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topaz oreilly Mar 2013
The ground bubbled  neath, February's  awakening
stoic crocuses stood water  deep,
so that capriciousness was revealed
The  fill *****  over flowed.
So  certain the path walked
she  wove aconites into  her  hair  
to unghost the prevailing snowdrops.
The  dogwood a resplendent beacon
vies to complete the cycle .
E Townsend Nov 2015
Dry
I crave human affection as much as
a flower demands photosynthesis
hiding beneath a shaded tree. It has
no control over capriciousness
from the sun.
this is ******* ignore it, I'll finish it later
King Panda Mar 2016
Rodin: My love, I am on my knees facing your beautiful body. My mouth is drinking your fire. I ***** us in stone. We are indissoluble.

Camille: I am heaven and hell. I am goddess and fire. You are my chauvinistic art-boy concubine.

Rodin: My dear Camille, can you not see my love for you is rooted in passion not stone or clay or bronze? Can you not feel my tongue lapping at your feet?

Camille: Foolish man. My feet are broken. I walk over you on stumps.

Camille leaves for England. Rodin follows.

Camille: You are boring.

Rodin: My love, can you not see that I am in a depressed mood. Can you not see that your capriciousness plagues me?

Camille: I love another.

Rodin: How can you say these things to me? I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I give you my artistic genius!

Camille: You’re right. You are a genius.

Rodin: Shall I write us up a contract?

Camille: As long as you don’t touch me.

Camille and Rodin return to Paris separately.

Rodin: It has been written. I will mentor you, write you in newspapers, place you in museums, and find you buyers.

Camille: You will not love another? You will spurn all but my art?

Rodin: I will. And you will marry me in return.

Camille: …

Rodin: Is there something wrong, my love?

Camille: Can you not see I am being facetious?

Rodin: My dear, you are my flora and gaiety. You are my chisel and stone. You are my breath and lungs.

Camille: Learn how to breathe without me.

Camille exits. Rodin crumples at the feet of Eternelle Idole.

Rodin: What have I done wrong?

Camille re-enters, her hands caked in clay.

Camille: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

Rodin: Shall I get the handcuffs?

Camille: No. The lion’s cage.

*Strong tides and wet fuchsias. Camille enters the cage forever.
Kitt Sep 2023
Somewhere between eggshells and landmines
Were the creaking floors upon which I played
Carefully, for her wrath could be detonated
At a footfall, just a bit too heavy
From a word uttered under the breath
A mess left too long in the sink.

But her embrace was warm,
Wrapping around me like sheets from the dryer
And when she put on pause her own life
To tend to me at my sick-bed,
Her eyes showed only tender love.
“My baby goat,” she would say, affectionately,
And leave a kiss upon my feverish brow.

She is a living contradiction, my mother:
Churning disapproval shattering the gleam
That she put into the hopeful eyes of a child
Just a moment before.
I lived in perpetual uncertainty,
Never knowing which mother I might see next:
The raven or the hen.

And now she looks at me with disappointment,
Wondering aloud why her children fear her.
Her capriciousness eroded away any trust
And much of the fondness as well
Her hot-blooded adoration
And her ice-cold tantrums
Have mixed so long now
All that is left is
Lukewarm like the bathwater
Left over from when the
Baby was thrown out.
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest ******* made aware.
MissMalice Feb 2015
Quite admirable , awe-inspiring , a divine piece of manufacture
It’s capriciousness is an equivalent of swooning of rapture

This carpet conveys itself as flawless , the fragrance is pleasant

The glossy finish generates a yearning to have it present

The blissful texture is mesmerizing , subject to perfect knitting

Not to mention it’s size is perfectly fitting

~

Though the alternative side seems worn and tattered

And the fabric surrounding is scattered

There are pockets and splits

There are strewed fiber bits

Along the edges are multicolored spots

And the yarn had formed knots

~

At that point the onlooker would become flustered helplessly

Were they to take it into their tenancy ?

