I promise this shall be the last poem of thee I've written of thee. And thus I have dedicated all the love I have for thee into this; in the hope that my heart has none of it left after writing the poem.

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood;
Its taint of darkness dripping down like blood-red hearth.
A breeze of morning moves, that we love, has gone;
For a musk of the skies at dusk must have come down.

Come into the garden, my love, and play around with me;
For a bed of love daffodils is on high;
For a set of faint lights is now there to catch;
One breed of lights that we used to play with.
Bring my that green glass of paint, and draw by me,
While I rub thy dark hair on my lap, with my bronze fingertips.

Run around here, Immortal, and give me thy handsome hand;
Thou art the speed and pace I need here to stay;
Ah, I am not detached from t'is world, so long as I have you;
I am charmed, even in the darkest abyss of yon superficiality.
Thou art the fragrance of happiness found in decay;
Strength in the most diminished, and yet distinguished ecstasy;
A fable t'at becometh real in a flight of seconds;
A temptation no maiden heart canst afford to dismiss.
And look at me, now and then and all over again,
I wanteth to look pretty in my ruffle brown skirt,
Just like in my midnight gown on a flowery wedding night,
One t'at we shalt have above the sun, out of everyone else's jealous sight.

Let's dream t'at this delight shall ne'er wear out, and leave to us t'is nuptial potion;
I hath ideas for us and the most sensible of worldly notions;
Naughty as water ripples and the broadening green plantations;
I knoweth now where we canst go and hide our insightful destinations.
Thou wert always running in thy magical shoes,
And t'eir worlds of visions and phantom-like phantasies,
Like woeful but wise extraterritorial dimensions,
A forest of spells and love curses we never knoweth.
But worry not, my dear, for I shall hold thee in both portals,
I'll keep thee safe by my side, I'll keep thee immortal,
So that we are ne'er to be apart, in such a bright love like pearls,
And the petals of roses t'at ne'er swerve again from our fingertips.
We were always inhabited by our little jokes, and moved by an unseen hand at game,
T'at everything was too tranquil even for being a game as itself its nature,
And the whole little wood we were perched on was one world
Of fun shivers, wonders, and plunder and prey,
Oft' at midnight hours we looked at each other so kindly and peacefully,
With eyes mastered by love and tough loveliness,
Thou looked but wholesomely splendid in thy own questioning minds,
And thy brown hair t'at was turned about by solitary winds.
Ah, Immortal! Immortal, Immortal, my visionary love, my darling bird.
And yet, the night knew then, of our tricks and who we were, funny little liars—
Little liars t'at had but a tender love outta' time and space,
And such a gleaming love for one another,
We whispered, and hinted, and chuckled, with an aroma of love about us,
However we'd braved it out, we felt about it glad and not sorry;
We humans of a naughty, devilish, notorious, but sophisticated breed!

Come into the garden, Immortal, for the night bat now hath flown;
The one thou fear, my love, hath left us alone.
And forgive me for my rigid clauses to them;
For I want only to writ' of thee, my darling bud.
The planet of love seem't be on high,
Beginning to pick away its fruitful colours,
And make itself look petrified and stultified,
Like one from abroad, flown in as foreign woodbine spices.
Ah, as though t'is temporal world is not murky enough for us both,
That our translucent breaths are those who survive;
Who remain rustic in this unmerited ordinary world.

Come again, my love, my impeccable darling,
Let's witness what the sonnet's yet to sing;
All we need t' do is pick up a lil' wooden chair;
And breathe the swampy midnight air before we sit.
Here is my poetry, and I'th written it for thee,
Long like the satin seas, and red ribbons made of clouds,
I needst not say it but thou read still, my heart out loud.
Ah, Immortal, the golden gift thrown at one clean snowy night!
And t'ese hidden memories now shine out back again,
For the drifts of the earth we ne'er knoweth, indeed,
And thus who knoweth the ways of the world,
And the surreptitious moves its soil's done,
From morning to night, from one day to another?
Ah, who knoweth 'em all but the Almighty?
Our Almighty, our very Almighty;
t'at breathed into our souls such loving love,
And made for us t'is decent planet, many suns, and one fair earth.
Ah, Immortal, and thou art the son of literature He had to me,
A joy t'at my hands, as He told, outta rejoice,
A glory t'at my faith should find.
Ah, Immortal, thou art sweet, sweet, and too sweet!
Thy sweetness is but an avarice, one bold austerity to me;
Scenic in its grace—a graceful grace t'at is far too restless and undying!
Undying, unweakening, but strengthening, t'at it'll ne'er die!
Ah, for thy sweetness, Immortal, hardly leaveth me a choice;
But to move and fall softly again and again for thee like before,
And thy honey-coloured skin and charms t'at I adore,
Not his, who knows or feels any of me not;
Not him, who is neither courtly not kind;
Not there, who understands not how to write,
to read, nor even to sing.

All night hath the roses heard songs from thy Eolian lute;
And my unveiled violin, piano, and bassoon;
All shrieking and collating in one strange space.
But hear thou, my love, of my shrilling little voice?
An unheard, abashed voice that keeps calling your name;
Your coloured name, that smells like trust
In its euphoric aura and ecstatic plays.
Where art but thou, my Immortal;
That was so close and definitive to my heart.
Where art but our strings, and guitar cords;
That used to rock up our beneficent loveliness?
That kept our hearts in tune, when desperately falling in love,
Ah, I do not want to leave thee still in thy weird dance,
I want to keep thy heart beating with mine and stay in tune;
I want to run with thee into a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the playful lily, 'There is none but one
With whom my curious heart is to be gay.
When will he be free to catch up with me?
I see him day and night and in dreams of my poetry.'
And half to the rising day, low on the sand
And loud on the stone our passion too shall rise;
Keep us cheerful and our heartbeats warm.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that shall ne'er be thine?
'But mine, but mine,' I swore gaily to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine. Just mine.'

And the soul of our fragrant rose sings into my blood,
That Immortal and his lover shall ne'er be apart.
He'll wait for her at night, in one bloodless Sofia;
She'll wait for him 'till such stars fall asleep.
He makes her blessed even in her dreams,
That all the red roses and lilies stay awake to watch their joy.

Immortal and Estefannia, the happiest ones along those summer days;
Are a threat to those soul frayed and vitriolic;
Too stellar to them romantic and idyllic;
Proud and sturdy in their ascetic life.
The best of love of the world's missing beat;
Daintier than any of this summer's bitter heat.
How fate tests their love we shall ne'er know,
but their love stretches as distantly as it can.

