I like a whole lip-smacking smorgasbord of words,
such as preposterous and scrumptious,
sumptuous and curious,
roiling, rambunctious and trumpeting,
priapic, satyric and seraphic,
satyriasis and mimesis. Now this mimesis is the imitative
representation of nature and behavior in art and literature,
which is a pretentious way of trying to say what us writers do.
But hey, we don't just mimic things,
we can be sagacious and salacious, too.
Accordingly, I also like *******, which has a liquid sound,
and I'm not being facetious to suggest that
******* has a close connection to callipygous.
Then, for those who are suspicious of the libidinous,
I also like curmudgeonly and bodacious,
loquacious, precocious and pulchritudinous,
lubricious and fugacious,
scripturient, radiance, iridescence and magnificence,
lissome, lithe and languid (but not too limp),
shimmering and diaphanous, effulgent and evanescent,
flamboyant, fandango and flibbertigibbet,
(although this is difficult to say when you’re drunk),
voluptuous and vertiginous, slithery, **** and glistening.
And when I include crepuscular, strumpet and strawberry,
I may as well add whipped cream
as well, because this can be laid on in dollops,
and dollops is really an excellent word
along with slurping and *******, too.
Actually, I'm very flexible about words,
because in my lexicon, low moaning noises are OK, too.
These sounds come from the chord of creation
which is a sort of reverberation from the time of
primordial ooze, which I would like to squish between my toes.
Then there's protozoa, spermatozoa and also
wriggling flagella everywhere. So there.
But words don't even need to make sense,
because sweet nothings can say everything,
and heavy breathing can be ******,
even rhapsodic, ending in delirium.
Titillating should be in here too, because we all need
some tintinnabulation and tickling of the senses sometimes.
I've also decided that fecund is my second favorite word after love.
Fecund sounds abrupt, but it buds magnificently
in ******* and bellies to burgeon in absolute abundance,
everywhere. This brings me to *******, which I like, too.
I'm also partial to proud words, including bold, bulging and
brazen, along with a bit of swaggering braggadocio.
Then I like some big words, like brobdingnagian,
although I hope I'm not sesquipedalian.
Salivate is a word to celebrate as well,
along with onomatopoeia that helps choose some words here.
Drooling is highly evocative, too,
and it's not being provocative to observe that
even weapons drool when they're in the wrong hands.
And I shouldn't leave out *******, as you would expect,
because ****** is a sort of rippling word
that rhymes with spasm. Both sound deceptively simple,
but by golly, they can be intensely gripping.
And really, it's alright to writhe to this occasion
because all of us writers should endeavor
to have some good writhing in our oeuvre.
Even some bad writhing can be lots of fun, too.
But I almost forgot to mention yearning and burning (with desire)
and vulviform, velvet and venerous.
Yippee, yee har and hollerin' along with other exclamations
of exhortatory exuberance should be in this index, too.
Now. The words I don’t like include no, can’t, never,
stop and mustn’t. Also, irascible and intractable,
unmentionable, ineffable, inexpressible, incoherent,
immutable, impotent and impossible.
Then I don't like importune and misfortune,
and I don't know who thought up unthinkable,
because this is an oxymoron.
Inscrutable is also a complete cop out,
especially when there's no such word as scrutable.
Gawping, gaping, cavernous and cretinous, obsequious,
grovelling, pursed lips, circuitous,
obfuscation and isolation, unpalatable,
cruelty, tyranny and hypocrisy,
should also get the heave-**.
And I definitely don't like parsimonious and mendicant,
which are miserable words.
Quitting doesn't get there either,
and shut the **** up and ******* should also be taboo.
Also, hopeless is, really, well, it's hopeless
because it denies hope, and hope is buoyant and boundless.
I mean, sometimes hope is all we have.
But the word I dislike most is ****,
because this is an insulting word, and
to be taxonomical,
the negative score of this word is astronomical.
Hate is also right up there on this list. Hate is abominable
because it tries to destroy love, and love is indomitable.
Indomitable
is the
mightiest
word
of them all.
Yeah. So there.

Mike T Minehan

Love's bled,
Fear's fed,
So full of empty discouragement.

Lazy,
Jaded,
With emotional baggage

Tethered to tension
Smothered by obsession,
Stifled are desires
Damage in a vacuum.