Sure it was depleted

And maybe it was slightly untreated

Though it was equally handsome

Despite it’s opposing filthy expansion


~


Then the beholder would ponder a tad

And realize the flaws weren't so bad

They were to be contemplated abnormally

Though as well stood out morbidly

The allotment seemed now suitable

And each side was mutable
Designed to stand metaphoric for point of view among society
AmberLynne Jul 2014
All the things you've said
     that have struck me down the most
     were said as nonchalant utterances,
     or disguised as whimsy and play.
But those are the ones
     that dig in the most,
     drill into my core
until I'm so ******* and hurt
     I want to spit your venom
     right back at you.
Your words work their way
      slowly through my system,
     steadily poisoning my thoughts.
And it's the worst when I'm alone,
     with only my now-tainted mind
     for company.
Problem is, sometimes
     I feel that same loneliness
     with you right beside me.
So, despite your ardent claims
     to the contrary,
I'm quite unsure of your ability
     to handle my capriciousness
     for the long-term.
Michelle E Alba Nov 2011
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
Her heart holds Him, but her hand aborts.
Searching for confirmation of a better world,
She prays to discern it, but without worship.
A believer she is, yet still fully skeptical.
She deciphers reflections from the gnostic,
The reality from the deceptive.
And hoping to fully and optimally filter the fictive
She dances with Him, going solely with the wind,
To wherever His capriciousness takes her.
She bows upon His whim.
Craig Verlin Jan 2016
There is something in her
youthful capriciousness.
An eager vitality pushing out,
but each movement steeped
in a tender pride;
forced awake in sudden
flares of anger.

To see those brushstroke fingers,
long and carved like talons
as they paint themselves white
in clenched frustration.

To see those dark eyes;
ripping towards and
through you in
sharpened rage.

There is something in that
youthful capriciousness.
Love comes quick as hate;
anger and happiness
lined shoulder to shoulder.

To see those cautious hands,
soft and stubborn,
pulling waves across
your skin.

To see those endless eyes;
telling you everything
she never could quite
find words to say.
13 Aug 2013
"You won’t affect me,
I’m in control”

The words that stoked the embers

Long ago-
laziness, my wife
****** it all over
and ambition, my father
abandoned his son
the dogma rewrote itself
before my brother, conviction
was convicted of capriciousness
-my family was lost

Death is a powerful thing
it’s transcendence, one could say
and when the future dies
the present is lost in disarray
to think so lightly of the end
is foolish, arrogant, in fact

If a ******* wishes to die,
does he curse the world or the ones that fed him to it?
there is a lot of hate going around
hate that can’t be absolved simply by love
this ******* is hell spawn

It takes will to overcome fear
not courage or bravery
vanity words for a vain republic
getting plastered on screens worldwide
yeah that’s it… overcoming fear
Becoming it

What more can money buy?
A new life? A new dream?
A reset button?
Unlikely

A simple barter on the divine sale
ideals don’t come without risks
the higher the horse, the longer the fall
but that’s not the case at all
the highest one here gets to buy **** IT ALL
the ultimate get out of jail free card

But I’ve already gotten way off track

Either way,
you won’t affect me
I’m in control.
You won't affect me,
I'm in control  - Long live the misanthrope (soilwork)