Ah, Immortal, tells Estefannia I shall make thee flattered
In sleep, in peace, in conscience, and in hate;
I shall make for us joy though our stories may be late.
Thy eyes are brown, my love, one shade the world's never owned
And thus thy love is valid and new in itself, ne'er worn.

And I shall hear when thy lips wan with despair, I'll be there;
I'll stand there with my basket, a gift from one faraway;
But with a love neither placid nor drained;
Villainous as t'is world is, what a broken wordling;
Like a wailing starling, torn in its calls and frothy desires.
T'ere is no more signal for us towards t'is despaired world;
I shall take thee yet, through the curtains of such speculations;
For 'tis only thy pride t'at lives, and not one soul of thine lies;
And should thou remain alive, my love shall ne'er hibernate,
But sit and trust firmly in its wakeful sleep, grasping thee,
Grasping thee, my love, 'till exhaust allows me no more words,
'Till my own poetry disobeys me like a cloud of putrefied shadows,
Ah, but still, remaining a gross soulless apparition I may be,
With no apparatus trembling 'round beside me,
Wouldst I still saunter myself forwards,
And greet thee in t'at peaceful vineyard;
Play to thee a lullaby and witness thy dreams,
Rocking thee softly against thy own stardoms,
'Till rivers are awake again and alert t'eir inane streams.
O Immortal, it is for better and fairness t'at I love thee,
Ah, but which love is sweeter than mine, or stronger than ours?

For I trust t'at my love is hungrier t'an that of her yonder,
Ah, and t'an t'at loyalty and patriarchy of our sullen armies,
More striking than a ****** dame's pictorial tyrannies,
One too sweet-scented for a hidden mercenary,
I have heard, I know not whence, t'at it but happened to thee;
Thou wert away, thou wert not under my umbrella, beneath me!
Where is Immortal now, for I need to save him again;
My husband in nature, my lover and immortal darling and best friend!

For t'is world is but a holocaust for the believing;
T'ere is, within which, not one pyramid of truth,
For 'tis a place of happy misery, and too miserable happiness.
T'ere is no place like our little Sofia, t'at once we dreamed of;
Filled with rainwater by its armed forces of Bul-ga-ri-ya;
I shall wait for thee there, by the triple roundabouts,
I shall wait for thee before I pray, and seek help from Our Lord;
I hath written for Him warm praises and delicate triplets of words.
Immortal the delight of my life, the dignity of my love;
Immortal the ringing joy of my ears, the gallant sight of my eyes;
Immortal my darling, of whom I write and for whom I sing.
Immortal like the leaves of the suburbs, t'at turn red and shyly bloom,
One that smells like mangoes and two pieces of orange blossoms.
Ah, Immortal, with his sweet red-mouth when eating dangled grapes,
Immortal the beloved of my father, the moon-faced, merriest son of all!

Where is he now? My dreams are bad. He may bring me a curse.
No, there is a fatter game on the moors, perhaps I ought to look for 'im t'ere.
The devil, I am afraid, hath stolen him again away,
I hath seen him not for a time as long as this day's.
Immortal, I want thy bountiful smile, and see thee not ill;
Immortal, tell me t'at thou long for and love me still.

Ah, along those happy days, and fabulous morning thrills,
My heart leapt whenever it caught thy voice,
And thy sanguine embrace when such came near;
Days were but too advanced, I know, and men were tied to t'eir own minds;
But thou kept me calm, with such majestic love and lil' poems in thy hands,
For t'is world is yet too adamant in t'eir pursuit,
Yet I needed thee, and thou came along.
Long had I sighed for a calm: God may grant it to me at last!
Ah, Immortal, a naughty lil' breach of t'is world, and its affairs;
A lil' cuddle t'at laughed and darted merrily all through the night.
Would t'ere be sorrow for me, for what I was feeling?
I thought I sensed only love and none like hate,
For it all tasted sweet and fierce like neverending fate,
A fate t'at we both accepted in one force,
A fate too astounding from our courageous Lord.
I thought thou wert mine, and thou shalt always be mine!
And t'is swirling sensation, when I looked at thee,
Full of teary happiness and chaotic delights,
I did want not t' think of its possible ends,
Ah, violent as Shakespeare might've assumed,
But I wanted to relish and bury myself in it
For such memories of thou had desired.
Immortal, Immortal, and now thou art gone;
But when all t'is world does is to go flexibly round,
Where'th thou think our missing beats can be found?

Warm and clear-cut face, why thou came so cruelly meek;
A cute lil' wonder to my sight—and for my lungs
To breathe stupidly for now and again.
Thou, handsome lad, hath broken all slumbers
In which all is but vague and foul and folly,
Pale with the golden beam with one dead eyelash
Knifed by the contours on one's cheeks.
And t'ere is also, about, the remnants of one's blood,
Dried and unmoving in t'eir death, but too lifelike at the same time,
Smelling ***** like the air rifles t'at just brought 'em all to death.
Death, ah, living t'is life without thee is like death;
All is clueless, breathless and sightless,
All is burning me strangely and from within,
Luminous, gemlike, dreamlike, deathlike, half the night long,
Growing and fading and growing and fading like an edgeless song,
But all too disobeys me, and disappears again as morning arrives,
Mocking me again while showing off its cloud wives.
I am trapped again now, in t'is wonderless dream of thee;
Which is more buoyant and febrile, unfortunately, than death itself,
One darker than even a tragic tear of one thousand years;
Like a heartbreaking scream or shipwrecking roar,
I am walking in a wintry stream all by myself,
And where is my Immortal—for he is not by my side,
He doth not witness the emerging of such sunshine—ah! It is t'ere today, quite early,
One t'at sets t'is darkening gloom all away, and thus we are all born free,
Free, virtually, both our hands and slithering eyes,
But still thou art not 'ere with me to witness t'is joy,
Thou who hath gone and withered like a pale blow of smoke.
Ah, Immortal, but may I hold t'ese rainy memories of thee still;
For t'ey all scorn and spurn as though I am ill;
I who loveth thee sincerely 'till the very end of time,
I who loveth thee with all the clear and vague powers
with which my very soul hath been endowed,
I who loveth thee like mad, I who loveth thee purely without hate;
I who virginly loveth thee like I doth my own fascinated fate.

Lay again, my love, on my longing lap,
I'll sing to thee one favourite lullaby,
And a basket of cherries t'at we picked nearby,
We shall enjoy t'is merriment before I let you sleep.
I shall let you sleep on my lap—a pair of skins t'at love you,
Love you as much as my other skin doth,
A heartbeat and pulse t'at breathe together
And want thee t'at madly, now and forever.

