the thought of death is an uneasy thought
in my case it's a ****** nightmare

on the 16th day of May, 1967, Mr Youngblood took his 6th grade class to the playground as he always did, every Tuesday after lunch. The kids spread out to their usual positions. Some played catch with Mr Youngblood. A few, like Roger and me went to the basketball net and several played on the monkey bars, both of which were part of the big asphalt square. Just opposite this area was the soccer field and then some good distance between that and the Middle School. Lots of open space for a bunch of suburban kids to have fun. The Sun was bright and the wind was light and the temperature was right around perfect. We had been playing for 10 minutes or so when the wind picked up and clouds seemed to move in out of nowhere. We all thought it must be a storm coming...and it was. A distant laugh froze everyone. At first no-one saw him, but then we all saw him at once. He was walking across the soccer field towards us, long deliberate strides with long thin legs that seemed to bend once slightly below where the knee should be and again slightly above, making each stride awkwardly horrifying. Where he came from is a mystery as there was nothing but open land behind him for several hundred yards. He was tall and lanky and as he approached us, I noticed that his face was contorted and discolored...a pale, almost painted white and he had jet black hair combed back, long and greasy. His lips were thin and black and his eyes bloodshot and almond shaped. He wore a black suit, a black shirt and candy apple red tie. He looked like a mosh-up of Curry's Pennywise and Ledger's Joker, only I would have traded for either one of those ******* right now over this guy, ten to one. He came to the edge of the concrete square. Johnny ****** his pants and Charlene fell from the monkey bars, landing awkwardly on her left side and causing a compound fracture, her radius protruding from her skin leaving her hand dangling like a dead fish. She did not scream either because she was scared it might draw his attention or she was going into shock...or maybe both. He took two more steps forward and then began laughing as if he'd just heard the funniest joke he'd ever been told. His teeth looked as if they'd been replaced with shark's teeth. I swear there were rows of them and his mouth stretched inhumanly wide. His laugh slowly winded down to a snarl, and he gave a long look to each one of us, as if he was burning the faces to memory. And then he spoke..."You children just go on having lots of fun! Well, except for you Johnny...didn't your Mom just rip you a new *** for ******* your pants at Grandma's? shame, shame!" And Johnny was off...tripping twice before he got his feet under him. "You run home and ...Ha Ha Ha...oh my...change your pants, you pathetic little ****!" Mr Youngblood picked up Charlene and started to carry her inside. By this time her pretty pink dress was soaked in blood. The freak addressed him. "Nice man...but you can't save them. In a few days they will all be mine." He laughed again and every kid ran for their lives back to the school. I was the only one who stayed. To this day I'm not sure why. He turned and walked towards me slowly. "What have we here? The little man isn't running with the others. Are you not afraid Billy boy? Afraid for your life?"...and he leaned in close...close enough that I smelled a foulness that cannot be described. "Because that is what I'm here for...your life!" "Who are you?", I asked... and with that his dark black and pointed eyebrows raised and he straightened up. "Who am I...Who am I? My, my the boy has a backbone. The nerve to question while others lose control of their bladders. Well, I'll tell you who I am, child. I am God's worst nightmare. I am every ***** little secret thought you've ever had. I am evil in all it's forms wrapped up in one little package and sent to collect the souls of the innocent. All of you here today will be mine tomorrow. Roger will fall down the stairs off of his front porch and break his neck. Charlene will die from infection due to that nasty little accident and Becky will be hit by the school bus Thursday morning. That will be most nasty! Almost a decapitation. I won't bore you with the rest, but they will all die. Hmmm...you know what Billy... I like you, so I'm thinking, perhaps...yes, I'm going to make a special offer to my new special friend. I won't take your soul until you die from natural causes. What do you think of that idea? At that moment, when your family is gathered round your bedside after suffering that...well, maybe you don't want to know the details... you will see a bright light...but you won't be going towards the light Billy...at that moment I will place my hand on your shoulder and that light will slowly fade into darkness and we will meet again, and you will become my apprentice. So, what do you think of that, Billy? Do you want to be my apprentice, or do I **** you now? Come, come...I haven't much time!" I tried to answer, but my mouth was as dry as cardboard and I could only manage a weak gasp. That laugh again and he turned and walked away in the same direction..."I'll take that as a yes. Remember, you are mine upon your death, Billy boy!" The wind died and the Sun appeared again.
By the end of the week, every child on the playground that day had died...exactly as he stated they would.

And now you know why, even in my darkest days, I never, ever contemplate suicide.

Vespertine, fatal dream
Mistress conjuring shapes of night
Seventeen little fiends
Elegy for a demon’s plight


Alone in my study, sitting
before a roaring fire
Visions so ******
they churn desire

With the dead of night
summoning hellish zest
They come to incinerate
my corrosive flesh

The hymns of *St. Lazarus beckon solace
from the cathedral outside
But I linger here in the bowels,
where my ancestral sins reside

Animistic stares gazing through
these dead-soul dreams
Where another horror story is not
always what it seems

Portraits of deceased queens
looked down at me with blackened eyes
Layers of muffled screams
festered while judging my vacant lies

Years before, my grandmother watched
over me as a boy in his bed;
Endless, ambiguous rhymes of prayer
are what she often said.

