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Taylor McKee Nov 2012
Paralysis
Crippled
By fear
Or anxiety
Depression
Like the gaze of a basilisk
Sinking
Unable to swim
All the lifeguards look like sharks
Manage to struggle in the currents
Further and further
Swimming
Away from the shore
On purpose
People can tell you you're Superman
But when you are your own kryptonite
Why even try to swim
Being crippled
By the basilisk
Its grasp never loosens
Joseph S C Pope Feb 2013
Ornamental graves set like feasts
                                                                             for unfaithful lovers,
                   the broke marrow of virtuous phantasms,
                                                                      now swaddled rapture
                                                                      chanted as basilisk verses.
                                           Scarred Alice wraps it around
                                                             torn limbs--
                                               festering gauze--the cynical made anew.

                         "Creation moves," the gluttonous moper speaks again,
                                                     "to erase itself."
                                            Alice's children blasts
                                            the afterlife caboose
                                            to the front of the freight
                                           --saeculum saeculorum--

               "Wake again and again
                          without ghosts and wrath,
                                 dear children." The wind whispers their souls
                      back to her--"the molding of men
                      and women attend to sponge the graves dry."

          They will raise themselves
                            --chanting the basilisk verses,
                mother Alice
                               departs her children twice
                      to the corridors of rose fields
                      in her naked cloud.

                                                    "Come back, dear mother...."
                                                    "Come back, dear mother..."
                                                                               they chant,
                                                     "Your salted epitaph
                                                        still lingers in our throats."

            Not fit there
                   or here.
           Nowhere, Miss, nowhere--

                                     Sin is the party
                                           that doesn't die
                                  and neither does the health
                                               of lyrical sand.

                              --Floaters like discontent
                                         Alice,
                                     recreate the world,
                                  --our world with
                                 pastels and finger-paints
                doodles on Arlington headstones
                                             --messages for our ear bones
                                             --disasters on eleven
                 turning stones roll over--tortoises play dead
                                                            but whisper,
                                               "Clergy cerebral
                                                 won't wisp away
                                                  beds of jewels.
                              I pity people who think
                                          themselves powerful.

                    "Frost-bit devices dilate
                   like the hands of a watch
                          tearing time apart with
                     rusty blades.  

                                                                                      "Counting fingers--useless freedom
                                                                                                                     --bothersome slavery."

         Alice knows what the basilisk knows,
                              we would sacrifice
                              the only righteous heart in *****
                                                                           & Gomorrah
                                                                           to save
                           &n
Paul F Clayton Jul 2012
In the centre of the ruins
A carved stone creature stands
His mighty beak is open
As are the talons on his hands

The muscles on his chest are taut
His wings spread on his back
His legs are so positioned
As if ready for attack

He stands upon a pedestal
Struggling with the clinging vine
A witness to civilisation gone
He has withstood the test of time

His stare is across the ruins
Toward an ancient obelisk
Which somehow might be linked
To the mighty basilisk

If the basilisk could talk
What tales he could tell
Of generations of mortals
And of how the city fell
wounded Oct 2013
i felt a shock
when my gaze
shifted into
your electric
green eyes
and my gut
dropped
umpteen
stories
as a devilish grin
spread across
your oval face

your words
slithered up
and down my
spine like a
thousand serpents
prepared to strike
at the first
sight of weakness
but i couldn’t keep it—
from stumbling
out into the limelight
it must have been
the highlight—
of your day because
i stuttered and
your words sank in
and dispensed
your venom into
my stream of innocence
and i just haven’t
been the same since
The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering

Head alone shows you in the prodigious act
Of digesting what centuries alone digest:
The mammoth, lumbering statuary of sorrow,
Indissoluble enough to riddle the guts
Of a whale with holes and holes, and bleed him white
Into salt seas.  Hercules had a simple time,
Rinsing those stables:  a baby's tears would do it.
But who'd volunteer to gulp the Laocoon,
The Dying Gaul and those innumerable pietas
Festering on the dim walls of Europe's chapels,
Museums and sepulchers?  You.
                               You
Who borrowed feathers for your feet, not lead,
Not nails, and a mirror to keep the snaky head
In safe perspective, could outface the gorgon-grimace
Of human agony:  a look to numb
Limbs:  not a basilisk-blink, nor a double whammy,
But all the accumulated last grunts, groans,
Cries and heroic couplets concluding the million
Enacted tragedies on these blood-soaked boards,
And every private twinge a hissing asp
To petrify your eyes, and every village
Catastrophe a writhing length of cobra,
And the decline of empires the thick coil of a vast
Anacnoda.
          Imagine:  the world
****** to a foetus head, ravined, seamed
With suffering from conception upwards, and there
You have it in hand.  Grit in the eye or a sore
Thumb can make anyone wince, but the whole globe
Expressive of grief turns gods, like kings, to rocks.
Those rocks, cleft and worn, themselves then grow
Ponderous and extend despair on earth's
Dark face.
           So might rigor mortis come to stiffen
All creation, were it not for a bigger belly
Still than swallows joy.
                         You enter now,
Armed with feathers to tickle as well as fly,
And a fun-house mirror that turns the tragic muse
To the beheaded head of a sullen doll, one braid,
A bedraggled snake, hanging limp as the absurd mouth
Hangs in its lugubious pout.  Where are
The classic limbs of stubborn Antigone?
The red, royal robes of Phedre?  The tear-dazzled
Sorrows of Malfi's gentle duchess?
                                   Gone
In the deep convulsion gripping your face, muscles
And sinews bunched, victorious, as the cosmic
Laugh does away with the unstitching, plaguey wounds
Of an eternal sufferer.
                         To you
Perseus, the palm, and may you poise
And repoise until time stop, the celestial balance
Which weighs our madness with our sanity.
Joseph S C Pope Feb 2013
Iodine damnation cleanses Alice--rock-and-roll medusa
                                              alone in the field,
she waits for the flies to eat the spider
                 --the third testament of law
                                                   divinely christened as low as $19.95.
                  Hell is where
       Schrodinger throws the bodies. Revived Alice is in a burlap sack
            embedded in the cubbyhole
            of a mortal anthro-rubix,

    the small garnishes that spot livers during cancer.
                         "Hello and welcome
             to the resting place of all Blues songs."
     speaks the curbed lips of Gluttony. A name that vomits
            up rebellion, like cleansing the glucose off
   fish-cleaning tables.

   Alice touches her eyes                                       rolls them
                                                                        --fortunate galleries,
broods deeply on the jaws of her receptors.
                    "After the last drop, the hard boiled spoil
and the cats won't eat 'em. Neither will I," Gluttony spews, "You all show up
                    as do I, magnifying the cruelty of digging,
                                                                             digging,
                                                                             digging
                                                 that follows me and you to the bitter stem
                                                  and rough petal--throwing this rose,
                                                                                                that rose,
                                                                            here and there inside the carcass of lust.
                                    The scalding photograph of a guerrilla war playground
                                                                                   hangs over
                                                            the mantle of a prideful garden.

        "Pulp wisdom
         looking back at the names of thieves/murderers
                                                       of simple thought
                                over-turning scars of fallacy
                                         in that garden.

            "Picking,
             picking,
             picking out the best arrangement
                           so it doesn't look like I went
                                                                         through a drive-thru
                           for what to say.         'Hey.'
                                                               'Yes?'
                                                                'I love you.'
                                                                'You too.'
                                                   Something in between
                                             what you, I, and the others were looking for
                                            has uprooted bushes--the tilled chest of my sister
                                                                   and lover--disarrayed, dirt thrown
                                                                                                         to the side.
                                            Fibonacci colors patterned
                                                                        across the moist earth
                                                      to distract you and I, all from the dread, and all
                                                                                 the relief
                              of ripping apart the white, pink, black, and red."
Skaidrum Oct 2015
...
I've got a few visitors tonight;
they're all associated with the wolf under my eyes

I.
I've left loneliness to starve on a stone table,
while jealousy can bleed me a lake;
fear and I are equals,
on the battlefield of fate.

