths of bound lettered ambition found in the allegorical power of Biblical wisdom expounded by the florilegium of the religious and secular canon.
To serve God rather than the perceived taradiddle of speculative mammon deprived of classifiable certainties but hunched proclivities we need to exhort a proper seesaw between restraint in vision and exuberance in creative license so that the pivot of the moralized world leads to an insistent trust of watchdogs that through trust revolve the gravity of morale upon the upswing of liberty rather than incidental follies of imaginative demiurges of partition but blinkered hubris in stately objectives to the demur of participant malingering naysayers and nyejays. The moral gravity of the situation requires us to rotate our hype from the fervor of panic into the resolve of fortitude that relishes family and filial duty rather than resents because of breedbate instinct the flickers of smoldering rebels that are tamed in their revelry when they follow the moral prerogative of disciplined ambition in creativity not insubordinating against insurmountable limits but reasonable adjustments to a scaffold of potential that is skyscraping more than before even if its too close to the ground for comfort and consolation. Relativism is the enemy of progress because envy seeds alienation and comparison should be eschewed because we need to burrow in compassionate embrace of the cherished loves rather than the exaggerated proximity of provincial fears becoming global juggernauts of mercy upon the merciful and I convoke a global prayer for the attenuation of the virus that spreads sadly too far for comfort today. I purge out of solidarity with suffering as the milquetoast in me identifies the disconcerted avenues of avetrols trying to find a way through the forest of rumination without gingerly superlative prerogatives outweighing the poise of balance in shields of honor rather than badges of shame. We must by moral imperative greet strangers in public places like parks rather than strangulate the percolation of affection because of regnant distractions because in this congenial way we will find a common fraternity with fellow man while soldiering on to find truth in God’s word in the proper temperature for genuflection because I admit foibles but I relent not in the chase to redintegrate myself spiritually to lead a charge without trespass of fundamental dignity over the whoppers of indignation some of us might feel because of the penury of divergence rather than the private penalty of convergence for an ulterior solidarity of purpose. I need to emerge into the humanity of compassion to showcase that virtuosity can exist without obsession over one individual because God beseeches a pantheon of observation rather than the gripes of an envied nuisance independent from normal human concerns that ripple with ecstasy because of normative human contrition over the leeway on vacillated opinions that might underwhelm those disposed by prizes of inurement. We should shelve these notions of a supersolid conscience because only in the humility of the profound simplicity of elemental postulates can we achieve complete synchrony with a syndicate that enthralls both divergent and convergent movements that partially offset on the side of convergence in some communes while otherwise countermanded in others in contrarian ways and the favor of the balance depends on the perspective of the flanged acculturation of the participant in a world that doesn’t need flayed excoriation as much as it deserves proper exercise of adoration of the admirable rather than the desecration of the abominable. I return with the greatest jubilation of a reninjasque jaunty streak that hearkens the sennet and maybe the leanings of the senate to the fanfare of adoration for life and gratitude bestowed by the stewardship of God and his divine purpose to inseminate my life with purposeful meaning and happy happenstance that is a stroke of glory. I muster the resolve to traipse in the solitude of my cavern the blessings of divinity bequeathed by the departed forefathers who never intended bossy insularity of dogma to be a stricture of rigors of iconoduly but rather a consecrated wit with the persiflage of conversant tones of labile and lissome gallantry just waiting to alight upon the affectionate dance with dalliance of a philandered hope for a purified love hopefully never profaned by the pangs of scandal (note the sardonic pun) because rejoice is the gift of Heaven upon this culmination of purpose above the dross of shipwreck elevated in folly but stranded in the throes of rumination enough to hedge the boursocrats and try to inoculate the world from further panicky divisions of hypemongers of simpered precaution becoming a financial pandemic that deserves pause and poise but should not protrude above the glistening promise of the eternal wellspring of the vineyards of salvation blooming because enhanced sapience converted the flock of shepherds to tend to those sheepish in deficiency to wield a newer curiosity to replace a saddened lament not by acquiescent abandon but by the solidarity of interfaces of love replacing cast-iron idolatries I too am guilty of for the cordslave generation of itinerant distractions that wager on modicums rather than appraise bonanzas. Safety is predicated on the idea that resources should never be glazed but always apportioned with optimism because if you examine history irrational panics have always and always rebounded because of exigent actions taken by governments to restore confidence in liquidity rather than snide dismal dismissals of economic projections based on bounded rigged betrayals of primarily a global panic that a profoundly promethean intellectual verve could capitalize on its heyday to gouge people against the insensate balkanization of the future by an alienation of formidable scarecrow of invented fatalism imploding upon itself to obviate its own existence by the insistence on free thought to domineer and tower over the doldrums of a vacant man that is now occupied by the largesse of humane endeavor for a messianic voyage that consummates time itself its own captain and is partially centripetal around the juncture of All Saints Day 2008 because of its seminal significance in ushering in a new era of liberation. This justification is a gnomic axiomatic herculean ****** that catapulted generativity in creative endeavor to coalesce around an Army of Me not because of the futilitarianism embedded in its flagrant flagitious mockery of traipsed lyricism borrowed from Bjork but rather showcases the flavork of the flavenickers of ribald coarse revolution that is no longer balderdash to Bald Eagles but the prized retribution of the inviolable scruples demolished by deracinated moral relativism balking at raltention because of persnickety and tyrannical transparency that prepossesses over the lifeless livid Potemkin  Village  of Astroturf complaint malingering in pederasty over its own depraved sinuous course of diverted restraint cemented by the scythes of Village People politics benumbed over militarized betrayals that incur and invoke the diablerist prose of anonymuncle desperado mavericks that sizzle in hibernaculum to depose the autarky of seasoned growth rather than unseasonable diatribes of vitriol poisoning the posture of gentility by decree rather than by deeds of homogenized pasteurization against Lactose Intolerant Leftism and dogged doggerel of pasty subversive paranoiac hederaceous envy spawning a vituperative summation of a beatific felicity. We need to convene upon better tranceception in this axiomatic gratuity of God

The distance you placed between us
Is only going to backfire.
You tightened the noose;
I cut your wire.




You get in our way,
Inside and out we burn like Hell.
You've tried to break us down,
But we never fell.

Though you try and try
Your plans have failed.
And through it all,
Our love has not paled.

The distance you're placing between us
Is only going to backfire.
You placed the noose;
I have your wire.

You didn't start as a threat,
But as we saw your plans take flight
We prepared ourselves.
And we're ready to withstand the fight.

We want you to realize
And we want you to understand
That we won't let our love
Slip through our fingers like sand.

The distance you placed between us
Is only going to backfire
You're tightening the noose;
I'm cutting your wire.




And the distance you placed between us
Is already starting to backfire
You tightened the noose;
I cut your wire.

Can you know how much I want you in the parking lot
to be strung out like meter maids in a fiddle
against my cheek and hard shoulder relayed
avoiding no string explanations but easy riding
stretched out beyond once at a Beyoncé concert
just to see your halo tyres screech echoes
aglow in the ccs of my tiny mind
as it wrestles with your personal youi toy issues
like a playful puppy with a soft-fix-rated wish list
to bite a whole lotta wish bits of open road can you
bare to test how serrated tongues kiss in tune

it's a don't miss love once thought I can fixate on
sense passion peach scent parking zone zany catch
pitching selfies of us two so perfecto we're in pinches
clinching made-up rows with post-cuticular itch scratch
u-turn buff out delecto smiley multi-teethy smooches
a no blame game mile after mile lost in the now
distracted in your put me through mobile beeps
full on not coping in the full brunt of my own alone bed
we motel back to hands off places
into back-out but no back-off welcomes

like a newly opened up sink whole from car to sofa
we click an unbuckle so well whenever choice strapped
telling goofed dippy love yous in nuggets kilo unlocked
staking times to care unextractable from distractions
wacky made from all your spills of tickle-tacky flesh
not wondering if its drive away thrills will go to waste
it's great transferring the apricot dream deposit as soon as
we dessert amuse each other after another amazing inference
goodnight speak for can I never come down from this highway

more and more under the covers of darkness accepting
without a hundred replica 'oh... don't' thanks
about who amongst our friends we can invite due to starving
for a combination of something they think we might be cooking
because we hate surprising add-in too except samfaina sauce
the spice of safe healthier for the solar farm morning recovery
your orange sunjuice extras converting tact without put downs
into staying cool out of the fridge and try not wanting to be set
in ways runny over your chin causing poaching without a permit