AMAZING SONG!
Julian Feb 2019
12/30/2018

The eloquence of listless years is lost on heady overweening heels that submerge reality in a cavernous of oblique light shrouding the dark mysteries to come. Axiomatic but refractory we swim and tread danger and peril because the unsaid screams for awakening as the roosters outfox the owls and completely change history based on evil skullduggery that awaits the gainsay of titans compromised in security but elevated over the doldrums of quotidian thought. It is my solemn forbearance and consistent steadfast prayer for alacrity and industry to conquer the dudgeons of incurred opprobrium to clinch a beatific convivial festivity for a time-informed claque of leaders that delight in simplicity but dissemble their true disguise in open shark-infested waters. Salvage the impositions of the many and cull the best to anoint their favor on uncertainties improbable but likely as the discerning will master reality rather than be the dross of yesteryear. We swarm with importunate guilds of serfdom to surrender their edifice to the chiselers that operate and extravagate beyond bounds established by parochial priggishness that is a flagging patriotic insistence on drenched graft dank with the mildew of balkanization but not entirely as reproachable as some relics of the ancient law detest with misguided guile and paranoiac sophistry that is a precarious canker of otiose tastes drawling on with misinformed skepticism. The hounding gray in the pallor of alpenglow light ennobles the concatenations of wistful dread but at the same time esoteric flavor that enriches the emblazoned gallantry of the few to become the mainstay of all relevant considerations. Wish upon a coruscating menagerie of miscegenated aboriginal languages that have always abided in the shadows but exist in brevity among the elite coteries that coddle the world in its infancy away from the artifice of exegesis and the importunate placations of swarthy umbrageous shadows that exist apart from the factitious apartheid of race and gender. We must stand united as brethren enduring the tribulations of human vicissitude to abhor the diseased rhetoric of pandered puritanism amalgamated with aleatory financial alarmism calculated to swindle the dilapidation of penury that burns as a smoldering conflagration of concerted ignorance leading to ochlocratic determinism rather than a whispered percolated pedigree that drowns sorrows but simultaneously strands the pariahs of time in insular self-reflection unbecoming of an age that demands an importunate, ubiquitous and outspoken corporate altruism not superintended by a bloviated and tumescent dysnomy of congregated botched bureaucracies that encroach with a daunting donkey commandeered by headless horsemen who are only known by pennames and cognomens that flinch at the demise of their undeserved anonymity. We use valor as an instrument to prevent a scuttled vessel of a seaworthy humanity slinking along a very balmy coast as we await future instructions at the apropos time for a simpatico relegation of commercial collectivism. We expect instead a demassified world to enliven the dialectic of epistemology itself and renew covenants long ago moribund in their ragged and wretched desuetude that they may be vanquished as vestigial habiliments to the tatters of sloppy abnegation leading to a swollen piety that dares not to pretend but simultaneously believes so much in its pilloried hubris that it provides erasure for the secular enlightenment of a messianic time. Squalor and riddled eccentricity drive a brackish but saccharine attempt to homogenize the pastures that we graze upon but look no further than a bequeathed divine providence of smirks rather than the jibes of sneering ostentation. Whisper you fame rather than declaim against the arraignments of a scuttled pettifoggery of miscegenated justice that embroils foreign wineskins for domestic turmoil rather than the demotic enlightenment of the abrogation of inequitable laws that preserve the totemic dissolution of society rather than the prized ameliorative enlightenment of science informed by faith and faith beckoning the clerisy to seek supernal wisdom and furtive swank to reconnoiter the righteous and jettison renegades imploring for a piebald blinkered apostasy on a rudimentary subconscious level but never realizing their effrontery is gravid in a heedless ignorance interpolated by menacing secular hobgoblins that ransack barren treasure and cherish it as a trinket for a chrysocracy that is specious rather than veridical. Barnstorm for justice but appoint the abeyance of foolhardy prescience so that the enigmas of time can beckon their own deliverance through a culmination of waggish flickers rather than the kowtowed toadies of a quidnunc reality divorced from proper temperance outmoded but thriving among those that disavow newfangled foudroyant spectacles. Always and with alacrity indulge the gladiatorial sportsmanship of a zeitgeist beyond contention as the paragon for livid dreams and lurid imaginations to drive the mutiny against plebeian ears and purblind eyes. Live for the eternal present with providence and forswear the vestigial fossils of flippant eras domineered by dragooning fictitious sentiments buttressed by castles built against the encroachment of the imaginary foes of vassal states that submerged the world in a fideism that rejects too many axioms of modernity to vie for preponderance. The government is not irreproachable, but it is a primeval reflection of the propensities of an aggregated society flippant against choice wisdom of the ageless Constitution that is peremptory proof of the divine providence of sempiternal liberty. People that chide against liberty because they fear precarious cankers that endanger from a distance because of their swollen specters need to uphold a commitment to a wistful remembrance of tragedy but a sturdy ruddy optimism to perdure and prosper on this greenest of worlds for both the greenhorn and the expert alike. Never kowtow before the altar of avarice and always pilfer resourceful contemplation in the respite of quiet times that engage our best faculties to awaken rather than slumber. Recruit the collective imagination to superintend chaos and the leviathan becomes tamed because it requires human synergy in both prosperous times and desperate measures to foment the earth with the brontides of due warning simultaneously murky and misleading but always reflective of an irenic pasture of withering sheep and abundant shepherds. Regal promises have always loitered in the penumbras of the elite but now is the time for absolution rather than scattershot contumely. We believe in the federal way and the state farm system and we don’t believe in foreign monoliths becoming the pasquinade of slippery hebetude that ensnares the immobilized futilitarianism of ignorant creeds and divisive claptrap. Barnstorm together for God and liberty as those two principles-however squandered they might be by listless speculation that doesn’t hinge upon the concerted subaudition of the deeply fathomed sources glistening with profundity- will clinch a victory for the beatific future of a guided humanity rather than the guileless intemperance of choleric fools who wage conflagration against only their own plodding ignorance rather than reaching with outstretched hands and tenacious grasps to invent the future according to the helical perfection of the past. May God rule forever on earth! A prosperous earth! An Earth filled with pleasure and an Earth that approximates heaven more closely every day. Amen  