"Pay no mind to the rebel."
II.
Forked tongues recite wickedness; of all
the shadows gaining power as the sun was slain.
Black flames banish all that is golden,
as darkness bent my silent skeleton;
but it didn't break.

"I'm just some sin you committed...right?"
III.
A basilisk waited for me at my chambers,
it requested a lullaby, and a glass of iron wine.
Who knew poison would be my new best friend?
Who knew my company would be kept by
an oracle of silver'tongue?
Dead languages clutched my
lively secrets.

"Every wolf gets tired of the moon at some point."
IV.
And just like that;
We were splintering at your wolfsong
auburn poems at the feet of trees
waist deep in misery you sat,
head crowned in autumn's diseases.
Witnessing you tilt your head to plant a kiss
on the night's wings;

"Oh, it's ******* agony."
Watching your eyes harvest hurricanes
love sinking in tongues
of ebony sorrow.
they don't belong to me
you don't belong to me.

"I suppose I can't change the world
but I will leave it colder."

V.

And sometimes, love is just the aftermath
of a tragedy.

...
I deserve to suffer over you, Lycan.
I always have deserved it,
this is my curse.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Martin Narrod Mar 2015
basilisk ****
nonparticular inexecrable exit
art ****
the lips on for breakfast
twilight zip entanglement
meticulous bending and sensual telepathy

fever-sickness
rock 'n roll boo-boos
lilting black 'n blues on the caboose
puppeteering every tasty ***** loose

chews the collar
thighs and necking room
bustling bussers it gives ifs
gets down with

daisy, dior, dkny, grapefruit(purple) to narcisso and pink sugar too

Bliss tainted madness
playing tug-o-war with
January's vacuum
Years of passing down groupies
to the most recent djs playing bad dubstep tunes
and that sickness of seeing iloveyou's abused
argument groupies arcticmonkeys rap hiphop lyrics January in March dubstep tunes dj iloveyou you i love s apostrophes and apotropaics not amused thefeverbythecrammps use kicking being used abused musedandabused lust dkny dior daisy marcjacobs fashion neon blinking ******* black and blue blackandblue red fever booboos ouies ouch basilisk magic eit bending ****** telepathy sensual i'm cramped thecrammps
Kyle Oct 2013
A new dawn has surfaced,
I woke up and realised I was wrapped tightly in your warm embrace,
I gently pushed your arms away,
Headed to our brightly lit kitchen,
Fixed you marshmallows, pancakes, muffins,
Marmalade,
Everything that could revitalise your day,
And then I remembered what you said,
'Babe, never leave me more than 5 inches away'.
I giggled and decided to return to your warm embrace,
But there you were standing,
Shambling like a Haiti Zombie,
Hair messy,
Breath as foul as Smaug and Shrek,
But there I was wanting to close our 2 metres gap,
Till' no spaces between us were left,
But I halted from my tracks, and said,
‘Baby, would you like some coffee to ease your groggy state?’
‘Who knows what tomorrow’s dawn may bring’
‘But my love for you will never dwindle from change’

I wept as the last pages of your diary was soaked in red,
From the sliced vein of my wrist when I was in a fit of rage,
With the broken glasses of our photo frame,
Taken whilst we were at the Carpathian cliffs,
Alas I could not capture your fall,
And I could not stop recalling how your hands gently slip away from my palm,
You ended up in a coma, failing to respond despite my desperate calls,
Nor from kisses that could awake you magically like Snow White with her company of dwarves,
Know that I am forever yours,
The same bespectacled spectre, Always haunting the campus halls,
Waiting to steal your attention and leave me petrified,
From your Basilisk and Medusa like gaze,
You were a personified patriot of beauty,
With hazel scarf, scarlet hair, pink lips,
Seraphim in disguise,
And what an angel you must be, to fall from the atmosphere,
And defy society’s tainted rules of attraction to fall for an underdog,
Though I find it ironic that your name was Dawn,
It seems like my sorrow was fated all along,
But I do not wish to survive another dawn without me in your arms,
How silly am I to forget about the running water in the tub,
The portal to bridge our gaps,
Not another step was taken,
When I felt a familiar warmth behind my back,
Followed by a disembodied voice which sounded like a ‘Hello’
Or was it,

‘*******’.
Vernarth in the evening of his life is called again to raise his sword, perhaps following the paths of Paul of Tarsus, precisely here his Word would begin in the figure of a Hoplite who will redeem the oppressed, who will reinforce the growth of the seeds, that will give hope to those deprived of Faith when they have to face their own Apokálypsis that would allow them to take with them when embarking on this adventurous daring in pages of life that follow that for many will be unknown. The seer's paranormal experience in Patmos will vivify his commendable virtue of confessing himself as a defender of Life and Death from the same intermediate final point, to then reach the nexus of gratitude that compensates that leads to make amends when leaving his abode naked and return every six months to Sudpichi in Solstice, and Equinox in Spring to Patmos explaining the premiere of this final event.

Vernarth's distinctive and codes will swell an intertestamental Biblical event, made up of crude abstract and demonstrative images that from so much decanting could be assimilated to what the Mashiach did in the Siloam Cistern, more than water being the same Hydor that is born from the origin and reaches the end of the erudition. The desperate desire to limit the spirit of a soldier is clouded within his own microclimate, wishing for a possibility that lies in the impossibility and fruits of the fan that separates the Universe from the Earth. From here the Faith is professed by the reflections of all those who have lived in a body of Flint, as were their parents freed by Vernarth, letting rest the readings of the sunset to those who from Flint have become meteorites that wander through the universe. As possible Christians to re-convert after a pre-tribulation or a new order, separated from what deprives us of new incursions. The Apokálypsis according to Vernarth does not diverge from Saint John; rather it tends to seclude itself from all the windstorms of divinities that are intermingled in its mysteries from all the exuberances of an endless gospel, which moves the hair of the Yahweh with the scent of lavender even within the pantheon itself after three days. The mystery of not understanding that a common man bears stamped on his body all the signs that give observance of a Passionate John that is in all of us having to share his silence within us, as suggested by the silence of which we are fertilized by clairvoyance’s of Patmos more than the consequences of some supra desire of Vernarth to cover some hint of autobiography, but more generously than the doors of his Megarón or Dypilon, be clairvoyance that shows us that the doors are the unknown within what is and we cannot Observe, V.G. as is illustrative in Spinalonga when Marie des Vallées settles at the point of the salvation of Theus and Vikentios all behind the transom as a consistent metaphysics of the unfulfilled desires due to burdens of other souls in salvation entrusted to resplendent beings. This is testimony to buried or invariable enemies such as Edomites with the affinities of the Seleucids or Pharisees with the Primitive Christians in the channel of each word that interprets the opposite diameter adaptable to a prayer that circulates the course of what an exegete does well If the original word of Vernarth's testimony of never perishes to aspire to do as the manah on the flowers that well deserve to perch on the Xiphos, where the central nerve of its shoe is the Baldric, many times it turned only in the battlefield when Vernarth used both hands, what a mystery! Here is the glossary of what is double-edged and double-handed metal when its length is pointed to the edge of the world where the Sun at its tip let the Light penetrates. Each unknown hemisphere will be possible to slice with both edges of each Xiphos as interpenetrated bronze and iron until it dissolves in the light of the Spring Sun.

All the causes were weighted to a grandeur where the messages of recomposing all the patrimonial legacies that would be the influence that everything could decline in the grandeur of bloodcurdling screams from the temples, which remained in the dark because they did not know who to unbind from the co-responsibility of seven churches of the Hellenic Elegies; from Ephesus to Laodicea trying to remove from the jaws atrocious empires that sentenced policies with more than a thousand years without having any more than a macular century. Vernarth in the depth in which nothing bothers him incites his sensitivity with what reduces the pain in his compassion of the 1st century, which will never stop passing through the well-deserved waking time in all the streets of Greece in which all his traces are they shuddered in challenges that deserved to be from a great classroom that is oversized more than any possible Odeon to fill with spectators from a well-to-do society and satisfied as it seems today with a high price paid for an unworthy degree.