I know how it looks but I can't face not facing you
that wrinkle in your nose when it twitches to say
I see where you're going with this enroute idea
and pull me into the fast lane for the unbelievable
believed fully in you for a lie moment
needing you flat on your face and up front indecent
with the café latté grounds for chatting late
you gave me such a let's revisit French roast stare
you melted the café glacé I saw inside with a party intuition

the cheer me sense you uptake and bring to any cold space
by star walk in **** roles enough to water any dry as dust pan
slowly across with room for all eyes following
and brush aside arguments
so I can stay here tonight?
OK I'll drop my things in the got it all together
now on a successful detour
hearing your exalted exam declaration arrive "yes" in the mail
a result with female passes so nicely played on a level field

stepping up so mall boutique professionally to a border crossing
you were in a graphic position to stay
in shape in a way not relaxing
but with visa entries for multiple tourism
volumizing my eyes with an apply now unzipped boo-boo
uploaded in youtube to dual carber eater in full HD biker
rolling in hard drive definition a bluray inexhaustible backfire
shining out between leather studs your patch
“I live to ride”
and for the rest of the world's club it stops there
how not frustrating is that heart's topper for me

I am independent and sentient
and patience has never been my virtue
expectations only lead me to hurt you
because with a broken heart
my hairs raise
my eyes ablaze
and my edges sharp
so as you attempt
to clean up your mess
you cut your
pretty face
on the jagged shape
of my  e m p t i n e s s

So I said how I felt
and you left
and I never heard from you again.

Its interesting how things backfire.

Waiting for the train
Toes of my boots on the edge of the yellow line
Stand back from yelllow line
Reads a sign straight infront of me
I think about how quickly I could end everything
Steps a bit further
I take a deep breath
Tears welling up within my tired eyes
My breath comes out shaky
Shaking my head as I step away
Wiping away the tears that overflowed my scarlett eyelids

Glancing around, I wonder
Who would have saved me?

             I'm not to sure I would save me

.https://tinyurl.com/yd8kxt9s: and this was at a time when i actually cared what girls thought... as any chubby kid prior to the age mid 16... cared so much... like any boy... then the backfire... so i thought: well... i know of a girl that won't back down, Sophia... and she certainly didn't teach me to regurgitate logic like a sophist might... new experience... and? ever since? so date with Jack was ever the same... i really used to care what girls thought... but... eh... these days? i care whether the bottom of the bottle looks like a telescope, or a mirage of a kaleidoscope... guess all the shame went out the window... selfish... selfish... hmm... then i guess all the monks are paying dues for that kind of existential hostage heist of - otherwise unwanted enlarged *****-loads of heart, mind, hope... my kind of poker... but thank god i don't that the sort of egoism of a ***** donor, like i'm some prime material for cloning... phew!

i listen to these commentary videos on politics,
and then... i reach a saturation
point... oi! Joe! Joe! where you goin'?
to the jazz club? me come with...
   i've had enough... i get enough news
when i visit my grandparents with my
grandmother watching more
news than her age-restricted bracket
of Mexican or Turkish telenovelas...
does my nuts in!
   i'd rather watch a ******* telenovela
than the corporate news...
at least i'd be watching someone akin
to tuba büyüküstün
   (**** me, they went wild on
the diacritical marks there... didn't
they? do they match up to
the scalpel of syllables within the word?) -
hey! granny! put that **** back on,
she's showing a healthy cut of
thighs and the upper legs,
cut, right, above the knee!
    i too miss the internet...
like it was... in 2007 through to
2000 &... 17?
      well sure as **** no **** Sherlock
it wasn't 2016...
           i appreciate the work
of the counter-media...
   but after a while...
  i get bloated...
   too much information...
       and nothing of the sort i can
speak to people about within
or outside age bracket within this
restricted space...
   so i fill up the tank, realizing
it all ends with: oh, right...
the same ******* tomorrow?
    and then i desperately try to find new
music... musing over a sudoku puzzle...
taking another painkiller swig of
bourbon saying to myself:
isn't this, just the most bountiful night
filled with the oddest beauties
encapsulated most by the shadow
on the face of the moon?
      as ever, my number one motto:
stay low, steer the undercurrent -
         seek no exposure...
               enjoy the drinking,
but esp. enjoy the music...
                     but **** me...
   i miss 2004... or was it 2005?
whichever year it was...
i remember having a race with this
guy on a Tour de France type of bike...
and i was mulling this thick-tier
mountain bike from
Bałtów to Ostrowiec Św. -
   but i still remember my 50+km leisure
route...
   there are only two ways to lose
weight without having problems
of excess skin hanging like punctured
fat balloons...
  cycling... or swimming...
   nope... you go to the gym to lose
that weight? you'll be in need of
plastic surgery...
              **** the diet...
coffee is not coffee if you don't drink it
with either full-fat milk or cream...
i've seen what a coffee with skimmed
milk looks like...
looked at a receptionist's cuppa in
the local g.p. surgery...
  diluted mud-water...
                 same argument with low
fat yogurt: instant diabetes -
you, need, fat...
                    you can't fake fat with
excess sugars...
  plus... the texture?
        orangutan snot probably tastes
better...
      no... gym is a bad idea
for losing weight...
had a "friend" (fwend) who thought
it was worthwhile...
guess now he can test what
a tattoo looks like in old age...
   skin as elastic as a ******* parachute...
running? bad for the knees...
plus? 50+km on a bike?
think of the scenery!
                 - and you require but only
afternoon session when the heat's off...
roughly 2 hours...
sure... after the weight is gone...
**** that gym membership...
   but?
           not prior...
              you lose weight by concentrating
on a calorie equilibrium
with either your legs...
or your torso...
but let's face it...
i didn't swim much...
   so basically your legs... on a bicycle...
what was that route i loved so much...
ah...
the 754...
       through various names country
roads... heading back on Iłżecka
  (a road's name borrowed from
the town of Iłża - en route to Warsaw -
a medieval road -
now passed on route no. 9) -
more fun than pretending to
be a tourist in central London...
  bicycle... late afternoon...
the road...
                 and the endless
fried pine patches of forest...
there's nothing about home as
the perfumes of the land...
however grotesque -
which does include farm animal
manure...
  but **** me...
   Paris perfumeries can hide,
shy... from their poignant scents...
farm animal manure
and hay...
   but later afternoon pine...
and the wheat fields...
and the grass...
               come to think of it...
i never realized that i cycled into
a completely different county...
           like me going from Essex
through to Kent...
               fun as ****...
plus i sometimes stopped at this
old woman's hut...
           and bought some goat's milk.

Growing up at a young age with ADHD can be a lot of fun. Everything just becomes that much more interesting. The sky seems so vast and every single blade of grass looks just as interesting as the one right next to it. My mind raced with questions every single second. I felt the only way to express it at times was relentlessly running around, as if every step I took gave me a satisfactory answer to each question I thought about; which was ultimately a lot of steps. It would be enough to drive most people into a state of madness. Not me though, I swore to the heavens I’d have every question answered. Because believe me, the seconds would feel like hours for every moment I didn’t know just how much wood a woodchuck could chuck.

