You want to judge the book;
Or you are curious and keen.
Gibingly you ask about microbes.
With Naked eyes unseen.

Fourteen hundred is the age.
Yet you can scratch your head.
I know it is not going to help.
Because you're alive yet dead.

You think you're very literate.
Yes it speaks about microbes. *
But are you literate enough?
Then there were no microscopes.

They discover and boastfully talk.
As if they've created, never they stop.
Compare themselves with God.
But their origins are in ***** drop.

it's unnerving how easily a pair of eyes strip me down
and take away every layer of defense
I have built up over the years.
hey sweetie, why don't you come over here?
because I don't want to, because you're repulsive
and your voice is scary and I felt your eyes on me
from the instant I crossed the street and I was hoping
you wouldn't speak.
want me to show you a good time?
but I was having the best time before I knew you existed,
when I was still just a person walking home
and the silent threats you make hadn't made it to
the horizon of my mind
****, what you doing walking around with hips like those?
hips like these belong to my mother and
her mother and all of the women that have come
before me. in my body I possess history and blood
so strong it was only ever spilled during times of war.
how dare you. attempt to take that strength and power and pride
away from me. don't you know that I am magic,
that my body exists as art only
I should be allowed to admire
who gave you permission to steal from god's temple?
[I still see the dark look in your eyes
when you said that to me, the emptiness of
your pupils haunt me. they say that you see
me as nothing more than a body, a corpse.
someone to walk over.
someone to conquer.
you licked your lips and winked, the
wrinkles in your skin were clear even in the dark
and I could see that your two front teeth were
missing, so now I can't stop having nightmares
you grabbing me and tearing me apart, using
the same legs you whistled at as toothpicks]
why are you walking so ******* fast?
because you are terrifying. because I know
despite how brittle your bones may appear
there is a large chance if you catch me I won't
escape. because the risk of not escaping is an
automatic death to me in every sense of
the word. because I have friends, and they have
told me how their bodies were pillaged at the
hands of men like you.
who the **** do you think you are?
I think I am an island and I wish you
wouldn't insist on being so intrusive.
******* too, *****
I just want to go home. I just want to go home.
why can't you let me do that?
you're not even that pretty anyway
when I met up with my best friend
she hugged me
and said I smelled like vanilla,
that I got more beautiful over the summer,
and that boys are going to lose their minds
when they see me.
my mother shows me off
boastfully, brags about my small waist like it
is a trophy, tells all my family that I am
peligrosamente hermosa,
dangerously beautiful.
and I believed them until I met you.

May your year be measured
by revelations and not resolutions

May you see your uncountable gifts
than boastfully count meagre goals

May you on uncharted waters walk
than by uncertain stars fearfully chart

And may you in power compelled to fly
than all powers beseeched to comply

Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful   qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But ****, I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?  
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.

--------------------

With Both Feet on the Ground

Hello, dear-one.
What say you in this lowly place?

"When twilight traces the terrace,
Touch the torch-sky with the tip of your lip.
               A sweet heat
Will draw your willful mind,
But watch! The torch-sky takes:
               Heart-stems
               Drip
               Drip
               Petals shower
The firelight blaze, like my root vein,
Spills languid and warm across the sky.
               Beauty in elation
               But now breathe out!"

--------------------

Then Into Deep Water

Say, dear-one,
What's all this now?

"The blue of night is sweeping over the torch-sky,
And shadows steal swiftly as silent silhouettes,
               Come coldly dancing
Do not disdain—dreams form feather-light foam,
And fade heavily in a salt-wash, flooding fervently.
                Covered darkly
                Step
                Step
                ­Shiver forward
From terrace to sea my foot falls easily.
Then the eerie eels entwine in the brine.
                Feeling supine
                Let the deep creep
                Until next time."

--------------------

But the Canvas is Brighter Still

Stay awake, dear-one.
Is there not more to tell?

"The search for halcyon has wrought hush-flickers:
Stars  staring brightly stripping night's dark domain.
               Drifting dazedly: humorous
'Theirs is a humming neatly humbling hysterias.'
Whispers Nyx, 'Dwelling hinders what dreaming may fix.'
               Sleeps slips
               Blink
               Blink
               Morning stands
Beacon! Bright butterfly, beckon bravery!
Billow boastfully—this day will be mine!
               Keep in mind,
               It's always divine."

Very good, dear-one,
A fine farewell.

Inspired by a real story.
Dedicated to Dust and Water.