She promised to ban the spirits
that steadily linger
But dark twisting hands
outreached and took her

The monsters and invisible abominations
have always been here
Following my whereabouts,
watching me year after year

Subtle ghosts keeping my heart
and house cold
I sat and waited for what my
icy breath foretold

The dreams, the demons, the ghosts
all that severed me
From experiencing the love of flesh
I so forever longed to see


Came the hour the church bells rang and tolled


The dread of things to come
The moans and cries had begun

From lissome shadows and corridors
Like Charon beating souls with oars


Creeping evil fled
to the refuge of my home
To reap the sins
that my family had sewn

The rippling, screeching strings
of a malevolent orchestra
Scored and produced themes
worthy of infernal Sumatra

The flames in the fireplace
surged a green incendiary wall
From the hell mouth jaw emerged
a dark figure I saw.

Mother Mephistopheles,
            clad in silvery pieces with a pale face
            Manifesting atrocities, her emerald eyes
            welcoming our embrace

I backed away from the sights in,
my trance lost in her glimmer
But the noises and choir peaked
in a swarming fit for a sinner

In a gush of surrounding ash, Father Selaphiel materialized
The otherworld lovers reunited,
their bond revitalized.

“We come unto thee, Son of Faust, heir to Blake.”
They said in unison like a choral demon snake

“Create a fleshling worthy of a child, of many in one
So the deeds of your family’s sins can be undone.”

I stared at the figures with execrable bewilderment
Fearing my sanity had seeped through my temperament

They threaten my eternal existence with continued torment
A living anguish that would solidify my hell-bound descent

“What must be done?” I asked these surrogate advisers

And they instructed
A body made from flesh and metal
Of dead and living components
Blessed and cursed
From God and Satan
Men and creature
Using their collected powers
to merge with the night
I swept across the villages
and cities to obtain the materials
Now all these years, I’ve wondered
Why my medical expertise had been put to waste
“Did the demons prevent me?” I pondered
“Or did they aid me?” I concluded in my haste

Innocent or not, I claimed what I needed
To rid myself of the terrors deep-seated.

A steel-woven chest piece
and half-incinerated cadaver
Twenty feet of large intestines;
boys, girls didn’t matter

Shelled-out cranial cavity
with cerebral cortex to match
Mixing bladders and gallbladders
worth its catch

Punctured spleens and insolent creams
Circulatory, digestive, endocrine,

Iron bones, infused tendons mount
Smells and rancid odors spilling out

Guts, pus, worms and maggoty brains
Boiling in holy water with dried remains

Sacks of chain mail and velveteen potions
Seething concoctions conflate emotions

Patches of caustic skin made like adamant leather
Bolted with steel fingered brutally severed

Into gauntlet armor, this mechanized abomination
Personifying my sickened, wailing degradation

I showed Father and Mother my life’s work and creation
A flesh-iron shell waiting, they stood with appreciation

“Vespertine…” they called to the collage of my work
They petted its face while the shadows continued to lurk

Seventeen little fiends and creatures
appeared and surround
The moon shined through the glass
and the room around

The Seventeen shadow children became smoke and entered the monster
Now a being both ethereal and corporeal

My sins and demons locked in my own creation
Mother Mephistopheles and Father Selaphiel
Left Vespertine in my care

All that plagued me
All that haunted me

Personified, solidified
And barely alive.

My half-dead servant.

and Halloween child

I

Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-****** Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.

The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.

The broken halves are fellowed in a *******,
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.

The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.

What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.

II

My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.

My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******* their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.

My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.

The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.

Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.

Taffeta dress.
Pink bows and ribbons,
Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair.
Shoes made of crystal glass.
Azure eyes that allure.
Princes and spinsters.
All vying for love.
In ball gowns.
Feel the frowns.
The pauper descends.
Out of place, amid friends.
Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan.
Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne.
They're trying for love.
Met on the staircase.
We really don't really care case.
Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger .
Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels.
Nasty creatures.
Vile in lust.
Lustful greed.
Maternal demon seed.
Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust.
Crone godmother.
A quick sip of milk.
Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph.
Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed.
Transport to the princes ball.
In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie.
Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice.
The creatures were shocked.
By the changes, all the rearrangements.
Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport.
Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her.
Midnight came midnight went.
A glorious evening only lent.
She tripped on the stair,
Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders.
She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee.
Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be.
He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride.
All the best things found in fairy tales.
What do I find?
Just slugs and snails.
Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic.
(c)Livvi MMCV

I remember that Day when we sat
(side by side)
On those Stairs
(Waiting for our Train)
And you bought us Miso Soup
(It tasted like Tears)

The Sun hit my legs
(With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia)
Covering them, bathing them. glorifying.
The traffic was the push and pull
(To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising)
Of waves.
Harsh, solid, mechanical waves
(Full of the force of Human Atrocity)

Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet
(With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation)

I thought I was eating the sea.
(I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire)

The Snow-flakes
(Fish-flakes)
Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup
(A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure)
And they swam around and around, Hiding
(Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?)