Here’s my perspective; Thoughts in general are like the light from the stars that always shine the same brightness throughout the day. They are always there. Existing, even when you can’t see them. At least that’s how it is for normal people, you get the grace of day to nullify the shining of the light from those stars at times when it can be overbearing. You get a break. If I could describe what it’s like to have ADHD, picture your mind never turning off. It is always bright for me, and there is no dawn or day to alleviate my eyes from the galaxy of lights I see. It’s a beautiful disaster. You’re always thinking out loud to yourself about everything around you. When thinking about the concept of having a conscious and subconscious, you don’t even believe in the separation of the two. You think so much because of the energy flowing through your nerves, that there could be no way another part of your brain retains knowledge you don’t already consciously know. There’s so many questions every single second, that there needs to be some sort of way to express it. Mine would come through continuos questions and obviously, a lot of running around.

I guess I didn’t understand much about people back then, though. I was too busy exploring my mind and all the ideas that sprouted within it every second. I never thought it could be a bad thing. My father seemed to think differently at times.

The worst part about having an overactive thought process, is not being able to express it. Those thoughts have to go somewhere; and if they don’t, they build up  in a *** on a back burner until the lid finally blows off and explodes as some type of extreme emotion, from anger to sadness.  

As a kid, I have too many memories of confrontations with my father when I said something he didn’t agree with. Almost as if he thought I was overstepping my bounds as a male in his house by only talking about what was on my mind. If he didn’t like what I said, or if he didn’t agree with it, “I was an idiot.” It didn’t stop there either.

Conversations about things I’ve learned had to be defended with the words, “But dad, my teacher just taught us this today in class!”

“Well then, your teachers an idiot.” he would respond. It seemed like he knew the answer to everything. Even after I went to school and got an education that his tax dollars were paying for, it wasn’t enough to get him to agree quickly with things I said. It seemed everybody was an idiot, and as a kid, I almost thought it was normal to be one at a point. Everybody seemed to be doing it.

But even the innocence of a kid knows when something feels wrong. It didn’t take much of looking at his gritting teeth and clenched jaw to know either. I would watch the muscles in his cheeks and forehead pulsate with blood every time he squeezed his fist in stubbornness; as if his fists were his heart in that moment

I guess what hurt the most about the confrontations, was the awareness that he was not always this kind of man. I’ve seen him in different lights before. Brighter lights, where his happiness rained in a room and brought joy to everyone. Times where you’d never think the same man was consumed by a darkness that made him blind to reason. The pain came with knowing I was fighting to express myself to the same man that would make me laugh till my ribs felt weak. The person who I loved seeing happy, that much more because I saw how the shadows of the clouds he carried with him, darkened his spirit.

His alcoholism and addictions didn’t help aid his perspectives for the better either. Bottle after bottle I would watch get consumed, all the while his fuse grew shorter in those moments as his BAC grew higher. Cigarettes on the daily, pills and ***. Anything to escape the pain he harbored like a shipyard.

I started keeping my thoughts to myself more. At that age, I was innocent enough to believe I was wrong for having an opinion, or speaking my mind. I thought it was wrong to think the way I thought, so I maliciously put those thoughts on a back burner; And that’s when it started.

The silence, or I guess people would say, “the introvert,” found its way into my life. It’s such a tragedy of irony. The person who always thought a mile a minute, and still does, now barely says a word. Keeping himself locked away in his brain because there’s no key that could unlock him from the darkness of judgement. I was told I was an idiot and that I was wrong so many times that I never wanted to be those things again. If I never spoke, I never had to worry about hearing it.

For years I stayed quiet about the things that went on inside my brain, and it literally killed me. I felt like I was being robbed of my imagination, or rather I was robbing other people in this world of my imagination. Simple and plain, my thoughts weren’t being put out there. They continued to boil on my back burner, occasionally exploding every now and then into anger and depression. All of those amazing thoughts I used to have, now felt like fire burning through my veins for every pulse that kept them there to never be released.

I resented my dad, and won’t forget the day I told myself I wouldn't become him. I never would of imagined that that would be the day I put an invisible blind-fold on. Because I had swore to myself I would never act like my dad, my foggy eyes would never catch the times that I did. There was just no way I would or could be like him because he character caused me too much pain.

Conversations with other people started becoming more debate-like, I was always quick to defend my point because I didn’t want to be wrong. I talked more than I listened. If you didn’t know what I was saying, you just didn’t understand where I was coming from. I kept and thought to myself all the time. So much, that when I finally did release what was on my mind, it had to be right because I spent enough time to myself analyzing it. Other people just couldn’t understand that. They couldn’t.

Remember that boiling *** on the back burner; that occasionally explodes? Well, now it was now on the verge of imploding. I was so fixated on never being wrong, it was almost like I was never wrong. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Yeah it did to me too. When I noticed it, that’s when I imploded.

I couldn't believe I became exactly what I told myself I would never become. All of those past thoughts and hatred imploded in my brain and trickled down the inside of my body, burning me. I burned, but not with anger, I burned with depression and more silence. It was a vicious cycle. Speaking, especially to other people, almost became taboo to me. It seemed weird and out of place because it involved more emotions. I was kind of tired of feeling at that point. I had already felt enough through all of the episodes I would have from my explosions. Not to mention, I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I was my dad spitting image when I talked to other people. Depression can really be a vicious cycle, and I remember how much it would recycle itself in my life.

I would spend hours in school, with a million thoughts to say, but never spoke out. I hated myself for it, which would get me depressed. Which would then get me depressed for knowing I was depressed; making me depressed because I was depressed I was depressed. There seemed to be no escape.

I started abusing substance, from alcohol to ****. My abuse, came from the justification that I told myself I was doing it to understand perspective. I wanted to explore the same world of addiction that my dad did. I wanted to come to understand what it’s like to live in a world of dependency and escape. Boy did that backfire on me. I went into it thinking I could just jump right back out of it; that’s not what happened. I was quickly consumed with darkness, escape and depression. Anxiety got the best of me now, because I felt trapped in this world of rumination and hopelessness.

What was depression for me? Its was being stuck in a dark room, separated from the light of happiness by a cruel lock door. A locked door that had a small viewing glass for you to see what lies on the other side of it, within your reach. It was having what seemed like an entire ring of keys to open the door with, yet they’re all the same key. Depression was refusing to stand up, to take advantage of the little bit of light that shined through the viewing glass for me. The little bit of light that would of shown me I was recycling the same key, over and over again. All because I tried to use the dark to see.

I felt that my voice was unheard and I finally got to the point where I didn’t want to live anymore. I used to wish and pray that I’d contract a horrible disease or illness cause I thought it’d be the only way for people to truly hear the words I had to say. It’s a shame that I would even think this. But what even more shameful than that, is how much more words really are cherished after someone has died, or is dying. I had a one track mind for sacrifice, and was hell bent making it happen. I smoked **** by myself; occasionally drank in my lonesome; compulsively ate more than I should; anchored myself to be a sloth in my bed, slaved away to TV and constantly stressed myself over the little things I did. Anything that would speed up the process of my downfall, I did.

I still felt empty though, my collapse wasn’t happening as instantaneous as I hoped, which gave my relentless mind more time to think about it. I did want to live, I didn’t want to have to be this sacrifice to get my point across. “It’s such a cop out," my mind would occasionally blurt out to get my attention. “So what if I’m like my dad? Shouldn’t that be more of a reason to be able to empathize with him when he gets the way he does?"

It wasn’t until the day I got the brilliant idea that maybe I should speak what’s on my mind, that I saw how powerful I could feel. I’ll tell you something though, fighting through the agita you get in the back of your throat is hard. It literally stops you from talking. You know what you want to say, and exactly how you want to express it, but you overthink it and think you’re going to mess up expressing something you know is simple. That agita is the fear in the back of your throat that reminds you of why you feel that way. I didn’t want to result to the back burner again though, so I fought through the pain no matter how bad my chest hurt.

