A Fairy sat high in the trees
Rocking and holding her knees
she let out a cough
accidentally fell off
and landed in a bed of sweet peas.

I am the queen of ill fitting jeans
of infected piercings,
of thinking that blue is green,
of uneven eyeliner wings.

I am the princess of pleases
of hellos slipped through voice cracks
of drunken apologies
of forgetting to text back.

I am the countess of chaos
of a thunderdome of possible tragedy
of making too many plans
of avoiding gravity.

I am the duke of drunk texts
of fizzy lemonade drinks,
of lingering regret,
of caring too much about what you think.

I am the queen of ill fitting jeans,
of ruling my life with a clumsy grace,
of being a storm without tea,
and I'll reign with a smile on my ******* face.

The casket was coming up, swaying and wobbling
Like a novice skater’s layover spin,
The workings proceeding apace,
The stillness of the August heat
Punctuated by disinterested growl of the backhoe,
The occasional out-of-place jocularity by the excavators
The creaky jingle of the chains holding the muddied box
As it proceeded skyward in its clumsy poor-man’s Resurrection.
The affair was being observed by an elderly couple,
Old enough to be of no particular age.  
Their car had Carolina plates,
But their inflections, their casually-tossed idioms
They noted that ruefully The grass needs mowed)
Marked them as natives.
They’d returned (Last time, most likely,
The wife uttered mournfully)
To take their son with them; he’d drowned when was five? six?
(The years will do that to a body, apparently)
In Kinzua Creek some half-century ago,
Back when little boys weren’t under a mandate
To be safe from themselves, as it were.  
He was our boy! We’ve never forgotten him!
The old man said, the words snapping off
In a manner that spoke of something else altogether,
How the whistle at the Montmorenci
Went off at three and eleven for second shift,
And your *** had better be there,
As those were good jobs that didn’t wait for bereavement leave,
Because there was always someone
Just itching to take your spot on the line,
And anyway life went on,
At least in the sense that television screens went all to snow
And tires went flat and fuses blew
And eventually a dead child
Is not always in the forefront of your thoughts,
Only tiptoeing in when the Press ran a picture
Of the Montmorenci Area Class of whenever,
Or there was an item about some other family
Who opened their front door
To a grim sheriff’s deputy with his hat in his hand.  
Eventually, after some time
And in defiance of both the odds and gravity,
The casket was settled into the back
Of the undertaker’s huge old black Caddy,
And the couple cane-toddled back to their car,
Following out the through the old spider-like gates
And onto the main road.
The brief procession fading from sight,
Until there was nothing left to see
Save the hillsides covered in old growth pine.

he had a third beer
before the hot platters came    
he would have had another, had she not
stared, like she going to ask every question
he did not want to answer…
how did it feel to slap his first wife?    
how did it feel to pull the trigger  
and mow men down like so many weeds?
those were the questions in her eyes  
and had he ever told anyone, what happened that night  
when they came upon a village, where the young ones
slept with the dead, their ancestors
only a few feet away, watching, mute,
beyond the paddies where they planted the rice,
the narrow trails where they hunkered and spoke
the ancient tongue, not adulterated by the romance of the French
or the clumsy amalgam of shredded sounds from the new soldiers  
the giants who ignored them in the steaming light of day
but came one night, bringing strange smells, oiled steel
muzzles pointed at their faces, shoved into their empty ears
grunting and groaning in an even more grotesque tongue  
leaving tears and trembling in their wake,
the torn flesh, the wounded wombs, the silken vessels  
meant to be there for the milky planting of tomorrow’s seeds  
not the greedy groping of the interloper’s devilish deeds  
was she asking about that night, the sounds he recalled
like puppies under heavy foot, or worse, like
the madding moaning of his own sister
when someone ripped her open  
not in the distant killing fields
but in the back seat of her car  
not two miles from where they sat  
where he ordered more beer, and
she asked those questions with her silence,
with her eyes, the questions he would never answer  
not after all the beer, in all the free world,
and he was pitifully glad
they served no sushi, in Kiki’s, though
the sharpened knives were there
ready for his confessional
and the raw slaughter of truth

Silly humans, why can't they see,
The web I weave so carefully?
How will my children ever eat
If they don't control their clumsy feet?

Why can't they see as they walk?
So wrapped up in their silly talks,
Into my precious web they go,
With their loud squaks and bellows!

They scare my children half to death
Why can't they be quiet instead?
No respect for the home they destroyed;
In fact they leave feeling annoyed!

So self righteous these humans are
With that attitude,  they won't get far.
Surely evolution will wipe them out!
All they do is shriek and shout.

There they go into my web again
The one I rebuild with such care and pain,
Not a thought given to my efforts!
This selfish race really should suffer!

I'm outraged by this behaviour
Oh other insects, please be my saviour!
They squash and trample us all the time
I'll give them a piece of my mind!!

Friends, there's strength in numbers
Their underestimation is their blunder
Slowly,  I'll let my evil plans unfurl
Soon, the cockroaches and I will take over the world!

At infinite dust of possibilities,
Light rose and set like a knight,
With its shining armor, the screens were up,
A mere glance of her,
Jumping energy levels,
Leaving traces of her radiant shell.
Ages turned to eons,
Memory of millions of years,
Still crashes to her thought,
The free spirit of every soul,
We were the heart of this universe,
With all the time in this space,
All we wished was to be one,
Collide with the greatest force,
Be one if it meant for one moment's time,
But with all we tried, we were the slaves of laws,
The irresistible lust to touch her once,
Over ages has faded to dust,
As we cycled the shallow mass,
As we raced with the light,
All desires seems clumsy,
When you cling by this lone heart.
They say we can't be together,
Their shallow concepts don't hold us,
For we are lost in this higher law,
For we are the savages reigned by fate.
This crash may never happen,
This tale may end in sorrow,
For this charge run through our veins,
For we won't live with chances,
So we ran with out might,
The stars of our own fate,
With all the speed we grew dim,
Till the dark gulfed us through.
Like a sudden flame, we crashed,
Our love flew through our bodies,
The time could have stopped,
But it was jealous of our sound glow,
Like an neutron star we faced the end,
Incapacitated and burnt,
We fade in this beautiful silence.

there's no rip cord --
your stuck in this stinking shell,
success measured by inches,
lipstick badged for lions,
punchlines thrown like lettuce
at the bravo males,

there's no rip cord --
the evaluation preemptive,
a crooked eyebrow and a sigh
with the lights on,
a slow grind of inadequacy
leading to a clumsy spew,

there's no rip cord --
so most bludgeon bashful cheeks
with wedding bands --
a life locked in rolling pupil sheets,
a kid, a fence, a lawyer, and
an itchy trigger finger
stirred and served with
a green olive.

I seem to be losing my mind.