Pulsing in this septic puddle,
Sick and stuck and still to struggle,
As I burn in morbid boredom,
I must purge before I Burgeon

Burgeon purge

someday i’ll be too busy to notice the vampires
the sun wakes me up and i know who i am
maybe the chaos will always be there but
i’ll find a way to break it down into mulch and grow
pears and herbs and gardenias from what’s left of me
it takes a while to accept that the shadows matter
and i can’t pretend to know the watermelon lollipop
without the tongue that exists only to melt it away
to turn it into nothing until all that’s left is a paper stick
it might feel like freedom now but it can’t forever
i’ll pull down the curtains and never snooze an alarm again
the worst thing i can think of is writing the same poem
each day for the rest of my life and everyone knowing it
but me

i was born all naturally
formed in a lax factory
im actually
a hack with ******* in my nose, practically,
every day,  haphazardly
stumbling home, half asleep
i cant tell whats happening
vision begins blackening
im whack like kriss kross
crack like rick ross
major brown boy to houston
be like, "yes, we have liftoff"
dont like me when i'm *******
cause *****, i'm bruce banner
or maybe i'm bruce wayne
either way, i got mad manners

tearing down walls like berlin
preaching like its a sermon
potential begins to burgeon
i'll cut you up like a surgeon
killing in place of coercion
so you better lower the curtain
my head and my body are hurtin
so tell me how quick does the world spin?

i'm taddling on ya, you can call me a toddler
but the snitchin n' **** is somethin im never fond of
and i never grow up, cause i'm the neverland smuggler
peter pan turns into one of my best customers

i never grew into my head, im not cocky
never had the eye of the tiger, im not rocky
growing up i never got in fights or caused a lotta ****
but presently im screaming "**** the world", i've got a bone to pick

i've gotta problem and i think its the probable cause
you hold me captive, keep me trapped in your facets of laws
looks of repulsion are what cause me to brandish my claws
constant compulsions reminiscent of prodigal flaws
i've gotta problem and i think its the probable cause
see im a goblin shark i'll sink in my nautical jaws
im not a joker im a jester with lesser facades
wrought with insomnia cause drugs are american gods

Everyday,
I've gazed upon your enchanting visage.
Not the most beautiful of 'em all,
but there's something spellbinding
about you.
Like an iridescent pearl inside of an oyster.

Everyday,
I chant magnificent lyrics,
hoping that you could hear
harmonious melodies
that you've bestowed
unto my heart.
Beating --- slowly ---
at the march of your drum.
As if our hearts
are tethered as one;
intertwining our fate.

One hollows eve,
you've seen something special in me,
so you took a pair of scissors,
and cut my stem
from this rambunctious thicket.

I loved the feeling of your hand.
Warm, tender, yet firm.
It contrasts the bitter air
that latches onto your skin,
making its hairs stand on its end.
I could've made you feel cozy,
but sadly,
I didn't.

You took me to places
that makes my eyes water
every time I reminisce
about
us.

Do you still remember
when we went to the beach
with white sands
that feels like soft powder
on your skin?
A sunset that looks like
a vast canvass
watercolored with intricate brush strokes
of saturated rose quartz',
lilacs, and oranges.
Palm trees lined up for miles.
We've Imbibed on ardent spirits
while looking at the ravishing scenery.
How I've ached for this moment
to last
for more than one's own sweet time.

We headed off to your apartment.
After we've entered,
we took our jackets and scarves off
before heading to your kitchen.
You made hot cocoa
with tiny bits of marshmallows for you,
and iced americano for me.
We looked at each others iris'
as we talked for hours on end,
about life's devious plots.

Those eyes---
It's gentle, but at the same time,
you could see a great inferno
burning inside those scintillating garnets.
I know that it's a little unnerving,
but I'm having a hard time
resisting this unquenchable urge
to stare at it.

After our extensive heartfelt conversation,
silence filled the room.
Silence so sharp and numbing,
it could shatter glass.
In a heartbeat,
you've extended your hand,
so I held it.
Casted me a bewitching gaze
that made my heart skip a wallop.
Your cheeks turned into a florid tone,
and the nipping air
started to seem tranquil.
I could only feel this longing desire
of lovingly interweaving with your threads,
and so did you.

Stumbling about,
you dragged me into your balcony garden,
took a final look at my dilating visors,
before you started to inch towards my face, and clasped your cold, tender lips against mine.
My mind turned crepuscular,
as I held your waist tightly,
pressed my weight against yours,
and fervently kissed you
between this ragged concrete wall.