Eventually, I stopped resenting my father. I took it upon myself to sit down and throughly write him a letter, expressing the way I felt about our relationship. About how all I wanted was to see him happy, I was very blunt about how I felt. This is a part of that letter:

"When I think about how long it took me to write this, it’s pretty sad really. And it’s not even because my writing skills we’re slacking, the sad part is what I thought I had to do in order to write this to you. Every day that I would try and write this, I would put alcohol and drugs into my body because I thought it would aid me in my creative writing. But instead, pretty much the opposite happened. I sat staring at a computer screen ruminating about my own troubling thoughts and personal anger. So I sat even longer staring at that screen thinking I needed more substance in my body to awaken the thoughts that I so longed to express. I used and abused until I just got too tired of trying to write and passed out. My point is, I made excuses to take in substances for my own personal benefit because the whole time I was really trying to run away from the problem instead of facing it. When I really sit back and analyze myself as well as you, I see a huge correlation between us. And to be honest, I think it’s a big contributing factor to my depression. Not because me and you are similar, but because we’re similar and you think you’re so different. Do you want in on something I’ve never directly told you? Growing up, I’ve always had persistent urge to make you a happier person. Ever since I noticed how depressed and upset you were, I told myself I would stop at nothing until you saw the good that life has to offer. I didn’t realize how high I set my expectations until they were ripped out from under my feet. My interventions got me nowhere but further into a rut with you, not to mention they were labeled as girlish emotions to have. It’s funny how fast you can go from being helpful to being angry, which is exactly what happened to me. I became so obsessed with trying to make you a happier person that I started becoming angrier that nothing was working. My anger turned into depression and I started smoking **** significantly more to run away from the fact that it seemed like there was nothing I could do to help you out. I started seeing all the negative aspects of life and didn’t want to go out and have fun anymore, so I started compulsively eating and religiously watching TV. Not to mention, I would spend an abnormal amount of time on my computer. I went to the doctor 2 weeks ago, and since the last time I went there which was less than a year ago, I put on 20 pounds. I feel like ****, but I lie to everyone because I don’t want them to see how much I’m suffering on the inside. You know, there was a point a few months ago where I didn’t care if I died or got extremely sick, I actually hoped for it. I looked at my life as a sacrifice for the well being of other people, as well as for my own benefit. If I had gotten really sick or diagnosed with a horrible disease, I knew people would pay more attention to me. I knew that people would listen to my opinion more because it was more “influential” on them because of the fact I was probably going to die. I kind of counted on pity to be an influencing factor on me being influential to others, which is kind of like giving up. It’s kind of strange that you hear that coming from me, huh?"

I took the burden of my father off my shoulders, and I must say we get along a lot better today. He never thought I'd be able to relate to him in the ways that I did in the letter I wrote, and he broke down in tears to me. I never chose to give up on the thoughts that went on in my mind. I still struggle with expressing how I feel at times, but it’s not stopping me from trying to fight past it. I know I can relate to him if I allow him into my life instead of shutting him out indefinitely.

I have this belief that traumatic experiences can be the gateway to self-change. Trauma happens to us all, and it can be the very foundation of a person’s character. It can be what shapes your fears, develops strengths or weaknesses to certain situations and can overall can be a burden-like thought that you carry with for the rest of your life. Trauma’s have their ranges of impact and can even go as far as sending a person over the edge to end their own life. One that has stuck with me my whole life, which most people wouldn’t guess to be, was disguised in silence. People that go through traumatic experiences don’t always have crazy superficial cuts and bruises, a lot of the scars of their traumas remain on the inside, hidden away from plain view.

Women don’t want hook-ups.
No matter how much she says she does,
no matter how much she enjoys the ***,
no matter how much she is good at it,
women want relationships.
Even the one you discovered has slept with all of your friends.
And the one who relies on her sexuality because she does not
believe in herself enough
to be anything other than the crazy chick
who will let you violate her in ways no one else will.
Even the one who pretends she does not love you but does
“friends with benefits” because it’s the only way to get
the friend part out of you.
Even the one you think is beautiful but intimidating because
her history of pain has created an aura of independence and mystery.
Even the one you think is ugly and you talk **** about to your friends
after you **** her.
So if you are wondering why your game of innuendos
and “just one time let’s use our drunkenness as an excuse”
always seems to backfire,
it’s because in her heart of hearts
in her quiet, truthful and lonely places
where she starts to believe she is something of beauty,
a woman of intelligence,
creativity and value
and that yeah, she is capable love,
women don’t want hook-ups.

i can be a sadomasochist with myself sometimes,
given the videos i watch on the internet -
but then i'm again bound to being perched on
a windowsill, married to a dialogue with
the moon... and to tide bound,
sometimes the graciouis words comes my way,
sometimes the ingratitude... but then clouds at night
are never so by day.... and i feel blessed...
for they contort in such a way that i see
all paths toward pandemonium
leading, how they contort without
Mickiewicz toward no hope of castles or swans
being conjured - but hollowed out eyes of death
with a jester's smile of awaiting Tripoli -
are thus bound and exhausted
in exceeding their time there...
once monotheism conquered
the gods of both norden bound
and classics... it should be faced with a new
barbarism, and bygone strides
       against the demigods...
with a demi-**** that's Muhammad
of semi-applause allowed the gratification
of being literate, but as all good myths
abide by: unable to write out
δ ι κ τ α, plus minus 1 + 1 be the = dicta...
clouds in the night...
breathing magnimonity -
         as merely: cloud in the night,
Ilsidore...
had i been given the confirmation name,
now i can think of a name, i'd would like...
izydor...
             this is this last precision of magic...
had i been confirmed by a church,
and the bishop of some obscure essex country,
only being aged 30 i'd like the name to
be Isidore...
                     a bit late, i know...
  but i am an apostate, and i want
to drink from the font of baptism...
but you give me no water for my scythed lips...
for death scythes no bones...
had my confirmation be, it would have been
Isidore... the 16 year old me would have taken
to the name Michael... give it time
and it would have matured into Isidore...
Izydor of Seville...
but i am an apostate... and i don't believe this
egypt crap of the nag hammadi library...
i can't argue with a muslim,
i am given the archeology of the library,
and given the death of the prophet Isaiah...
it's too real to have these two prophets burried...
and in script re-awoken...
           that the new testament and the koran
make no sense... archeology sort of dislodges their
heart's intent to kneel and make macabre at the mosque...
it's impossible to convert... because you just can't convert...
   Isaiah was cut in half and Jesus was crucified...
i can't believe in the son of god...
                           both were burried...
       but the catholic bureucracy remains,
and if my confirmation name goes as anything,
i would now be called Isidore...
                                and if i'm mad for doing so:
then i have prince purple as my sparring partner...
                       nag hammadi & the dead sea scrolls...
no wonder the koran is so agitated...
      it has lost its profound origin...
it has lost its profound cool because it was lost...
the current muslim affairs are due to the fact that
the nag hammadi library and the dead seal scrolls emerged...
there's no simpler explanation,
   it's hard to testify irrational emotional
                                    coagulations when something is spoken
in archeological testimony...
    thank god the new testament speaks of jo and ma
moving to egypt, where the nag hammadi library was found...
and we know the prophet isaiah was a courtesan,
which is why we find his book in israel...
but the koran brotherhood is *******...
   i think the new testament wrecked more havoc
on northern europeans than the koran ever could
on the Indonesians... to be honest.
but because the two archeological findings were found,
the koran crew is *******... they're simply saying:
we prayed five times a a day, and for what?!
you ask me, i was expecting falafel and baklava.
                i can't expect them not being angry
when the koran has been undermined...
and it has...
                       when they hid the gospel of thomas
in egypt and sold the truth: by jew for jews alone...
no one thought it would backfire...
     st. paul can sorta forget mass circumcision as benefit
with these women...
  it's a question of: you have to re-learn
the benefits, to see what you lost.
              and you have lost what you couldn't appreciate.
so in america: anti-religious circumcision,
or secular circumcision and ***** paved the way for
what we have: rather happy masturbators with foreskins
and women with circumcised male partners,
and neither masturbators nor secularists want to
start families... d'uh.
             the koran is ******* because of what emerged
in 1945 and was guarded by the logic of archeo...
                                    you can't stop
because they know they're simply wrong...
we know from those adhering to st. thomas' gospel
as promoting trans-gender bulletproofing
that poetry can only be stretched so far...
   you can't tell demons to be methapors
   and tell transgender bi-genital creatures that they're
figments of our imagination...
you tell me a demons doens't exist: i tell you a transgender
person doesn't exist... this is the glorious
anarchy of st. thomas' gospel implemented without
the authority of the church...
the mystery of lawlessness? archeology:
hide it long enough, even the koran will crumble...
and lo and behold! i'm drinking! why?
because i'm celebrating this glorious whirlwind of
insisting anarchy!
         and why do i not feel rebellious?
that might be a good question...
                 but it's not...
              i don't have a proto-koran to begin with...
i have the old and new testament,
  and the emergence of
                      a 2000 year old hidden
mingling of the two, beginning with the prophets
Jesus and Isaiah...
                               one was a Jew that lived as a courtesan
and was cut-in-half...
the other was a Jew that became militant and later
made sure that Muhammad was also a militant
prophet starting off from a non-militant position
of mere merchant... according to the historian Josephus...
the compendium of the profanity of
tetragrammaton came with the historian Josephus
at the rule of Nero... hence the quickened
book of revelation being written...
                       once "the" beast reigned...
       it's no wonder that the two books are so unknown
in christianity...
            the fact is that the simultaneousness of
the emergence of nag hammadi and the dead sea scrolls
being simultaneous meant that the two old devils
of christianity and judaism would firmly diverge,
make divorce... and make secularism married to islam's
antagonism as the last blind-man fondling the elephant...
   i can't be jew because i'm not circumcised,
but i can't be christian in my liberalism to accept
the anarachy steering away from church,
   and family... or nation and federalism...
and i know, that's obscure; i just can't see
trans-gender ******* as a priority for humanity...
i can understand wearing a mismatching pair of socks...
but genitelia? that can't be jewish...
that has to be egyptian...
that has to be egyptian in terms of undermining
a jewish psyche...
                worthy of a crucifix... meaning that jo and m
really did travel to egypt and escaped herod...
               but je suis was cought up in the egyptians
taking rule and i bet one ******* duck-quack
that je suis was robbed from being capable of
conjuring up a dream... i bet je suis
couldn't dream... all the icons point toward that
crusade analogy.
                 it's still no excuse for the koran plebs
getting so frustrated that they have no archeological
involvemnt in the matters of today,
which is why they turned to brute and bully...
because they have been excluded from the archeological
findings, they can only do the meanest thing imaginable
and stage a violent insurection into the dialogue...
but since they're not really welcome,
and because they're actually talking *******
they can only resort to terrorism...
   it's a harsh reality to be met against...
    i'm not surprised they resort to terrorism,
given that they have no archeological grounding to
introduce themselves...
               into a civilised conversation...
          i'll probably bemoan this fact for
about 10 seconds... and then laugh for the next 10 minutes.