I found thee perfectly beautiful, my Immortal;
Sometimes thy eyes were downcast,
Spiritual in some ways,
And 'twas like thou wert thinking, my love;
Thinking of the upsurging stars above—and t'eir ******* secrets, beneath.
Ah, Immortal, even the vilest idleness cannot be against my love for thee;
My sparkling stars, and the affirmation traced along my heart is about thee;
All about thee, until t'ere is but none left of me,
Thou art the juice of my soul—far too ripe for someone else's heart!
And one, thou art more delicate than the crescent moon we hath tonight;
More shimmery than its ***** and rays of twilight,
Ah, Immortal, how the heavens hath descended thee onto me;
Thou, my love, art the last life and love of my thorough entity.

And t'is poetry shall be thy last enchanting lullaby,
I hope thou'lt sing it when midnight's swollen and sore,
Hurting thee to the pipes of thy very core,
But let's forget not t'at we once knitted awesome stories,
A chain of moments t'at lasts forever, ever, and ever again.
Ah, Immortal, we are back in the afternoon now,
We must though 'tis bluntly hard to say goodbye,
Of which hearts are unsure, but yet must lie,
I shall cry out my last beating love for thee,
But thou dwelleth in what I see, and thus ne'er leave me,
Like a fallen star t'at wants to rise but ne'er doth,
Thou art still the leaf my autumn tree hath sought;
And thou art the shine to my balmy rootless night;
Thou art the apparition t'at appeareth and teasest me after nightfall.

I'll wait for thee again in slippery Sofia,
And my love shall re-unite again with its winds;
Its walls, its havens, its barns like a spellbound purgatory;
For if I am bound to thee, in love and hate and rage and agony;
I'll write thee poems 'till even the universe is asleep.
I'll be cold like thy saluted Bul-ga-ri-ya;
I'll hold thee with 'till the last drops of my sanity;
Ah, Immortal, and in yon high-walled garden I still watch thee
pass like an authorial star;
Thou art as graceful as my own kind-hearted light;
For sorrow cannot even seize thee, my leading star!

Say love not when I meet thee again one day;
For t'ere is no more a desire to learn or admire,
I shall carry my knigh

Sue Venir loved Hugh Biquitous, but he was unreliable, so she confided this to her friend, Di Namic who confirmed he’d been seen with Penny Farthing and Miss Chevous. Then she ran into Ken Tucky, who’d just broken up with Jen Erator, and was known to hang with Mel N. Choly. Together, they and Dan Ube went to a party thrown by Perry Winkle at the house of Dana Point.

Con Valescence introduced Sue to Marine Layer who asked Mr. Tucky to join the conversation, and they’ve been conversing ever since. Lou Kemia couldn’t make the party as he was ill. This was confirmed by Nick Knack who’d been informed by Conrad Alert.

Penny Saver left early, heading over to the home of I. Stan Bul, who was throwing a celebration in honor of Hazel Nuts and Grant N. Aid, who were to be married by Will Power, though Miss Givings, his former girlfriend, did not approve. Celebrants included Buzz Saw, Ma Larkey, Ben E. Diction, ***** Pack and of course Ann I. Versary, who deemed it worthy of being remembered. Tom Foolery was always good for a laugh, which was appreciated by Art I. Face, Dee Vice and Tess Osterone.

Some chose to dine alfresco, notably Flora Fauna, Heidi **, and Ed U. Cate. Barb Ituate was a downer, though Ma Larkey tried to cheer her up, watched by Cliff Hanger who wanted to see what happened, until a dispute arose between Ana Conda and Ann Ticipation, who’d both been vying for the attention of Billy Goat.

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Terry Dactyl was in a dispute with Billy Club over Lilly White because of something Miss Conception had reported after hearing from that duo, Caesar Salad and Reuben Sandwich.

Junior Mints tried to mollify the situation with sugary statements, but was interrupted by Yuri Nal, who said he had to go, and then left with Jay Walking and they were off to congregate with Diane Tomeetya.

At the next table General Jive held court in a warlike mood,  that Cary Cature tried to lighten.  With them were Tex Arcana, whose accent was amusing to Bill Collector, Al Gorythm, Tim Buktu and Marv E. Lous, who always had a great time wherever he went.

By then, Bobby Pin, the luscious seamstress, had given up on Peter D. Out, after seeing him clowning around with Butch Wax and Slim N. None, all of them malcontents and disrupters.

In walked Daisy Chain, newly arrived  from the Southern Hemisphere, along with Sydney Australia. Klaus Trophobic had initially agreed to travel with the two of them, but said he had to stay at home. Frank O’Phile overhead this and confided to Phil O’Sophically that there is sometimes merit to such position.

The restaurant was owned by Ty ****, managed by Chuck Wagon, with the food delivered by waiters Clay *** and Terry Aki , assisted by busboyTara Misou.

The next morning, everyone gathered at the home of Dawn Patrol, who was there with her new husband, Earnest Money, after divorcing Perry Mutual. Deb Enture was her maid of honor.  Nick O’Time was nearly late to the party, driving in with Stu Debaker, via a shaky Uber driver named Manuel Shifting.

Al Acrity was his usual sunny self, but not when Den O’Thieves interrupted his conversation, which was shut down by Kay O.

Sherman Oaks and Van Nuys were late, having gotten mixed up on the location. Cliff Hanger was worried about the falling stock market, and as a result was getting drunk with Jack Daniels. Stan Dup was his usually assertive self, but was overshadowed by the always munificent Cy Pres.

Claude Hopper was dressed in yesterdays’ styles, but that didn’t matter to Dov Tail who  was going into business with Matt Chabox, known for his incendiary personality. They had two other partners to round the group out, **** Ular and Ben E. Fit.

Gar Gantuan loomed large, and was unstable when paired with Mo Mentum, who said in such situations, they needed to involve Otto Matic.

Terry Cloth was wrapped around Jan U. Ary, ogled by Barbie Queue and Coleman Lantern.