12/31/2018

Riddled by bewildering supernal designs of an ineffable splendor that drapes reality in iridescent cloaks of rigorous and strenuous limber we trounce through the effigies of a profaned pasquinade to gallop through the doldrums of time for the allocated investment in the refined human condition to exacerbate the declension of foes but link the Abrahamic faiths with taciturn reflections and wizened countenances beckoning a newfangled harmonious destiny. Livid are the naysayers who proffer gainsay with insouciance and flippant sorcery to denigrate sacrosanct axioms with persnickety maxims that are only auriferous when viewed through a refracted entropy of disdainful speculative mutiny against propriety in values and stances. I sidle through a refractory zeitgeist despised for my aureate temerities against the chided condemnation of those who flout so-called gobbledygook because they lack stringent acuity and pale to the polish of ennobled grace that anoints favor and felicity on the laurels of an age very intransigent against latitudinarian capriciousness that will one day ransack the world of its flickered graft and its paltry obsessions with quondam gaucheries. A house divided against itself will flounder because of titanic pressures of oblique balkanization that is opaque only to the hounded ignorance of wishful but labile people who wage acerbic gambles against the delegated authors of an aborning covenant for irenic reconciliation in a blinkered piebald world. I like to saunter in private with my insistent lucubrations because I know the majestic gestures of jest are more bountiful in their fecund harvest than any circumlocution of blunt poetasters who calumniate the verve of self-made upstart grandeur that I brandish at every opportune occasion to pilfer my due inheritance from the coffers of a self-fulfilling fatalism divorced from solipsistic monisms and the denigrations of the futilitarian quest to deprive sustenance in the exercise of deft skepticism disempowering the perspicacity of miserly mendicants who treasure their science but pale in their trepidatious momentary twinges of faith that are insincere and unctuous abominations against a steadfast God that wallops our misery with the lurched progress of human amelioration wrought by the succor of alien wizardry beyond even the most quixotic imaginations of people who in their prolixity miss the pithy glib sacraments of a terse and burlesque pragmatism. I simper because I know about carbon emissions statistics with hearty gusto and a convivial banquet of amalgamated personalities and wraiths that emanate from the ether of the 12th dimension of reality: transdimensional interspecies sentience. I wrangle on the outskirts of a bustled city embroiled in a relegated civil war entangling plebeians and plutocrats but not engorging any coffers in a zugzwang destined for pejorative scuffles rather than synergistic revivals of the human fraternity, a consensus about intellectual meliorism that will fossick with due efficiency cognitive resources frittered away in the respite of laziness and the abeyance of prospective diligence to conquer rather than waylay with furtive gambits of appeasement. Everyone need to leapfrog beyond the quotidian plane by indulging the oneiromancies of self-efficacy aggrandized by presidential favors and collective efforts to unite the 16th version of reality with the penultimate version of reality. For the ultimate version of reality is corporeal death upon which we are transplanted unto an ethereal dimension beyond contemplation without the horological diminishment of wizened age.  We trudge in the miserly conditions imposed by pharaohs of pettifoggery that swindles with blustery graft and strident intimidation of the audacity of hopes and dreams to foment the requisite fin de seicle zeitgeist that deserves more of a heyday with the revivalism of nostalgic entertainment against the opprobrium of inferior tastes facile in formulaic conformity but deficient in its nutritive enrichment of beatific festivities that traverse the earth at lightspeed because of the vehement energy of foudroyant amazement is beyond contagious when conveyed through the dexterous vehicles of more centralized rather than skeletonized organization. The bonhomie of a copacetic future demands the interpolation of scrupulous adherence to authoritative dictums but the laissez-faire demagoguery of titans trouncing the ragamuffins of cacestogenous upbringing in a miserly husbandry that stunts the stilted imaginations of formalism rather than bequeathing a seminal insemination of a future hybridized race mechanized but humanized simultaneously to accomplish what would once seem impossible that now looms considerable with the democratization of the furtive at a faucet’s trickling pace to empower the future to heed the past and the pastors to revere the eschatology of final conditions rather than a favoritism for aboriginal barbarisms created by the snare of hobgoblin phantasms that exist only to make us tremulous rather than swanky. May God bless this great green earth with many decades of prosperity to come and heap plaudits on the intellectuals fighting the fight against simpleton groupthink. Have a very festive New Year!
Flexing a 155-160 Verbal Expressive IQ
Amilah Marzuki Jan 2016
You came in and abruptly fit,
Making the candles all lit;
Sharing your inner wits,
A bit like my first aid kit.