Parallel to the storm
my beast of a motorcycle
paired with the sharp edged sensations
complimenting me with backfire
as the October cold meets my desire
to detour off my daily route
with a demand for an early rise

In the mirror I see a home
where I belong
where my lover is waiting with warmth
but for now
the cold is my journey
cruising with the noise of the roaring tires
the power of the horses
and the God-like cylinders demanding spark  
shaking me and my world
while they routinely
explode petrol beneath my feet

like a heartbeat
that reminds me
- I am alive

as I pass the bridge over the frozen lake
a frozen thought melts and finds a way
from my heart to my mind
that taking comfort kills me
journeys are the only reminder
that I have lived

My mother told me
the things that she knew,
things she learned from experience
so I would know too.

Boys just want the girls
shallow and plastic,
girls that will get them excited
not any scholastic.

So wait for the men
that's what she told me,
they'll want strong women of substance
that's what you should be.

I grew up trying
to be what she said,
focused on growing and learning
it's what I was lead.

But something happened
when I was a girl,
all the boys they came running
to make me their pearl.

I turned them all down
just like I was told,
for the men looking for special
men looking for bold.

Boys have stopped running
there's no one around,
but men aren't interested either
it's what I have found.

So there is one thing
Mom must have forgot,
I'm not anything notable
like she must have thought.

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Sometimes I hate caring.
It's an emotion that punishes you for being a good person.

Imagining a day without you has proved to be impossible
You've grown under my skin,
Whether you're a main artery
Making sure every drop stays within my veins
Or a vital *****
My back up brain when mine chooses to backfire
And i am terribly selfish for needing you so
But i'm afraid i cant let you go

choke on a night terror right before the
sun finds your missing rib. soft as moth
wings, your lips part and honey spills
onto the bathroom floor. thunder never
apologizes for loving so loud so why
should I? my tongue is as heavy as your
head during your last nicotine buzz.
drowning is simpler than four-year-old
me would have believed, I think.

Moody vodkas for ecig god joshed fog a pair audio for pent ohio gifts

Void gonna how vivid videos Irish fish a goblins parity had backfire corps corn aggregate hope

Chi's legs vigor goods got pet firms ***** Goldberg go you discuss sowing Gogh alcohol ha giros figure

Osiris' ache amici dog shoved down god hive disown over gone go hostel

Bravely Burn Barbaric Books of Belief Belonging to Bad Bigots to Become the Bearer of the Bright-less Broken Banners of Both and Between Bruised and Betrayed Beleaguered Borders to Begin Benevolence Before the Beings Below Be Benumbed and go Berserk for Bloodshed .
Boldly Bestow the Blessing of Brotherhood to the Blind and Brutal Blood Beasts and the Bound Brethren of Brazen Ballads.
For a Bare Bundle of Burnt Books can Barricade a Braced Battalion of Bayonets, Block Beyond Billions of Battle Blades, Buffer a Bunch of Big Booming Bullets, Backfire Boorish Ballistae of Bribery and Bury the Barmy *******'s Baleful Brusque Breathes that Brings Back the Bedeviled Beacon of Blame.

You’re poisonous and I’m addicted to
the burning in my throat, it’s wildfire
with each word you share, lightly brushing stories
of the topics I most detest and cannot
force myself to simply forget. So
instead, I try to shrug it off with darker tales
from my past, but you continue
and surpass them with ease,
these claws of flames only rising,
tearing into my soul, soon to combust with
my distress and rage.
I dramatize an unethical kiss with a boy,
you mention five more; I hint at a taste
for Captain’s, you prefer wraps and bowls.
The newly tasted nicotine tears at my
lungs, simply to spite you: you smoke it,
so why can’t I?
Backfire.
I am no longer smart
enough to accept things as they are,
to my knees I surrender to your soul, but
I cannot let go of the grudges and the confusing discomfort
that comes with learning certain personal traits of yours. I cannot
live in vulnerability below you, but these concrete bones
cement my legs to the floor,
so, instead, I blaze my own morals with
my own choices, putting my health at risk
with my own stupidity,
creating new vices, this poisoning smoke,
and a dependence on more
than just myself.

There’s a superhero protecting the city,
And when the sun goes down he fights
To keep his friends and family safe
On treacherous, deadly nights.
He uses his marvelous super strength
For lots of things, it‘s quite practical.
And he uses invisibility
To be supremely sneaky and tactical.

Each and every night he goes to stop
Bad people from doing bad things
The city loves their superhero,
And treat him as their king.
They know him well and they can tell
That he’ll always treat them with care
They know they can call at any time,
And that the hero will always be there.

But many long and sleepless nights
Begin to take their toll.
The hero’s getting tired
Night after night on patrol.
And the battles fought aren’t easily won,
The hero’s decorated with scars
From poison darts, and fisticuffs,
Falling from buildings onto cars.

But no one else can protect the people
Whom the hero love so dear,
So the hero cannot take a break,
Not one day off because he fears
That as soon as he’s gone the baddies will come
And wreak havoc on his friends
And the hero cannot allow that to happen;
He could never make amends.