Ni zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Sathon russ gayi ae peed marjaani
Zakhman nu fer chhil jaa
Beh ja ankhiyan'ch ban ke paani
Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni

Vekh mere bul'chandre
Fer hansde ne dard bhula ke
Haaseya naal pawe aadiyan
Dil honkeya ton ankh ji bacha ke haaye
Fer mere muhre khad jaa
Taza hoje koyi yaad ni purani

Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Sathon russ gayi ae peed marjaani
Zakhman nu fer chhil jaa
Peh ja ankhiyan'ch ban ke paani
Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni

Langh ja ni rooh vich di
Agg fer ni lahu nu lag jaave
Hathaan utte kar totka
Meri zindagi di leek mitt jave haaye

Ankhiyan'ch neend radke
Ankhiyan'ch neend radke
Langhe chees koyi haddan de thaa ni

Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Saathon russ gayi ae peed marjaani
Zakhman nu fer chhil jaa
Peh ja ankhiyan'ch ban ke paani
Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni

of the kind of person, in an Alcatraz
forbidding continental coagulation,
unlike the Icelandic model,
heaving an asthmatic moral superiority,
caught up in imperialism,
and all that crap of 5 p.m. talk
on an Empire... to then compare these
nationalists, who's nations have been
brushed under the carpet -
to tell them: whatever national pride
you have, we can't accept it,
because after solidifying our empire,
we paved the way for globalisation,
you can't have you pithy nationalism,
we accept Israel as a sovereign state,
but we can't accept you history
as quasi-Israeli - we can't have your
belittling nationalism, due course:
remembering the past -
because we have done away with
with given Darwinism: or as dodo do
as dodo did, as dodo will -
let's curb all human feelings into
designation via: kings and ******,
murderers and prostitutes -
or as said: Britannia rule the world:
or akin to the Chinese: but not this bit...
or akin to the Arabs: Lawrence said:
this bit neither... or as the Russian
said: Siberia off-limits!
or as the Mongol said:
you come here, you smoke ****,
you don't come here and say:
Beatnik! who, the, ****,
said, that, you're, welcome,
and, that's, synonymous, with, landays
and the little horror - and pashtun's
Kabul? as said: Kazakh Soviet,
as said: all Mongol, Soviet -
could you even squirm Alabama Soviet?
no.... you'd scream coco balm
cotton *******!   or ******* do what
                confederacy said you should do:
namely hang... as ****** do.
propagandist? me? sure!
i'll raise my hand in Saudi Arabia
pretending to have stolen something:
my hand for a peach... bargain!
             two peaches and one hand to spare!
i don't believe the west in undermining
continental nationhood,
only because they have mastered post-colonialism
by reducing empire building with
globalisation ergonomics -
              i'm actually apprehensive concerning their
phobias and congregating fears in paranoia
   by suggesting that what once attacked these notions
(they can't even call them nations, they're merely notions,
   and a 100 lawyers for each Francophile)
             was going to morph into geese -
always the superheroes, never the villains -
                  they are - pithy little perverts
****-a-doodle-do -
                                  they love their little
multicultural experiment,
   but they hate their pickled herrings
and their packaging of cucumber pickles -
                    they loath them...
they call them the Palestinian loafers -
shorthand: the Arab cheese strings for shoelaces.
    all because they had an Empire,
and that's alright because Victoria managed to
**** into a throne aged 80 -
                          do i get: well, resurrected
Israel is o.k., but resurrected Poland is
actually **** Germany...
                      **** me! this is going to get a little
bit more than just interesting!

1 Kings 6 King James Version (KJV)

6 And it came to pass in the four hundred and eightieth year after the children of Israel were come out of the land of Egypt, in the fourth year of Solomon's reign over Israel, in the month Zif, which is the second month, that he began to build the house of the Lord.

2 And the house which king Solomon built for the Lord, the length thereof was threescore cubits, and the breadth thereof twenty cubits, and the height thereof thirty cubits.

3 And the porch before the temple of the house, twenty cubits was the length thereof, according to the breadth of the house; and ten cubits was the breadth thereof before the house.

4 And for the house he made windows of narrow lights.

5 And against the wall of the house he built chambers round about, against the walls of the house round about, both of the temple and of the oracle: and he made chambers round about:

6 The nethermost chamber was five cubits broad, and the middle was six cubits broad, and the third was seven cubits broad: for without in the wall of the house he made narrowed rests round about, that the beams should not be fastened in the walls of the house.

7 And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither: so that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building.

8 The door for the middle chamber was in the right side of the house: and they went up with winding stairs into the middle chamber, and out of the middle into the third.

9 So he built the house, and finished it; and covered the house with beams and boards of cedar.

10 And then he built chambers against all the house, five cubits high: and they rested on the house with timber of cedar.

11 And the word of the Lord came to Solomon, saying,

12 Concerning this house which thou art in building, if thou wilt walk in my statutes, and execute my judgments, and keep all my commandments to walk in them; then will I perform my word with thee, which I spake unto David thy father:

13 And I will dwell among the children of Israel, and will not forsake my people Israel.

14 So Solomon built the house, and finished it.

15 And he built the walls of the house within with boards of cedar, both the floor of the house, and the walls of the ceiling: and he covered them on the inside with wood, and covered the floor of the house with planks of fir.

16 And he built twenty cubits on the sides of the house, both the floor and the walls with boards of cedar: he even built them for it within, even for the oracle, even for the most holy place.

17 And the house, that is, the temple before it, was forty cubits long.

18 And the cedar of the house within was carved with knops and open flowers: all was cedar; there was no stone seen.

19 And the oracle he prepared in the house within, to set there the ark of the covenant of the Lord.

20 And the oracle in the forepart was twenty cubits in length, and twenty cubits in breadth, and twenty cubits in the height thereof: and he overlaid it with pure gold; and so covered the altar which was of cedar.

21 So Solomon overlaid the house within with pure gold: and he made a partition by the chains of gold before the oracle; and he overlaid it with gold.

22 And the whole house he overlaid with gold, until he had finished all the house: also the whole altar that was by the oracle he overlaid with gold.

23 And within the oracle he made two cherubims of olive tree, each ten cubits high.

24 And five cubits was the one wing of the cherub, and five cubits the other wing of the cherub: from the uttermost part of the one wing unto the uttermost part of the other were ten cubits.

25 And the other cherub was ten cubits: both the cherubims were of one measure and one size.

26 The height of the one cherub was ten cubits, and so was it of the other cherub.

27 And he set the cherubims within the inner house: and they stretched forth the wings of the cherubims, so that the wing of the one touched the one wall, and the wing of the other cherub touched the other wall; and their wings touched one another in the midst of the house.

28 And he overlaid the cherubims with gold.

29 And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved figures of cherubims and palm trees and open flowers, within and without.

30 And the floors of the house he overlaid with gold, within and without.

31 And for the entering of the oracle he made doors of olive tree: the lintel and side posts were a fifth part of the wall.