Also, his apocalyptic metaphysics flees by whole perverted societies, and not half due to points of tension of his overwhelming immorality, and defense of all nature that does not corrupt itself, perhaps from an echo locked up when converting from Laodicea to Ephesus as if he were to remake Vernarth's Inverted "V" as the initial contact point of these seven derivations of his decline. The barbarians are at the foot of the very door that enters rather by inertia, and decline from the extinction of the Sun to later redefine it through cycles from spring to winter as we will see that it will emerge with the Duoverse manifested, after trampling on the beast that feeds on of pain and ingenuity from which all our destinies are focused to be swallowed by the snout of a battalion of enemies that migrate from the beast, but they do not realize that this is how calls should be made to all the empires that leave to his abandoned combatants, left on burning pyres immune, punished by flames that will never consume him, who were dazed and with their temper will come out alive with bodies that do not belong to us, annoyed at not prospering because of this anti-divine ****, understanding that the harshness of our tears will not make us neutral or worthy of the joys of suffering together what belongs to us in a body already sacrificed, this is the Apocalypse of flourishing images that are directed in processes of slaughtering the lamb that I cannot and will not be able to identify with the apparent strength of knowing how to be forgiven or undermine the riches of a leadership that for long millennia hoarded riches and never delegated its feigned goodness to us where the grass grows and twists from its root, rethinking days to count and increasing the agony of counting the simulated strengths that never let us enjoy.

It must be understood that all the opposing forces merged with the numbered days of a new rebirth, with the cries of Vernarth from Hyperborea, the pre-tribulation from Erebus or Sheol, from the anguish of the pectoral or Lynothorax from which the days counted in the same distance of traveling in the Purgation or Katartirio of the total confinement of which could be mentioned shouting in the acoustics of the Valley where the last word will remain. We place ourselves in the extravagance of which the rays of luminance deliver us the entire body of credibility to reach the step of happiness that will flow from the first and inaugural vision that confirms the first of the first of the alchemy that has been positivist, even of what paradoxically resurrects not expecting to be who we expected it to be, but despair is cast down in an act in which Vernarth dares to let go of the Mashiach's hand, to go help his parents from being petrified by the Flint that It would be provided for the end of the world with the prompt assistance of St. Jerome of Estridon as it was for an act where the Dragon calmed down, and stopped moving its tail, perhaps from the Green Dragon of Slovenia or its offspring for spreading within the world expelling fire with scales, horns that could be trusted from the Ibex of Valdaine, the Dragon of the Stained Glass of the Cathedral of Avignon hitting with its tail the Portals of Saint George, stating that such time the Nibelung Ring Cycle with Siegfried or secular specimen of the Draconian descent of the Merovingians, of the very Greek Drakon that began to subjugate Patmos in the year 76 AD. C. in between and badly wounded between the rocks of the Wind Tunnel of Profitis Ilias or as the dragon could be welcome, and if it were Lohikäärme Finnish descent stopping Soviets on their borders of blood that roars fire from the deepest corner of their land. The Greek serpents were born in the seas for several miles around where there were no other species but them, because if they had they would have been devoured by the great Ha-Shatan with ten horns and seven heads, much of the literary inspiration of San John is in Greek, but it is more likely that he originally came through the Near East. In the embryonic Roman Empire, each military cohort had a particular identification Signum (military standard), after Trajan's Dacian wars in the east, the military standard of the Dacian dragon entered the legion with the Sarmatian and Dacian cohorts: a large fixed dragon at the end of a spear with large open jaws of silver and with the rest of the body formed of colored silk. With its jaws facing the wind, the silky body was inflated and undulating, resembling a windsock, the Dragon continues to travel along roads that are the marks of the chariots without any mercy to those who awaited them at their destination with legions throwing hot breath that only Saint Jerome of Stridon knew how to mitigate. This huge lizard will continue to lay siege to the evil that cannot contain it, just like the basilisk in the Raedus Codex to imbue the never-burning blades of fire from the Apocalypse of Saint John, by chance with the fiery semblance of a Wyvern in the dome of the cathedral of Saint Nicholas in Slovenia, swallowing his own fire. With a fateful language of birds that would codify Siegfried that the end of everything comes from the seas of Patmos with heated water.

That winged creatures will come copiously to quiet the world to the world of Miðgarðsormurinn perhaps in Jämtland, besieging the Soviets like a serpent more than winged in vigor that shakes the Celtic tree with its Birch and Beech in Solstice or a dragon that was not with wings glued with wax that crashed when falling before reaching Sicily as is the case of Daedalus and Icarus, or the Lindworm dragons that expelled fire from the Mörser 16 howitzers of the Second World War. All these wealthy treasures are fundamental pieces of all the paradigms that form the prelude to a History that has blinded us without giving rest to everything that surrounds us, not even lavishing Christian burial with evil eyes that are characteristic of the dragons that they spit fire from your back, stalking a Britannia Pendragon.

Much of the banners, heraldry, and heraldry bear this emblem of beings made up of male and female offspring to form as a family the antigen of Slavic Bulgarian humanity, as a dissident figure that was torn from the edges of the Apocalypse to protect the crops where probably Rains of gold would come for his crops if he were male, and female if it were a prophecy of bad deeds to denigrate the farmer's seeds. Strong-blooded dragon would be Zmiy, Ukrainian carrying a four-legged beast, and on each leg a Cornucopia for golden petals that are collected from other maidens who will never stop being lush, protecting the arteries that rain healthy blood from Ukrainian maidens like the Zmei. From Zsablas that carry the Polish Smok on their backs that will be reborn from this apology of the Dragon of the Apocalypse that freed them from the Katyn Forest, on the banks of the Vistula where Bogdan drank water with his Zsablas to go free the Heroes of Smolensk and each Polish officer who had a Dragon stamped on his forehead, and also on the Coat of Arms of the Cracovians in Piasts of Czersk, fleeing from the cellars of some Warsaw revolt.

The climbing of the Basilisks of the Profitis Ilías Wind Tunnel will reign throughout Hispania as a prophetic emanation from the mouth of San Juan in Asturias and Cantabria with the magnificent silhouettes of the mountains in the Dragon Saw, followed by gargoyles that come to life in the peaks as a young Hoplite who wears his Áspis Koilé polished to annoy the dragon, which is nothing more than the basilisk when he was tricked by the Raedus Codex by mistaking them for his own offspring, thus allowing those who went to the Investiture of the Himation. It will be the eponym of Sugar, a Basque masculine god, who is often associated with a serpent or a dragon, but can also take other forms. His name can be read as "male snake".

Marielle de Quentinnais shows us in Saint George and the Dragon in the era of the Antipopes in Avignon, of which Saints and Blesseds would fight with the powers of the Dragon as in this sub-sequence that was released from Forli, with great similarity to the Mercurial Ambrosia due to Saint Mercurial as the laurel of Christianity over the idolatry in which terrified people did not sleep because of the frightful tremors of Forli and Forlimpopoli. Possibly, Saint John, the Apostle helps them put the stoles around the cornered Dragon's neck. Every evil force that is not defeated is a postponement of that moment in which it will fall surrendered, as it was from the original of the Dragon Hunters like Saint John of Patmos styling in the acroteras, and ledges of the Megarón that points to the Aegean seas to see if some of them are coming regurgitating the intact body of Margarita de Antioquia, that burst from the black belly of the Dragon saying "Draco vivit in Homine, non in Legendis" "The dragon lives in Man, not in Legends"

Having established Draco Vernarth Apocalypsis liturgy "Apocalypse of the Liturgy of the Dragon of Vernarth" the message continued along the path of Hydor where precisely the defenseless doors will be protected towards the enthronement of Silence with the ardent hope of Salvation as evidenced by the Pauline message "Marana Tha” building the coming of the Eternal that with all its dimensions will transform the collapsed world, tearing the senses that can reach the trade that transforms the ritual that is entrenched in the genetics of eternity in the tail of the Dragons that have formed classes and subclasses of heraldry of the Black Templar Knights, who roam on the run, creating the confusion that the medieval feudal mysteries were the continuation of an antiquity even if hostilities did not exist unless the tails of the basilisk of Patmos are crossed with some science from Ephesus to Pergamon , with the providence of a god in extinction that s ea disobeyed by his troops, and is bloodily decimated by the suffered trances of evil from which the ill-fated Knight is transformed into his own Dragon bled and immolated.