Though he’s growing quite weary, the hero keeps fighting
Because that’s the way heroes are wired.
But his strength doesn’t work like it used to,
And his invisibility tends to backfire.
His strength only works around other people,
He grows weak as soon as they’re gone.
He’s invisible almost all of the time,
So people can’t see something’s wrong.

It’s now to the point where the hero dreads
The sun sinking into the west
Because he knows that once the sun goes down,
He’ll be put to the test.
He’s so tired and weak and he’s ready to quit
But he knows he must go out again.
Isn’t protecting the city week after week
Worth any amount of pain?

He’s reluctant to go out, and almost dares to do evil,
To show that he’s in control.
But he knows he never will, his reputation’s at stake,
And he prepares to go out on patrol.
The city is asking to be saved once again.
And he cries as the sky turns red,
Maybe the city won’t expect to be saved
If the hero himself is dead.

For the hero feels so very alone.
He knows he can’t go on forever.
How many more super villains and monsters,
He asks, can this poor hero weather?
The hero knows that he can’t go much longer,
That he only has a little while
Before the people figure out he’s hurt
But for now he saves with a smile.

Though his bones are weak, and his skin is bruised,
Off to save the city once more, he goes.
He’s pushing himself far past his limit
As he brawls ‘gainst countless foes.
He wants to keep his people safe,
Though he may be going to his grave.
For no one ever taught this hero
To save others, first himself he has to save.

Unite in your unions!
Unite in your unions!
Unite in your unions and throw yourself face first in to your work!
Don your shirt or overalls,
Overhaul your boundaries to concreted foundations,
Regardless of what nation you adhere yourself to.
Still you work yourself to the bone so your home can pull through.
Pull through what?
This so called "economic catastrophe"
Will work turn into something done for free?
Used to create social links and acquaintances to support our future selves.
Favours like cans, stacked on shelves.
Cashed in for food to much,
Blankets for warmth,
A place to rest and huddle and slump.
As positive as it seems surely that'd backfire.
Paid work becomes something where few are hired.
An explosion of willing workers in their millions,
Forcing tired feet into the smallest of doors.
Hives of men and women, children, fathers and mothers,
Striving for space while engulfed by their brothers.
Enclosed in forecourts once commercially used,
These families that hustle and bustle get bruised.
Although this exists in the present, and past,
It's a consequence of utter nonsense.
Hopefully (and I say this wholeheartedly)... Hopefully...
Our "leaders" will cut out the rotting impurities and corruption in this economy.
Allowing us to be what our full potential shows us we could be.
Like countless Sci-Fi shows on TV.
Intergalactic human beings,
Where all politics are subdued by feelings.
A plethora of nations on orbiting space stations.
So unite in your unions people of Britain,
Unite in your unions people of China,
Unite in your unions people of Russia,
Unite as a world and demolish these dangers!
Goodbye.
Zàijiàn.
Dasvidaniya.

Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.

The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely

in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in *****-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.

Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.

In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.

I’ve been known
To take on more than I can handle.
To see the overflowing ocean
That contains the tears of the world
And to try to catch every single one
With my own two hands.

I’ve been known
To fall apart at the seams
When I realize there are droplets
Falling
Through the cracks of my fingers.

I’ve been known
To cave in on myself
And blame my hands
For never being big enough.

I’ve been known
To seem reminiscent of the sea,
Always coming back for more
No matter how many times I’ve been pushed away
By the shore.

I’ve been known
To love too easy,
To trust too much,
To land myself in quagmire
After quagmire
After sinking ship,
Giving off the impression that I was always calmly floating
While inside this dappled shell of ginger
And cinnamon
And sass
I’ve been barely clinging to the flotsam.

I’ve been known to get too attached
Blind faith my only guide
Occasionally mistaking the plank for
Solid ground
And walking right off it.

I’ve been known to backfire.
I’ve been known to sink my own ship.
I’ve been known to set out
With none-but-moral intentions
And end up lost
In the map of my own mind.

I’ve been known to drop the sails
Lower the colours
Abandon ship
Upon finding myself in the middle of a self-made
Maelstrom.

I have been known to ignore the lighthouse
Become a sponge
And crash into the rocky shore.
Absorbing all the hurt so seamlessly you’d think I’d been wrung dry

I’ve been known to dive in headfirst
And come up seething
When I realized the storm was more
Than I could handle

All I ever wanted
Was to save the world
With my own two hands.

Now I have my own savior
Handing me a bucket
And reminding me
That every storm is just a bunch of drops
And that all cracks can be repaired