I'd loved you much,
Like a child of my future;
Your goods and bad and such,
Enlightening me on being mature.

But perhaps we didn't have
An actual camaraderie.

Incompatibilities,
My free wills
and your austerity;
My acerbity,
and your hesitancy.

Your capriciousness
and your harshness
is too much to take,
even for my own sake.

It's such a paradox of me
to give up on people,
but there's a wisdom I've yet to see,
surely in all of this there's a couple.
For Sham, whom I thought would be my friend till I grow old.
Cedric McClester Jul 2018
By: Cedric McClester

It’s not just the hearts
That they’re breaking
Or the MS-13s
In the making
Because of the
Family structures they’re shaking
By their Zero Tolerance
Immigration undertaking

It’s the capriciousness
Of the things that they’re doing
Not to mention the color
Of the families they’re *******
That lets us know
There’s a reckoning brewing
Because the whole world
Is in on the viewing

Men and women
Who have children
Yet their hearts are numb
Will reap the famine
That has yet to come
Who will be spared?
Not one single one
Because of the awful things that they’ve done

Is there a black market
In parentless children?
And are we complicit
In trying to fill them?
With new immigrants,
We refuse to accept
Because we’ve become
Morally bereft









Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.
Bee Ethel May 2017
Crafted cleverness
full of capriciousness

a song to sing
of solemn sailing ships

a smile
a laugh
at little expense

thoughts of many
thoughts of few
and more filling food

and that

which helps
me sleep

at night.
(Sorry I haven't been about, I may do more another time)
I can feel my halo
Dimming
I can feel my tolerance
Slimming
I can feel my sanity rot in this
Forever stagnant state I'm
Sitting
I can feel the madness
Ripping
Holes of confusion in my
Heart
I can feel the courage crawl to
Fool me alone in the
Dark

But where the
**** am I?
Search for shadows in the light
So easily could I just hate
But I suppress what none dare take
Let the tears soften the break
Coping illudes as release