We slipped out of our clothes
like snakes shedding out of its skin,
and sprawled it all over the algid floor.
I carefully laid you on the sofa,
and gently nipped your delicate,
fragrant neck.
You dug your nails passionately
on my shoulder blades,
as I necked you from a gentle
to a rough pace.
Maybe I went too hard,
hence the noticeable congelation.
My lips slowly traced her neck,
down to her navel.
I could feel pain crossed with pleasure,
as you harshly tugged on my mane
while I gorged on your grand banquet.
We sat up and tightly embraced.
You enlaced your legs on my waist,
as I've cautiously entered your temple.
My love, we're one at last.
I could hear your gentle moans
as we heaved and weaved
through this concupiscent atmosphere
that we've invoked.
The longer this lasts, the more I could feel our bond growing stronger.

Two suns
finally reached its eminent zenith.
We laid on our backs,
desperately catching our breath
while laying on a puddle of perspiration.
We've gazed at each others' eyes,
and let out fits of giggling.

If only I knew that this would be
our final jocund moment together,
I would've savored it more.

Woke up with a note
stating that there's breakfast on the table.
Runny sunny side eggs, buttered toast,
and pan seared cherry tomatoes.
I would've ate
if you blessed me with you presence,
but I don't have the appetite
to break my fast at this instance.

I dressed myself, and grabbed my jacket
before I left.

Dusk turned into dawn,
and there's no sign of you.
I keep texting and ringing you up,
but to no avail.
I ended up falling asleep,
while looking at our pictures on my phone.

At my favorite café,
I was enjoying my morning brew,
but my vision turned blue,
when I saw you holding another rose.
Hastily, I ran up to you.
I was expecting a warm welcome,
but all I got was a cold shoulder.
You pretended that I was just another
blockhead rambling about.
After you brushed me off
and went your way,
my chest ached and my aqueducts opened to let excess tears gush out.

Every 3:00AM I wake up
to my heart thundering
and cold sweats;
turning breathing into a herculean task.
Memories starts to flood in.
I'm at my wit's end,
clinging onto the last fibers
of my sanity.

Gradually, my petals started to wilt.
Petal by petal
they fall off,
swaying in the air's gentle cradle,
before landing on autumn leaves.

Everything about you torments me,
but I'd rather stay,
than live without you.

What kind of monster are you?
You gave my world color,
when everything was monotone.
Left me without admonishment
about my cruel predicament.
Left me on the sidewalk,
feeling like trash.

Now everyday, I think about you.

Everyday, I long for you.

Everyday, I love you.

Everyday--- I'm dying slowly.

Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /

Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /

Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /

(—Se' lah)

From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I will finally be beautiful.

The marigolds that will bloom will not flee and vanish from the glow of the sun
They will aspire and capture its power, ever basking in its majesty unlike all that I have done
For they are enduring and evergreen, quite a contradiction to someone always on the run

Helianthus will burgeon from my corpse in the Autumn, cordial, acquiescent and jolly
Luminous hues of gold, superiority in the form of a blooming seedling, free of worldly folly
Irresistible to butterflies and feathered creatures, who shall evermore adore the perennial dolly

Snowdrops with delicate pedicels will pepper the frost polishing over my long corroded flesh,
An impeccable ability to synthesize with the world effortlessly, so that I may at last mesh
Nevermore will I acquiesce to let the world negligently toss me about, instead the world will thresh

Irises in the spring will be next to transcend, ripe with nonconformity rooting from their eccentric peridot petals
For the world encompassing them may be wrapped in blissful ignorance, but  they will forever hesitate to settle
They realize that life is for naught, putrescence is inevitable, so why even make a vain attempt to mettle

As sure as the sun will ascend, the summer will materialize, and the sun's glimmer will rage from dusk until dawn
For the world will strive on, long after I am gone, and my effulgence on the Earth is perpetually withdrawn

I am not fearful of death because in death there is ignorance and blissful uncertainty
From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.

“You are a cynosure and I a modest demure man,
I cannot be accordant with the crowd you have,
You a cynosure beauty of elegance and wonders,
A woman of higher standards and I very simplistic,

Can such a person take interest in me what may it be,
Is she mindlessly judging me as an equitable man?
By sweet emotions thoughts reflected as irises burgeon,
From her head to toes I kept on admiring this divinity,

Is her heart for love that like a thorn with no rose?
Or mitotically lovely when in love as seen before all,
She would not be able to conform to me it would be I,
Could my simplistically standards sway her to me,

But why do I blame myself that she took a liking to me,
I imagine her hands touch the earth and the roots dilate,
Sprite knows deep quintessence of water and the earth,
We then conjugate together like an equation of loam”
By A. Guzaldo 07/21/2018 ©

A Mass Inversion.