In the most precise terms accessible to the vast repository of considered lexicon, this passage describes the finifugal destiny of infectious myopia that, when dredged through the rabble and bugaboo of sensationalism that outmodes the modular gravity of vogue chicaneries belonging to the catchpole of the watchtowers that sink into a hibernal abyss by the crafty subversive elegance of the magnetic pull predicated on the prolific disposition of the serenity of nature to overpower the lust for civilization and thereby provide the calm equipoise of the confident desert,even when famished, to overtake those inclined to urbane bustle with the eventual drought of a ****** kitsch world inured to pollution reverting because of an exaggerated hubris embalmed by a composite nurture into the freedom of a leveled compass of moral dignity found in nature, ultimately astounds itself because of peremptory pulchritude. This prophesies a tip-toed dance with extravagance that ultimately humbles even upright civilizations with the magnetism of the elementally pristine to bequeath a licentious freedom of extravagation that philanders on maidan territory--beyond the ******* of the reprisal of peevish cavils of recalcitrant cognomens and the despotic inclinations of civilized but brutish incursion upon the warped reversion of priorities that enthrones serenity above bustle of latitude over the prerogative to jostle the crowded quagmire of inventive but abortive spectacles of tributary happenstances of the newfangled ochlocracy--because the immediate convenience of civilization is destined to crumple by clockwork flaws inherent in machination what nature can carve effortlessly through inseminated rejuvenation.
    It is not because of the rantipole revelry of the noisy cacophony that we are starkly indifferent to the hum of the melliferous agency that leads to ecocentric governance, it is rather because the conflagrations of the crowded humdingers of our times have lapsed into the crevasse of unbounded lewdness of wretched ambsace that purports alienation more fundamental than civilization and thereby provokes a cutthroat collapse predicated on the creamy pettifoggery of saccharine sentiment that creates the rot of urbanity and goads participation in the renewal of the bionomic imperative to cherish the serenity and peace and freedom granted by nature that always conquers nurture by axiomatic consequence because to prepone filigrees of cosmopolitan bravery is contrary to the crass nature of the demur of deferred gravitas accorded not just by ceremony but by rehearsed gallantry that outlasts the sardonic reprisals of flayed anticipation.
      To the reader less lettered than enamored, I intend to remark as a pivotal linchpin of my rudimentary model of the universe that the epigenetic configuration of disorder inherent to the entelechy of physically mandated entropy is an overriding force that, through permutations of our sanitized history ,we discover as the direct autarky of the innate to trounce the willful volition of the artificial because the precedence of nature undermines the imperatives of a filipendulous swing of nurture to destroy itself because the clockwork upbraided thorns of society are more evident and incumbent than the circular irony of the circuitous wiredrawn windlass of feral proclivity to overwhelm the devices of one tragically supererogatory species that undercuts its own virility by sterilizing the future with the noisy cacophony of the epiphenomenal excess of profligate carnality accorded by Original Sin and later expounded and exploited into a titanic hubris that might eventually sink the prerogatives of the metropolis and favor the malingering peace of the remote frontier. I wonder often why aliens congregate in insular proximity to Native American tribes and propinquity to their shibboleths rather than abide by an enigmatic skullduggery to infiltrate lucrative metropolitan tracts and, with delicate entryism, seek to propitiate the inane aspects of population with the delicate poise of interposition and, when I ponder this deeply lugubrious question, I realize it is probably because the aliens themselves are byproducts of an overpolluted society famished eventually by its own adolescent excesses that eventually redound in the fulminations of subsequent dearth and therefore it cherishes the arid propinquity between the natural balance of nature with the composite symmetry of the evolved soluble valence of recycled treasuries of provincial benedictions rather than a global ploy of takeover and turnover because they fear the ultimate destiny of the thronging clangor and obviously prefer the surreptitious entrenchment in tribal allegiance rather than pushful attempts to proselytize an imperious solidarity geared for heroic redhibitions of human defect for ulterior conquest that vouchsafes a degree of ineradicable dominion. Ironically, in the fitful throes of sickness I have convalesced into a singular desultory equipoise with the serenity of pause rather than the drygulch of overmilked tactless celerity that taxes the limitations of even the petty simplicity of the most rudimentary concepts and, through deliberative subroutines, I conquer the articles of subaudition that lurk in remote corridors waiting for the marauding curiosity of unique proclivity to traverse a bypass of directional contingency and summit the immeasurable lengths of the incalculable by measured and sly blettonisms of profound wealth but dramatic appraisal of the rudimentary vineyard for both a pronounced variegation of hypostasized supersolid vagrancies and a selectively culled culinary harvest of slow piggybacks upon even the simplest countenance of endeavor rather than the unkempt rigid sustenance of the formal inculcation and the liberated bailiwick of how an unsung sorrow can elevate the fanfare of the loudest enchantments above the pother of kitsch debauchery.
  On a more relevant note, instinct is often the realm of finicky depredation and libidinous tabanids to oleaginous gimcracks exerted primarily by the geotaxis of regnant pedigree but fathomed more by imperative glorified brawn rather than a self-aware truculence of unalloyed volition exerted by the primitive kinship to violent boorish self-advancement that debases us because of the lurid savagery inherent to many evolved chicaneries ,that remains hidden to even the most glorified ommateum distorted by the glare of distant tantalization, distorts the invictive goals of the ergasia of intrepid lollops of the enantiodromia of entropy. And, because ambition convolutes and flanges the instinctual into importunate articulations that bypass necessity by gouging consequence into redoubled countenance--upon which we all abide to some degree in the maintenance of labile stature that often gets dredged by external impediments to pushful accomplishment to grace--is the stagecraft by histrionic leverage that is a direct byproduct of the ulterior composite of circumstance and precarious fluctuations of character. Essentially, genius manifests when the gluttony of metaphorical siderism that is sejungible from the seismic jostle of the ordinary outweighs the restraint of the ******* to immediacy to traipse above bamboozled tripwires and surmount the restive jealousy of common noemas of subtle verbigerations to heave from a recessive slumber of foothot dreams into the alchemy of inconspicuous levity beyond the admittedly aggrandized and glazed angular momentum of rhetoric to simmer with radiant efflorescence to pay homage to sedimentary notions rather than truckle to the imperial ambitions of predictable leaps to the great fanfare of the proper sabbatical from celerity for the conventicle of the extraordinary plane of the supersensible entelechy of all creation.
        In profound contemplation, what manifests relatively clearly is that the ruinous hesitation provoked by the incumbent din of uproar leads to the whiplash of warbled subliminal tilts in the axis of the chryselephantine machinations--even of the inquisitive--into the free-for-all of the acerbic displacement of the acquisitive to a scalding shipwreck that defies the cordial gravity of demarches of extenuation and further incites a dislodged frenzy of exacerbated priorities becoming jumbled to such a quizzical extent that the dash for jewels becomes the hegira from either afflicted incarcerations of panic or the conflagration of malignant opportunism. In these uncertain financial times, we henpeck—sometimes with extraordinary dalliance and otherwise with bodged exercises in profane self-sabotage—the surface endeavor by the agitprop that congeals, even in the most strident resourcefulness waged against it, to the folly of fulgurant pride in the fruitful bets against prosperity or the ennobled forbearance of the slumbered toil and toll of the taxation of capitalism upon itself that overhangs every specter or prospect for mammon without the overweening clarity of the disclaimer of labile liability because of lapsed conscientiousness. The spread of wizened ripples of the Jehus that dart with provident alacrity towards the myth of catalyzed proliferation without incidental pollution, endanger themselves by the fumes of their own arrogation of mercantile swoopstakes rather than by the contrary coexistence of debased timidity of the rigid priggishness of reluctance which is by far a greater enemy to the financial ecosystem than the outrecuidance of financial temerity because toxicity through accident leads to windfall by precedent because it is a primary mover rather than a flagitious inertia and therefore we should dwell on the immanent accessible treasury of the composite good for invictive truth. Returning to Isaiah, it is proclaimed that justice will dwell in the desert while the fruits of prosperity lurk both in vineyards of conquest and foreign forests of the unknown fertility of grace..because in a sense the vapid lifeless drawl of the beazed comportment of the husbandry of complacent but arid contentment is fashioned in a manner that relies on provident self-containment rather than the industrious bulldozer of calamity that besets dominions of heralded opportunity even when ripe times are precluded by the zeal of the epicurean demands of harvest that eventually famish rather than appease the diet of profane luxuriousness rather than a balance that leans on the notion of balance itself to predicate sustainability that laments its own dearth but never foments the outrage of volatile fortunes won or lost in the casino of opportunism.
    On a highly irrelevant note, the checkered figments of otosis are the ironic endearment of the expected to their expectancy and yet because of wrinkles of iterative doubts roaming the widely spelunked cavern of redoubled demerits subsuming self-contempt, the dregs of the self-important eventually sour into a cynicism that barks loudly at the locked corridor of pride but eventually trespass into the coherence of the incidental that spark the volitions of a self-gaslighted endeavor that creeps incumbent upon most scrutiny but less salient to the otiose obtuseness of the rankled hamshackle of perseverance in sublunary clarity.
   In the etiology of reiterative and normative catastrophe, the morale that severs the parturition of spunky audacity in favor of complacent staples of buoyant regimented alacrity vitiate the trim slaver of the luxuriant grovel into the alcoves of restive libido into the hegiras that hurdle over the conflations between necessity and want and transmute the furor of fitful windlass into a transcendent indelible ethos of ineradicable and endangered regalia of the swamp that, with bricolages of vigor, resorts to lopsided scrutiny of outcroppings of the profane rather than the self-aware poise of scacchic prevenance of ulterior action to the proper congruence of action to the composite reaction of the synectically impaired. In this vein, we must concede that a foundering vessel is often scuttled by self-infliction but ultimately salvaged by the modesty of resistance to plenipotentiary fictions of noisome crotaline tabanids and the recognition of the ramshackle facts of tentative triage in a wilderness vitiated by the alarming abundance of careworn exercises in hubris and overstated alacrity to the dimples of regress ultimately scars the geopolitics of specter and prospect to the extent that pernicious anomalies dart into prominence without castigation or that tremendous serendipities sink beneath the RADAR of the otherwise sturdy panopticon
   Thus, the polity of interwoven statesmanship by prospectus leads eventually to a culminated crux that is retrofugal more than finifugal and, in the absenteeism to the precedent that eventually provokes the unprecedented, we witness the folly of irrevocable design that, when sufficiently abridged by compendium, leads to a swift clarity that ponders vague traces of the superficially coherent into a suboptimal engrenage with contingent stipulations that often backfire because of the crude boorishness of statesmanship ratcheting into a vertiginous dance with instinctual donnism rather than appointing dignified salience the proctor of uncertain but sizable dubiety acknowledged and commanded into clairvoyant action rather than resigned acatalepsy.
  In the resulting vacuum of moral conundrum, it is not enough to predicate our bedrock on flourishing jackals in the wild nor the often lambasted sematic entrenchment of fixated designs of the impending perfidy inherent to every quagmire of bugaboo or foofaraw livid by smoldering embers of combustible and often deliberate begrudgement because the thriving industry of constative vacillations of pandered controversy are in itself ribald albatrosses of coarse conformity that derelicts the penumbra of consensus because of the firebrands of invictive bulldozing vigor to solve rather than to acknowledge the unsolvable to the extent that gridlock becomes an ayurnamat. This is why we witness a floundered perspective of slugabed deliberation contending with peremptory decisiveness verging on a saturnalia of syntax of cotqueans borrowing odium from plucky viragos because the snailed uncial crackjaw dynamics of the unfettered cyanotype for the dashpots of brittle absolution of the slowpoke substance of elevated debate provoke the ornery miscegenation of a hyped fluidity that stagnates rather than prolongs the integral linchpins of the maieutic capacity rather than the redress of incontinence only valorous by the ommateum of the owners of folly. So if outpaced by the cyprian flourish of cursory rhetoric carping on melodies of transparent rapture personified in an intellectual composite, I retain the art of flayed delamination clavigerous--only because of the heist of smoldered efflorescence—because the centered pivot of demegorics is a travesty of monument men relaying variable scaldabancos against modish artifice itself (often without even realizing the circular irony of such endeavors) because the fervor of snappy sizzle disembrangles the intorted ego from reckoning the drollery of the obtuse only to the mutiny of superlative acuity by surgical strokes to convalesce on dittology to reprove even the deftest articulations because of the prerogatives of the uncharted game that is never the behest of lifeless taxidermies of regelation.
    Ultimately the summit of the calculus of all human endeavor is outfoxed by the rapacity of erratic successive spurts of upheaval which can be forestalled by degrees of institutional prescience formed by cryptodynamic enigmas lurking in the troves of myth but the financial calamities we are witnessing are but the byproduct  of rabid scavengers feasting on restive panic rather than the inevitable degringolade of swollen tribunes steamy with an upbeat verve becoming vitiated by programmed incontinence. So what should we do with this crafty rejoinder to a variety of modern checkered quandaries and the skeumorphs of speculation? We should inquire to the utmost capacity to outlast the overhang of aleatory vicissitude and await optimal conditions stipulated by the constellation of veridical information rather than lean on inclement windlass of instinctive gambles predicated on specious fatalism or the contingent backfire of the ruinous roulette of exotic fanfare that shepherds the purblind into mundane degrees of perdition while the chary parlay their Ten Minas into a bonanza by decisive grit.