If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself
(Floating, Filleted)
Amongst those Ribbons of Sea ****.
With each Salty slurp
(That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat)
I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth
(Drowning me in Poison; Poisson)

I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea
(In a Polystyrene Cup)
The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air
(Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru")
Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate
(In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive)

We didn't finish the Miso Soup;
It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nature's remedies
              boost Spring-time stem-cell research--
bladders grown in labs

When nature calls
Thou must obey
Except when in slumber
That just isn’t ok

Suddenly you wake
And wonder why
Until you hear
Your bladder cry

The sensation creeps in
Building in strength
You try to ignore it
But it won’t relent

You turn and twist
Willing it to subside
But a swell is building
Between your thighs

With the dam about to burst
You yank yourself up
Leg it to the loo
Entreating the urge to stop

Til you’re safely in the bathroom
And can finally let go
Bleary eyed yet relieved
As you allow your *** to flow

But your problems aren’t over yet
Here’s where the real challenge comes
Will you ever get back to sleep
Now you bladder has banged it’s drum?

It’s 5 am
Dawn has started to break
You’re no longer in pain
But  you’re wide awake!

And no amount of counting sheep
Can knock you out again
And so you curse your bladder
For depriving of sleep your brain

You lie there staring at the ceiling
Lamenting your bad luck
Conclude you must admit defeat
And reluctantly get up
Way too early.

the thought of death is an uneasy thought
in my case it's a ****** nightmare

on the 16th day of May, 1967, Mr Youngblood took his 6th grade class to the playground as he always does, every Tuesday after lunch. The kids spread out to their usual positions. Some played catch with Mr Youngblood. A few, like Roger and me went to the basketball net and several played on the monkey bars, both of which were part of the big asphalt square. Just opposite this area was the soccer field and then some good distance between that and the Middle School. Lots of open space for a bunch of suburban kids to have fun. The Sun was bright and the wind was light and the temperature was right around perfect. We had been playing for 10 minutes or so when the wind picked up and clouds seemed to move in out of nowhere. We all thought it must be a storm coming...and it was. A distant laugh froze everyone. At first no-one saw him, but then we all saw him at once. He was walking across the soccer field towards us, long deliberate strides. Where he came from is a mystery as there was nothing but open land behind him for several hundred yards. He was tall and lanky and as he approached us, I noticed that his face was contorted and discolored...a pale, almost painted white and he had jet black hair combed back, long and greasy. His lips were thin and black and his eyes bloodshot and almond shaped. He wore a black suit, a black shirt and candy apple red tie. He looked like a mosh-up of Curry's Pennywise and Ledger's Joker, only I would have traded for either one of those ******* right now over this guy, ten to one. He came to the edge of the concrete square. Johnny ****** his pants and Charlene fell from the monkey bars, landing on her left side and causing a compound fracture, her radius protruding from her skin leaving her hand dangling like a dead fish. She did not scream either because she was scared it might draw his attention or she was going into shock...or maybe both. He took two more steps forward and then began laughing as if he'd just heard the funniest joke he'd ever been told. His teeth looked as if they'd been replaced with shark's teeth. I swear there were rows of them and his mouth stretched inhumanly wide. His laugh slowly winded down to a snarl, and he gave a long look to each one of us, as if he was burning the faces to memory. And then he spoke..."You children just go on having lots of fun! Well, except for you Johnny...didn't your Mom just rip you a new *** for ******* your pants at Grandma's? shame, shame!" And Johnny was off...tripping twice before he got his feet under him. "You run home and ...Ha Ha Ha...oh my...change your pants, you pathetic little ****!" Mr Youngblood picked up Charlene and started to carry her inside. By this time her pretty pink dress was soaked in blood. The freak addressed him. "Nice man...but you can't save them. In a few days they will all be mine." He laughed again and every kid ran for their lives back to the school. I was the only one who stayed. To this day I'm not sure why. He turned and walked towards me slowly. "What have we here? The little man isn't running with the others. Are you not afraid Billy boy? Afraid for your life?"...and he leaned in close...close enough that I smelled a foulness that cannot be described. "Because that is what I'm here for...your life!" "Who are you, I asked" and with that his dark black and pointed eyebrows raised and he straightened up. "Who am I...Who am I? My, my the boy has a backbone. The nerve to question while others lose control of their bladders. Well, I'll tell you who I am, child. I am God's worst nightmare. I am every ***** little secret thought you've ever had. I am evil in all it's forms wrapped up in one little package and sent to collect the souls of the innocent. All of you here today will be mine tomorrow. Roger will fall down the stairs off of his front porch and break his neck. Charlene will die from infection due to that nasty little accident and Becky will be hit by the school bus Thursday morning. That will be most nasty! Almost a decapitation. I won't bore you with the rest, but they will all die. Hmmm...you know what Billy... I like you, so I'm thinking, perhaps...yes, I'm going to make a special offer to my new special friend. I won't take your soul until you die from natural causes. What do you think of that idea? At that moment, when your family is gathered round your bedside after suffering that...well, maybe you don't want to know the details... you will see a bright light...but you won't be going towards the light Billy...at that moment I will place my hand on your shoulder and that light will slowly fade into darkness and we will meet again, and you will become my apprentice. So, what do you think of that, Billy? Do you want to be my apprentice, or do I **** you now? Come, come...I haven't much time!" I tried to answer, but my mouth was as dry as cardboard and I could only manage a weak gasp. That laugh again and he turned and walked away in the same direction..."I'll take that as a yes. Remember, you are mine upon your death, Billy boy!" The wind died and the Sun appeared again.
By the end of the week, every child on the playground that day had died...exactly as he stated they would.