I have lived to witness an Apple
become a juggernaut
see the followers nod their heads in belief,
walking segregated on the streets
unaware of their own worship.

We have not yet realized
that the largest religion in the world
is no longer faith based,
technophiles fill our rural
and metro quintessential sprawl.

Their numbers swell
and burgeon with new converts
that give funding rank and file,
whom are taught to know indulgence
in name only, mistaking desire for need.

This technology based obsession
is without age or gender restrictions,
without race distinction,
it asks not for ethics,
       pride,
morality,
intelligence or privacy.

It is all-consuming
just as any ideology-
as any religion,
answering the same fervent questions,
demanding tribute and changing the way you think.

-

The View Outside.**

Among the whole, the slow mass conversion,
there is occasional dissension,
some who glorify a golden era or fill with nostalgia
for something they may not have even experienced,
an immaterial escapism of the present
furthered by a childish inability to accept ephemerality
and our irregular morality.

Sometimes amid this denial,
this abstaining,
there is a seed of anger that grows with gnarled roots
that twist throughout with nary a cry or shout.

It is a quiet anger,
unconditional and baseless but for an intensity,
a burning sense of being wronged,
an infection that spreads without exception.

And when your self-righteous halo eventually slips to catch
in your now flapping jaw,
your anger will fade as you choke on hard etched resolve.

Calling Spring North,
Chirping buds to burgeon,
Teetering in rain that turns to sleet,
Clutching black, wet branches,
Feathers puffed against the chill,
Cocked heads seeking sleepy worms,
Side glancing carefully the neighbor's cat.

These red-breasted birds
Chortling in the morning sun
Precurse Spring,
Sing cheer to me.

Though I, no longer young,
My Autumn just begun,
Winter coming on,
Life's seasons only last a while.

I have a Savior,
Who has gone before,
Endured cold Winter's death,
Calls me to Spring,
Beckons me to Summer....

.
she stood barefooted
and feeling so beautiful
staring out
the frosty
daybreak window
          
visible breath ,
enslaved by a kiss ,
a clouded waft
exhaled
between chapped lips ,  
as smeared tracks
of dripping freshwater pearls
slide down the little pane glass

             the downward trickles
             stirring tingling goose bumps ,
             pushing out
             blossoming
             fighting gravity ,    
             as the chilled air spills
             upon
             sleepy toes
             and naked smiles 
           
             enigmatic eyes
             penetrate through
             the beclouding
             sighs released
            
passion wanes gently
with night’s fleeting shadows ,
the sandman still lingering ,  
yet gazing shamelessly
at intimate breaths visible rouse
        
starry eyes recycling blind hope
like the lightly arising steam ;
      
             the glistening
             frost heave’s sparkle
             just outside the window ,
             where the dawning light
             a single morning sunbeam ,
             enkindles a renewed shine

                         aglow 
             
             tantalizing
             untamed diamonds
             burgeon like splendor
             faceted dreams ...


                         *Wild is the Wind

water's gravity
moors me to this dome's prison.

washing me to plush blue
is the dream of hands
that puts me out of my sleep's premises.

the bane of existence tingles
the flesh and the suds rise
altogether with the squalor
of its own meaning.
my old hue languishes into
a burgeon of slosh and no friction
nor word could rupture me anymore.

and the scent dangles
mid-air, where all perfumes are born, with sorry fountainheads
peaking through the ordeal
of this sonata.
water makes music with skin
as froth takes to sea, the exhaustion of brine -
all disquiet in foreword
and finality

hung clean, in the backyard
of ordinariness, of consummate asepsis and its breakable concepts,
  ready to be worn out
by a day's grime and back to
its fate once more, all of us.

BEEP,BEEP!
PA-SHUU!
UUUURK!

Urban cacophony
conducting a
eulogy
reminiscing of the burgeon
bucolic country

::silence::

a precursor to an ubiquitous end

Rapprochement
was necessary for survival

Handicraft helped
but shelter was not necessary as the world burned

To phase'out companionship
invites emetic death

Blazes hot enough to burn stars
smolder with sulfurous fumes

The flames burgeon illumination
as worlds are rent

All forms of hesitation are irrelevant with
society's abutments collapsed.

To pass freely was
never an option.

Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
  The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
  Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know--again the shriveled bough
  Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain,
  And these hard lands be quivering with grain--
I tell you only: it is Winter now.

What if I know, before the Summer goes
Where dwelt this bitter frenzy shall be rest?
What is it now, that June shall surely bring
New promise, with the swallow and the rose?
My heart is water, that I first must breast
The terrible, slow loveliness of Spring.