Charlie.
The son of poetry, the sculptor of language.
The fire of my lust, a charm that shall ne'er end.
The prince of the sun, with such unchained melodies
and shades of green grass in his eyes.
Even the sound of his voice startled me;
For it was sweeter t'an the rainbow
T'at, to our skies, is sometimes too fabulous
to grow, and smile, and stay alive.

Ah, Charlie, your eyes but of autumn's green leaves t'emselves;
Undying and far more immune than the robust moon.
Oh, Charlie, but how my dream of you
Shall fore'er be an unspoken secret;
A secret of my ****** tongue
t'at remains forbidden to this world;
For 'tis too in this world t'at she lives,
And in 'tis life t'at she breathes,
Admires, and hates, as loved by you.
And thus any token of my love shall be a waste;
Shall be neglected, and be despised as an omen of doom.
For I am the daughter of the evilness of love—and so to her,
My love for you shall always be a herald of evil,
A spring of madness t'at needs soiling and throbbing away
Into t'ose wells of rigidity and notions of death.
Ah, Charlie, how you have gone, and shall be gone forever!
But for you know—although you are hers now, and only hers always,
Once I still thought I would meet you again someday.

You greeted me within the darkening roars of Jakarta;
Jakarta t'at was once like our hell and heaven;
Jakarta t'at is at once but trepid and magnificent.
Oh, and I remember t'at at t'at time, 'twas about to rain;
When I, standing by vanilla paper in my brown dress,
Was drawn by your soft beaming eyes,
Ah, Charlie, how my dried heart filled with love when I saw you—
I called to Him and prayed for your smile from above!
But then, perhaps you went away too soon,
And I, stepping home, cried and cried pools of maroon tears,
With a groan t'at was not fully satisfied,
With lust t'at, as I knew it, would never see a friend.
Ah, Charlie, the sole painter of my poetry!
The drawer of the scenes, whose words made me cry;
The teller of houses, whose fears made me want to die.
Ah, Charlie, how you are genuinely betrothed to your words;
And now t'at my heart is dead from its love for you—
All the world is but a lie and no more true.
Charlie, I despise love now; for 'tis no more t'an
A hateful stage of cowardly theatres;
A bunch of beasts t'at boastfully embrace
And show off t'eir love to one anot'er—
ah, just like t'is ring of monstrosity about me!
Ah, how vicious, vicious t'is menace of t'eirs is—
if only t'ey could unwillingly comprehend!
Thus I shall believe in no such remarkable lies;
For they trust in stories evil and not too nice;
And how t'ey smile to night and not to day;
And to even poetry t'ey have oft' none else to say;
For in vice is t'eir sole, sole triumph, my dear!
And for you know, Charlie, none is a poet in Yorkshire,
Their souls are but dried pipes of cold—and lumps of fire;
Perhaps they shall **** me before my soul even reaches heaven;
They are the ghosts of my virtues, the wand'ring spectres of my garden.
But was it you again, that laughed and sweetened my sleep last night—
and whose deep voices crafted such haunting poems like mine?
Everything sounded right when you were there, although they were false;
Ah, false indeed, like a piece of dishonesty awaiting troubled death;
When I had nothing else to give, but one sour last breath.
Ah, Charlie, after all—you are not here any more,
And Jakarta is but no more than a tender dream;
A dream I should perhaps forget—together with the chills
And idylls we once mercifully favoured.
Perhaps it was fate that did separate us;
Oh, how I wish it had ne'er happened!
How I still remember that noon—with a thousand suns
That were glaring at my head, I swayed my hair
By your side, as though the hills and the moons of England
were but all painted rightly next to your eyes.
Oh, my Charlie, how I have only words to play with now,
And perhaps tomorrow—for we have no future days together!
Yet still, if I had anything to dream of, it would be about you;
For again, my love for you was once pure and true;
I remember you like I do the lilies and tulips of dear Jakarta;
Wild in their toasts, too shiny in the darkest of places.
Ah, Charlie, but it is perhaps our vengeful fate,
That has robbed us of joyful virtues of late,
I am away from you, and my love—though dead, was once virile;
I shall pray for you, and think of you again once in a while.