And now you know why, even in my darkest days, I never, ever contemplate suicide.

It is a modern miracle
To fly safely
But why is there turbulence
Only when I ***?

-on a local beer at a local pub, or
another good reason to speak out as a poet

An angel in an apron offered me a drink.
"Here comes Eternal Youth," she said,
"it is meant to make you think."

     While I drank, the world billowed like a sail.
     Time went crazy, bladders appeared,
     the world's front peeled off like a veil.

Heroes and gods alike were humbled.
Their faces aged, their bones crumbled,
the wind swept away what remained of them.

     With them they took the light.
     I stumbled in pitch black darkness
     and man, from the deep I cried.

And then, suddenly, I knew:
my voice, that's me, I'm here!
I'm not too young to interfere!

     I shouted and pushed up the curtain,
     reflected light cut through the dark:
     the waving sea, time to embark!

My angel again was in her counsellor's role.
"Now sail in song forever," she spoke,
"raise your voice, save your soul!"

     I peered into the golden waves...
     and found it was this magic potion,
     that turned and turned in its majestic motion.

There is truth in wine but there's soul in beer;
and when it sends you spinning, sing, sing!
sing, so all the world can hear!

you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...

     if you didn't know, already.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
A phrase followed from some strange, onyx, snake placenta and spittle covered book,
From which phrases are chanted and sewn inwardly, perversely backed into the bladders of demons and spewed from the nostrils,
Solids and seeds of dollars and oil.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase not written as we have been taught, shown in action
By those blocking fruits, pinching fingers at the ends of urethras
To keep children from being born.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase preventing man and woman from marrying,
Withholding, slothfully, idling, waiting,
Placing plugs in all our orifices.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase stopping perception: touch, sight, hearing, smell, taste, And any others if there are others,
Saying it alone will fill your mind.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase keeping us working with the unidentified,
The unfamiliar, the unknown,
Keeping us discriminating, nepotizing, judging.

Know not lest ye be known thyself,
The summation of rejection,
Instructing us to reject those things around us except what we already know.
And what do we know?

The Cover-up.

One tarp can be pulled from off this particular hidden item in the garage,
That can be assured,
(though the rest may be inveigled away by filibustering and hidden, but hopefully not):

"Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged Thyself" is The Holy Bible verse to be followed.

The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.

Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.

We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.

We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.

Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.

A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.

Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.

And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.

Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.

Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?

Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.

I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.

Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.

In our subset of society we
worship sweet caramel syrup and
double tall soy lattes with extra foam
and extra shots of whatever
can keep us pumping through
marathon long meetings
where we meddle
in our market’s perception
of health savings accounts,
a muddle of mindless
power point presentations
and persistent pencil tapping
on a cold granite table top.

We cannot blame the
young baristas with tattooed
arms and early morning
smiles for simply slipping
us the goods- we must blame
the comfortable coffee pushing
peddlers with heavy pockets,

the evil executives
who sit in their soft leather
armchairs and export
expensive beans from South America.

They empty our leather wallets
but fill our bladders;
offer less calories for
a slightly heavier price-
only $4.15 for a Grande
Caramel Frapuccino Light,
so many in our stomach
that we undoubtedly
will email ourselves into a
caffeine induced coma.

If we could see the constant account
debiting that swarms cyberspace-
millions of dollars transferring
between molecules-
we would drown in
the onslaught of dollar bills into
the hungry
Starbucks black hole that is
never full.

Violet light Bleaches steaming emptied emus' bladders on time, I want I want I am amongst the Atman at dusk man's lust rises ****** parry as a guardian of the gourd the glory of the gore internal innards languish read the spare change small children inquire currency smell of bleach eases the crucible fixing my easel with ease as all society is, is a trap, a trap lime citrus as sweet as Virginity as **** as a tarp pushing out rain water for a creature's belief in solidarity, soil begs to return sustained by nourishment of the water table and rain shadow, fees lie fallow I am a three field system mid evil as a midwife. aggregate agates gating Gaelic gaiety, fair as faith fairly free as a fairy, pixie sticks mixed well with angel dust I return my receipt as I am an alchemist to Egypt saying 2 sips taste better, who's at a crude joke who explains rude yokes poked by a spear leering silence at the steer awaiting an opacity to light my lantern, forsake advancement for the sun bends gravity as an attitude, who of many resist the power of effulgence, even lycanthropes need hope for the souls as the basis of reflection brings the rains sparked in rainbows.

What makes a friend? cogar a creyo una mi Amiga Bonita hace difficl estoy muy triste para la pnta y ala comer mierda.