The end is not made with a mere vision of a Draconian Liturgy, from the year 72 AD. the Roman legions of Palestine were uncrossing where voices were heard like an occupied face of land but free of religious authority, which in one way or another saw the contemplative passage of half kindness or benevolence of a Caesar that would later be followed by the chins of fire of the Dragon, always escorted by Vernarth who lived and heard everything succumbing to imperial systems that were attached to filings of Hebrews that burned on their backs, to corners not sharpened by Greek spears to corner the frequency of a detractor of symbols of the Apocalypse, that was embodied in Vernarth with sumptuous flint that adhered to the Áspis Koilé or smaller Peltas that became prosaic to arrows that adhered to the tin shaft to vindicate itself in the foliage, as a recurring expression of the apocalyptic mentality assumed by recognizing that the Apocalypse is lived inside, and nothing on the outside that corrodes more than its own entrails. Indeed, everything private and non-transferable exhorts us to the end of the melodrama from where we must share hearts for those who keep their manners, and make the opening of the Kassotides a tiny possibility of change after Vernarth realizes that he has the furthest possible the dung of the Human Dragon, creating a dominant culture that recovers what enables us to preserve in its own Identity, illuminated and reinforced by conviction.

Vernarth, a few steps from falling from the abyss, makes his prophecy to ask the sky, the Mashiach, and Spílaiaus to release the chains of Kairós, so that the genre of granting life revives the system of the flame of the omega point, which then is reversed in celestial spasm, strongly grasping the tail of the dragon that will transport him with three lightning bolts and trumpets with the seven trumpets that will leave them in Delphi according to the nature of the Cassiotis or Kassotides moat, as a praiseworthy insurrection of being reached by a metaphorical being in Daniel as an apocalypse that will indicate that rain of light and fire will flow from on high, but they will all be directed from Patmos to Delphi.

Vernarth joins the Maccabees to obstruct the Seleucids, as the two books of the Maccabees tell, who start a ****** guerrilla war against the oppressor, and the prophet Daniel chooses a totally alternative and non-violent path. This shows that the worst militia of an armed man is to break with the sovereignty of his oppressed soul, and then be batoned in literary artifice like books from the present to a past with leaders buried in the ruins of lost civilizations, as in the case of the Seleucids and Edomites in open bread on themselves by Mikaiyáh, Archangel Saint Michael. Behold Vernarth where each gloss of contracted episodes never disengaged from the muscular tail of the Dragon that evidenced his vision of St. John, in such expectation that it resolutely rose from the heights of the Iridescent Nimbus, subduing all empires in the tail of the Dragon. The dragon that shakes the resistance of the ungovernable walls, but not the law of the powerful who makes himself believe, but the muscle piece that is rooted in Tel Gomel, is nothing more than the Holy Scripture of the duality of Saint John the Apostle / Vernarth; both as a monosemic (uni-meaning) and univocal lexicon that penetrated with all the desire of the heart moving them together, to decipher after the year 96 AD, towards the unveiling of Sardis to Laodicea with the Iscaton that is subtracted from the Dragon's Tail.
Cauda Draconis
Sometimes Starr Aug 2016
my heart has hallways

it's a lot like valhalla
only a little smaller, squishy and pinkish-red
a lot lamer. in rooms i'm playing guitar
or maybe i am playing with the dogs
or fixing myself something different to eat
hey, it was actually good

these walls caught the sound of your voice
and held onto it
when you walked with me here
i was excited but not ready
you were older
i bought you all these things
but you just got me Emily

and it's coursing through his mind
and he only wants you and he means that
and he doesn't have the patience to write a great poem right now
barely the patience to accept you won't ever date again
he can imagine other things but he rejects them in real life
he just wants you, her voice, her body
he knows it's in there if he could just dig it out but no

i've decided it's much better to leave you alone
considering me and considering you
only i ******* can't
i really, really want you back
and it kills me
every ******* day.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
"We'll see."
(Thirty-two team,
two kyoo-bee,

a full-starting
O-, and only
two-guys on D.)

Mixed-media,
played-with, in poetry.
War, on, inside-me.

Implying-unstable, infer-me,
infirm the insane,
afraid,
and a stain,
and-to-blame.
And,

for shame,
part of race, don't,
myself, run-in.
Tryna buy-my-lunch. (&)
*******'s brought a gun-in.
Element'ry school, and all you wonder's where the fun's went. (&)
"Probably in another-empty-bag of
eaten-Funyuns." (&)
Probably, blue-blew fireworks, with fingers-off...
stumped-him. (&)

"Stomped'em."

Wonder, beauty, why you cryin'?
"Wonder,
if you'd drive?"
Bought-in, you did! To
all-I've-said, ugly and
alive-eyed.

"Wouldn't cough too much,
with tube-in!
You're mouth-dry."
Hampton-Beach-power-plant-hug,
July Five. CJD makes-me.
A bad brine, mine.
Another-youngest,
"Brother has died,
blind."

North Hampton,
on the way to
Hamherst-dam.
"Tryin'-man!
Love, the fam.
Will it be too late t'jam?

If I leave, you, now, from where I am?"
I leave now, from where I am. So,
[Leave now!
From: where I am!]

Leave now, "from where?"
(I'm already there.
Or did we come
the other way?)
"I'm getting there,
****."

I.

Am.

Despite the **** blizzard.
Why am I afraid to say
"it?"
Like:
"it" isn't.
I'm a Wizard.
Are we set,
now?
On-a-plan?
I'm a lizard,
tail-dropped.

Basilisk-Kenevel,
walking water-cans.
Bet you coulda. Know I woulda.
Puddle-crossed,
"Bye," I ran.
Ogled-over noodles,
with the
"wrong-sauce-
Dan-Dan."
I'm always glad to read you.
Wrote to your-self, I am

THE man, I am
THAT guy! I'm not?
"You are."
Just-High.
I fry.
These-frilly vegetarian-victims.
I ripped flesh from bone, before my dogs,
had to sic 'em.

Oh--
if you don't like the channels you can clickclick-click 'em.
If I'm showing off my *****! "Better go-head."
Lick'em.
See? Hawk-my-****, and
Stickemmmmmmmmmm.

Didn't happen to 'bic' him."
D'you know
how to pick 'em?
Cuz I take hit, like you
take-a-****:
Ummmmmmmm
...
well.

And, I turn-it.
All-around.
And I make you
****-yourself.
*******-on my
"all-that,"
it comes, with.
Now, Fall! Back!

Cell-tough, in round-III, so
convert, or burn-winnin'. "Comfy-
When-sinnin'." In-system,
Preferably would, and should-be:
Bobs. Newhart and Lee and "the
Third. " "Cornball." Griffin.
Racist, your second-choice, whiffin'.
K-battin', ten,

outta-tin.
Hear it in the heat, soul-hissin',
lion-sun, bathing,
and she-glisten.
Cast me, to an
island away,
swears-by-we,
"Listen."