I hear faint screams,
In the middle of the night,
They sound like my mother's,
Everyone says I am imagining it,
I seem to be losing my mind.

I see bruises, marks and scars,
On the face of my mother,
Dad says it's because she fell down the stairs,
Mother must be very clumsy,
Or I must be losing my mind.

I was supposed to have a sister,
But we lost her,
T'was fate, tells grandmother,
And no it wasn't she, who pushed mother,
I am just losing my mind.

I don't know,
I died a year ago,
I said things I shouldn't,
You see, I lost my mind after all.

Vernarth sequence

Prophecy I -  “Eighth month of sailing in systemic plenitude”

“Since they will not hunt us down in all our Itheoi cycles…
nor in other lapses from where the fine eye could have sewn the buttonholes of the shroud, where there will be life and if there will be a short time without life...
dragged by you for a long time where the sun is melted over the word, staying stored and locked in your pocket to collect it blushing,
tomorrow's jump without a yesterday declining..., without a tomorrow in the heat of a bonfire...
lamb in bait handled being the portal of those who have been slapped inside their cheeks… who will not shorten the cycle that transcends all the oblong sepulchral vaults or who abound in the nonsense of sanitizing nights of ***** despot life having to measure themselves in your flourishing duel by Aiónius of the cleanest dew of its solid stroke and announced delineation of the new one that has been retraced again being more than a brief syllable created again fertile, in the biosphere mouth so as not to see you omnipresent mist, meditating not having you and that dares to meditate on your future that will have to be reserved for yourself by professing it when you are cold in front of you and insinuating if in living followed by letters to be flooded pondering like a paralyzed sleeping part that wants not to be covered with feigned warmth and that does not fit in all the parts of me being who wants to be consul of some shelter with all those who sleep also half dreaming in the company of the lost afternoon that never ends serving Saint John in Katapausis here, perhaps Aiónius del Ibico 1 as a magnificent and net unit that sees the luminous truth when we all come out of a prophecy alive even if it's dark ".

"What a reckless job of losing value,
I am already in Katapausis in the eighth month...,
I entered as the light opened with my hand turned into the light...
being already a katapausis meaning in Sabbatarianism.
Quasi-unit method exhibiting cohesion to the rest motif
With levers in my hands and intra-sabbatism in his dissertation...
of an exegetical and theological nature that has transpired soft insomniac light, We are a people who do not have to fear or air to deposit for a future warehouse above the Sycamore or birds that guard all the Gold above my hands on the Sycamore…”

"Stay in my house, if I don't come back it will be yours
stay at home, it will belong to everyone even in the apocalypse...
that more reckless will be silent as a work of losing value,
Katapausis is the threshold where my life enters and leaves at once,
stay at my house, if I don't come back it will be yours...
Open windows by meekly closing them to that confronted obverse to you...

He comes from a den relativized on reliefs in weathered beads...
they will be soluble mineral beings convened moving away from the most distant and closest to the least distant…, from waters of underground siphons… there we will all be floating… like vertebrate invertebrate animals”

Vernarth, after not entering the grotto not having found Saint John, goes outside where he goes on a campaign for three months before he can be received by God's law. Here he meets with Reader and his pelican, as well as Eurydice.


Prophecy II -  “Seventh, Inter-synergy energy”

“Three months I have waited in the middle of this mountain,
symmetrically arranging the steps to be taken, not going backward
prana of life walking in oceans of life walking…
us and them… how much must separate us to reach us?
what I have not tried to separate…, what I have not been able to achieve…

I think I died early in the worlds that haven't risen yet,
I think I was reborn late among dense curves that overwhelm us with straight lines
soul, principle, matter, and material distinctive ontology
Ghost god of parallelisms beings and activities in affinity...
starvation body of low energy ceasing creatures in embryo
incessant firstborn to infuse other confining souls
trails demons slip where my ashes hands are sore
wounded doctrines to engender and doctrines to ulcerate...

As the prophecy uses the sea carrying messages resolved from shore to shore
close to a Virtual why in the twilight your Faith that must be glandular… matter of soul and body exposed to predisposing theological and chemical, in pursuit of the corruptible whole in vice versa if he does not burst with atheistic impatience.”

Eurydice takes a zither and sings tempting stormy actions to Vernarth, Raeder and Petrobus put their souls in line in the first linear principle, Together with the matter of corporeal fire proceeding to the definition where all the parts are confirmed without distinction dancing next to them creating the greatest bond of faith in body and soul, thus spending the three months in a few words of light of the sated fire.

"In the eighth-month katapausis, eight times your permanent peace must rest in
cited state; once it is translated into Sabbathisms and it will be the same state… When everyone finishes their dance in the cave and enters believing they have the courage to enter eight times in connection with rest…, plus eight times in connection without rest.
In some verses, the urgency of the entrance will be accentuated. The main issue “is that history will be repeating itself exactly where the Israelites were at Kadesh-Barnea. A related term either synonymous with Kadesh or referring to one of two sites, is Kadesh (or Qadesh) Barnea. Various etymologies for Barnea have been proposed, including 'wilderness of travel' but none have produced a broad consensus. What is the consensus? will we stop believing or lean on the shores of a preacher rain of Jehovah or lean on the shores of a preacher sinful waterfall or lean on the shores of a preacher confessing rain or lean on the shores of a preacher wet wind inquisitor...? where ever the aromas of its faithful winds served will go sacred to everything named before and many before the confessing rainy…, waterfalls in favor of the temperamental inquisitor wind”.

Astheneiais”, in Greek is and will be a weakness, in Hebrews a moral connotation and will mean not only physical weakness but a conscious weakness and trembling in temptation. Our Lord also understands us in this weakness because he was tempted in every way as we are. Since he himself was tempted he knows from experience what it means for us to be tempted. He was not tempted in all the particulars of our life, for example, He was not tempted as a husband or father, owner or employer or soldier, because he was none of these things. But he was tempted in all three areas of human susceptibility: body, soul, and spirit.

Prophecy III -  “Sixth, Resilience…”

“They were on the perimeter trying to keep me together at his command,
I go every day for its pantry, food, groceries, bookstore supplies and ink, oils, and other essences for the environment in continuous handwritten obedience, I have to leave for Skalá where some residents are waiting for me who have ordered to bring materials from Gricos and Psili Ammos to project your home,
If this has been written like this, it is because my pleasure in walking has written it, in the company of the one, he has written for the one who walks next to me the god Ibicus!

They always asked me why to mention why I have to do this for them… I will tell you that I used to serve leaders who consolidate the Hellenic geography,
without them, everything would have been invaded by unled foreign hands… in that rest, I have to attend to the verse that precedes it...
which says that we have already entered where I already intend to argue the following…

Resilience and exhortation that from the beginning I have taken since it began... now I will abide by and present your messages in a very predominant note, I was Hoplite Commander of the Falange and Hetairoi, now a Christian who does not dispute living a life of obedience to those who are not and are not without his martyrs...
like those people to whom God swore they will not enter my rest
whose amen will be preached in the passive voice verse!