I pray for the real fall
I pray to end it all
They say to get it off my chest
Let my burdens find some rest
But I take comfort in the hope
One day my cares will *******
Choke

I could feel you spitting every
Insolent complaint
Hammering like nails in my
Tolerance
I swallow hard
Push down impulsiveness
Caution can be a burden
Praised as wisdom's yoke
Yet, so can capriciousness
So I sit back and choke

So where the
**** am I?
Anxiety is too **** high
So easily could I just break
But an act of risk
The fence won't take
Just sit there and
Equivocate
Coping illudes as release

I pray for the real fall
I pray to end it all
They say to get it off my chest
Let my burdens find some rest
But I take comfort in the hope
One day my cares will *******
Choke

Sitting pretty on the fence
Next to indecisiveness
And he tells me
"Here, there is no right or wrong. In the grey is where you belong."

So I look to either side and
They're all living their lives
Doing what they feel is right until they die
And here I am alone
Wasting away as I
Erode
And I realize I'll never
live at all.

So who the
**** am I?
Risk is the breath of life
So easily could I just wait
Second guess and hesitate
But there's no freedom in a place
Where coping illudes as release
Four conspiracy passages were left by the flash of the Greek mercenaries who left the troops of Darius III since the deployments of Iso to Alexander were part of an ultra invasion when Athens was subjected by Xerxes, here is the laudatory trust of Alexander Magno in Vernarth knowing that he had to meet again in the vicinity of Skalá where the Achaemenides' supplies would arrive. Neither Cassander, Ptolemy, nor Aristobulus had the precognition of Vernarth to have the resistance that was already coming with the Airs of the Granic, Iso, and the Siege of Arbela. Events struggled with each other to combine with significant silences, something like an amplified apnea to later grasp the ephemeris of the bleeding hands of Vernarth who longed to dry him out in some unconverted faithful of pagan Gods, when they saw the relatively widespread propagation of the absent in the revived panoply, that Vernarth would shake from the files of the Marble dust in allusion to a submitological military policy, with suspicions that allude to the archives of the Codex Raedus, in the greatest parapsychological bilocation of the Sybillas for those who prescribe the effective and untested faith of a chancellor, who continues to be the incense of Hellenic blood for millions of kilometers around, from a heavy Olympian democracy, who anticipated Atmospheric Changes with the lifeless voice of the Kassotide source, crystallizing in the reviews of the great advance of a few hectares in fires from Hylates, to wake up with his fumarole in the Vas Auric as the only and presumed active amazement of the super and multi parapsychological genre, before a final time, so that the interests that make the rise of the high testimony deserve are conclusively accepted, where Vernarth's Anabasis rewrites it in his autobiography with the exploits that they will advance the story where Vernarth's foreshortenings will three-dimensionalize the fineness of the fold that supports his profile, in the lightning flashes that resolve the protective ambages character, which predicts the escapes and splendid resignations of the mercenary soldiers who joined personal and chromatic renewed, to then subtract in trifles of those who have never had a thousand murderous ideologies, containing them so as not to be blamed for stoning a brother, who made the thick eyes of someone who wears a Xiphos, being able to have temporary amnesia, then adorning the ceilings where the keepers left their quivers empty of Artemis and Aorion. Leaving behind all the things that in parallel seem to be a comedy, if it is that some soldier was not going to wail on the huts of Xerxes, not being a Hoplite, but positively if it were Achilles who is prostrated before both, they will mourn Vernarth and Alexander Great, with the supernatural vividness of the divine biosphere, where she will all bow!