32 The two doors also were of olive tree; and he carved upon them carvings of cherubims and palm trees and open flowers, and overlaid them with gold, and spread gold upon the cherubims, and upon the palm trees.

33 So also made he for the door of the temple posts of olive tree, a fourth part of the wall.

34 And the two doors were of fir tree: the two leaves of the one door were folding, and the two leaves of the other door were folding.

35 And he carved thereon cherubims and palm trees and open flowers: and covered them with gold fitted upon the carved work.

36 And he built the inner court with three rows of hewed stone, and a row of cedar beams.

37 In the fourth year was the foundation of the house of the Lord laid, in the month Zif:

38 And in the eleventh year, in the month Bul, which is the eighth month, was the house finished throughout all the parts thereof, and according to all the fashion of it. So was he seven years in building it.

hergün yazıyorsun
diyordu
*** bir iş bul kendine

seni kimse okumaz
bu saçma hikayen de
karnımızı doyurmaz

ütü işinde becerikliydi
koca götlü daphne

sürekli geriye atardı saçımı
zekamla birlikte
üzüm misali karardım
3-5 yıl

sonra kırmızı bir araba geldi
günün birinde long island’dan

kocaman gözlükleri vardı
beyaz önlüklü gergedanların

karga tulumba severmiş gibi
bileklerim bağlı
sedye
tarlasında buldum kendimi

güney
cepheden yağmur yağıyordu
ve
saat 3 yönüne dönüyorduk
her köşe başından

ve hep aynı resim
aynı dişti ağızdan fırlayan

macun reklamı olduğunu
anlamamıştım
ama sonra hatırladım tabii

süt şişesi kalınlığında hemşire
kepinden tanımıştım
kaba etime
zerk ettiğinde iğne olduğunu

sonra bana abuk sabuk
şekiller gösterdiler
gri bir odada

sürekli
soruyordu dolma burun
bu ne
bu ne
peki bu ne
ya bu ne

hep aynı
cevabı veriyordum
çaydanlık
çaydanlık!

yemekler oldukça kötüydü
beyazlar da öyle

ama dostlar
onlar prima
mc.allison vardı b blokta

acayip severdim
güvercin beslermiş o zaman
büyükçe bir parti vermiş birgün
ve kuşları zehirlemiş

down town
sheriff’i bile gelmiş düşünsene

hayli keyifli geçmiş gece
sabaha karşı herkes hastanede

40 ölü var diyordu gülerek
20 güvercinle 40 domuz vurdum

deli herhalde diyordum içimden
sahi ben neden buradayım

altıma kaçırıyordum mütemadiyen
hergün temiz çarşaf
hergün ters yüz yatak
1yıl sonra
kurul toplandı

her yerde çaydanlık resmi vardı
tuhafıma gitmiş
sormuştum bunlar ne diye

hepsi ayrı ayrı dizayn edilmiş
ve hepsi farklı keyif

köşede olana takıldı gözüm
soruları sularken

ama sürekli
o çaydanlığa bakıyordum
sonra anladım

görüyordum
çaydanlıktan
akıyordu beynime daphne

ve maalesef
yanık tütüyordu çenesi
*** iş bul
iş bul der gibi
kuzineden sarkan dili...

Makuri suklon it kalibutan kun dudupahon.
Sugad man kun iihapon it kada bituon.
Baga la hin kasingkasing nga minimingaw,
Makuri pagtungway kun di ka natatan-aw.

Lingia gad, bisan la kadali,
Bisan ha ak' pag-tawag di ka nakabati.
Pipiriton pag guliat hasta't kapagaw,
Kasing-kasing, waray iba nga hingyap kundi ikaw.

Makaruruyag mo nga mata, sugad hin bituon,
Waray kapadis, kamaupay pagkinitaon.
Hinumduman nga hinipos, makuri bul-iwan,
An naglabay nakabasuni la gihap ha ak' dughan.

Uunanhon man pagbiksal tipaunhan?
Kun waray na an ginsusubay nga dalan
Makahiridlaw an mga pulong nga magtam-is
Adton kalipay nga binalyuan hin mga pagtangis.

what does little Ernest croon
in his death at afternoon?
(kow dow r 2 bul retoinis
wus de woids uf lil Oinis

Dreaming in the dream (Broken inception)

-Alexis J. Meighan-
11-12-2013 10:45:45pm

I could try.... Exhale
I could sigh
Read the menu, make my choice
Clear and simple tone in my voice
I make the healthy decision.
The one all the world says work best.
The one the waiter recommended, **** near on knees bent

But yet there's an error on the dish I receive. "That's not what I ordered"
I double checked my choice and even went along with the spectators cohesion, and ample coercing.

"I ordered what you suggested, to be your best
and
Yet I am wrong for being wronged by the establishment's
I need to see your management. This plate of food is an embarrassment
And most of all not what you said I would get"

I ask my mates around the table, a bowl of this is what you praised, yet a plate of Bul+#!t is what she gave
How can you say it is what it is not
When we all want the same dish BUT
Different is what I got and you say its all the same and I assure you madam it is not

Then I am made out to be insane. Patronized!
I am told "we are aware that you believe that you are
entitled to what you claim"
Though the table and server don't feel the same.
I should keep asking for that in-correct entree(They say)

I Demand a bowl of that
Waitress then replies
"yes sir I will obliged"
She returns with plate of this
Again enraged I explain again and again
"That not the F#€@ng bowl of fiddles you keep insisting when I maintain my choice from menu is undermined and obscured with plates of bull$#+t now I want out of this place"

I stand and scowl at all around
throw my napkin on the ground
i can't believe this waitress audacity to mock my effort and good intent
with her insisting insults that my brain lacks presence.
Like I don't know what I want and how to ask.
Exiting the building I look back and I ask
"Are you people all crazy?"
Everyone makes eyes contact to my brow, all wearing mask that resembles cats.

They begin to clap and whistle. And in unison chant
"You can't win, you can't win, you can't win, YOU CAN'T WIN"
I cover my ears and close my eyes then it all stops and to my surprise,
I fix my stare to where I had disappeared to.... Like a dream I am woken in confusion ear to phone,
hearing the unrecognizable babble from a voice in my home.
Then a click, dial tone, a beep as I touch the green button, I raw rush of pain postponed, as it (the sensation) passes,
the calm, the rational, the point where I am aware, that I am alone in thinking I've grown, destitute in comparison to the riches of the idealistic child I saw playing peekaboo with his scars in the mirror,
when now there is always doubt on how we proceed and believe. The doubt that my dreams and my reality, altered state or sober receiving the wrong plate, can it ever get along. always somber from the vast knowledge, always knowing more than I let on.