Grind me to dust -
Go on do it;
I'm simply waiting for you to make the first move

-Amply,
your innate poignancy shatters my every statue and taboo;
So that I'm left to blossom again

Permeate me;
Or eliminate me,
Though I'd rather flourish with you than perish

Break down my walls,
Rip me apart;
As we stand arm in arm while I do the same

So place us in a mold,
Lets blend together
Mesh with me

We could synthesize;
Or divide

It's only a matter of time,
An eventuality
before we'd reamalgamate anyway

You're the math to my abstract;
So should you calculate or speculate?
- Or perpetuate while we vegetate?

Would you,
Could you
conquer the inevitable?

Could you,
Would you
ever endeavor?

You are the order to my chaos
We could burgeon in oblivion,
though I'd rather balance in harmony
It's black and white at the same time
Like cognitive dissonance

Roses are the most beautiful flower;
The sight of one turns my thoughts into prose.
Yet I’ve done ev’rything in my power,
But still, I shall ne’er be fair as the rose.
The rose stands dignified and elegant
With the most graceful composure I’ve seen,
And white, with purity and innocence,
It is more guiltless than e’er have I been.
In flawless form, its tender buds burgeon,
But I doth lack a perfect symmetry.
In ideal balance, each flow’r emerges,
Unlike my imperfect anatomy.
     Yet, despite all of this, thy love remains,
     And grateful I shall be for all my days.

"And he created out of one man every nation of men, to dwell upon the entire surface of the earth, and he decreed the appointed times and set limits of the dwelling of man." (Acts 17: 26) (New World Translation Study Edition)

When I look in the mirror, a doughty warrior, an oracle, an Olympian gazes back at me. The caramel-tinge of my skin tells of the colored pedigree from whence I came. Every ebony-tendril that bursts from my epidermis is as impregnable as the Sacred Lotus.

The history of my Mind's Sky has been tried by the Ancient African Sun of my ancestors. It is my hope, that I have passed the trials decreed by the ordinances of the Moon & Sun. Moreover, the Arbiter of Fates, Jah, dawns upon our fleshly vessel at each twilight, assaying our entities. (Isaiah 60: 19, 20) (New World Translation Study Edition)

So many intrepid souls have compassed me about. The Chalice of my Heart burgeons with esprit d' amour. The meaning of life is ne' er about intellect, is ne' er about achievement, is in part, about creativity; wholly, about Love. (John 13: 34, 35) (New World Translation Study Edition) For this reason, strength cascades upon me every moment as I witness the brilliance, the resilience of my beneficent matriarch, Stacy Amanda Foulke.

In life, I have learned that being a person of color in America is not only a wonderful privilege, but a responsibility. Why? The afflictions brought upon this skin only make it glisten brighter after convalescence. Our people have suffered inordinately so, but this is conducive to cultivating surpassing empathy. Therefore, I believe that history, as begotten through the colored legacy, shall be one of ultimate victory.

If and only if, we unfetter ourselves from the onerous burdens of the past, then Monarchical Wings shall burgeon from our Astral Chrysalis. "For though the tribulation is momentary and light, it works out for us a glory that is of more and more surpassing weight and is everlasting." (1st Corinthians 4: 17) (New World Translation Study Edition) Se' lah.

(what an unparalleled glimpse into an alternate existence)

lock in slowly into new moment
sitting on the edge of unneutered idea
incredible finesse in your eyes
seeker sought / finder found
relative mercy in life does exist

blessings burgeon and even g-r-o-w
quite hard to believe my eyes get graced by
the source of the light which has so touched
more than realised

alert and overflowing energy
it was saved up for this magical moment
this direct miracle
how is it again - that I deserve this?

then, the open enigma hides a bit, and shifts
and I'm talking to a lamp shade
but blue tendrils bring back the smiling one
who dips with me
into this lucky packet moment

an alternate reality exists
it is there
it / is / there!!!