UV is not a Cavalier, the ultra violet alpha is a royalist

There's a minute mouse hidden in the darkness under the house.
Hear it scooting around, it's chewing on paper.
All the books are getting distressed.
Notice  the scuffling things.
A peek from the corner of householder's eye.
Wonder why she didn't call upon the services of the exterminator man.
Not the daleks naturally.
See them darting across the room, honed almost invisible darts.
In they pop to empty their bladders and bowels, all over the house.
Discarded broken pencil leads.
Their broods hidden under the host's cosy house.
And they nibbled the wire.
Gnaw, gnaw,nibble,nibble .
Ignited a spark.
Now the house is on fire.
(C) Livvi

As time quickly approaches
On the planed escape
Gunther smuggles the files in
While Mildred bakes the cake

But that doesn't much matter
For our two on the run
In all the confusion
The oven was never turned on

So they slipped out the front door
When Gladys the receptionist was gone
Out for her morning coffee
And cigarette on the lawn

They made it as far as the sidewalk
As far as the authorities could tell
When they both turned around
Before their bladders gave out

They need a new plan of escape
One that can be followed with ease
Before it's to late
Since they're both weak in the knees

Our hero's will have to wait another day
For their chance at freedoms song
For now they'll hang up their walkers
And devise another plan on getting gone

It was a heated night of Bingo
When Gunther got the idea
They'd go out with the wash
In a basket both hid

So they packed up their dentures
Along with their Poly Grip
As both of them readied
For their laundry trip

Now in the back of the truck
Rolling down 95
Same age as our escapee's
If you care to count time

They later hijacked the truck
When the driver they sacked
Now they travel life's highway
With nothing but the wind to their back

anyone can tire of the belittling hippy pacifism hiding Stalin in its underwear like it was the höchste lösung without nappies; because the left believes we were born with drink-hardened-bladders!

we can't fathom the new intellectuals
and their soberness
like we can't fathom the fact
that some went into battle
with amphetamines and some with
alcohol; we simply can't accept
a sober enemy, the fear of death too dragging
in a reggae of a continuum
and bedrooms' pleasure racked
in lacking a womb -
found the index imitating a fly,
and a king with it too - who's to kneel?
thus they fought intoxicated, but argued sober?
why not reverse?
why let these schoolchildren, these hitlerjungen
fight intoxicated while the bulging argue sober?
the fighters intoxicated and the politicians sober?
sombre? did i hear it right?
the berserker fight intoxicated while
while the old men squabble sober?
send the old men to fight sober and the youth
to politicise intoxicated!
i take to war the intellectual concern for
your piano and your wallpaper and your pseudo
Marxist class struggle -
where war knocks via intellectuals, war will come
and intoxication will be the new intellectualism -
where intellectuals knock for ginger
they will reap Blitzkrieg...
where war comes intellectuals exploit first...
with intellectual agitation war comes easily,
dumb-**** animal readied...
you cleave from the vacuum you created
you will meet the tailor and the barber...
so must intelligence gone to waste...
your little post-communist intelligentsia...
with us not involved come party come the new
right and *dei neu nord!

Do you know what we men love, ladies?

We love the raisins in our apple pie
when we just want apple pie
We love the broccoli in every dish
how you beg 'just give it a try!'

We love the fortune in toiletries
so there's no room for our combs
perfumes, shampoos and body creams
blow dryers, curlers and foams

We love how you sneak to the bathroom
just prior to us awaking
we plea for you to hurry
as our bladders are sorely aching

We love to join you shopping
and discuss the cashier's hair
and if we happen to like it
do we tell you...do we dare?

but most of all we love you
for the biggest, most valuable perk
is the motivation you provide
to get our ***** off to work!

Having loved and lived more than many, you're one that has feared and toiled in the garden of life. This garden that is now untended, dried, and withered; a vast wasteland, littered with cigarette butts, broken beer bottles, used condoms, and bullet casings. Those seeds of ruin are sowed by your very own callous hands of destruction. Once, golden opportunities and golden showers were warm and comforting, till you realized you were being ****** on by weak hearts and failing bladders. An ongoing stream of liquored up nights, self-loathing heathens, and rotten misanthropes now have you bowing to the porcelain gods beside a freshly dug grave, fit for your honor. One more shot is what you want, finely driving that final nail into your coffin of a liver. Feeling flushed and torn, nobody will be bringing you flowers, you wilted oaf.  A half-eaten vegetable, you are. Left with nothing more than skin and bone,  there's a sign that sustenance has not been a friend of indulgence.

It's a slow train
On a very fast track
And it's not gonna end well
All things that end
Don't end well
All things don't end
That doesn't make them better
Just longer lasting
And slower decaying
The final stages
Smells and linger
Whistle stop
Fried green bladders
Golden hags

"THINGS I dream Of"* - A poem by his wooly
mammoth mr. WOODY.


[Not much is left to the imagination
     to leave the Plantation in the sultry sun...]

"So what does Woody dream?" Of
Most things, Good...
To have lived that we should have not
known the sweet --Heavens
                                  now forbidden fruit

The knot you swallowed
Adams apples
lodges / in your throat
                "seeds
of trees lush -- green with Ideas"
who so to speak is
         a Head of a Family tree
         summer breezey tree-tops
bright songs light bittle birds
California girls and wild
the boardwalk, the "coast's
voluptuosity" travel the herd...
      
"sheezus!
if this is hell....****...boing!"

"I thawt I taw a *****
cat"
bettys kitty ******* bunny
Aye*
Mammy, Selfies will last longer
than the ****** you accidentally
bumped into

"Because poppy wanted something new"
HEAD is where you dump
**** and **** n ****.