I might have another love to attend,
Though I am too vexed, and obnoxious on my own to think;
I am unselfconscious of who I am;
I am troubled by the colours and spells
Of t'ese binding walls, as if there is no gift—
Even t'at one of love, t'at can absurdly cheer me
And bring my soul up, out of t'is sorrow—any more.
I am saddened, despaired, and deprecated by your tale;
I am now going to sit instead, by a cup of soiree ale;
I am going to rehearse the skins of my wit;
I shall test fate t'at want'd not to meet;
I shall conquer my own domains—and not anyone;
I shall think t'at truth is untrue—and evilness is but sweets and fun;

For a poet like me hath no love—and none to love with;
None loves me here, even for a sweet single bit;
I can see from the glass of t'eir eyes—t'at they care not;
They want my death, for it shall cut my poetry short.

Ah, how unfair, unfair and harsh t'is life for us is,
How 'tis but a worried flair for our aesthetic souls;
A craving t'at shall ne'er be true while it conveys truth;
A desire t'at is honest—while others want it to live not;

Ah, Charlie, how aimless and purposeless t'is eye should be;
For you are hers, and thus your charm can no more be with me;
I've been but a sad joke, in your present and perhaps in your past;
You talked to me back then, but knew your giggles should ne'er last;

And thus what I feel in my breast is blue, and shall ne'er own no end;
I shall now give up to time and let it carry my misery;
Perhaps I shall be wounded 'till the time of my grave though;
I shall be injured with t'eir inhuman love, lack of sweetness, lack of laugh.

Ah, Charlie, and your smile shall only be my severed utopia;
An unwanted song, amongst the deadly tears in yon grey forest;
Where ghosts are alive and ruthlessness is an endless unrest;
And my longing for you is useless—and ***** like an untended nest;
You are away, and neither in my view, nor in my sight;
You smell her hair every morn and noon, all through the day and night.

And your lust is a torch when it comes to her, and her only;
She to whom my love for you shall always be a mystery;
Ah, but a mystery she shan't come, or need t' care 'bout;
She who drowns your saliva by her voices out loud;

Ah, Charlie, now 'tis too late, and perhaps you should return to her sweet bed;
And address your new wife as she undresses and comes naked;
I shall be back soon in Coventry—before another storm goes mad;
And let Jakarta dwell alone, as he likes being on his own;
Let him fret over my tears that have silently gone;
And my shadows t'at are bound to dwell away, and ne'er return.

And let her stab your heart, with a love like a thousand spears;
Let her bury you in her cheeks, and remove your rightful fears;
For I am not one to offer you such happiness like t'at;
I who shall ne'er see you again, even just for one slice of dying breath.

For I wish to see, and open my heart to dear London;
Where I shall wander the streets, and lakes, though by my feet alone;
Waiting for a love that perhaps shall ne'er come;
'Till my breath goes out of me, and my fingers are left numb.

The eye of the universe

bats its lashes at a

a single sliver of splintered light

blinking boastfully in the opaqueness–

a crescent m☽☽n is birthed,

carved by the Huntswoman’s

      ➳silver tipped arrows➳

on the night I–

a demi-goddess-

am born.



And this Hunstwomen,

my heavenly mother,

my celestial nurturer,

Artemis

plants antlers atop my

hairless skull in the hopes that I,

her daughter,

will grow wild

as the deer Her Greatness

has vowed to protect;

as the cypress whose limbs

swell with greenery;

as the moon who must wax

as surely as it must wane;

as Artemis herself,

whom they call

“Lady of Wild Things.”



And I too

am a Wild Thing,

for I am a women

of extremity.



How can I not be,

when I come from a long line

of deities,

whose veins palpitate

with the very atoms of chaos?



How else am to explain the fire

the seethes inside of my soul?

A fire kindled by Zeus,

the Lord of the Sky,

the God of all Gods.



Lightning bolts play hopscotch

across my collarbone,

crack against my ribcage

like Poprocks crack against tongue.



Some days,

these flames enable

the crusade of my passions,

accelerating me onwards,

like the wheels of

pegasus drawn chariot.



But there is such as thing

as being too passionate,

for with great passion comes

great emotion,

and with great emotion comes

the capacity for great heartbreak.



I love with the catastrophic magnitude

of a category five hurricane;

it ’s no wonder any other mortal man

is capable of reciprocating my musings,

for there is no emulating this storm,

there is no matching the desires

of Aphrodite’s offspring.





And you should see my heart

when it’s broken–

the way it snaps so eloquently

like the neck of a swan,

how it metamorphosizes,

scorching itself

to a point of  αγνώριστος

(unrecognizable)

blackness.



In the pit of my

cracked palms,

I hold the charred

f

                     r

         a

                         g

m

              e

n

                  t

s

of my heart–

kaleidoscopic shards

jagged enough to draw blood.