"More pills, son?"
Try'na name
your brand,
Of volley-*****.
Wilson,

Rus-sell

"I call them the
'defensive-stars,'"
And this-league: ***.
***. Arr.
Ain't-no-side-

hus-tle.
Fantasy. Cyclycality. Football. And, all Bob's, thought-of, that rhymed.
Third Eye Candy Oct 2012
plead your case. the silence that follows will deafen your prayers... it will eat your rain.
tread where smoke has layed eggs in a nest of flames.
use your thoughts nimbly, and thereby, climb the ladder madly

humbly gone by love, my love.
humbly gone
by love.


these are not the words in my mouth. they are god's frogs. a soft plague of cecil b. demille with ampibians and barbedwire. these are not the fickle neptunes in dischord. you are not the last unicorn. only the basilisk in my zodiac. my marvelous queen.

these are not the feathers of a proud crane. but a wrecking ball reassembling a dandelion with a leather whip and a chair. they tumble from my limbic intimacy with your private lies. i bring genuine venom to cure blindness; but i leave an antidote under my tongue should your kisses beg to be a fool.

i won't say what this is.

i have bruises where your name left a dent in my kevlar.
Basilisk eyes
and
Silky skin
Hide the poison
Contained within
Copyright © JLB
15/05/2015
00:00 BST
I.

So far as our story approaches the end,
  Which do you pity the most of us three?—
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
  With her wanton eyes, or me?

II.

My friend was already too good to lose,
  And seemed in the way of improvement yet,
When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose
  And over him drew her net.

III.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,
  A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,
  The hundredth for a whim!

IV.

And before my friend be wholly hers,
  How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle’s the game her pride prefers,
  Though she snaps at a wren instead!

V.

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
  My hand sought hers as in earnest need,
And round she turned for my noble sake,
  And gave me herself indeed.

VI.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,
  The wren is he, with his maiden face.
—You look away and your lip is curled?
  Patience, a moment’s space!

VII.

For see, my friend goes shaling and white;
  He eyes me as the basilisk:
I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
  Eclipsing his sun’s disk.

VIII.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:
  “Though I love her—that, he comprehends—
“One should master one’s passions, (love, in chief)
  “And be loyal to one’s friends!”

IX.

And she,—she lies in my hand as tame
  As a pear late basking over a wall;
Just a touch to try and off it came;
  ’Tis mine,—can I let it fall?

X.

With no mind to eat it, that’s the worst!
  Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?
’Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies’ thirst
  When I gave its stalk a twist.

XI.

And I,—what I seem to my friend, you see:
  What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
  No hero, I confess.

XII.

’Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
  And matter enough to save one’s own:
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
  He played with for bits of stone!

XIII.

One likes to show the truth for the truth;
  That the woman was light is very true:
But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth!
  What wrong have I done to you?

XIV.

Well, any how, here the story stays,
  So far at least as I understand;
And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,
  Here’s a subject made to your hand!
Laokos Mar 2020
the sweet succor of
my own narcissism reflected
back to me from the mirror
in the bathroom; i am a crocodile
warming in the sun.
kenye Dec 2023
Bet I’m in the belly of the Beast
With this enemy ofMe
Do I fight or flight or Freeze?

Cause either way
this *******’s
coming straight At me

I was only a dark forest away
From where I needed to be

I never metaphor for anxiety
Like this one
*** Imposter syndrome

Mara’s army fires arrows
Of self-deprication
And self-doubt

And i hit the ground running exhausted
Hot and heavy heaving
To the four-on-the-floor

At the heart of the war…
She was doing yoga in the distance
And as she rose to mountain pose
I let my mind slip back into the prose
Where I fetishized her
Like some sacred ******* object

Caught in the act like Actaeon
Watching The Huntress bathing

Basilisk staring me down
Like Artemis cloaked
In her wild fury

And as she rose to mountain pose...
She held a crescent blade
To the throat of the horizon
Locking her eyes in
As she stood over Gaia’s mouth
Spinning up **** Magick

Earth the power back from the word
She channels power back from the void

From womb to tomb
To womb of the tomb

She creates
She destroys
Her body, Her weapon
Her own ******* choice
These are lyrics from a song in my rock opera. This is about delusion, abandonment, addiction, guilt, shame etc.
Don’t let them run the gamut on your soul
https://on.soundcloud.com/EaPpp6X2BMkRksjK9
Joseph C Jul 2012
I pulled the sword from the stone
I struck you down and road you to the Earth
With a bow and a kiss I wiped the blood from your lips
And even you had to admit it was grandeur
And all the walls you built and empires you buried in the dust
They were meaningless once you found a derelict bannaret
And they flew the bright banners all over town for the wedding
Of the dragonslayer and the basilisk

We bought a house close to town
Right across from Judas Iscariot
We always bicker 'bout the branches of the oak trees
He said "They said time would heal all my wounds but yet
Mine keep splitting open like I'm the dragon against Saint George"
Advance our standards! Set upon our fears with old bitter hearts!
But I ended up hanging off of her every word until
All the life that I had in my lungs choked out

The flower girl is lying
Eastern Lilys through the halls of the morgue
Nero's drunk off wine and waving his bow like a sword
These days I can't remember much about Heaven
'Cept the smell of dead astronauts and gnashing fangs of fury
And a deeper understanding of honest ambivalence
Is there a God in this machine? Has he got his eye on me?
I've got some questions and I expect answers!

Mama, I just killed the only thing I've ever loved
"But each man kills the thing he loves"
I'm a killer with a kiss! I'm a coward with a sword!
Oh what reds does Hell hold for me!
Rob Sandman Mar 2016
Flow Like Fluid Concept by Jay Byrne of Eclectic.Collective.
"text" Jay byrne text Mr.Sandman
-------------------
I flow like fluid. I do it. You knew it.
The cryptic, mystic, Celtic Druid. rpt x 1
--------------------
"Bring them all on, mix them in me cauldron.
Brewin' up a batch o' bad beats to call on.
Broth's bubblin'. Brewin' up, rumblin'.
I try avoid trouble in me hometown Dublin.
I'm a pacifist. I take the ****.
Spit like a basilisk. A rhyme alchemist.
An optimist when the chips are down.
Smoke verbs like herbs the proverbial clown.  
I get a notion. Pure emotion.
Check out me rhyme. Poetry in motion.
Behold me ocean. Come in it's fine.
Jay's The Name, I'll take you Deep Into The Rhyme.  
So deep.
Put your back to me brother cos me brother I keep.
No sleep now it's on with the show.
Feel the beat now I'm lettin' you know. That"..
-------------------
"..I flow like fluid. I do it. You knew it.
The cryptic, mystic, Celtic Druid."
--------------------

Grrr...I flow like fluid. I do it,you knew it,
the Poseidon Adventure,Marianas Trencher,
I flow like fluid. I do it,you knew it,
the Poseidon Adventure,Marianas Trench-yeah

-------------------------------------------
Welcome­ to the Maelstrom,event horizon,
barometer's droppin,ears poppin,the pressure is risin,
yours widen in surprise as you enter the eye of the perfect storm,
beneath the surface beyond the norm,
moments ago the surface was placid and warm,
Now the Sandman's here...Sea's turbulent,
sound the alarm,
too late wrong Siren,your crew is all charmed,
chain yourself to the mast spindrift whips past,
as I froth up the sea's with my breath,
mermaids approach eyes promising caresses of death,
whether Mariner or Sub Mariner,you're no challenger,
Architeuthis is toothless but it still strangles ya,
Mangle ya drags ya down to the Abyss,
welcome to my realm,hear the crackle and hiss,
Neptune's risin,rhyme's sussurus surprisin'-you're caught on my Trident,
__--______________-_______

Cause I flow like fluid. I do it,you knew it,
Poseidon Adventure,Marianas Trencher,
I flow like fluid. I do it,you knew it,
the Poseidon Adventure,Marianas Trench-yeah
Another Duo from the E.C. files.
Installed in the Eclectic Parallel World of the invisible portal of Saint John the Evangelist, everything levitated in his sacred basaltic cavern in Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA). They would find themselves in communion with the clan count, resembling being in their proper ectoplasm; conforming to the only part of masonry ruled to redirect them in the messianic workings of the ascension stages. Vernarth; he besieged in the conscious state of him having to adhere to the cavern, after having finished his labors by waiting three months. He risks being consumed by the myriads and conflagrations, retracting them in parapsychological clouded ways, which subsisted to consecrate themselves in the lavish places divided towards the horizon. The iridescence threatens the primary ultraviolet, lifting the carriage of Apollo Citar, a neighbor of the astronomical cave sketch of the Muse Urania. A lame nuance escapes and dissolves from his mathematical prayer, capturing the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos, inserted in the death throes of his embryonic revelation, to pour him into the Megaron to build.