Lavatory of Mad Bladders
     Tags sharpies spray-paint walls say
the craziest - don't ever dial the number
that escorts the bad drawn dongs
and ***'ges . scribbled in eye lashes
looking sideways toward you
for a kiss...?

He thought he knew,
I'm secure with my manly mystique
not damaged having none of him around
I sleep easy
                without
a father-dad-uncle-brother stress
pressure to proove myself
with stacks or whips...

so yeah, you know who's what's up

great Gran D is maw-maw's boy
gone off-grid they visit Vegas
Ranches  and ride the stallions
Gran-D gramps : the bunnies...
     (They sleep in quite well
      those heat waves summer fun...
catching rays and Zs.)

Herbalist
Maybe Woody dreams
are all Natural      
                          * (to question existence
                            and wanting more)

of Seed... of Sea? --of Trees I mean
meditate a sedative
bow down to Xanex!* rroooaaarr!
And in Any hood, it is your Word kept
Honors Mens Respects

Standing Tall like "Things" of Woody Dreams

Prisms
And Sleep's winter warmths
Hot Chocolates Marsh mellow Pillows
              [Well Rested]
Is the dream of this heart
the Poet sank
my Battleship--Me.

*"I will always care for Thee,
  but I can only carry Me."

If in Sleep...?
                       Sweet       Peacefully.

Now watermelons are a wonderful treat
They're the very best food that I like to eat.
I wonder why we save them for special days
As for watermelons, I would gladly pay.

I'd pay whatever the cost might be
Just to savor the flavor of that delightful treat
Just thinking of them gives me shivers to my toes
There's nothing else that can even come close.

Their sweet juicy flavor just melts in my mouth
On a hot summer day, I just want to shout
As I feel the juice trickle down my dry throat
It's the very best feeling a food can evoke.

Watermelons, watermelons I'll praise you forever
You're the one dish I'll pass up, not ever, no never
When I'm thirsty and feeling ready for a drink
It's only of watermelons that I start to think.

It might be an icy cold winter day outside
But that doesn't stop me from wishing inside
Of ripe, red, tender watermelon flesh
Even though I know I must wait, I guess.

Wait until summer comes round once more
With its hot hazy days and humidity's high score
To see watermelons piled up to the sky
All ready and waiting for me to buy.

Now I'll tell you a funny story that happened to me
I was only twelve or so at the time, you see
Visiting a lady friend my parents had made
She  had two children about my same age.

She took us all down the freeway a ways
Til we got to a farmhouse with garden and hay
Beside was a river, fast-flowing and cold
The day was so hot we all made a bold

Run for the water to cool ourselves down
We had great fun splashing around like clowns
We jumped and screamed 'til so tired were we
We fell on the grass to rest and to breathe.

And then my eyes saw a rare surprise
The farmer began piling watermelons high
Watermelons, watermelons come one and all
It was a great party, as I readily recall.

We ate and ate as much as our tummies
Could hold of those watermelons, so yummy
We ate till our stomachs started to pop
It seemed that of eating, we just couldn't stop.

It was time to go home down the freeway so far
So we all hopped in my friend's beautiful car
But after just a few minutes of traveling along
Every one of us children sang a brand new song.

The song was quite funny, but no one was impressed
All we could think of was giving our bladders a rest
Bathroom, bathroom we all in chorus sang
We sounded like the little rascals gang.

But on the freeway, no exits were found
No ramps to see if a bathroom's around
What in this world could one conceive
To find some relief for the children that grieved.

Well, to make a very long story short
We found a bathroom but learned not to resort
To overeating watermelon when far from home
Too much watermelon makes your bladder groan!

Single storey, long brick building,
curtained stage and wooden floors,
overture beginners, teachers,
scouts and guides in Sunday chorus.

Sounds of pennies dropping,
scraping chairs, coughing, iching, scratching,
and fidgets tiny bladders filling.

Holy high days came in cycles,
Whit Walks, banners, carnivals.
Many living on in stories,
since their final church parade.

Please don't call me darling,
It gets right on my ****,
You might think your being clever,
But I really don't like it.

Please don't creep up behind me,
And grab hold of my *******,
You could just try to talk to me,
Not prompt a cardiac arrest.

Please don't **** beneath the covers,
And hold my head underneath,
It's really just not ****,
And makes me sick behind my teeth.

Please don't hold me on the floor,
Mercilessly tickling my toes,
My bladders not what it used to be,
I don't want to scream and wet my clothes.

Please do treat me like a lady,
If it's not to much to ask,
Or I might decide I've had enough,
And kick out your annoying ****!

I caught a second kitten, the grey one.
The orange one is still in the attic.
I put grey & blondie in a kennel with
a fruit cake pan of litter, a plastic bowl
with water, and a bowl of kibble.