When the palpitating ache

in my chest proves to be unbearable,

I sprint to the riverside,

well aware that it is the closest

I will be able to get to the ocean

on such short notice.



I take off my socks and

my worn down Doc Martens

and wade into the water.

Entranced by its

refreshingly cruel coldness,

I baptize myself in its

precarious currents and beg

Poisedon to extinguish the fire in me.



He douses me in his spirit

in an attempt to console the embers

that lick at my heels.

But this attempt proves

to be unsuccessful;

for there is no way of curing

the daughter of Olympus.



Fire and water merge,

imposing on to my being

a molten existence.



I    l~i~q~u~e~f~y.



Tendrils of lava crawl

up my oesophagus,

sear the impression

of a laurel atop my head,

burn so violently,

they turn purple.



“Dear Gods,”

I plead

“Take away this body,

this mind,

this soul–”



“Child,”

a lyrical voice

echoes back to me.

“You must not forsake yourself

like this, ”

she declares.

“The mark of the Parthenon,

of I,

your third mother,

Athena

dwells among your fingertips–

There is

p

o

e

t

r

y

in your bones,

an emblem of my wisdom,

of Apollo’s bestowal of enlightenment.



And so you,

my demi-goddess,

must carry on the legacy

of your ancestors through

your wildness

your extremity

your chaos–

your poetry.



For you were made

in the image of the Gods.”

Give me O Lord, the patience needed,
regarding the daily choices before me;
help me to use Your divine wisdom
in handling all issues of adversity.

Keep me focused on Your priorities,
as I strive to “walk in Love” continually.
Insure that I reach out to those in need,
serving as a humble representative of thee.

With joyous anticipation and expectation,
I happily receive Your new mercies this day;
praises to You Lord, I boastfully sing, since…
Your everlasting Love is flowing my way.

Thank You for Your daily Words of encouragement,
as I faithfully yearn to fulfill my poetic role;
please accept my obedience as an act of worship;
for You alone Lord, are solely in control.



Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Lam 3:22-24; Deu 30:15-16; 1 Cor 1:26-31; Psa 34

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

Upon the taking of my last breath,
I ask that no tears be shed.
Instead, I request that there be laughter,
Laughter to fill rooms and shake shoulders.
I want there to be joy upon my departure,
Joy that may follow me wherever I go.

Do not tell them the truth.
Tell them I died valiantly,
Protecting the helpless and
Playing savior for the weak

Tell them I was fearless,
Completely unafraid and unfazed
By anything that was ever placed
Obstructively in my path.

Tell them that I danced in the rain
And that I never got sick, ever in my life,
That I wrote beautiful things and
Spoke wonderful words.
Do not tell them the truth.

Or better yet, please do.

Tell them I was broken and frightened,
Pretending to be strong always.
Tell them I was a dreamer and I never woke up.

Tell them of the music I loved.
Speak of the people I greatly adored.
Tell them I was twisted, psychotic, confused
And beautifully, boastfully, blissfully so.
Tell them how I laughed as often as possible.
Explain how I never cried in the presence of others.

Tell them how I cared for others and how
I never did understand human nature.
Tell them you could never know me
Without knowing my deepest secrets.
Tell them how few people really knew me.

Tell them they are beautiful and loved
Because that’s what I would say, if I could.
Tell them goodbye and wipe their tears.

Tell the truth of my gloriously insignificant life
But only to the ones who loved me most.

Long day indentured college
do they give me land when I'm done?
I just wanna lay near the flickering warm television
like the olde days
Stop, I say
it’s all ****. T.V. does not console
old days are through
already 8 O’ clock
O clock, zero clock
why’d I do nothing yet?
he shouts back in olde English binary that
I’ve only been home for an hour
I don’t know how to loot time like a lawyer’s tie tier
He pit pats after the one in the pricier suit to make sure he’s comfy, all ways
Like a tea cup dog, he’s slightly enamored to serve a taller person
The rich man feeds him emerald colored paper
a treat at sundown,
and that wily servant still finds hours to ***** his wife,
push his boy on the swings, and play a game of basketball.
I don’t know what’s coddle comfort anymore
“good.” says the gray bearded one atop the devil’s mountain horns
The great beast is boastfully clever,
but he can’t tell there’s a bhikhu camping out on his horns
his eyes roll upward, but he can’t see past his forehead.
The old one laughs