Remain as the verb indicates with the real facts, the word
independent of the present, independent of who and when…
Saint Gabriel my Abrahamic angel will give me white strength and frolicking lilies like baskets of hermaphroditic lilies procreating only-begotten forests at the altar.

Stand tall over the Abrahamic fire without knuckles or shields,
rethink your beloved woman and take a sudden step to heal your wounds there is so much grass to cut and so much poetry to chew...
up the mountain towards Skalá at night after drinking wine
Epitrapezios Inos setting fire with innocuous saffron atmosphere
lips of fire and bread, for a good offensive fight.
Greek fire naphtha, cinnabar, and anthracite.

Wake up united with the deep disorder
Grant the color that deserves to have your day as a constellation
with the image that rests on your angular and calloused hands.
stopping spaces of loss more than all the centuries that waited for the minimum incense to a good warrior, sweet wine for open bleeding wound not his… the thunder that hides baptisms in all hearts empty of blood...

“While Vernarth was praying in the oracle he felt a thunderous supra sound As if the gates of hell had opened...
As if millions of seconds of angels were to be dispersed from the sky
To reduce more seconds of silence to the thinnest pleading eardrum

A few days ago I saw a ghost that was chopping wood...
I couldn't realize that he was really Him...,
I also saw him cutting thousands of volumes from a library...
Also, not realizing it, I saw several, like more than eighty manuscripts..., of breaths that still did not prosper in the hands of San Marcos...

A gigantic door slam is felt again...!
again it was the angels that came
at the wrong time in his return..., but now in his repatriation
they climbed through and into the Garden of Eden.”

Vernarth, evicted from the habit of the unknown, was apprehended by his craftsmanship of him, he was still attentive to be received by San Juan. The longer he waited to be arranged for an audience, he did not postpone what his memory pointed out to be more than an experience plotting capacities in the face of his own limitations. From that moment on, a gigantic gate slam is felt again! the angels who went back one after another with their polished golden-white cloaks relapsed..., but now making the Garden of Eden their own,... being theirs in what was theirs, that they would be in the house of a wise gardener of Eden perhaps being the same Katapausis manger at once!

Raeder says: hugging him profusely! time has to fly like little angels, having them by your side as companions of the time that is leftover on their wings, giving it all to your enjoyment of living and feeling it lost in you without finding it. ! khaire mi Vernarth!, I have some karidopitas with nuts and yogurt accompanied by baklava with nuts in delicious syrup from Kalymnos. Petrobus jumped for joy and fluttered like a hummingbird to steal a few pieces! Eurydice and Vernarth did the same. That night they told militia stories while they ate the morsels, so they fell asleep as if it had been the first time they had fought such a great menu. Euridice assists in the same with his fresh clean face, creating an atmosphere of conciliation to renew the dream of a day that will dawn close to his waking up far from the criminals. Vernarth takes the staff from him from then on and divides books and manuscripts into two portions so that he has time to take steps to really feel that he can walk close to Saint John.

Prophecy IV -  "Fifth, Nature, Manuscripts and Jophiel"

“Zeus wakes up trembling, full of headaches saturated with Herbs for headaches Jophiel speaking this time with the Kabbalistic language of the Torah...with golden commoner super zone of the Organikon Sorousliston Papadikon….age-old music that supplies Zeus with protein albumin, to make him more human…Zeus accepts Jophiel by placing his head about the house of Jophiel; a divine island to throw cards…brings the second ray to the Sahasrara at the crown of your head, pacifying love that is the suspicious and risky loser of everything risk in the head especially when a feeling is born!

Zeus turns his head and Jophiel twists it to the opposite side
about the ruined zeros that he did not count from the plasma of his dependency, Zeus feared having albumin at risk of human transmutation... happy to be able to cry he imagines slipping into the middle of a lake and he sees that he falls on Hera's poultry harming none, Zeus pours brimstone from his mouth and milks inelegant prose from the scythe…

Trina flame whose son bears glorious her bearer,
thousands of lives being clumsy for the wisest destitute
being what in the present you were more than past trine
when you harbor from Hanael's Blue Sodalite quarry
the imperfect perfects when you listen to your
body how it beats, how it breathes... you realize that it is perfect
as is Jophiel and discerns repairing the wisdom in the decisive punt
where gum rosin myrrh and multi urban frankincense go
towards the soul plane architecture of the human plane.
Hardened Zeus overflows glazed sallow emulsion of war
coagulated exhausting guarantor of everything is well,
books of the silent world of nails that do not sound sheets,
Hanael in massive books divides sounding with her iris gel-colored nails encrypted library manuscript of a thousand years, the voluptuous organism of a thousand years…
flapping unpredictable millennia and wiry hands,
colossal capstans…, annihilated with a thousand years…
a silly propeller that spins like a sickle rolling over a certain holistic tabernacle of the small portion of the next day when Zeus awoke to the diaphanous threatening light with sunless cloud waistband…
His face is seen with frowns and he looks at his face as well
without seeing folds…but in front of the Aiónius.

The geranium appears in the representation of the natural whole kicking the Sickle, much more here lost of our spiritual being
Zeus Jophiel's hardened shoulder heats up only to lean on Him...
light on his shoulders fires on both of them…
how long it takes to save us perhaps twenty times what supports us even tired and much more unwrapped than the treachery of him alone and without being followed without knowing
nothing more than a thousand-year-old shell through which he would drain…perhaps a tortoise-like millennial angel walked up to the omega! joy preparing to give you live hopeful,
that if it would be timely to give you more life...
Here is Aiónius reordering the world together with Zefian…
He shares everything eternal of all your life that floats in the sea,
miserable mix space where capo dastro separates the end
where all the wheres cannonade the hoarse fire...
cement that joins brick wall and plenary adobes
love without nature that castrates your beautiful woman
that hides her face without mascara looking for it...
let's go outside says Vernarth..., we still have a few seconds in his solvent... sensible, full, and arc well-being...
as if you were floating in the air floating more
also needed me to teach you before your limits limit you,
and make you angry from the miserable sense,... Don't listen to me anymore...!!”

Vernarth puts his first three fingers on the capo dastro roosters crow with his skin vibrating beyond the sleep of Raeder and Petrobus. Reader wakes up and says…; My Vernarth I will make fire and heat water. Petrobus runs with his wings to look for sacred wood. Eurydice comments…, I will prepare the praiseworthy sacred breakfast.

When they were preparing to do all this, Jophiel and Hanael appeared to him, joining in the breakfast that would feed all the days and millennia of the world. Unleavened fruit, honey, and milk multiply above all, satiating hunger with satiated satisfaction.