A good title for a sandy beach, sunset and drum stick, kind of song.

......Xin

hergün yazıyorsun
diyordu
*** bir iş bul kendine
seni kimse okumaz
bu dandik hikayen de
karnımızı doyurmaz

ütü işinde becerikliydi
koca götlü daphne
sürekli geriye atardı saçımı
zekamla birlikte
üzüm misali karardım
3-5 yıl

sonra kırmızı bir araba geldi
günün birinde long island’dan
kocaman gözlükleri vardı
beyaz önlüklü gergedanların

karga tulumba severmiş gibi
bileklerim bağlı
sedye
tarlasında buldum kendimi

güney
cepheden yağmur yağıyordu
ve
saat 3 yönüne dönüyorduk
her köşe başından

hep aynı resim
ve
aynı dişti ağızdan fırlayan

macun reklamı olduğunu
ayıkamamıştım
ama sonra hatırladım tabi

süt şişesi kalınlığında hemşire
kepinden tanımıştım
kaba etime
zerk ettiğinde iğne olduğunu

sonra bana abuk sabuk
şekiller gösterdiler
gri bir odada
sürekli
soruyordu dolma burun
bu ne
bu ne
peki bu ne
ya bu ne
hep aynı
cevabı veriyordum
çaydanlık
çaydanlık!

yemekler oldukça kötüydü
beyazlar da öyle
ama dostlar
onlar prima
mc.allison vardı b blokta
acayip severdim

güvercin beslermiş o zaman
büyükçe bir parti vermiş bi'gün
ve kuşları zehirlemiş

suffolk county
sheriff'i bile gelmiş düşünsene
hayli keyifli geçmiş gece

sabaha karşı herkes hastanede
40 ölü var diyordu gülerek
20 güvercinle 40 domuz vurdum

deli herhalde diyordum içimden
sahi ben neden buradayım
altıma kaçırıyordum mütemadiyen
hergün temiz çarşaf
hergün ters yüz yatak

1yıl sonra
hz. kurul toplandı
her yerde çaydanlık resmi vardı
tuhafıma gitmiş
sormuştum bunlar ne diye

hepsi ayrı ayrı dizayn edilmiş
ve hepsi farklı keyif
köşede olana takıldı gözüm
soruları sularken

ama sürekli
o çaydanlığa bakıyordum
sonra anladım
görüyordum
çaydanlıktan
akıyordu beynime daphne

ve maalesef
yanık tütüyordu çenesi
*** iş bul
iş bul der gibi
kuzineden sarkan dili

wispy clouds
on a blue sky
and a blood-
less sunset, lost on all for now
some despised boys in
cowardly mens bodies
have more bul-
lets than teeth,
yet the chickenshit bites
and mark and
grief they leave
behind, spent
casings litter the
halls of learning
peace, pieces, seething, see the thing
is now, lost on all for now  

so how much hate do you have to harbour, to ****** a child?

yet the clouds of
witnesses stay silent;
no, not the common
man, the common
women, who have
in common with you and
I, tears falling from, my eyes
our eyes, there is
horror, there is shock
there is mouths
open and no air is
getting to the lungs,
a silent scream for
justice, as no one
can bring the children back, memories do not cut the loses,
yet the clouds of
witnesses stay silent; those
seats of power
must be real com-
fortable at this hour
eschewing respon-
sibility, for there
is no gain by get-
ting involved,

the ultimate of pre-emptive fear,
how hard can they be to find leaving a yellow streak
wherever they go, crawling on their yellow bellies.

this is not to be read,
out loud for even the
sound and rhythm,
from anywhere in
world, would break hearts, my heart
cannot make rhyme and reason
about this crime,  see there is
an evil scaramouch, no credit
the pantywaist
deserves, takes on flesh and
payment is required.

What is lost on all for now..
What is lost on all for now..
What is lost on all Africa for now..
The value, the energy,
the beauty, the potential,
the future, there were
musicians, there were
geniuses, there philan-
thropists, there were
artists, * there were poets,*
they were children and
grandchildren, they
were going to be parents,
they were going have
children and that is
lost on all for now and forever.

it's almost sad to cite the 3 most memorable instances i've encountered when, with bulgarian prostitutes, the one that performed oral *** as if it was necessary to perform genital "mutilation": she ****** like she scalped... okay, maybe 4: the one i ****** and gave her an ******... and she tried to express angusih and having "suffered" the ordeal... the one with whom i jumped into ice cold water while she masturbated on a bed... the one i ****** while she was crying, who i really liked for her tattoos... the one i asked about a ***** and how i wasn't really Hollywood to use it... as i sat in a mimic harem: all i did was ask for a glass of water.... apparently i'm past the nerves when it comes to copulating with females outside the sociopathic consideration of a female's worth... the freudian madonna-***** complex rings a bell... can **** a bulgarian ******* like a prized-stallion, but when it comes to social-cohesivess barons of explanation? limp ****. Puerto Rican girls in Amsterdam... fat shaming my ***... watched her interlude by ******* into a plastic bucket... while her black page boy made an errand, bringing me beer...  but the bulgarian prostitutes of Goodmayes who pretend to be romanian? worth the 110 quid an hour. i even like the word, if you dissect it: bul-gar.

- modern english -
                     past the acronyms:
   people talking in cipher.
            
      imagine: the immediate hard-on...
the silence of the ***
  with only the woman having a reply...
the onomatopoeia of broken
consonants
attached to clingy vowels and H, A...
                     a sigh of relief?
                                               hardly...
it can be really intimidating
   sitting in the lobby of a brothel...
there's one of you, and there's 7+ of them...
     and you have to make
a "choice"...
              so you ask them
the heretical insinuation:
              and they reply: you can't
do that...
               so you pick the talkative one,
because:
   well... **** it...
you pointed in the "right"
                              direction, let's have it.

            i sometimes remind myself
of a child that grew up with dogs...
   but then i realise i own cats...
  but then i make a fetish out of owning
a dog once more...
        but then i look people "walking"
a dog and see the *leash...
             **** that...
         at least with cats i can be lazy.

    blúthūnd = maine ****, id est:
             clingy *******,
                 thistles of the animal kingdom;
might as well sing & dance
          to blue suede shoes with them
to try, and shake them off...

                  diacritical marks?
    non-specific, merely:
                        punctuation from above.

My Grandfather,
with his bare hands
built that house on our
fertile land,
were I was born and did reside
and there it stil does stand.
Rite on the borderline
of Greater Manchester
and Merseyside.