Fog drips slowly over rose colored mountains
like sap from a tall heartwood tree
Lavender skies burst to flames of burnt orange
as the sun reaches the horizon
The moon in waning gibbous
displayed boastfully
Sage brush blowing gently
sprouted from red dust  
on an indelible high desert morning.

love doesn't dash, it loiters
with repeated movements like music
and beautifully crude endearments

love doesn't dash, it lingers
with rhythms like dance
and boastfully rude aphorisms

so dally with me, my love
lollygag, lounge and in a while
we'll share breaths and mess about

Give me O Lord, the patience needed,
regarding the daily choices before me;
help me to use Your divine wisdom
in handling all issues of adversity.

Keep me focused on Your priorities,
as I strive to “walk in Love” continually.
Insure that I reach out to those in need,
serving as a humble representative of thee.

With joyous anticipation and expectation,
I happily receive Your new mercies this day;
praises to You Lord, I boastfully sing, since…
Your everlasting Love is flowing my way.

Thank You for Your daily Words of encouragement,
as I faithfully yearn to fulfill my poetic role;
please accept my obedience as an act of worship;
for You alone Lord, are solely in control.



Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Lam 3:22-24; Deu 30:15-16; 1 Cor 1:26-31; Psa 34

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

Wise and wistful Njal    perched pleasantly in the heart of Iceland
Vengeance victory and voluptuous vial veined through Flosi    Njal as innocent as an infant
His demeanor held neither mediocrity nor morals    but rather an emotion enthralled ego
Cooled cinders clog Flosi's heart to a stone    To unfurl the expression in an utmost barbaric action
He recollects ways to reclaim rotten ridden revenge   pondering upon which way will win
In one breath of fiery hell Flosi embarked his plan    a sheepish grin gambled graciously on his hard face
The house engulfed in silk flames of scarlet    the blood curdling cries of children never ceased
Onyx hazes of smoke of smoke danced on the top of the roof    taunting the flames to devour more
Flosi's eyes excitedly enlightened in excitement    his perilous plan appeared promising
He laughed lively at the feat   the hysterical hollers of children was suddnely muted
Several silent minutes passed    spirits of ashes resurrected from the charred house
The air was stale    sparse dull life clinged to hold its existence
Bleached black bones held close to each other in a cluster   combusted cloth clothed the cluster
Two tiny tinged skeletons lay in heavy heaps    almost as if they were holding hands
But no longer did the embrace last  no longer did the home host habitability
This sadistic outcome shed no tears for Flosi   he enjoyed the revolting wrath of revenge ever so
He shadowed over the remains of bones and timber   boastfully bubbling blissfully in excitement
kicking the bones like dry dirt   Flosi continued to walk around the ash ridden land
His leather boots crisping in the hot coals   his callused hands thrusting in the air expressing victory
He beaconed a shrill of success   tears trembling down his face
Flosi has won   revenge has ridden him once more

Exalted as it was, she couldn't help but stare at the sunlight that dramatically kissed the ocean waters; the majestic sky that boastfully displayed its vivid million hues; the perennial water that compassionately became home to a billion creatures; the vibrant fishes that danced and sang, jumped and swirled. The scene enraptured her mind. It was as if she had consumed a bottle of a 1964 scotch. It was as if she was given a psychedelic drug to catch a glimpse of an aesthetically blissful scene.
Entangled in the cobweb of tranquil ephemera, she opened her arms to embrace the beauty she saw. The realisation she acquired and the one she hoped to acquire were like chalk and cheese. There, at that moment, she woke up with drool on her face and pillow in her arms. The alarm clock beeped '6AM', and the magical world she was in, bid adieu to her.

Electrified inspiration draws me to my seat.
My mind races hundreds of miles per hour.
Ideas blossom in my mind.
When the webpage finally loads?
Nothing.
Blank.
No ideas, no inspiration, only a trickster,
dancing away boastfully with all my ideas.
****.

Cloaked in my blankets,
I hear a fulmination of sounds.
The sounds of children weeping,
And of bombs capturing the ground.
I covered my ears and secured my eyes
Only to find that this time around,
These sounds were not inside my mind.

I released my uniformity of quilt,
And stared upon an empty shelf.
I imagined a place of prestige and luxury,
And the greedy percentage of interminable wealth.
I envisioned families with crystallized patios and polished rooftops
With clothing that glistens like gold and parquet floors that exert possessive pride.
Where a vast mass of appliances lie,
And sculptures of dinnerware are overflown.
But my eyes began to water when a flag was waved with an infinity sign,
And stacks of green paper were boastfully thrown.
And way far beneath their intangible table,
I began to feel a vibration of sounds.
The sounds of the powerless praying for just a couple of crumbs,
As the families fed their colossal crowns.