Prophecy V – Fourth, Limbus Necropolis

“From so far away…, so far away that I listen to your sacrosanct cries…!
from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi…, rocking my elbows and hurting myself
moving in rare pleasant crypt upon crypts disconsolate stones
not so far away..., keys held in the eighth cemetery...
Who is to open the heavy door now...?
I come from Messolonghi 555 km in linear figures to Patmos...,
narrowing concave… doubtful in extension, passion princess cloud
He must welcome me benevolently in the night nymph consort...
Limbus N cloud, Cloud Cemetery lofty lofty hypogeum
soul of Limbo, before seeing the nut that girds the face in the graceful Grim Reaper resurrecting restless…, sinning… grail sacrament without Being or being…?
Necropolis Cloud, expectant mortuary technology...
amaze me if there is a byte for me...
narrow conscience, unseemly to amaze me?

Here the lost mist of the Nothofagus God phoneme-photon vanishes with divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. The Sacrament of Limbus will provide spaces and assemblages of meters for thousands of areas of infamous wandering the Ouranos, approaching the Áullos Kósmos to host him and rescue the children of the meter that was missing in the numeral rule of the Megaron acroteria before going up to the Necropolis Cloud. Vernarth, mere body formalizing principle...
extinct delicate evocation of the shadow of Elpenor;
Achaean warrior of Ulysses grandiloquent who even has otitis
and verse where flu spreads influenza
heartbreak from far away reverberating in the elite of lexicons…
arriving equidistant ... the last one arrives threatening with his Kantabroi staying neither divided nor captured, taking refuge in outright failure twilight of megahertz, farce propaganda surrendered fear will not fall even after …

Vernarth falls from the Koumeterium Mesolonghi in the Necropolis cloud privileging his status, he falls from this gloomy digital platform with a high alcoholic degree! from the high heaven after drinking hours he came in the carriage that was from Zilos, with the passion of heaven depriving his understanding stunned on some branches of will of Ziziphus…, stunned on branches of mercy….

Vernarth in a contrite accident with Elpenor, his psyche flies to the realm of the dead, Hades was remaining prisoner in that world taking the form of a Homeric icon or shadow. Vernarth was asleep after his binge, and Elpenor asks him if he wanted to join him with some concoctions. He was with blurred vision, a headache, and still lying down. But in the passionate horror of his drunkenness, he gets up quickly, saying to Elpenor: For me, it was one less pain to drink after having fallen from such a distance without being able to request and have had the grace of my mother's lullaby. For this reason, I hug you! They went together to the Cloud Necropolis to continue in the Limbus trying to alternate their physical body to gaseous liquid. At that moment Eurídice hits her with a piece of wood on her legs so that she wakes up from the bite of that nightmare that overwhelmed her to finally be able to wake up. Raeder had gone with Petrobus to Skalá to seek inputs of gnosis and his own inspiration for accents before the welcome in Katapausis to come in the blink of an eye of San Juan, necessary redaction for licenses and to be admitted to his library.

Prophecy VI - “Third, Rethymnon City and State”

“Vernarth heard the sound of a bouzouki, spoke of a 40-day fast that Greece celebrates before Easter, at the Rethymnon carnival they come from all over Greece to attend as a family during the week with animations, evenings and concerts, dances…theatre, floats with Venetian art in the picturesque old town and modern city, in this ancient city …

Rethymnon Political Ellipsis

“Like territorial extension, past-future organized infamous scene…Vernarth imagines being with Etréstles in immediate predictions
with years and thousands…, clan hobbies, Rethymnon manuscript…
while he thus deliberated…, thus rejoicing in the immaculate extramural grotto thus being as if it were comparable to a Neolithic village; being together lost with eagerness to appear from political power... palaces, kings, pro-organized religions..., rancorous superlative temple, priestly-eucharistic, nationalized sovereign citizen... commanding Parliament of the Hellenic politai people
the competent anti-value entity of the substratum political state…
sedentary-agricultural or nomadic-livestock culture…, vertical Hoplite culture!”

In Thessaloniki street, he would meet his brother head-on...Imagining how he would be...? Well-dressed-shiny, he would be in a passing tavern usually naming himself tradition and terms of questionable validity rather than those of a retro-linguistic family, in the remarkable urban-city dialogue called seditious inns with networks of political territorial extension, reaching the colossal size of multinational ideals of a complex stratification, social meeting place, future ministries to whom to delegate?. They would arrive at the tavern in Rethymnon in Crete, they order coffee, biscuits, and Mosaikó chocolates. In an unexpected moment, he suddenly wakes up from this deep, hallucinating, and futuristic imagination! His brother appears immediately, not in Rethymnon but in Katapausis with the goddess Lepidoptera!

End Ellipsis Rethymnon

“At the moment his imagination breaks just when they were preparing to toast… Etréstles in this same interval appear in Katapausis Reader and Petrobus coming in a singular pilgrimage from Skalá…this is how the syllabic song of the arcane ***** is heard emitting from the grotto…, yellow lights and saffron…. Saint John and the Gospel celebrating the Eucharist…Vernarth would believe for the first time that the hermit would come, but No…!
his brother was to be in the intervening yellow-white light
in front of him nothing more than Etréstles visiting him”

Likewise, they would no longer be in Rethymnon,
but the carnival would already begin in the region of Patmos...
eating delicacies, and the Sousta towards the circle of the Sun in the hands…They have been two months with the sweetened Moon and the Sun posing its mass of light in her… soft palm next to her waiting for him in the proximity of a Hebrew silence

Estretles says Khaire Vernarth! from Piacenza who did not see your joyous lux! I can see now to the sound of yourself the stoic zither...
countenance light, the orbit of your eyes, pale asthenia without photon without light, expectorant suppuration of your sacred Lynothorax, Absent in front of the long and fatal transverse lapse!
Raeder makes a speech to Zeus Photon Child Lux
Fulminant spends time where it remains greater than the minimum...
Patmos is the time of the Messiah…, retrograde years…
polis Helennic city-states.

Culture-state… state time chorus in tune
Philosophical poetic-epic Olympian Aiónius global leader
Homeric poems..., Raeder I am..., a naughty Politai...
you Vernarth are Politai Hetairoi militia
candy wasted by me Raeder… sweetened in my memory
polytheistic, cultured and declined…
theocratic referendum or democratic right,
Exciting porridge of my Kourabiedes cookies
butter, icing sugar, flour, eggs from the icy cliff
vanilla or Mastica resin, ***, Ouzo, mastica liquor…
or other alcoholic beverages…, which bubble on the underside of Aiónius soaked in my mouth with water from petal buds
coated for you with sugar on the tip of my tongue…
reflective cops in a wonderful dialogue of a tasty recipe...
It's time for everyone else to snack too!!