The saint appears only on certain days looking at Vernarth from afar, to encourage him in his progress on the rocky rocks of sharp silica, he is seen as a beautiful adonis dressed in a chlamys with delicate pinkish tones. With such scruples, he redounds a psalm of the angel that normally accompanies the Evangelist around him, with greenish and indigo tones in the perspective quadrinomial of heaven, that he was perishing in his most afterlife redemption in the glory of the empyrean. More convenient than the superlative spiritual intelligence irrigated with the aldehyde, and the condensed water of Skalá, in hecatombs that indicated anarchies of the luminous prophetic men and the habit of the exokarstic soil, endowed with a small perforated Epsilon demon, obtaining its chemical weathering in certain limestone rocks, dolomite, and plaster. Diverting the attention of Etréstles that he glowed overwhelmed and charred. He was not stopped by the currents of splendor and the stormy pollutions of Cymopolea, in his hieratic invocation of the scalded typhoons of the drills of Hephaestus. This demon could be Tytillinus timorous in the defections of the deities of Mnemosyne relegating himself from his precepts, which according to this legend induced protervas inclinations of the clergy during the omitted religious services, he is the one that Saint John the Evangelist feared, that he would not give him the Asfalés Pérasma “license” to enter and be able to commission them in tasks that had been predicted for the Katapausis services after the quarterly. The Travertine silica, with residual sedimentary rocks, was partialized from the extrinsic biogenic that is deposited outside, the travertine predicted the monumental rocky karst of Patmos, for the secretions of calcium carbonate, among so much modest certainty taking you through the Invisible Eclectic Portal, and their Mundis Parallel that crashed with attached carbon molecules that, in disarray, manned them. The chasm was a cascade of weathering that became stalactites in the runes of the travertines, Thermo dynamizing the cavities that were conceived in the invisible caverns, under the parallel caves of the translucent travertine and in the sapwood of the troglodyte ghosts, materializing on the top wind tunnel.

Vernarth; I was with everyone working in the building of the Temple near the outside walls of the Cavern of San Juan, there was Etréstles Eurídice, Raeder, Petrobus, and Alikanto immersed in the Aulos who rang about exciting their ears with the royal denotes, which always had a special quality when he remained in Kalimnos. In good ink, knowing that the entire limen of proximity to the cavern was flooded by the enigmatic revulsive with the presence of Tytillinus, all are reordered towards the poles of tangible etherization with Psalms 120 to 132, thus they would give the antipode disposition with the Divine Mercy, to compensate the crown of the fifteen hours in the afternoon, thus disintegrating the agonizing parallel world that coincides with that of the fifteen hours in the morning. Somehow refraining from the northern paragon with the Tytillinus' shadowing, with the hooks of bewilderment and its scathing thoughts. With precisely this conspicuous shape; Vernarth will allow himself to be swallowed by the beast and reside in his abrasive stomach, making him believe that it will be consumed by him, so that he will soon fall close to it when vomited, thus confusing him, to make him believe that he was the same baby from his conceived womb. Vernarth manages to capture this exotic sinister image near the sinkhole, seeing him depressed in the Tytillinus Prisco; where all attentive listened to the textual vocabularies of the beatific, with the fruit of Karpos, for the benefit of a descendant gained by defeating the devil.

The European Sibilla carried the Gladius in his hand but exchanged it with the Xifos alternately for the death of innocents entrusted by Herod the Great, and for the evasion of the Holy family into Egypt. This confirms the liturgical grouping of the Easter Triduum; alluding to the passion of Christ, and perpetrating the pain of the Devout at his death, and triumphant at his resurrection. The sense of surrealism transports Saint John digging in all the layers and hordes of the Faith, his component of tribulation moved in the Egyptian and Greek cartography, mobilizing the triangular areas of the Palan, which moved in a geometric block reaching the edges of the hypotenuse gradient and the wind tunnel that lifted them, cornering the beast that visited them, pretending to be weak and imprecise. The man will carry the simile of his name, with hyperbole more or less in men who dare not to anticipate the conflicts of the gained space.

Vernarth, plots to continue insinuating with his labors, sees with optimism escape from this calamity, calls everyone to be close to the law ..., once they continued taking the steps towards the cavern. He emerges from convulsions on all edges of the cave, leaving everything dark and with vanities deterred at the end of the temporal Mundis Parallel. In the intermission, Saint John towards the response of Psalm 120 to 132, the fiery roar of the playful roar of the Tytillinus interferes, banishing the shaking of its **** to banish it from the Basilisk's egg, avoiding creating its heavy monarchy over them by prostrating them, as if to dissent. by being repentant or beheaded. Saint John the Evangelist will be an egregious demonologist, compiling thick volumes with the names of the attributions of each of the demons of infernal hierarchy. In this Venusian Aion symmetry, he moves them interconnecting with sublime periods where the intuition of the zafral of the human scale is lost, and of the archetype of Satanism or Satagenesis, with austere precision that includes Leviathan, ruler of the demons, to Ukobach, procurator of keeping the infernal flames alive. So that the manumission of slavery finally reigns according to one's own demonized moral individuality. The amount of an invocation of this type is always the soul of the unconscious individual, who will end up going to be squeezed into the underworld. The demons are invoked and they will invoke themselves in their dawn, to walk in their own darkness of the stagnant past, the mechanized present, and the multidimensional conscious future by means of exclusive enchantments that will be found here in the Mundi Parallel of the Invisible Eclectic Portal.
Codex XXIII - Mundis Parallel Portal Eclectic Invisible
Warren-Johnson Aug 2019
Reckless and ruthless
Like a pit filled with vipers
They lash out
At most far more brutal!
These vicious serpents have no match!
For there be no blade as sharp as the toungue!
Slicing our hearts to shreds
Or demoralizing our souls so we could wish against existence!

Astonishingly they be the the kindest at times
Even Producing melodious harmonies
Or swooning our hearts as if sweat nectar to taste

But give them a chance and they will show you severe agony and pain!

Beware of the tongue
For you have one too!
©
The Profitis Ilias was snorting the exokartic energies through the sinkholes that filled the thickness of the Arms of Christi and the Souls of Trouvere, from Leros came Ezpatkul with the Gerakis for the closing of the Codex of Raedus. Stratonice was dressed for spring with Persephone for the amendment of the wind tunnel so that everyone would go back to the esplanade at the top, where Vernarth was inspiring all the children of the Codex of Raedus-Vernacentricus-Profitis Ilias. Zefian brought the Toxota and Pezhetairoi arrows, they were sovereign moldy points of the Bronze tips of the Taxota Archers and the Falangists. That in turn from the high sky formed a great pinwheel when from the great dimension they shone from the flat equinoctial sky, bumping the chins of Kaitelka that the Parthenon dealer lost, that they rang the great bronze pineapple, kilometers in length forming the makro koelum from Patmos; with vertices of the Pythagorean canon of Polykleitos. A large horizontal Lecedemonia “V” was visible from Aorion's falling acrotera, projected in a copper mega bolt coming from Betelgeuse's armpit, and forming a Barnard looped sidereal Vee, fired by the hunter Aorion from his constellation. This would be an architectural last, and Pythagorean canon-mathematical for purposes proportional to the Mandragoron. They fell from the four arrows that Zefian launched, from Crete, since they were approaching the contravention of Apollo, and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points. This is how they began with the first two sagites that are placed on the arc string, each one belonging to north-south trajectories and the other two that once again clashed with the eastern arc, to shoot the east-west arrows with limits of magnetism. southern. Three arrows are deposited in the canon of Polykleitos, and in the reticulum of the Pleiades that Aorion pursued. The points of the Taxotas were approaching with the North: Vóreios (Boreal de Zefian) South: Nótos (Austral de Borker), then Pezhetairoi: West: Dyticá (Sunset of Leiak) East: Aftó (Equinoctial of Kaitelka). The Codex came to an end in an aureole of the Melismatic hymn, within a lyric towards the rebellious polis of the Hidro Saltinbanqui, who listed their antiphons on the thirty-three codes, embodied in green fields and Lavender fields, where they exhorted the Lotions to stand until death, clinging where kings come down from their altars, under the ultimatum to celebrate the feast in the Persephone canals, pouring out the mouths of those who have perished in the desert of lyrical abstention, and wine in the cruel kindnesses of satiating her after falling into the arms of lavender.