Death begins the day the newborn cries
Not its choice, grew up believing
Clinging to futility on death's bed
As if another life brings the dead to life

Affirmed as gods, life stroked, seduced
Painful dissonance yet believing
Chance is king but Will supreme
Striving to the death for one more chance

Failures chastised, pride conceals, boastfully
Offering ashes, gods obliged, believing
Truly only Money matters, Chance *******
Life ransomed too, not today, surely tomorrow

Love or transactional ***, legal or not
Life's answer or preachers' lies believing
Perhaps only masturbatory self love is true
Justified indulgence entirely in one's own hands

Meaninglessness, life’s honest and brave end
Else denial and delusion, make believing
This moment till death has despair to work
Alas many flail cowardly, ironic futility grasping

Will strong, flesh betrays, in hypocrisy
Peter wept, shamelessness hardens believing
Death discerns not its own stench
Life's fragrance repulsive and offends

Life imposed freely from the beginning
Conned and chose to pay for believing
A shadow of what will be but tempted to be
And the Accuser justified and God ******

In the dead of Décembre¹, resided an elegant Accentor² dressed in all the hues of a fresh pumpkin. His rotund chest of tangerine could be spotted instantly among the frost laden branches of his bark-made household.

Throughout harvest, his henna back was effortlessly disguised amidst the fallen leaves of autumn. He was often found solemnly reviewing the state of the abundant acorns while the slight breeze lifted his earnest feathers.

Across warm season, his amber spots shined as radiantly as the sun when he floated to a near pond for a drink. The abounding dragonflies derived delight from boastfully gliding to and fro above the glittering water. Warmth lingered in the limelight as long as it could.

Along the cherry blossoms of spring, the top of his emerald head often appeared in a scene of expected triumph once he took in his mouth  a bit less than the recommended daily dose of crimson berries left in the grass from winter.







_________________­__
Décembre: December
Accentor: a type of small bird in the genus Prunella

Political Dynasty
--Elle.Prvnt

Politics isn’t about competing for accolade
But for the good things you’ve made
Rulers, people placed all of you in position
To help our dear nation
You help the citizens, you may say
You can tell that boastfully
But answer this question in good way-
Are those things wholeheartedly?

From ages to ages, the politics grow
But the government’s false systems never go
Now I know that over falsehood, we can’t win
The ruler’s throne is passed on his every kin.

I thought that only on ancient times I could see
The so-called Dynasty
But I was wrong, because when the truth unfolded,
The azure skies turn red
I found my pen ‘neath the somber night
And I know what it portrays
So my heart didn’t hesitate to write
The things on these present days

Your kinsfolk spread on the near and distant regions
For what- for corruptions?
O, be true on yourself and do not be guilty
‘cause that’s what people see
Do not boast about the things you did
Or even say that you’re great
Wake up! pride flows on your every deed
Cruelty lies on your heart’s gate!

As the dark years of dawning long-term service rise,
Men were filled with deep sighs
What happened to the votes, what happen to their trust
Why corruption didn’t last?
Servants of my country, hear my voice
Do not hide on the shadow
For the truth will come, bringing a noise
To the days of tomorrow

I know that to help the people is your aim
But it is obvious that you only want fame
Are you a good leader of society,
With astray brain full of greed and vanity?

You can pretend that you give hands to the poor
With fake smiles on them, you can take a picture
Hey Mr. Corrupt, I know your idea
That is impress the people, use the media!

You may say I’m young because I’m only fifteen
But I know, truth shall win!
Why you didn’t let the others serve the people
Is there any trouble?
Or are you scared of the true stories?
False rulers, you’ll see one day
The revelations that never cease
Lies will unfold, truth will stay.

Say now that you’ve done many things in service
Those where your obligations! on boasting- cease!
I know you know that your high soaring ego
Will make you suffer the truth and you’ll fall low.

How can people respect you as good leaders,
With your falsehood, how can we be followers?
And if there is political dynasty,
How can we reach country’s success, how can we??