In that second Raerder was choking on a Kourabiede biscuit,
but there was the guardian of the Petrobus who piloted the
throwing hieratic water on the inside of his mouth,
forcing him to take heart from the buttress of his speech
shooing thick crumbs from his skinny dialogue spitted...
Gerakis, ray, tabletop oak bull, scepter for those who rule with him and not...My Zeus friend I invite you to play marbles,
I invite you to tell us that we are friends...
we're both fine… only Space-separated us…?

Raeder runs towards Zeus' thunderbolt from his right hand.
he jumps up and takes it from her, in exchange for this she gives him his marbles...The entire earth tilts over the Aegean..., the earth's axis tilts eight degrees, altering the cerebrospinal fluid of the Hellenic geopolitical conception..., with Zeus poly infarcted over descending magnitudes of inter-politics, millennia and headless governments...

“Apokalypsis lightning restarted, emerged from a New World”
Prophecy VII -. “Second, Alikanto Aion, Quantum”
"Kalymnos, golden tetra steed Alikanto was grazing under the metallic moon...
transiting its quantum physics…, golden legs…, four golden domes
the super host being in Apoika Andros next to the villagers,
commemorating troupe and advent…, Heraklion next period
celebrant anniversary, progeny bearer of Kanti Cretense,
close cycles of the sacred fire, domestic environment, and private zeal...
funerary hidden cult… streets in the hieratic family dwelling
fertile women… totalized and lustful ****…
productive longevity and harvests…, family Apoika
next successor belligerence…, funerary plexus…
culty predecessor…, treatise and imprecation of law, theme and legible religion domestic scene, family civic servant ceremony

Goddess Hestia austere, head with eight sacred candles dressed
Olympus lacking without gods…, only Goddesses embargo!
Feminine Hestia Domestic Goddess, an emanation of the female oval to ovulating…Pritaneo, the central decree of the political harvests… foreign exchange grains to be minted monetary stock exchange of Athens… Pritaneo ford on the rise, ford on increase Aion... hesitant dart swoop into eternity,
Alikanto Perpetual Aion…Speaks with both hands
synchronized and tilted tongue…
stutters and swallows, in six paranasal sinuses
saturated with fiery saliva..., and an Internal voice saying say...
what makes sense to feel and what does not turn off...
sleeping waves in the poison of love igniting
intra-Vernarth love…, billing infected holy blood
methodical coupled time…, Gaugamela the bronze extremity,
of a lost leader…, won leader!

If I had to run to rewrite retro Adhoc poems and chosen trova,
With a shy Trojan verse, I would dare today if I kissed her in front of me… she!
she would jump from the hyperesthetic-Ouranos…, inhuman to the Aion world
aurora celestina, bleeds big and defiant today in your star
In herself Ella…, pestiferous condemnation sweetness and aura between her…she just be, she herself be supported be…, Oh… Goddess Hestia on your opposite leg unbraced arm, meadow and vein braid… assaulted by lost and thirsty love written everything if she tempts…, everything wields darkly if it took you to our Olympus… at night loving you whole..., emptying everything with no inappropriate hand singing don vine fissure and intimate company, may it be exterminated... passion outside with nailed stake..., iron embedding..., nails wounding...exhausted supra lips supra yours…, mid sand writing full to her…
tip of my Xiphos… blood made written with written maiden mythology,
letter sword Spatha…, cyclamen balm made whole if I had you!

“To the loves of the world I say…, cover your ears fungus of boredom, your torn ears squander ignoring more than sordid saying...my blood kills, my blood revives! I **** my blood and I **** everyone, with your blood scattered, ***** blood scattered…!
do not leave me alone until nightfall… I only ask for holy water,
emptied from your mouth goddess Hestia who flies tons over me...
I only ask for a spatha romantic blood sharp, ******, and scattered...
to write to the love wars that I have lost...
to the wars of love that I have won, slicing the jugular of the
treacherous and wicked emperor"

“… Alikantus, he remembered the Hoplite commander in Gaugamela, he remembered when he dodged arrows with his head so that they would not hit his body or his pectoral. From such a present moment falling by surrendering to the evocation of him. He goes down to a stream and confines himself to the vanity quagmire, continues on his path reaching a suspicious lagoon, drinks sacred water, drinking again manages to perceive the effigy of Vernarth in the mirror of Aion's Hydor... calling him from Patmos! Law reminded his master how he died for everyone in the world just as the world would not let him bring more than agonizing for him because there was no more space said Aionius ... "

Alikantus then clenched his jaws too hard, falling out all his molars, he asked the Gods in front of Hestia to restore them fifteen days before arriving at the Ekadashi in Patmos where his master, thus loving all the lives of the world, as well as the hidden cries behind the Dypilons hiding the power of God… or laugh at gagged iris flashes and mummified sighs with lives that subsist!

Vernarth from Patmos called to him so that his eyes looked invigorated like the swarms of green and gray vanadium fire, of mood in the predictive table and close prediction. AlIkantus bids farewell to Kalymnos spraying sorrel and hyper-odoriferous flowers of the Apoika in Kalymnos loving from above, very close, flying, loving everything so much that he forgot to fly. He sometimes fell hard but recovered retried as a baby steed in the womb of a mother new species to be born again in Apoika!


Prophecy VIII -  "First of Aionius, "Eleusis Prophecy of Hamor"
“Aiónius received news of Hamor's prophecy; cosmic orgiastic order
tyrannical snake victim throwing herself into her abyss and purpose..., banishment as an objective void to be decreed, even so ending the world from another world,
discontinuous terse march, slurred arpeggio, speech by Aiónius
there is no world left but if extermination…, undone threshold…, provoke in delicate chaos…!

As a child, I ran to the supreme world herding lions... I called them and they ran to me..., they came alone, some didn't...! Being young, one day Aionius went to the farm and counted the lions... Some came others No... Aionius..., in such a hamorio he was locking an earring from his ears, he hung them again, which happened the next day relaxed..., he saw a maiden who laughed hypnotized…, he sighed when she turned around saying with her poor gestures… Destroy it! The afflicted turned away not knowing what was coming… destroying the desolate world vilifying silky physiognomies, chipped and dandruff face slipping from yours being captive and arid…, tempts to flow libertarian imprint in foreign praxis, origin, and end,
me from the slime being born in my eighth life in nothingness ataxia…

The beloved Victim surrounded by snakes moved the stump of her arms
eaten away by the serpent that took refuge in thorns of forged steel...
she kept walking…, Aiónius pointed at her and kissed her gestures escaping frightened towards the valley in farewells... not fitting itself in valleys that were never anything she paraded with the current of her last word, the beloved again moved her arms following her in front of her the beast was on her, Aiónius buried from fleeing and coming… with fiery phenotype, abrupt vocabulary, says: “Strapping and interludes, after beings of impiety, the world of impiety, Hamor of the first wit… towards other refuges I will depart about a Yes devouring bare ring on it…”
escape curve that cuts the pelvis of my beloved
destructive be your curved world that before had to destroy me...
ultra pre-hellenic nymph Harpé passion spread on me…
Hailed libertarian praise, aristocratic vermilion accent, minority ruling? Overwhelming rigor expended, prophetic Hamor, prophetic expansive arsenal! It must come from all the supreme worlds with strokes and silhouettes conquering...true dream, confused hypothetical oscillate sweeping imploring and contracting popular decision, management and space of my Sickle…, sometimes uncontained… worse avenues in its radius and dark mourning badly wounded shadow! The vertex that finally launches opens the dawn and his Hamada flees... Leaving with the untidy serpent, about touching and causing rangers in the stuck earth.