Since the day I could walk
and way before I did talk,
I'd help a little
with sickle and pitch fork,
and I'd watch the workers
like a hawk.

One day I'd reached my prime,
my farther said I'd  come of age,
and then at last came the time
for me to get my first ever wage.

"Now its time for you to get paid
(Great maybe now I'll get laid.)
Have a think about investing
(does not sound interesting)
In some great machine
like a tractor,
so your workload does lessen"
(Or maybe I'll live the dream
and get on X factor,
now I can pay for a singing lesson.)
                            
"You tended well to our crop
a bumper harvest you did yield.
Best we've had for years
Good on ya son."
"Great now I can sit on the Kop
always wanted to see Anfield
and go out for beers
around Goodison!"

I got dressed up to the nines,
on a sunny day ,in the finest Lacoste.
Here come the good times
In the big city I got lost.

Thier was some kind of parade
for those with pride.
I was given a serenade
by a chap with his hair dyed.
"Have no fear come in for a beer
you dont have to be queer
all are  welcome here."
Was not sure what that implied
but I said thanks and went inside.

First place I'd been in Liverpool.
Bunch of lads inside playing pool.
I picked up a que
and asked could I play to,
they were not cool            
"Who the hell are you?"
I did not sound Merseyside
so they took me for a fool.

For what it was worth I tried to explain.
"Only had to bunk six stops on train.
I'm local enough so dont complain.
I'm the man that grows your scran,
digging the earth in the pouring rain."

"Stop your bul you wool,
you sound like some kind of manc,
we'll give your ars a spank!"

I  was not sticking around for abusing.
I downed my tonic
and out the door I did walk.
Although I did find it amusing,
and somewhat ironic,
that a scouser could take the ****
out of the way anybody did talk.

Feeling dejected and worried
I'd almost come to harm
I went back to work on my farm
to the Job I'd hurriedly rejected.

But then the nights did draw in
and it did start to get colder
and again I felt my life was boring,
need to live a little before I get older.

Had enough of merseyside
with thier closed off unions.
I'll try my luck on the other side.
I'll go meet the Mancunions.

Yes its going to be great,
yes I'll have a night to remember.
I'm on the lash around Deansgate,
on the twenty fourth of December.

Strait in first place I saw
It looked all I'd hoped for
and more, top draw.

They had an event of some kind
seemed to me it was for charity.
I'm not usually one for morality
but twas night before Christmas
so I did not mind.

A fundraiser for the down and out
refugees that were homeless and brasic.
Some were prancing, call it dancing,
others just hanging out.
The juke box was banging out
a Stone roses classic.

"Pint of smooth."
All stopped to move,
I felt the needle scratch out of that groove,
and no creature was stirring In that public house
not even a mouse...
When I say nothing was stirring
thier was three hundred pair of eyes
that did stare at me  from all sides.
But you know what I'm saying.
I open gob, record scratches off,
stops playing,
and no creature was stirring
in that public house, not even a mouse
and the barman, he looks at me and he says.
"Are you Scouse?"

"No bro
I meen no are kid
and I'm here to spend
doe you know so
dont flip your lid."

"Whats that you said?
What do you meen
what am I doing here?
I'm Lancashire!
Born and bred
I'm out thier in my wellies
watering turnips to keep
you townies fed!"

"I'm not on tour
I'm no pretender."
Was going well for me
until they all saw me
take a selfy
outside the Haçienda.

In these modern times
most try our best
to be excepting of the rest.
Strait, gay, white or brown,
but I say its just as important
to extend that hand of friendship
to those in the next town.

For after all,
if we got together
and gathered our masses
we would surely be the most awesome,
the very best.
We.
The great working classes
of Englands North West!

There was a time of brute force
Where a poet was the beast
And a woman the evil cry
All made song all pagan glow
Bul Lo the mistress of hate
On a carriage she came
Preaching respect over a river
trully made of blood
With floating dismembered flesh
Carrying a song
Now it is all a desease
What humans feel
Remember what cruelty is
Kind complex mind

I'm stronger than twisted mother ***** who have no clear idea who they want to be.
What limits do I should show. My evil side of me has a mind of its own.
My anger turns your vision into blindness.
My evil side has no heart only twisted lies scars wounds that never singe.


My evil side plays games like a oijia board gone horribly wrong.
Your ideas become twisted games  turning dangerous with no way to turn back and run.


My evil  side is stronger when you manipulate  break take every thing of me. My evil side feeds on your misfortunes it feeds off your own stupidity it feeds on all your horrible remarks insults lies. My evil side only grows stringer from your twisted bul **** and your stupidest ucks