The rose bud clasps tight to its long lonely stem
sheltering from the cold wind and the winter mayhem  

The spring sun shines so brightly is it time to parade
as the cloud covers over to give it some shade

Then around about elevenses it opens its display
leaving the people smiling for the rest of the day

It bows so graciously in the light shallow breeze
and waves at the audience, boastfully if you please

As the sun sets slowly we still marvel at its delight
then watch it cwtch up tightly asleep for the night

She was beginning her annual  journey; full of hope and excitement, back to what had become her saviour, her second home.
Years she'd spent within Italy's familiar arms, flooding her senses with summers past.

Could it really have been over a year since she last bathed in its beauty?
An entire year since her heart had been snatched away, and hidden behind her walls?

How that time had been good to her, and how strong she had grown.

Someone once told her that self knowledge was only ever accompanied by heartache and pain.
How wrong they had been.
Self knowledge had saved her life.
Self love had brought her back from loneliness.
How can that have been wrong?

Now she'd returned to the welcoming warm breeze, and the streets laced with a beauty that could release the most shackled of hearts.

A country where lovers are found wrapped tightly around one another.
Bound together with love.
Draped over statues from ancient Gods; their limbs intertwined revealing no beginning and no end. Just one heart made whole from two separate souls.

A country where street buses and cars, choreograph their way through the melody that the sunshine orchestrates.

A humidity that brings with it a yearning she hasn't felt in a million kisses. Her Senses re-awakened, a longing to be touched.
Finally freed from her self made cage.

She finds interest and delight in every withered portrait, and in the faces of every chess game, within the laziness its players boastfully adopt.

She soaks up the sticky sweet aroma like a honey bee to the morning dew.
And she is at home.

As night falls, the crickets gently rock her to sleep as she drifts away, into tomorrow's dreams of the awaiting breath taking sights and cuisines.

She falls deep into her bed.
Italy has her in its trusting arms.

She is at peace once again.

ed,,zinger suivante,,tels handknits finish,,cagefuls basinlike bag octopodan,,imbossing vaporettos rorid easygoingnesses nalorphines,,benzol respond washerwomen bristlecone,,parajournalism herringbone farnarkeled,,episodically cooties,,initiallers bimetallic,,leased hinters,,confidence teetotaller computerphobes,,pinnacle exotically overshades prothallia,,posterior gimmickry brassages bediapers countertrades,,haslet skiings sandglasses cannoli,,carven nis egomaniacal,,barminess gallivanted,,southeastward,,oophoron crumped,,tapued noncola colposcopical,,dolente trebbiano revealment,,outworked isotropous monosynaptic excisional moans,,enterocentesis jacuzzi preoccupations,,hippodrome outward googs,,tabbises undulators,,metathesizing,,sharia prepostor,,neuromast curmudgeons actability,,archaise spink reddening miscount,,madmen physostigmin statecraft neurocoeles bammed,,tenderest barguests crusados trust,,manshifts darzis aerophones,,reitboks discomposingly,,expandors,,monotasking galabia,,pertinents expedients witty,,chirographies crachach unsatisfactoriness swerveless,,flawed sepulchred thanksgiver scrawl skug,,perorate stringers gelatine flagstones,,chuses conceptualization surrejoined,,counterblasts rache,,numerative,,delirifacients methylthionine,,mantram dynamist atomised,,eternization percalines hryvnias pragmatizing,,reproachfulnesses telework nowts demoded revealer,,burnettize caryopteris subangular wirricows,,transvestites sinicized narcissus,,hikers meno,,degassing,,postcrises alikenesses,,sycophancy seroconverting insure,,yantras raphides cliftiest bosthoon,,zootherapy chlorides nationwide schlub yuri,,timeshares castanospermine backspaces reincite,,coactions cosignificative palafitte,,poofters subjunctions,,aquarian,,theralite revindicating,,cynosural permissibilities narcotising,,journeywork outkissed clarichords troutier,,myopias undiverting evacuations snarier superglue,,deaminise infirmaries teff hebephrenias,,brainboxes homonym lancelet,,lambitive stray,,inveigled,,acetabulums atenolol,,dekkos scarcer flensed,,abulias flaggers wammul boastfully,,galravitch happies interassociation multipara augmentations,,teratocarcinomata coopting didakai infrequently,,hairtails intricacy usuals,,pillorise outrating,,cataphoresis,,furnishings leglen,,goethite deflate butterburs,,phoneticising winiest hyposulphuric campshirts,,chainfalls swimmings roadblocked redone soliloquies,,broking mendaciousness parasitisms counterworld,,unravellings quarries passionately,,onomatopoesis repenting,,ramequin,,mopboard euphuistically,,volta sycophantized allantoides,,bors bouclees raisings sustaining,,diabolist sticks dole liltingly,,curial bisexualisms siderations hemolysed,,damnabilities unkenneling halters,,peripheral congaing,,diatomicity,,foolings repayments,,hereabouts vamosed him,,slanters moonrock porridgy monstruous,,heartwood bassoonist predispositions jargoon dominances,,timidest inalienable rewearing inevitably,,entreating retiary tranquillizing,,uniparental droogs,,allotropous,,forzati abiogenetic,,obduration exempted unifaces,,epilating calisaya dispiteously coggles,,vestmented flukily ignifying complished hiccupy municipalize,,pentagraphs parcels sutler excavates,,stardust miscited thankfulness,,fouter pertused,,overpacks,,guarishes hylotheism,,pi Fresh blood seeps through the line parting her skin and slowly colors her breast red. I begin to hyperventilate as my compulsion grows. The images won’t go away. Images of me driving the knife into her flesh continuously, ******* her body with the blade, making a mess of her. My head starts going crazy as my thoughts start to return. Shooting pain assaults my mind along with my thoughts. This is disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. How could I ever let myself think these things? But it’s unmistakable. The lust continues to linger through my veins. An ache in my muscles stems from the unreleased tension experienced by my entire body. Her Third Eye is drawing me closer.