The simple truth gets my simplified answer, not knockin' up a ****
like you're in France poor or fancier than Nancy tore open on a bike
before losin' a lost leg lost in a fall over Niagara Falls on a fall hike
with tricky **** Nixon's 3rd grandson who looks like President Ike
Hi Gloria, I'm in the family way, time to get a job handling cat crap
'cause I'd never hang on demon-crone Steinem the ****-******* rap
while she's ******* to infanticidal chaos magick like a moaning ***

Vessels  and Wine menus of the archaic formulas seemed from the new Universe that was approaching them vertiginously, concelebrating the unitary form of the union of the pilasters of the Opistódomos with Hellas , which was constituted as an inter-dimensional state, for two strategists universal and immortal that provided the beginning of a new Christic language, based on the relationship of the unified polis but with an infinite calendar perspective. The courage to start an end with a beginning full of excitement and celebration where clearly the dances would be from beginning to end to treasure the influences of endless complacency, and that would hold commemorative celebrations of station processes, being established fiercely in the treasuries of Metroon ; as a duplicated and bilocated agoras on Patmos, besieging all the documents of the glorious past of Mythology towards the new preservation of Submitology, where the people of heroes and anti-heroes of all the Pleiades come to life from the Vernarth transcript, as a multidimensional memorial archive housing in all the concerns of eternity written, and preserved tangible and intangible that would transport them to the annals of a sanctuary that would agree with the repositories of everything that was and will be of this Myth annex beyond a fantastic reality, going back to the Hellenisms that they will compose next to the Beit Hamikdash Temple, as a sacred mansion where the ceiling and the floor would rest in total communion. The dimensions will be given in the own open foot that will standardize the buttresses that would make up the access chambers to the privileged place of Rea, with dimensions that could be displayed in the confines of the inflection of Orion, naturally illuminating the vault of Greece in the head of the Agora and from there to Theoskéspasti, to then be triangulated with the Doric and Ionic colonnades specifying the Vernarth chamber, which will have its quantum progression and multidimensional link throughout the Archaic Hellas to all of Judea that will re-sanctify the possibilities that the heroes will parade eternally for the waters and lands that are proper to inertia, where Athena and Nike will make the pots with mead in the rejection of more miracles that will flow from Galilee to Patmos. The etymology would be of Hellenic customary avant-garde, evidencing realities where every day the peasants sharpened their sickles, as a feast that celebrated the first-rate courts with the first-grade olive oil with the Almazara or oil press that will bring the fruits of the table. The flapping of the pelicans would tie laudable sounds from the Thuellai worshiping the phonograms that were emitted from the Metroon, attracting the classical periods of the conformation of Greece when it was only Chaos and Seas in conflict. From this mythological proposition, everything was a reality where the lack of custom proved as a cultural character, it was the vertical cultural basting coined in the gloss of the signifier, rather than the meaning, leading everything to these festivities of edibles and drinkable towards the Panhellenic that it would bring new vigor of expansive territorial function, towards Macedonia and Delphi as a holiday that could celestially have more than twelve lunar months.

Meanwhile Vernarth was hugging a rattle more than two meters high and one in diameter, this resonance implied the inaugural sound of the Symposium of the Athletic Agon that together with the Almazara would run rials of oilseeds, to anoint the attendees as all Sacred of the jubilee of the Opistódomos and the Hamikdash, towards the new Submitological Era Duoversal between the events that will delight everything that concerns accompanying the pairings of liquids and solids in this competitive challenge, so that the mythical hero becomes the credible hero stationed in the ninth laurels that would make up the foundation and inauguration of the games, after the victory of those who never threw the victor's crown. The votive offerings and monuments joined the agonal journey that referred from the perspective of a soul that wanted to compete with its existential soul, and then reluctantly redirected itself through the unusual temples that seemed to vanish amid the crowds, making this festive ritual the greatest expression. of all the votive festivals in Patmia. In practice, the meals would once again be rewards for the support of the sky by the Matakis, as a snowy reflection in the pouch that does not display any icon other than a numismatist that sniffs the pieces of bronze that were surrounded by the other derivatives of the terminal of saturation of Zeus, seeming to identify that Matzoh would fall from the sky, and Manah that will highlight the laurel artifice when the conceptual of the sages give the beginning of the activities with a meta-praxis that will stand out from the full stomachs, and the bladders supplemented with oenological colors, eradicating physical competitions for those of the allegory of Dionysian pleasure that suggests a human and mythological hybridism, Submitological-supernatural. Everyone became restless and ran along the golden trails of the iridescent nimbus creating capacities to unfold the time of Kairos and at the same time re-inaugurating the feat of noble bread and the skills of collecting the green fords, where Persephone refrained from an illegitimate pressure by leaving the intellectual bulwarks for the destiny of the force that subtracts the will, but if it defines the feminine character that caresses the tongues of the soulless and they call us with the features of competing prostrate to a Goddess who worships the eternal shine of the wheat field that refers, and what makes the ibidem in the conferences of a hero who smacks the features of all the sculptures that will follow the cause of reason of the allegorical agoras and the competition where the meek will only toast when nobody sees them face inhibition itself of what is and is not.