Vernarth at that moment was preparing to return to Patmos, he plunged into the Marmara, swimming several kilometers in yew trees over hydraulic potholes that threatened to swallow him up. Here there were still feminine essences of Heles, some Stymphalos and Gerakis flying over the aquifer depression of Vernarth with which he wrote the imprint of his overflowing "Totus Tuum Ergo Sum". Here he himself sensed Heracles in the depth of the macro drops that turned into a great solid bank of golden sand, which he held after losing the perspective of him by losing consciousness of him. He spent a long time on that promontory of explosive silica, with large Cinnabar attachments that harmonized to be able to breathe and from here prophesy the changes of the Era and its subsequent Atmospheric Changes since the cessation of the Kassotide, making nuances of sanity in a reciprocal way to the great heroes who longed to be with him, and save him from the waters that at this point were equivalent to huge mountains of the sea that would pour prophecies of disability, moving the changes of the world with the will of the muscle that already flattered his enormous superhuman capacity, to resist the unconscious sea, only being the stereotypical conventional figure swinging. In the end, after regaining consciousness of him, he moves his arms, filing the sub-floor of the seabed, later on catapulting himself from a margin towards a sacrifice, which was already emerging as a prediction that would be his affront on Patmos.

The behavior of both leaders grew similar to a sacrifice never existed before, both perched in the mountainous meadows near Skalá, seeming to cover more than two hundred meters on their backs with their backs, and their legs stretched beyond 200 meters in length. . They both faced each other in the face of the mountain of the Thuellai and the Profitis Ilias leaning on Vernarth. Both were seated in the customary Akashika channel that traced them through different places, over the temple of the Apostle Saint John that floated through the air and passed between them, the herds passed through the legs of both sitting in these valleys that crossed the Profitis and the Alturas del Thuellai, towards the slopes of the river that also passed under the muscles of the huge Alexander the Great and Vernarth, who had undergone an exaggerated transfiguration of their body, after macroscopic from a platform with a silver miter to give the emphasis of rivers of myrrh that would fill the valleys, from where the two leaders rested before starting their trip to the Island.

All this was a dreamlike infrastructure full of cantilena auras and rituals between the two of them sitting in this immense region of rams that crossed between them. This path became so repetitive that it would limit the south and fill them with its rain in the afternoon to wake up from this dreamlike fantasy. From this northern reverie, they wake up and look at each other and greet each other Khaire. Then the sustentáculos formed by the south of the Aegean when leaving the arched path rose on the torrid volcanic masses from where it suddenly reactivated with its volcanic area, Patmos gave indications of rising to the sky, leaving everything in the central crater with the capriciousness of the Profitis Ilias who refused to increase his height by joining with the Prasovouno, mitigating the ex-Kartika volcanic spelling to allow them to definitively awaken both leaders with the crossed Xiphos, who came down from the 269-meter Profitis breastplate until equaling that of the Prasovonuno with its 237 meters Tall.
Kassotides
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
i don't actually remember writing these words
(ref. to a schematic revision (b)...
all the way through to 5 minute sketch
in a Polish supermarket / edradour distillery)...
am i to find myself being ashamed by them...
i clearly saved them for the draft tenure...
to find myself agitated by their very existence...
getting drunk and writing...
it would be so much easier to simply drink and drive
and cause an accident...
then i'd sober up... there on the spot!
but to have to feed into a responsibility of writing
when under the influence?
and there are no hallucinogenic drugs involved:
to... "expand" on?
every time i see something that i clearly wrote...
i am doubly clear in:
an inability to recognise it... something came over me...
most -esque to a cynddaredd...
rage... to write with a ferocity of a blindman's
sneaking a peek from within behind the prop of blindness...
i don't remember writing these words:
but i do remember that i was drinking...
and if i remember that i was drinking...
i can't expect myself to remember writing these words...
to write poetry sober?
well sure... but what would happen if,
"somehow" a self-censorship impetus overcame me?
what if cages of narrative and the prosaic
took over me? and i could... quiet simply...
find the iron maiden of poetics in a drinking session
to boot?
then i wouldn't be: uninhibited...
with a pairing to the ears catching a drift of:
years of denial - body map e.p. -
i do not recognise myself with or in these drafts...
i see the poems of architecture that
never surprise with a rhyme...
i can see the zoological animal of a man bound
to customs and regulations of a lexicon...
never such roughage... such fibre...
in a spontaneity...
never a letting go... or rather...
hanging onto a razor that's the only "leftover" base
for a ledge...
it's never feeding a quality of fleeting
or of chaotic... esp. that the vicinity shelters...
a made bed... a private library of records and books
that have been dusted...
the house is clean... the dinners are cooked...
i do not remember these berserker outpourings...
it's almost "funny": to have written something...
but at the same time... being unable to recognise...
except for the idiosyncratic punctuation markers...
and a knowledge of diacritical markers...
it's not for my eyes to peer at a second time...
it was already agony the first time round
when i wrote what i wrote as... this most uncertain "i"...
if these drafts are better for those about
to squat... i am not their owner...
these are forbidden children with mother past...
i see no father future worth for them...
they are to be chained and beaten into
an archeological rubric: aye! december the 22nd 2019...
etc.,
come midnight i will want to have forgotten
even having written this!