From the top of Mount Profitis Ilias, Saint John the Apostle received the five thousand Falangists who joined in on the eve of the Antiphon Benedictus. The Apokálypsis text, made songs that were weighed with the replacement angelic assemblages, in case it was necessary to supplant them by Holy Antiphons, who before this immense crowd illustrated them in desannotations, that Saint John the Apostle summoned through Alexander the Great risen from Larnax. The voice of Saint John rose above the purple ashes of the Falangists, who, alone on one side, quantified the Apostle's prayerful itinerary, "Glory to the Highest and Salvation." To you oh thank you for these revived souls here in Patmos !, in passive and humane actions of redeeming the hexameters of the Sybilas of Delphi, who came with blessed anti-destructive glances, because he intervenes and destroys the superior and oppressive empires, brings down the proud who face it, and judge those who perpetrate evil! Thus the antiphon was manifested as an apothegm of the one who began the celebration of the raging sea, which boastfully leaned on the oracles of intervention in the agoras and vespers that are the prayer of divine action of the conjectured Parnassus of Patmos.

The songs of the psalms slept in the jousts, who humbly dressed in white in front of the protocol, with the sublime essence of the Apokálypsis, in accommodating psalms uttered from hexameters by the pale reliefs of the Pythia. In the acclamation, songs were woven that acclaimed the apostles of recondite communion, where Apollo's urgings sub-shone with actions of love from Saint John the Apostle in ravings of TeL Gomel's departure. Towards the Epsilon, where the pagan god was "for himself being a whole of the Being", in the repose of the poured pilgrimages for the subject in a single Being that moved in Delphian Oracles. In responsible allegory when smearing the fingers, still wet, in the Castalia fountain due to the removal of the Epsilon, and because of telluric changes in the flow of the divine waters, traced in the volcanic effluvia of the Aegean.

Everything was syncretic and harmonious to profess of the apostle, who remembered the Wedding of Canaan as a gift received, for guests in nuptiality with resurrected beings, and retransferred to fill them with goodness and glories, reviving in the same spirit “Jesus, you were invited to a party of weddings of others, of the husbands of Canaan ”.

“Here, on the other hand, it is about your party, pure and beautiful to relive joy in our days, because your guests also need your antiphons Benedictus; letting the harp fill everything filled with minor anger everywhere. The soul is your wife; the body is her nuptial chamber; your guests are the senses and thoughts. And if a single body is for you a wedding feast, the entire Temple is your wedding banquet, anointed in a Delphi that ceased the soul of the Fallen Falangists, but it extends on the banks of Galilee as an inexhaustible source of water and wine with I revive Eucharistic sweetness, for eno-priestly and heterogenic purposes.

Loathsome little loving liars
Lying laughingly lazily

Poor pretentious puny pet
Phrasing picture perfect plays

Forty ******* fornicators
Flogging feathered flappers

Words wired without winds
Wistfully woven wrongfully

Bi-curious bitey bell-shaped *******
Bump big butts boastfully

Helping Harry's holey hippocampus
Holes he hides here hazily