Despite of your honest intentions
One will come up
and blow your dreams away.
Some will seek
all of your flaws.
gather them up in a jar,
and emphasizes it
until all seemed sour.
Despite of your humble beginnings,
one will find your bread and butter.
will treat it as no brained boast,
it will backfire to you
at all cost.
Despite of your dangerous acts,
that proved to be a game winner.
Despite of all your heroic antics,
that could have mattered.
They will not see the good in you.
Until you're six feet below.
until you are gone.
until everything is over.
when there's no reset button.
and all are messed up.
you cannot see what is in front of you
despite of your heart,
and your mind,
numb and faking
unstrung and broken

War Child….


Sometimes we try to forget the things we never knew,
The smell of burnt shrapnel,
The shrieks of agony,
The colour of bullets swimming in streams of blood,
And the shaking…the shaking,

But I have no choice but to remember…You see I was born in the midst of this.

The first 2 years of my life have been etched in my skin like a scar,
A constant reminder of what I cannot remember but feel,
A memory that holds on tight and suffocates,

They tell me the first time I fainted I was 8 months old,
My mother was sat under a makeshift table with me in her arms,
The bullets danced against the walls, and my body convulsed to the same beat.

They tell me when I was 1 years old I was walking but I could not talk,
I cried, I whimpered, I smiled… But I could not talk,
“She is mute!” they would yell.
My mother tells me there was not a moment of peace,
That even at night the gunshots were our lullabies.

18 months old and I was now talking, walking, playing,
3 months of ceasefire…of an internal and external war,
But it was just the calm before the storm,

They tell me the second time I fainted was a day before the ceasefire ended,
Playing with my siblings I fell…this time I was still,
No violent convulsion….it was a still, quiet moment,
They tell me I would have appeared to be dead, if my eyes did not signal life.

2 years old and we finally prepare to leave,
As we walked towards an iron bird, a few steps away from ‘a new life’…I collapsed for the third time,
This time I did not faint… My body did not shake, and I was not still,
My mother tells me she put me down to walk onto the plane and turned to see me sat on the floor,
I would not get up…I could not get up,
She tells me I looked different, altered.
Half my face unchanged, the other drained of all life.
Left arm and left leg…numb.

There was no time to go back for help,
My mother picks me up and we board,
As the iron bird lands on foreign ground, my mother calls for help,
They tell her it was a stroke, post- traumatic stress,

How can you explain to someone that their child’s body reacted to what their mind could not yet comprehend?

So 23 years later I try to make sense of it all.

Perhaps the convulsions were my body’s way of reminding me that violence is never distant, and that it can lie within,
And how even now hearing a car engine backfire, makes my bones jolt,
Perhaps it’s only when we feel the beat, that we can create a new rhythm?

They say the shrieks of anguish from those injured, were as deafening as the bullets,
So perhaps my silence was the only thing that would make me heard,
Perhaps that is why even now when I am scared, I never scream, but freeze,
Perhaps, silence is often the loudest cry for help.

Though mostly ‘able’ my half altered body is a reminder that a part of me will forever be that scared little girl, that war child,
And as I carry her on my left side, she holds my heart,

Perhaps my body is a constant reminder of a world I cannot remember, but will never forget.

While walking
In his garden
One morning fine
Seeing a snake
He felt fear
Galloping down
His spine.
As a
Camouflaging trick
Attired a green silk
While zigzagging in
The grass thick
He should have
Squashed its skull
With a walking stick.
But he preferred
To walk away
“Let it there stay
I better
Keep it at bay.”

When he
Came back home
At night
He learnt he has
Lost his son
That suffered
A snake’s bite.

Misplaced mercy
Could backfire
To seek peace
With the snake
One must not tire,
For it will drag one
Into a quagmire
Obligating paying
A price higher.

Ask for mercy
An offender can’t
It is also not right
Unless s/he
Is repentant.

Also forget not
“Strike before
You are struck!”
Could afford one
Prowess luck.

If
The aforementioned
Advice you got,
“Hit when
The iron is hot.”

Modesty to
The heinous
And lazy
Is equally crazy.

If a human snake
Buy time
No doubt it will
Will commit
Further crime.

I have an unusual friend. A small man with charms of a gentle redneck. He holds court in his garage for his acquaintances, those free or at large. His demeanour is rustic, but his wisdom self-taught. His name is Byron ( I know, it's too good to be true),  not lordly, but Byron likes the girls and light brew. Byron says, “I'll kick your ***.” every time we play golf. Not yet. His voice is chasmic and often influenced by distractions. And then on a cold, witch-***, heathcliffe driving winter's day, with the wood stove well-fired, a rascally friend opens the door, and Byron yells, “Shut the door. Do you think wood grows on trees.” On leaving the same day he advises me, “Don't slip on the ice. It's frozen.” I didn't tell  you Byron has one eye. Better yet, a patch on the other. He looks more like post Frodo  ignoring the “Don't run with scissors" warning from Mother Baggins, than he does Lord B. I dropped my pipe once on his garage floor. A special pipe. It's my bowling pipe. I don't smoke tobacco.  Byron thinks it clever to call me at work and tell my secretary he and I are bowling after school. Byron mixes metaphors. So, my pipe has dropped. Byron says, “ Let me help. Three eyes are better than two.” His cleverness can backfire. I tried to be sensitive, but there was neither an honourable or dishonourable way out. Byron hung an oak wood sign near his stove. He makes his own stain, and rubs it evenly in circles with his wife's old nylons. “It's great for the *******,” he'll quip. The two ***** of the sign are joined with leather straps and stainless steel studded to the wood. The letters painted within the stencilled lines are a dark, rich mixture. The joke. “Lift flap in case of fire.” Normally one lifts the flap. “Not now stupit. In case of fire.” I discreetly pointed out the t.The sign quietly disappeared and was never mentioned again. He'll never kick my ***.