What the languages uttered became shouted to sit near the inns and tables with dairy products and wines from which they all stood up with a cantiga in unison, ***** in the joy of being called to the Hellenic invitation to compete, to make dynamics and refer to physical skills assiduously to the constellations that made them awaken the intellectuals. The attributes of each one were a trigger to celebrate and laugh before the divinity of the new Age, along with the solemnity of Himation. This lasted twenty-eight days exchanging the full moons that would bring the shooting stars with boiled genetics that were forged from the Souvlaki prototype, and flashes that would take them to the symposium where the feasts were dimensions that surpassed the entire width of the galaxies, to praise and cheer the crowded Pleiad of assistants fully compete in the intelligentsia, before the various rituals and spells that were prepared with the consecration of the Symposium that would bring together Alpha and Omega, as a Semitic language that filtered through the iridescence nets that manifested from the Nimbus where they remained the vaporous entity of the Mashiach.

Vernarth imbibed, above all, a segment of space that allowed him to look without being distracted towards the height of the Nimbus, creating in the tract of languages that they wandered between Aramaic, Greek, and Hebrew, after that the extra-biblical witness Marzeah would designate in the liturgy of celebration of the Symposium, always noting that the allusive rhetorical conversations at the side of the Symposium meeting, understanding that they would become a brotherhood of tasters of the ethyl elixir, which would flow from the iridescent tract between seven iridescence that would translate into bittersweet solid foods and rolls with thyme from Kalymnos. The ingestion in two portions was lived from arm to arm in the jars of hand, reciprocal in the distractions that Vernarth made looking at the Nimbus, and offered him with his Khaire, promoting distraction and jumping over the dark clouds that were tinged with purple tones of the ethyl elixir, creating dance forms that revived the altruism of euphonic auditions that divined that the world could be all Wine and Matzoh, which was lavished on those who would not be excluded from the drinking of the sky that flowed as food from the fermented Hydor, alongside some concave stones with toasted chickpeas, fresh fruit, and Lepanto beans. Saint John blessed food considering that Eurydice, Circe, Medea, Hecate, and Walekiria would be incorporated into the festive Andron, although the feminine essence should be reserved for other stages of the solemn festival. The expositions of contentment were to have the vessels permanently facing the sky of the Nimbus, because from there holistic ethyl liquids would constantly fall that would shine with their deferred colors, sensitizing what the ear wanted to hear more than their collisions of Epichisis and Enócoes to pour and serve. in geometric ciboriums from Laconia. Vernarth would walk around the Profitis with Askos full of the essence of the Mashiach wine, which served them with the seven cosmic thoughts, thus frequenting the distractions for those who did not skimp on Apollo's delirium of dipsomania, distracted in Vernarth with the dancers of music by Hetera. Vernarth filled the glasses of all those who carried Guttus and Lecitos who relaxed and brought their Cretan flavors in the chirps of their pharynxes coming out from their mouths with verses that seemed the same as those of the Heterias, which the soldiers of the phalanx influenced the Small groups in a circle to applaud the gift and virtue of celebrating with improvised cheers, which in the bedrooms invited even the dissuasive shadows of their own evil that wanted to seep into the symposium. The afternoon was reinvented from the agora and the proscenium that attended for all from all the borders that would bring the storms of the ethyl nimbus, inviting new tides from the Aegean that would add to re-condense in the parasites that swarmed deserts with the rhythm of one night in all the borders and optics of the world, being able to be seen clearly and precisely to be reissued. The comedy of Dyonisius was present with all his court of Syracuse, and Dionisio was reiterated with Thespis and his supports that spelled ruffian verses between bitten, one being King the other being a God, sticking to his origin as a demigod in the feminine inheritance of a mortal, to come to serve in Cantharos to Dyonisius, where they roar in his mortal consciousness. The parasites bustled through the floodgates of intoxication that could be textualized and verbalized in the shrinking of colic, or perhaps boldly sitting on a tripod to imitate the Sybillas if they were to be supported by the effluvium of Alcyoneus, covering with snakes that they would carry potions in the wine glasses when representing the banquets that would falsify to be scenes of a feast, with the criterion of an over-relief.

Hello lovely, thought you may enjoy this. Love sam



God's Plan for Ageing


Most seniors never get enough exercise.

In His wisdom God decreed that seniors become forgetful so they would have to search for their glasses, keys and other things, thus doing more walking.

And God looked down and saw that it was good.

Then God saw there was another need.

In His wisdom He made seniors lose co-ordination so they would drop things, requiring them to bend, reach, and stretch.

And God looked down and saw that it was good.

Then God considered the function of bladders and decided seniors would have additional calls of nature, requiring more trips to the bathroom, thus providing more exercise.  

God looked down and saw that it was good.

So if you find as you age, you are getting up and down more, remember it's God's will.

It is all in your best interest even though you mutter under your breath.
Nine Important Facts to Remember as We Grow Older

#9  Death is the number 1 killer in the world.

#8  Life is sexually transmitted.

#7  Good health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die.

#6   Men have 2 motivations: hunger and hanky panky, and they can't tell them apart. If you see a gleam in his eyes, make him a sandwich.

#5  Give a person a fish and you feed them for a day. Teach a person to use the Internet and they won't bother you for weeks, months, maybe years.

#4  Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in the hospital, dying of nothing.

#3  All of us could take a lesson from the weather. It pays no attention to criticism.

#2  In the 60's, people took LSD to make the world weird. Now the world is weird, and people take Prozac to make it normal.

#1  Life is like a jar of jalapeno peppers. What you do today may be a burning issue tomorrow.

Please share this wisdom with others while I go to the bathroom.