Wonthelimar climbed up the caliginous air differential that emanated from the Basilisk's snout, which surrendered to the propagation of the ascent through the firebreak that took him to the top to meet Vernarth and Zefian, along with all the Sibyls who were also levitated towards the meeting. of the Fourth Arrow. Lochnith, Sibyl Herophila, Mardiath, Elpenor, and Vlad Strigoi were featured, all of them joined to the Phalanx of Arbela, leading to the restitution of the belligerent site, along with a great compacted mass of citizens who heard from all over the Aegean world and surroundings. The bay of Skalá was full of ships that poetized in the roadstead with intense poetry, before a new and heroic rebirth of the bones of the fallen in the transversal battles, each one carrying in their hands a bunch of lavenders, for the brave hearts that they wanted to be reborn in the bones, towards the arrival of Zefian and the raising of all the panoplies united in his bones, as a whole taking over the Patmian island. They did not let go of the bundle, but until they released the last momentum of repose, to activate the beauty of being all united in the building of the Megaron Mandragoron.

The men became more men, and the children became men, their wives were legitimate invincible forces as if they were Moiras burnishing Panoplias that rudimentary the most incomprehensible noises, until they awakened from the chin to those who had difficulty reaching the top to renew their bones Who, full of death, retired from their enslavement. This will be a truth, which was hiding behind the falsehood of a contingent greater than all the archaic invasions of foreign civilizations hungry for wisdom. Everything is great before the small because everyone wants a hero who dies and is reborn again, the brave one dies twice and is reborn twice before the arms of Vernarth, the pain is three times greater than the relief of a mother who longs for the return alone of one of their own after each battle, by wandering wastelands of enemies who dream of wanting the legitimate escape signals of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who made their crying and howling that they cannot console themselves. Poverty is tinged with gold, and those who need a similar shelter will be the object of their own unity as they are prisoners of ill-fated wealth. The Hoplite could have a parallel from the ninth book of the Iliad, towards an Arete or courage of his brave cop that filled him with branches from the spray of every morning when he was pubescent, with the Agathos or Courage, which led them as great splendors through the tube or wind tunnel rising at the speed of the Lambda, in the notch of the Lacedaemonian fold in its bronze duplicates Kardiá or Hoplite hearts. The shields were crowded upon the awakening of the same gods of Olympus, all sleeping together the same mirage during a Long Night that would rescind the power of each member and fabulous lost, before the new Megaron superior to Olympus itself, presided over by Vernarth, and assisting also Zeus; this time carrying an oak in his hand and a Dorus, detached from its rays of a beautiful Death that is reborn in Patmos, carrying in the other Hands the bunch of Lacedaemonian Lavenders, solving them from the Trésas or doubts of facing the sun of victory in both eyes divided, the heterochrome with the beautiful green green of Alexander the Great and the Lavender of Vernarth from Lacedaemon, providing the Demiourgía with his brother Etrestles, with the power or full Aristokracia of the moving spinners of Ezpatkul and Stratonice, for the purpose of unleashing the wind tunnel with the Gerakis from Leros, sharpening with remnants of Miletos, already degraded to aristocrats submerged in the dawn of the Alikantus and Kanti ridges of Crete, who still dwelt restlessly with their wounds on their backs, taking with them robes from the laurel forest of Matico and Sauco, who wrapped themselves on the perches that fringed on their heads to welcome them, and round them with some dark orange blossoms, which They muttered between their gleaming incisors in bronze greaves, woven into their corselets that continued to walk the wounds on their backs that pointed and implored Aorion, recesses in aristocratic awards for the Hetairoi hall that awaited them, very close. Vernarth rehearsing his Himation on his way to the Seventh Paradise.
The Profitis Ilias
vamsi sai mohan May 2014
BASILISK-EYES,
GELID-LIPS,
UNDULATING-MANE,
IMPULSIVE-BRAIN,
HYST­ERICAL-HANDS,
UNFURLING-FINGERS,
ASTRAL UPPER-MOIETY,
UXORIOUS LOWER-MOIETY,
TREADING-FEET,
HOLLERING-HEART,
REJUVENATING-PROTOP­LASM:SOUL........
Cameron Haste Oct 2014
VHS
Plasmatic schematics
mold plastics
& filament
dangles in the doorway.

Grape fuit sweat,
enough to fill a
Basilisk flask,
stains my nostrils.

Thermodynamic hammocks
solved the energy crisis
between me
& her.

A golden silhouette
postulates in my doorway;
speaking in tongues
to her ****.

She is the structure
of  water.
The process
of a thought.

Gouge out my eye
&
hold it consciously
between those clammy palms .
Librarians need me
They were in the parapsychological hypnosis session unmoved by everything that could happen. The journey of a lifetime through the hidden spaces of past existence was virtual reality. It all begins in antiquity where Vernarth was transported to Hypno to reunite with his inborn and his comrades. He proved to be a great defender of libertarian ideals and above all not to betray his formation of great leaders of the largest empire, with immeasurable feats and achievements of this super experience of reunion in a past world with more reunions for having lived and returned to revive them. The expert director of this great feat, acknowledged never having attended anything that compares to him, it is an unprecedented fact and that would mark a new milestone in his specialty and the study of parapsychology. The doctor together with his assistants had to reevaluate a new policy of systemic or therapies, in exchange for their own way of life, generating the greatest plan of digression from this conjectured intercommunicated, to planes and dimensions of the ancestral memory of everything. Created, and those that its beneficiaries have been able to verify. In the vicinity of the clinical consultation, hundreds of people, onlookers, journalists, and the media took risks. To which one of them asks the doctor: Journalist: “Dear Sir, I was having a coffee… just when I heard about this phenomenal news. We decided to come to his interview. I consult you. What has been the greatest tenor that has been differentiated from the rest of the procedures that he has performed, and how will his method be in the future to reconvert his specialty? Parapsychologist says: “there are undoubtedly innumerable connections in our lives and beyond ...., But now I have found routes that I did not think I was capable of knowing in this instance. I think that now they will be more than they could count in an active professional life”

At that moment, his assistant called him urgently to tell him that an emergency had occurred. They both hurry and enter the cabin. And they manage to perceive that Vernarth was with the clothes on a sofa, at the time of the exploits of 331 BC. C. explaining that he requested excuses for his demands and needs, but he had much to propose and deliver to his comrades who were in Bumodos. Considering his beloved wife, Walekiria, he was as always preparing elixirs and essences for the recipe restoration of her breastplate and his limbs. He had an urgency to improve this whole process before the next Ekadashi, to get ready with new stages of his worksheet. Without a doubt he should go back to Patmos to take care of the pantry and library of St. John the Evangelist, he had to restore local buildings, house rooms, temples, regional development works, and regional art. Another elementary task was to take charge of agriculture, and to obey Hera's designs, for the next millennia to re-awaken the cultures that survive on her. Another of his great passionate conventions was to ride through Macedonia, through the sunrises at the time that it crosses the grassy pastures and the proliferation of the hieratic insects, when the Oracle of Dodona polished its germinated seeds in the arms of dawn turned into Fireflies. He flew with his horse, seeming to be acclaimed from all over the world for his "Liturgical Conclave." To surrender in his integrity in the residences of time on Alikanto, beyond all the Ages and the Millennia, unable to evade the dishonored paths by the consolidation of a new firmament. Incalculable times Vernarth and Alikantus are appreciated as they crash into the glittering valleys and regions, encapsulating themselves in the fields with the golden hooves of their steed, inaugurating the new resurgence of their adventures, which are more than the same God, who would entrust them to a restless individual to reissue Genesis, or a new collaborative proposal with the Evangelist on Patmos and Áullos Kósmos shaking the wind fog tunnels of Wonthelimar.