/political correctness is a term used for people who have forgotten, near-archaic social formalities... oddly enough, social-formality is still obliterating political debate,  and is only existent, when met with political "dialectic"... since ancient Greece,  dialectics has been the enemy of politics, since it curbed the stampede of orchestrated, pristine, rhetoric... which is why politicians stutter, or mishandle... what was once a fact, has now become a statistic... which is... something you call: diluted ****, or diarrhoea...

political correctness?!
    what is "political"
about an ontological
focus of a priori
   social formalities?
   political correctness,
id est:
    satus quo prolongation?
as far as i know that
ship has sailed...
perhaps like the Titanic's
maiden voyage,
not blessed with a champagne
bottle christening...
a Kantian revival against
the Hegelian "dialectic"...
after all, he was the Copernicus
to what became the Marxist-
Galileo fiasco!
    if only Copernicus
became a martyr for looking
down the whirlpool of
a flushed toilet... who knows?!
*******... spaghetti
al fresco and Venitian blinds...
fatso mafiasos and
Marlon Brando dyslexia
due to cotton buds shoved
into his cheeks like
a ******* jerbal...
             gallows the schmuck,
hence came Zodiac Leo...
i'm actually apprehensive
about the fact that political
correctness is actually
an: apolitical statement...
seen that khaki attired king rat
scuttling about giving
shadow commands?!
me neither...
   but at least in a dictatorship...
some *******
doesn't have a choice,
but own up...
    illusion of the emperor's
new clothes...
you're right... the clothes
are rented...
   because there weren't any
to begin with!
   no wonder there's a shadow
spine to the "pristine"
idea of democracy...
chivaraly was also,
once upon a time, a novel idea
and an idea with a span of
history (ideology, vogue)...
      but came the undertaker
and buried that *******
with the maiden's hankerchief
he used as target practice for either
*****, or snot...
    political correctness is any ugly
term for what is otherwise
a root of social formality,
   laughable, even still...
  political correctness has no
a priori root to pivot on...
   political correctness attempts to
be a form of social formality,
but it's... kinda hard to
speak about an unspoken rule
that has been passed on
and is anti-political,
id est: intuitive... hardly the curious
child with a stick and a wasp hive...
      people feel unhinged...
no wonder!
        a social formality is within
the ontological a priori focus...
an inheritence that's silent...
but, politics, is never exactly
   an a priori focus...
              tinged with a posteriori
artifacts, it usually cites
Napoleon, ****** and Russia...
             to be "politically"
incorrect, is to what? what?!
                    momentarily relaxing
social formality?
                gender neutral pronouns
of the western world... ha ha!
a much older debate about
pronouns exists in the Slavic world...
made concise be the use of
the pronoun you...
     and of course,  i...
       which focuses on a loss of the title
herr und fraulein...
              ha ha...
told you that nag hammadi library
shepherd and pivotal St. Thomas' gospel
was going to be a hit...
              Chinese whispers in Judea...
the current... thrill of bi-cis-dunno...
doughnut?
    - only two people worth
admiring in the 20th century:
Lenon and Kennedy...
   the sort of people who true... fans!
i make a falsetto,
some Hannibal Lector will be
on my heels, thinking up
a ritual where, I'm actually eaten,
in a snippet of my body, akin
to the tender-bits of my liver...
   way to go... a sabbath encore
of those ***** ****-takes of beauty
Scotch banshees!
       fifth limb and the word: USURPER!
nope... make my tongue
into a ***- (yes, like
****** I might call the urban
of what is a renowned country's
worth of Billy, hence
the hyphen attaché)...

     whatever is politically correct
(mind you, german idealism,
rigidness of vocabulary,
only 3 definitions of a word
are utilised, the fourth
becomes a writers' scurvy
or a ***** tattoo in a thesaurus)...

whatever is politically "correct",
hence the ambiguity of -ness
is an orphan of both social
formality & informality...
who the **** would asked
for a political butcher,
let alone a member of parliament
take on a rabbi's son?!

nooooo....   oooooone....
       lovely,  ain't that
the pretty siht:
sight of a tightening
of a cravat prior to
the folded napkin in heavy cotton
before the state dinner...
minus the China and
the yardstick worth of... silverware...

came the ümlaut...  
the closing of the parabola...
the shy messiah...
the rollingpin of omicron,
the ******'s worth of omega.
   und?!
          ah...
    the siamese twins of H
in the tetragrammaton...
once a wave (W)...
     once a particle 3D (Y)...
jew counted matchsticks
   and read a book...
Pole has 1 to count,
       afro-boy has 20+ raps
for one gil scott-heron
  for every ****** factory
and for every if it came to:
this revolution, lardy lardy,
was televised...
now we're praying that it
could please! please! shut! up!
            
the toying with Greek and
a crucifix that became the tongue
of the golgotha-cranium?
   do the sons of light caste
a shadow?
       surely "we" read the light
from shadows...
   night, however...
is... without form....
        devoid of the triangle
and the square...
    the universe is ever expanding
is the closest they came to
giving it a geometry...
and then they finally settled on a:
linear proposition...
   came the "big" and the "bang"...
and then the, "supposed"
sparrow eater worth of vacuum...