Demeter and Persephone; based on Eleusis in ancient Greece
mystery myth of the abduction of Persephone daughter of Demeter…
by the king of the underworld of Hades, Abrahamanica's offspring
cabal, life in the descent, the search and the ascent…
Ascent of Indra lightning Vahana and lightning from her right eye,
Persephone to the reunion with her beloved daughter ascending.

Zodiac and mysteries involved, visions and sleight of hand
that of an afterlife, rain of seven trunks, long-lived Airavata
elephant, Eleusis jump psychedelic mystery, incision, and coherent rites, ceremonies and experiences of cold winters and life on earth
plants in gestation under the gift of Elitíaen and beings that
they are about to germinate and be born, beings in a chain of genes...
vegetable running on the earth, vegetable in March in its glory
September in the jaws of the purified phrase and inaccurate acropolis I…

Sacred obscenities, deadly tributes with the death penalty...,
wandering nights without clothes with obese and badly fragrant meats point and taco dances praising the harvest in honor of a dead Thracian bull, libating priestly vessels and bullfighting heads in a deliberately defined and improper triweekly ritual, revealed in Demeter and Persephone.

Only Hamor in his venerable pyx lies locked up knowing he is unable to open inside this lustful bewitching sparkles, the mystery of emancipated disenchantment that awakens from his slow consciousness without knowing how to go on passing in the sum of all happenings of Aiónius. ”

This is how he defined himself from the syncretism of Indra and the mystery of Eleusis, from Demeter and his daughter Persephone from the vile kidnapped underworld. Of the divine Goddess Elitia and the annual records of children born within a year in the germinating seed of the mystery of love that would begin with this prophecy with the initial "H" of the underworld exclaimed Hades and Greek heritage in this event. Vernarth and his companions listened to this prophecy, almost falling asleep, it seemed to them sweet pallor-bitter, love-heartbreak in the previous day before diagnosing having a presence in the hermitage of San Juan Apóstol for the superior company of a later day that was approaching as the greatest daring of all up in the mountains while disposing of Vernarth's Apologist obverse of Aiónius's.

Epilogue Prophecies - “Eleusis, Isadora Duncan to the Parthenon”

“Vernarth and Eurydice indulged in the jargon of agitated diasporas
of inhabitants fleeing the Rite of Eleusis, crossed hands and feet
They dueled on olive trunks with Theban thunder, vague Insurrection of the ancient world, and consonants of barbarian Pleiades,
acclaiming predilection of the Eremita San Juan to appear...
in a breath of peace resurfacing... but seeing that Vernarth was accompanied of Eurydice hid in front of them leaving only her aura near from the stream of a chrysalis!
In the dizzying succession of myths, good news reaches her sacred ears, waking up her trend and her high quarterly price outside the walls... being later received in the grotto of the hermitage in growing expectation and a link of longing that weaves to remind him of being a crusade piece.

The kidnapping of his reverie feared and timid frivolous crushing blizzard, he was walking surrounded by Falangists on horseback pointing at him and threatening him, scrutinizing in the distance loneliness of his past lives,
his regressive life, concerning key to origins of his illustrative Existence, stranded at this moment..., Vernarth makes a pact with himself to detach himself..., of his spirit, detach from their lives under a hypnotic and compelling law..., like a suspended index in the Sistine Chapel, homologous ship Ave Maria Messiah!

From Eleusis Vernarth vanished in aerial horse-dreaming,
he crossed through the pavilions with himself persevering some wake
riding his Alikantus ******* and standing with him to pillage the Empyrium niche Persephone's trace of herself and her ******* ******* them...
with devoted passion, milky way, and milky syrup chin howling...
Vanishing dancer, Athenian acropolis, Dionysian sanctuary of the acropolis… Stepdaughter-patron in the dance of Zeus and Themis lopsided frame of the season's wildness of all creation and defiance of Eleusis looking for her daughter and her children, priestesses safely taking off their corset and their pictures…
raging chastity, oligo blood, Itheoi music, outraged dance complaining, Possessed expressing being seductive but also a native *******... the underworld in darkness, free daughter, and iconoclastic Greek mythologist
inconvenient Victorian mania, a courtesan from Olympus, courtesan undressed! Isadora, Demeter, and Persephone… flooded with Aphrodite foam!

She “prayed songs with plexus and feet, plotting gardens around the world… full of baseboard feet where everything created in brief Apokálypsis was dying! By desolate Parthenons dancing in Muscovite ruins, maenades sweaty enclave and also throwing back his head as if possessed by ecstasy in her Bugatti and Leonidas…, enchanted by Aiónius! intoxicated and exorbitant with beautiful rosy placebo eyes... Hair with headbands vine petioles, her Nebris tight skin was wearing... in her hand's bunches of barberries to Dionysus with torches and live snakes a chaste crook naming Thirsus; rod topped with Kashmar branches wrapped in borders, vines and ivy, allusive link…, morbid ecosystem! covering her crotch in the Temple of her Kopanos dancing from the eternal fire cremated and in a romantic dimension remembering Byron's meritorious…
Hellenic passionate, and of Hölderlin poeticizing together with Aiónius.

Rudiment wound … ruinous on value exciting in those
of the imagined and creative in her perdition, Sicalipsis e impudicias
torn fire in the Metelmi and her ***** we are twisted,
epic worthy of greek tragedy dancing like waves of fire
in the forge in terrifying death of her children Deirdre and Patrick,
submerged and injured in the Seine in Paris in 1913, falling into the
water in the car that was traveling with her wet nurse… before…!
saying goodbye to them in urgent social commitments,
I Aiónius take you to the Empyrium.