Song of Stratonice: "in the marble, he spent the night in white Apeiron and its infinite indeterminate matter, devoid of quality and found in the eternal movement of the Eolionimi, where a snowy savior has to take refuge in its womb, from Áullos Kósmos or paradise of Vernarth. The Basilisk and Satan will take each other by submission, each dying in solitude and abandonment in his own scale. Perversity has no cure or repair in the behaviors of its confinement, the millennial kingdom will be stuck in the centennial, having to be justice for the remains of their own children. Regarding the human spirit during all periods of history, there will be a nomological kingdom that without the word will say what life rescues in the emetics, and the facets of the Katapausis that will make amends for the Hebrew diffusions, in weight of the ferrule prop that embraces the Zefian's bolt, falling from the top. The two-sided enthusiasm will cross the rocky embankment at the top of Profitis Ilias, thus with tender meters crossing the Sanctified Absorption Fero and Humanitarian Salvation”
Codex XVIII – Ultramundis Parapsychological Ultraworld
A lone pearl trembles.
The basilisk eye closes,
weeping its last tear.

Failed conquistadors,
every good man in their tow
drowns in the dry air.

Venom in the dust.
The serpent slinks and recoils.
A vesica pouts.

Not one soldier spared;
a white flag hangs in tatters.
Both sides won the war.
A ***** poem.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
Your eyes shift like
clockwork  forcing
December        into
it's    rightful rank.
Frostbite  bursting
from     jaws       of
Sagittarius,    iron
staining         your
crow    -feathered
muzzle.                I
plucked       Sirius
off the face of  the
sinking sky while
weaving           his
starlit   fangs into
steal wolf    teeth
for replacements.
You    swallowed
an oath of loyalty
for        alunakira
so     I   will build
and    reach   into
that        heart of
vintage      glass,
drag the  dog of
war   from    the
sunset  stomach
you           own~
and do as Lupus
told        me  too.
I  will construct
symphonies  of
tiger            -lily
dusks & dawns
to     raise    the
dead  poetry in
  basilisk    heart.
Lycan,          I'll
   withdraw    the
   ashes              of
  Avalaone    just
   to   get          the
  Gears working
  again   in   your
a   u   b  u   r   n
e       y     e       s
You mustn't become a dog of war,
but a lone wolf.
I'm not worth all the silver kin in the sky,
I'm not worth protecting.


© Copywrite
Marius Surleac Apr 2010
The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
And bows his head and feels my feet walk through his brain.
The children chasing butterflies turn around and see him there
With his hand in the well and my body growing from his head,
And are afraid. They drop their nets and walk into the wall like smoke.

The smooth plain with its mirrors listens to the cliff
Like a basilisk eating flowers.
And the children, lost in the shadows of the catacombs,
Call to the mirrors for help:
'Strong-bow of salt, cutlass of memory,
Write on my map the name of every river.'

A flock of banners fight their way through the telescoped forest
And fly away like birds towards the sound of roasting meat.
Sand falls into the boiling rivers through the telescopes' mouths
And forms clear drops of acid with petals of whirling flame.
Heraldic animals wade through the asphyxia of planets,
Butterflies burst from their skins and grow long tongues like plants,
The plants play games with a suit of mail like a cloud.

Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.
svdgrl Aug 2014
Sometimes I cannot say
what is blue rose or basilisk.
eden halo Feb 2014
our suffering was human long before you
tried to “humanise” it,
give us the kiss of life,
i am not your wife, i am not your sister
i am not your ******* daughter, sorry to break
all this water
on the embers of you
deigning, for once, to give a ****
what your friends do to us
by imagining we belong
to you — i will demonstrate
how little you know of possession
as i run
my keys along your car
til your mouth unlocks, drops open
and i dive down your throat, walk around
in you, the cage
of your ribs more spacious than
my own, two sizes too small,
zero, counting down to take-off, space
for my heart all taken
with the frenzied tango
of me watching you watching me, behind
my eyes, all winged
and no less trapped for it
vandalism is not violence
i would have snapped
your wrist when you tried to kiss me
just to see if you’d curse quietly
about your shattered iPhone bones
pick up, dust off, shrug shoulders
cold and solar
your belongings increasingly disposable
so when you love me because i could be yours
don’t flinch when i spit
in your eye, scream, cry, take
your name in vain
to leech from myself the pain of your basilisk glance
turning me into rubble, eroding all
the toil and trouble or whatever it is
you fear in me, petrified
perfect specimen, cut and dried
venus de milo on a pedestal
armless, harmless
all legs and bust
soft hewn and lunar, gathering dust
i am not your medusa
victim, your rock, your ***** girl
grain of sand to make a pearl
i am fire, water, air
you cannot hold me
don’t stroke my hair, don’t ******* touch
me, yeah, my fingertips
may turn you to gold
but i’m not here to spin your straw
neither am i some unrefined ore
for you to forge into a wedding ring
stone is bitter cold as metal
though it makes a rougher crown
don’t worry, though, my darling,
the chill will hiss and dissipate
when i come to melt
you down
**** everyone who doesnt care about womens rights
Breon Mar 2018
...It sprawls to the horizon, all this sea,
This blue-green brine all mirroring the sky,
The deeps devoid of light and charity,
Adrift and floating...
                                        What's become of me?
The waves still lap against me, no reprieve,
But fear and treading steady me a while.
I can't imagine how I'd ever leave -
I cast my gaze across the empty miles,
Revealing...
                        isolation, chill and grim
Until the dawn sweeps up above the brine:
A glimmer lighting up the ragged rim,
Then sea-foam verdigris gives way to shine.
And still I float below the gelid sky,
Adrift, a castaway within your eyes.
I can't remember if I dreamed this image anymore. It hangs behind my eyes like a portrait, like a study in hyper-reduction.
Barton D Smock Jan 2017
angel: I know

my son’s
disease
is lower
than pork, that suicide

means god
has a say
in how
we’re prepared…

also, that above
the lake
in which
my father
sees

a strange
fish
there flies

a burning
bird
"It's a girl" they said
Ooooooh think of all the pink things
Like booties and bows
Dolls, and toys that aren't for boys

"Sweet sixteen, and never been kissed"
Blow the candles out love
Your mother spent hours baking
Your mother spent hours labouring

"She's a woman now!" They cried at her 18th
"We'd better watch them boys!"
But what about the girls?
Why aren't you watching them?

Is it because those girls are at the kitchen sink ?
Awaiting a boy's wink of approval?
Through buttermilk sweetness these
Pink girls think.

You men are ******
Full of tricks
That send half these girls to a shrink
But it's time to have a rethink

We fair maidens view you
Through basilisk eyes
We fairer *** are
Crueller than you

It's time to drop kick the pink
Permanently into the kitchen sink
And slink behind you
With a candlestick

After all I'm just a pink girl
Who would believe that the
Pink mess on my dress
Is your brain?
© JLB
Cameron Haste Aug 2014
Washing down nicotine burps
with slurps
of listerine.
Pearl lipstick layers like
sediment over
those festering trenches
where blisters whistle.
Machine gun lung curls
like a basilisk
around his flaccid fist.
Failure to plant a seed.

I left my attention
inside one of those bored hours
spent with you.

I want it back.
Why does red means risk?
Why does it signifies danger?
I did searched and frisked
into the unknown lithosphere.
I even gazed into the basilisk
just to see things clearer
and uncover
its meaning deeper.
I went further,
even employed cindynic,
the science of danger.
And there,
it laid bare
right before my eyes,
red's real meaning.
Red is the Color of Love.
Love is the danger,
Love is the risk,
it is the menace
that we are warned of.

You're my red flag,
the risk I'm willing to take,
the danger I'm willing to embrace.
It's all or nothing.

— The End —