there is an understanding
of social formality
  (a priori)
     as there is a knowledge
of social informality
      (a posteriori)...
    political "correctness":
a claim of being...
       politicians should learn this
mantra:
    to be politically "correct / incorrect"
is to be... apolitical...
   what?  
                just because
the church bred atheists...
a parliament can't breed apoliticians?
  granted...
     the parliament has a luxury
of a god on a string...
          and a suddenly materialised
"god"...
             the church is already a warm broth
of gurgling **** in the shadows...

for whatever the audacity of
youth apparent,
the fervour in me is hardly
as Dynamo for Alt.    
        in what remains an inherited
burgeon of power....
   than a plebiscite of gambling...

who speaks of political correctness
is only speaking of
a buffer zone to the ham trough...
yes, thank you,
I know there is no talk of
political correctness in the scenario
of a uniformed police officer
and me drinking a beer on a bench...
politicised bystanders...
****... me...
   can they flip and omelette like
a pancake?
        social formalities don't need
a stray dog's worth of tongue
to suddenly discover
the arithmetic of counting teeth!

I'm tired of this face of mine
I think I'll have to change it
I'll plump my lips, slim my chin
Debag my eyes and smooth my skin.
My ears are fine but what the heck
I'll pin them back then check my neck
It looks a little loose and slack
I'll have it nipped and tucked right back.
Then I will peruse my chest
It's not too bad but not its best.
I think that I might see a surgeon
Go up a cup size watch it burgeon.
And then of course there is my waist
Once so shapely, perfectly placed
Now its wider with more fat
Never mind I'll fix that.
I'll give up wine and cigarettes
I'll join a gym and work up sweats.
My legs need shaved, toenails need cut
Then that's me done from head to foot
But you know its just a fable
I'll lay my cards out on the table
I may be tired of the same old me
But why change now? I'm ninety three

There is a symmetry to war, state
against state, brother against brother,
like Siamese twins joined
headlong, thrashing and flailing
with one impassioned heart
for the right to be.

And still the world turns, and still
the hearts of defeated men beat strong
with savage hopes for a lost generation,
and the hearts of victors, once blinded
by angst and ire, observe the failings
of their triumph, see through old lies
that urged them unto death or death,
and old traditions, caked in blood,
are refashioned and reborn like bell-
bottomed denim, and still the world turns.

How was it, in that desperate hour,
for a man born to cotton fields,
born unto the yoke, born beneath the whip,
born unto the mercy of his masters,
how was it to be borne up to see the white
cotton flag raised in supplication, to see
old masters wavering in ploughed furrows,
like cotton billowed by a Northern squall?

Was there, in that desperate hour, a scream
from the past, "Beware, the Templars!"
as old chains were cast off, and melted
to forge chains anew, and the masters
of old were replaced by new masters
of state, and old fashions like slavery
replaced with chains worn by gangs over
bell-bottomed denim?

As long as men are masters of men,
Man will abuse his fellow man;
Profiteers will sup the fruits
of free labor, honest business
will decline, and prisons burgeon
as the poor become poorer, and
the poorest are inducted into
the perfect symmetry of an
imperfect finite state machine,
until the next uprising.

I know this clearing
where the berries burgeon,
but blind to covetous birds,
though one still hears their sweet rill.
They, the berries, are ripe with sun kiss.
We'll make a day of it.
I'll bring a wine basket, a blanket -
You say,  "I'll find the pails?"
If all goes well,
we'll have little time for them.
Let's be off, my dear.

Inside this poesy bower,
Do I, I do; await mine
Fresh sprayed flower,
To seest her blossom
Shower's; her honey-
Comb word's, her
Eastern dew. Burgeon-
Closely; abide with me,
Where thou art mine
Muse. Finger's wilt be
etching tool's to create
Master-designs; in the
Cloud's that reside.
Hide and seek, thus
Love we'll find; there
In ourn eyne, where
It's been all along. Do
I, I do; await this time,
Dusk til' dawn.

©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley ( pookie dedicated)

And where drops the feet, a mild scintillation
Springs in the splash of the puddle here
And there and ‘yond the lawn
Reaching for the vindication
Of gun wrappers, ‘butts, and other
Brazen trash on the damp mulch.
Yet, these rains cry down with passion
Found not but in the ***** of home
—From very far away
—And very much alone
This seed of refuse, fertility yet sown
Sprouts the vine of rebellious fruits
Sneaking serpentine to the edge of the blazing sun
Embracing the split-wood and claiming
The hedge-proper its own.
And though you can’t cry
The world does it for you
Its tears made a forest so much higher
Than I; in meadows pert
You’ll show me a locket
Trodden in dirt, I’ll show you a flower that grew in the hurt
And grows to the top, the burgeon-trees lead
From one, little piece of trash
From one refuse seed.