What a dire tribulation in the prevailing misfortunes by not postponing it, retain the fate of whose children is quite a story with the kidnapping of theirs and merits of fulfilling commitments committed to solicitous artists... support, crestfallen inside a dresser or Bolshoi dancing statue, dancing empty with bare feet, frigid anemone, frigid Sea…

Arriving at the dawn of her last prophecy, Isadora Duncan accompanies her in full life beyond all limiting borders with the borders of her dance, the flat field of Eleusis receives her presumptuously associating in around for the dressings...
And left-handed dalliance self-indulging…, advanced barefoot to the Parthenon…!naked towards the world and the orb dug out of her before her undressed.

Reader and Petrobus jumped on this steep stone, emulating the meteorites that shone in the sky of Patmos such a party of nocturnal lights, such emery detached from a fleeting planet in the largest Hellenic scene saying: "Well-being to the Hellenic World all calm, dance and immunity to the firmament where Isidora rests in the Kantabroi of Aionius”

It was as if you’d handed me
the most delicate thing in the world—

a lotus blossom made of moth wings;
a newborn's first breath;
the heartbeat of a sleeping humming bird.

And I shall do my clumsy best
to hold it with all the
tenderness that it deserves.

A pixie marching band took their show on the road.
17 tiny horn players and a drummer
with a button for a snare.
Across the water they walked,
regimented in three lines,
playing "Has The Day So Quickly Ended" to the rhythm of water splashing
on finely cobbled pixie shoes.
Tireless they moved forward
across an entire ocean
seeking comfort and solitude of Icelandic shores.
Unnoticed by the many captains of the many ships they slipped by, their music nothing more than crickets chirping or the ringing in their ears.

It was a long journey and they never stopped playing once.
Seven hundred and seventy-six songs in their repertoire
they played each one at least twice as days turned to night
and the cycle would need to be repeated
Every pixie musician in the band had every one of those songs memorized
you could call the tune
at any time
day or night
he would pick up his pixie instrument and play it note perfect.
Not a single mistake.

Legendary songs of pixie lore, like "Call The Wild Dogs to Anglicize", "Too Many Curtains" and "Fill Your Cup With Salty Seltzer".
Popular pixie songs all pixies knew, like "Bertha You're a Hard Act to Follow", "Dropped My Horn in the Bay of Pigs", "Livestock", "Ain't No One Answerin' the Phone" and "Drop Yer Pillow, Samuel".
Sacred pixie songs celebrated their common faith in the one true God, like "God, There Ain't No Other God", "Our God Sails the Seven Seas" and "God Help the Fool Who Fools His God".
Pixie drinking songs, "Bottoms Up", "Can You Hear the Weeping Warm Beer?", "1-2-3 Let's All Get Drunk", "Pixie Drinking Song" and "Hustle That Swill".

A lot of songs.
A lot of moods.
A lot of reasons to go  home to Iceland,
as if they needed any besides the food.

The pixie band was pushing three-quarters of the marching journey across the ocean
when Big Jim Pixie turned around and scolded Billy Joe the trombone player.

"Bill, you clumsy *******!" barked Big Jim. "You just about hit me in the back of the head with that ******* trombone slide! Do I have to tell you what I'm going to do to you if you actually graze me with that spit-drippin' thang?"

Billy Joe, typically soft spoken, was not having any of this.

"It was a flying fish that whisked up 'gainst the side of yer noggin, not my slide. If I was of a mind to bean you with this here slide you'd be rubbing the back of your head right now and you'd be so shook up you wouldn't even know it was me that done it."

"You sure do talk tough now, don't ye?" asked Big Jim, reluctantly realizing that it could well have been a flying fish but not yet willing to let the trombone player off the hook. "Don't make me turn around cuz if I do you are going to be in the market for a new trombone."

"That's a well may be, Jim-Jim, but the hand that holds the pen that signs the check that pays for it is going to be yours. Let that stand as a natural fact."

If there's one thing in the world Big Jim didn't like being called
it was Jim-Jim.
Billy Joe was always calling him Jim-Jim because he knew it bugged him.
The pixies in the company had all used variations on his name when referring to him in the past  
Jimbo Johnson,
Johnny Jimson,
Little Jim Big Jim,
Jimmy Jolson,
George Jimson,
Son James the Ham Chef,
Carl Jim Has Been,
King James Version Abridged,
James Wainright Teller,
Jim the Traitor,
Jim the Christ Killer,
Jim the Destroyer of the World,
Jim the Enemy of the Known Universe  
each one of these appellations rankled him but none so thoroughly as the simple
Jim Jim
that Billy Joe would call him.

"I ain't payin' a ******* cent, trombone player."

"Then you ain't breakin' my trombone, Jimmy Jack Jehosaphath."

"Don't test me, you may have to arrest me."

"I'll bring you a file so you can get out of jail, Jim Jim".

"Well that's mighty white of you, pixie. Now what are you gonna do if that spit valve was leakin' and you got some of your nasty ebola saliva on the back of m'neck? You gonna come visit me in the hospital?"

"I might. But then again I might just wait and come visit your grave when they put you down."

"Joe, if we weren't still marchin' I swear to almighty God I would turn around and beat you so bad they'll be countin' a man short when we finally get home."

"Jim Jim, them's fightin' words but you ain't never fought nothing no tougher than the urge to **** in public. You ain't gonna do no permanent damage to me nor my trombone here. So why don't you put your money where your mouth is or keep that mouth shut?"

Big Jim turned around
hit Little Joe hard square between the eyes.
He heard and felt bone crack.

Joe looked stunned.
He'd never call that mean ******* Jim Jim again.
No,
never again
because he hit the water hard and sank down as the band marched right over him,
most not even noticing.

Jim looked for as long as he could then turned around and proceeded to march the rest of the way to Iceland.

"Don't call me Jim Jim," he said, speaking only to himself.

Then he heard a voice in the back of his head.
It was loud enough to be heard over the
music
and
the waves
and
the ocean breeze.

It was HIS voice,
but he had no control over it whatsoever.

"Jim Jim."

"Jim Jim."

"Jim Jim."

...and so it was Big Jim, whose trumpet playing had practically defined the style of this particular pixie band, lost his mind, eventually taking up residence in a Reykjavik sanitarium screaming every night, keeping up the attendants and making things worse.

"Little Joe Jangly Hops! Come here you ******* I got a lollipop for ya."

"Joe Joe Deathgrip Toenail! I'm gonna light your mama on fire!"

"Little Joe Clamfry, somebody took a **** in your bed!"

On and on he went until the people in the kitchen stopped giving him bananas. Then he stopped for awhile.

But only for awhile.

I've recently fallen into an elite group of individuals: youth diagnosed with depression by their mothers.

I can't argue with her; she is licensed.

But I can't help but feel that my case is different, minor in comparison. I'd like to call it loneliness but it's more developed than that.

It's like a cancer that started in my fingertips when they realized there was nothing to hold on to, and has since spread to my heart or my brain, whichever is responsible for the distribution of numbness to my bones and vital organs.. I'll call it 3rd stage loneliness. I'm saving calling it the 4th stage for when it starts to feel terminal.