at least when taking photographs...
there's something you can detach yourself from...
not when making these escapades of wording...
you can allow yourself: most assured...
a pressure to be alien to them...
to be ashamed by them...
there is never a novelty to them:
never a novel binding -
such is the nature of these words...
they are the houses that are to be abandoned...
perhaps stop-over places of cohabiation
by (psychological) squatters...
i gave these rooms, these words,
the original dimensions...
stop-over places between finding (a) ritual
and sacrifice and altar at the feet
of a Dostoyevsky... or some other...

esp. the somehow arrived at:
over-burdening tone of "know it all"...
which none of it is allowed a translation
into a formal use of the tongue...
because it was never about finding a cutie
in a rhyme...
or a psychology to be washed in rose water
without some knee-**** and bulimia reaction
when the sulphur would come out...

these drafts are abandoned poems...
because i am most certainly cruel to myself...
i cannot help not being cruel to myself...
that's how i always mistake kindness...
i have always mistaken kindness...
since whatever kindness i offered i did so
from a lense of selflessness...
the ghost aid... trivial 3rd party seances of
kindness... ghost hands and ghost tongue...
because i am a tyrant unto myself...
i am most cruel: unto myself...
the number of times my "ego" becomes
a tool for self-laceration is... quiet frankly...
hardly the 2nd tier of unit for
a personality and a fathomability of character
that would ever allow a person in...

even if i am right... i cannot allow myself to gloat...
happiness is such a butterfly of time...
such a whimsical affair...
it can be appreciated...
but once it is... a tonne of bricks
must fall onto it for a sense of stability and:
how best to feed capriciousness
with an immovable object?

it's one of those questions that will never allow
itself to arrive at "wisdom"...
a notable statement usually juggled
by certain youthful muslims is:
there's no water in the desert...

i'm pretty sure that's supposed to imply,
something, other than...
of note... i have stopped biting my nails...
the argument was:
i like the taste of keratin...
and i "know" keratin in nails and the keratin
in hair...
how i have succumbed to enjoy
clipping my nails...

like i never smoked a cigarette because
i was nervous...
i needed circa 5 minutes to lag behind me...
or scout ahead of me...
something to scout ahead and lag behind...
something to capture a pensive
evil-brooding of the brows...
or imitate a cat inclined to entertain
itself over some cobweb it would later
ingest...

now these clipped nails...
it's almost as if i found my teeth to be
necessarily itchy...
itching bones...
of note: those bones that itch when
left exposed, signatures to the former
muscle, flab and ghost tenants they were
once landlords to...

how else? there's no more a dissatifying ending
as that in cinema of: the end...
i still don't know why the credits roll...
the old movies...
the old... the passed...
this has to feel like an abandonment
to the very last...
i might as well call it: 15th january 2020...
circa 15 minutes past midnight.
Aditya Roy Dec 2018
When I left you
The idea
I'd be someone
Who leaves you
Left me speechless
And blank

The transient green
Of munificent trees
Taught me magnanimously, money came
With the autumn leaves
Experiencing the barren branches
With fields of fiery gold
Leaves
And me simply speechless
At the sight of the capriciousness

Of the autumn
And I as I leave
Like a cool breeze

— The End —