"Mathematics is the language of nature,  everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers. If you graph the numbers of any system patterns emerge, therefore there are patterns everywhere in nature"


My Evidence.  Recycled disease academics.
Sigh. My poetry equals pi. Drawing mechanics. My literature by design. There's strength in numbers. There's numbers in strength. Insight to the fullest I think of brightening the dullest. Prime number cousins. Don't be upset with mother Gaia yet. The planet just wants respect no way on earth you can get around that. Kilotons of pressure. Everything is written in a way you can remember. Creating lyrical law meticulously correcting my flaws. Above the skies of America no matter the weather. Set goals in your life that you deeply desire. Go for the prize keep fueling the fire. The agenda of mother Gaia. A free mind invested in prayer. The layers of reality shifting everywhere. The cycle of time we seen this take affect much further. Listen to your heart so that your life may burgeon. Poetry. Energy. Sanctity. Willingly. Responsibility. Humanity. Wizardry. Identity. Possibility. Reality. Ability. Spiritually. Gravity. Density. Mentally. Creativity. Galaxy. Infinity.

The sun quickly goes hazy,
Leaving silhouettes of naivete

All the melodies that stirred the tree's being,
Never left its veins; still creeping

Summer whispers stories to the other parts of the dozen,
Dauntless tales beginning to finally ripen

One has savored the flame from the lips of a lad,
While the other, on one's own, the mountains of the land



The dove witnessed all of these,
and is now demeaned of herself
For she only thirsted for a burgeon of love,
however, devoured the liquid of despair

If I could hear the conversations
that you speak only to yourself,
I would invest the rest of my life
in search of just the right words
to respond:
To assuage your Fears;
To build bulwarks around your Confidences;
To wholly express to you
that I marvel at your Voice,
that mentally I worship your Face,
and how luxuriously I burgeon
at even your lightest glancing Touch.
Because for you, my dear,
it may be enough to simply hear
"I love you."
But to me, my dearest,
even if I fervently chanted
until my lungs gave out,
"I love you"
could never say enough.

Burgeon lane saw me blunder
many peers followed.
Augers and gestures
worked the words  uttered,
some say it grow fine
but their practices always
were the more  provident  .

the day you sprouted into my life,
I was intrigued by you immediately,
like a newly grew seed of ivy,
it invaded my lawn without fail.

but just like many lawns that needs mowing,
I tried to shake off your existence.
planting roses and daffodils, but to no avail,
ending up fertiziling the feelings i have for you.

your untamed and cheerful nature,
enthralls me even more towards you;
And as your vines crazily crawls unpredictedly,
I steadily stood my ground to stop it.

but still, I once again failed.
Like a kid who's slowly being binded,
binded by the love i feel,
a love like vines that I know would never bloom.

but as time goes by, and day by day has come,
I'm learning to live by the vines,
the binds started to become ropes,
ropes to move up to sunshine.

As the vines nurtures even futher,
and starts to burgeon lilac colored flowers,
I'm starting to understand the untamed and cheerful nature,
is for it to bear blooms that are delicate and precious.

He and I
sat on his bedroom floor planting a garden last night,
silently hoping that something might sprout.
Because we can’t shake this drought and
the water is stagnant.
He knows, and I know that the new life we’ve sewn
will flourish and thrive
because to keep it alive is to follow
the recipe.
So there we were on the ground;
hand over water,
water over soil,
soil over seeds,
the very least they need
to blossom and grow.
That might be what we needed, a formula
to help us bloom in
the cover of the night,
a strong man with a green thumb to
clip our blighted leaves before we dried up
and blew away in the wind.

But he’s not a seed,
and I am not water.

So let us sit and dig
through the dirt spilling onto the floor
and implore this new life to burgeon.

'Infatuation!' I chuckled, 'Yes infatuation!'
Only this and a longing
Enchantment - enchantment - enchantment!

Much I marvelled this melancholy worldliness
Eagerly I looked for the fairy tale
And gently you came to me

That moment my soul grew mythic
In there stepped a mystic hopefulness
I was an eagerness and you, a daydream

You became the object of my admiration
Thoughts always wander to your irreplaceable light
Reciprocation made my heart burgeon