Benedict Canyon lived with Beverly Hills and stepson, Van Nuys. P. Nut was golfing with Beau Peep, and suggested that Van join them. He declined as ***** Nilly had another foursome with Ali Mony and Mary Land.
        General E. Speaking was at the club, holding forth in his stentorian tones being raptly observed by Al Dente, I. Stan Bul, and if you can believe it, Pia Nissimo.
Moving through the room in search of her next sugar daddy, we encounter Miss I. Sippi, clinging closely to Di Namics on the same prowl. They homed in on Junior Mint, sitting with Al Hambra, Scott Free and Terri Yaki. Val Halla and Buzz Saw introduced themselves to the group, when suddenly Grant Deed fell to the floor, inebriated, stopping the conversation. Marv E. Lous, Mel Ifluous, and Murray Hill carried him, snoring to an easy chair and laid him down.
Cut to Hazel Nuts who was aghast, and turned to Leo ****, making the comment that Buck Wild and Claude Hoppers must have gotten him drunk. Slim Chance begged to differ, asserting it was Gus To, trying to get back at Vin Dictive, who had burned him in a property deal with Grant Deed.
        Ben E. Ficial was amused by **** U. Lar, notwithstanding the looks of Luke Warm and Bea Wildered, who were fearful Buck Wild was going to start a fight with Steve Dore.
        Earnest Money ventured over to Tony Neighborhood, but was shocked at Ana Rexa’s appearance, so he notified Conrad Alert, but Minnie Mise tired to quiet his alert, saying that Tab Oo, who seemed to have the run of the place, demanded the same. Observing this, Martin I said “I need a drink” and corralled Tim Buktu into buying him one.
Tess Osterone was surprising laid-back, maybe that was because his pal, Sandy Beaches, put her at ease. Minnie Appolis, just back from Minnesota, got into an intense discussion with Ruth Less and Mort Ality. I don’t think they like each other.
        Kitty Hawk flew into a rage at smelly Pete Moss, locked into deep conversation with Al Falfa. They both needed a shave and a wash.
Miss Anne Thrope was her usual depressing self, but thank God, she found Ty Lenol to lift her spirits somewhat. Millie Meter went the extra mile for Minnie Van, who struggled to figure out what Al Botross was up to with Tom Foolery.
       What to do with Dewey Decimal, boring everyone who all had his number? So Al Buquerque took charge and invited Hugh Tensils, Ben A Drill and Manuel Shifting to bring him out of his shell.
       Hazel Nuts, surprisingly matched well with Terry Aki, and Mac Rame Teased Mac Arena with a little dance. Ray Ban was a shade introspective and diffident, but had to engage when Polly Ester chatted him up. Take a look at Maxwell House, coffee in hand, who congratulated Gene Splice on his recent editing award. Dorit Os munched on the hors d'oeuvres with Cal Ameri.
       Teddy Bear was his cuddly self, and had a good laugh at Tom Foolery’s antics. It has been ages since Ron de Vouz heard the mellifluous sound of Hugh Kelele’s voice and they immediately embraced.
        What a quartet --- Ma Larkey, Rich People, Oz Mosis, and Ray Vaughn, all who stayed late, always the life of the party.
Perry Patetic moved around the room as though his pants were on fire. Everyone felt sorry for Des Titute: who wouldn’t?
There was Rose Bushes, in the midst of a thorny divorce, to which
Geri Atric could relate, as she had been through the same with Gus T. Winds, who had been represented by the mean lawyer, Ty Rade, who also happened to be present with his chief investigator, Al Ibi.
       Van Couver would not stop extolling the virtues of his native country, so Marshall Amps turned it up to 11 and drowned him out. Finally, Will Power stepped in to tone it down, as Eva Dently was going to leave otherwise.
        Billy Clubs and Lance Corporal stood around menacingly, but it was just for show. Meg A. Phone hit on Jackson Hole. I couldn’t tell if she was getting anywhere. The last to leave were Tex Mex and Dawn Trodden, who had nowhere to go. Cliff Hanger sighed and said he’d be back next year.

My name, is, Maw Che De Hulla

My brother is Dougain Abdullah

I live in Kanturk

Using pseudonym Burke

Because my father Is-Stan-Bul the Mullah.

/mainly because the study of chemistry is, surd "optional"; i.e.: you never really mind to think of Ar as argon... given the organic chemistry maps of a travelling electron: no wonder! my last refuge... ugh... poetry.

come to think of it...
   it's beyond me
how a single word,
can invoke a sense of power...

when dissected into
syllables...

  namely?

                                 van-dal...
or
                        bul-gar...

because­ the usual,
formal punctuation aside...
you're left with
a language that's: elemental...

and not, subatomic
   doing baby steps of
minding the alpha-beta
  mentality of
continually deconstructing /
reducing
(deconstructive-reductionists):

realising that: there really isn't
a void...
         that nature doesn't
exactly waste...
   a sun is recycled
              into a black hole...

before the gods might speak
through me...
   let the ancients chime
                      unison in choir...

base root,
             luminous cradle...
      the dirt behind my fingernails
as i dug out
   an archaic bed,
to wed the sparrow to death,
and a life: that became this
future, of a recurrent thought.

i know what a linguist is...
mostly the natives...
  digging into a cul de sac of
the inherent, given...

         so... moving along...
               it's not exactly a juggling
act with bilingualism...
  but so much less of a headache
compared to the bisexuals...

                        that being said:
people avoid dialectics like they
avoid fire -

    vector subsequently coordinate
dissoance?
                     frivolous...
                             the word: god...

i see the sound...
         never mind the letter arrangement;
that's always been secondary...
   which is why i'm so trivial,
                                     pithy(?)
expressing my disdain
   on par with:  ????????????????????????????????????
typos!
              ­            (? = that's how long
it took me to untangle
the crossword of my vocab. memory,
grave - inclined to suggest ditto)
    
    can't blame a hunchback for
            procreating up-right children...
but at least you can teach
some of them to... bow (bough) -
          only in english can this
be spectated...
                                  the subtlety:
that how-wow...
         minus a barking rottweiler...
in a missing "tooth" -
   subscript...
                              if this pixel platrom
could allow me...
i'd write in a subscript A into
   the sort of              bow i insinuate.

what do you call three girls passing
a hooded man in
the suburban labyrinth of england?
don't know in all honesty,
as i don't know what to call an
insomniac crow, mid-flight croaking
    in the night...
let alone perched on a cranium-like
representation of synapses
     conjured from a vinterbaum...
against a canvas of a cul de sac:
  a malfunctioning street lamp...
          hey presto! disco!
       have the strobe in there and all
that's missing is donning a wig of dreads...
at this point it would make sense
to bring stories back from
      Thailand...
                     ******* strobe...
   keeps irritating me like a magnified
insect blinking...
      or is that what you call a
coin-flip to coin a phrase or is that
slang, or is that:
            last time i checked the bul-gar
prostitutes
                 were not thai-trannies...
lately: i've come to understand
       crux signum as
                    pilate manibus...
              to have washed one's hands
is equivalent to have paid
the dutiful petition worth of prayer...
             there are actually two instances
to learn from on the basis of
image crafting...
        the over-exemplified crucifixion...
or pontius pilate washing
his hands clean, expressing
a form of: gambling...
          the acronym m.g.t.o.w.
                is an antithesis of gambling...
but there's still a privacy of requested
imitation...
             it's one thing to carry
one's own cross, toward Mt. Hamlet /
Golgotha...
                   and another to
consider moral hygiene...
         Pilate is "what" spawned Descartes...    
sorry, pronoun disco...
              i.e. the prominent
                  artefact of expressing doubt...
   and he washed his hands clean of
the matter,
          so that a body might be blodied:
suffice to say...
             masochrism...
              a ******* with a crucifix...
a second pontius pilate must have
been spawned after the nag hammadi
library emerged and the forgotten
lament of an alexandrian libraria...
   as much as the lament of
  what Genghis left of the Baghdad library:
skull upon skull,
                   and ash instead
                                        of book.
i know the lesson,
    in that i also know who conjured
an iron maiden...
        but as the matter stands:
     better to imitate pontius pilate,
                                    than to imitate crux;
for all its worth, a reminder of
   what the old slavs whisper:
                           but what of joseph?!
ah the romance up to the age of 33,
              but what of rigour and strictness
combined with discipline?
          suddenly: ave maria...
                           and joseph... in a gutter.