"Lonely" is kind of a **** of a word, like "love," or "beautiful." I think people like to use "lonely" like teens use cigarettes. It taste good when it falls off the tongue. And by my observation, they both cause cancer.

Everyone wants to be "lonely" but no one wants to be alone.
So I've put it upon myself to separate loneliness into subcategories, based on mortality rate.

If you're wondering why I'm lonely, don't bother. I'm wondering the same. I have friends a family that loves me, and the rest of the chemo-esque **** that's suppose to nurture you back to health. But
I've still got that tumor buried under my skin where no one cares to look.

I ain't got many friends I can talk to.

I've concocted a list of side effects of 3rd stage loneliness, if you're interested:
1.) Insomnia - the inability to completely shut the third eye on your skull because it persists on looking to the future.
2.) Selective Hearing - the inability to listen to supposedly happy music and instead sulk with the sounds of Bon Iver or Bright Eyes ricocheting through the canals of your brain. Music your friends "probably haven't heard of"
3.) Loss of Appetite - Don't worry, you still crave food and other survival necessities. You simply lose the appetite to expand through the universe. Loss of Ambition, as the form would say.
4.) Improved Acting Skills - You'll eventually learn to manipulate the stringy muscles in your face to pull up the corners of your lips when you feel you are expected to. Not all side effects are bad.


I am not one of those darkly dressing teenagers that complains with visible angst about being misunderstood. But I do have the hair for it.

I am not suicidal. Maybe I would be, but I seem to have been struck particularly hard by Side Effect #3.

But at first mention of depression you can see their faces squirm and contort to resemble a clumsy soldier tap-dancing through a minefield, while simultaneously conducting open-heart surgery on himself.

5.) Exaggeration.

This poem is not meant to sadden, to depress. It is simply for the public awareness of 3rd stage loneliness. If you know someone suffering from this disease, please call this hotline:

1-800-462-5663
(1-800-IMA-LONE)


The more you know...

You are true to your roots and delicious to boot,
You’re a sweet potato.
No fear to shed skin, to reveal what’s within,
You’re a sweet potato.

Years and years I’ve never fit in and I’ve
Never felt right and I always stuck out and
I learned how to speak for myself, how to shut people
Down before they have time to get down
Up real close and see
The real me.

And now tragedy strikes and I feel all alone,
But not all is lost, I am now on my own
And am getting quite better day after day,
I find that it’s easier to smile these days.
And then you come along, you delicate treat, and
You flip, trip, and sweep me right off of my feet and I
Usually always can keep my balance but
Now I can’t help but fall down.
But I see now that you’ve stuck around.
You’ve bagged me and tagged me,
You’re taking me home, and I
Just simply cannot wait.
Can we go to concerts and movies and drive-ins
And dances and nightclubs and can we go hiding
Around in the dark just to find one another again?
But it won’t be the same, will it then?
Nothing can compare to that warm, glowing stare
That you gave me when you had my sweater on.
There’s no one that it could look better on.

This is all so ridiculous, crazy, not planned,
But aren’t those the best things around these here lands?
It’s fast, it’s exciting, it’s scary, and yet…
I don’t want a life that’s devoid of it.

There’s something about your hair.
There’s something about your eyes.
There’s something about you, sweetness,
That I’d like to make all mine.
How could you have been here this whole time,
Right under my nose and I had never known
That a goddess, a genius, my dream girl had seen
Me from afar and saw something that she liked.

I’m clumsy, not skinny, I’m awkward and weird,
But I don’t feel a need to hide it.
Because I know you’ll just stand beside it.
Hold my hand and be there to guide it along on
Wherever this twisted road takes us.
And I smile when I hear or say, “us”;
Even though we just met, I feel like I’ve known you
For a long, long while.
It’s easy to make you smile…
It’s easy for me to smile when I hear your voice or
Look at your face and I can’t believe my luck.

I don’t care if it rains, because all I need is to hear from you
And everything feels like sunshine.
I’ve struck gold, diamond, oil, I’m rich with
Deep conversations to come over coffee.
Whipped cream and sugar and talking.
I’ve read many books but I can’t remember the last time
I’ve been so interested in a novel like this.

Your brain is a book, your prose on it’s pages.
Can I add to your Table of Contents?

every line bears this weight
clumsy truth, crucifix-like
and in bearing alone, they are born

up and sing
on the wings of those demons we've seemingly seen
to be
descending
one ladder inverted
where once Jacob had torn
down his alter
in anger, in the dry place where we left the vision

I could tell you that I tip toe across the cold wet stones,
Careful with every movement,
But I’m not.
I’m unsteady,
Unsteady as the current rushing beneath me against the slippery rocks.
I could tell you that I’m dainty,
Soft spoken and polite,
But I’m not.
I’m brazen,
I’m honest,
I’m emotional.
I’m clumsy and I don’t have good balance on the moss beneath me in the water.
I crack under pressure,
I’m an anxiety filled vessel.
I hate to be the rain on your sunny day,
But baby I’m sorry,
I’m nothing but the girl who fell into the rushing waters below.

Clumsy me,
never thought that
the life could take
such a discourse
such a dip
such a diabolical turn.

Between the hinges of
acting or not-acting,
what is inside the
so-called life;
is it a metaphor,
is it an illusion,
is it humble submission to the eternity?

Sprout, but
not cluttered in
utmost thought,
perhaps, someone
is pulling the string
from behind the curtain.

Hence,
everything and all other things
are in vain-
is it perpetual?
is it hypocrisy?
is it pretending?
is it
never be able to distinguish-

Clumsy me!

careless kisses
fumbled apologies
clumsy hands

parched lips
thighs craving
eyes wandering

she thinks your lips
drip liquid gold
words like
gilded treasures
meandering between
the soft curve of your shape
drinking your nectar
Persephone's tether to Hades

working her way
inside
she knows
it works

for when the gold
fades to ***** grey
your eyes
speak lies
yet your lips
beg me to stay

husk of the seed stale on my tongue
I do not move

Flow in a long stream,
I fall into a deep dream.
Waving smoke with rosy glow,
Lightly red the bamboo grove;
In the brilliant gloam,
I see some fire worms,
They shine, they light,
Cross the field, through the hill,
Finally sit on a farmer’s hat;
The man stumbles along the track,
Husky and a little laze,
His distant voice echoes around:
“Go back home—Go back home—”

I wake suddenly with a start,
The city lives fast still tonight,
A sea of neon, reflect in my eyes;
The world is glossy, but mine is clumsy;
I just hope, not to be shoved forward.
And the time I look back,
My hometown will just be there;
And the time I listen for,
The distant echoes will just be here:
“Go back home—Go back home—”
Linger round with no end.

I hate the dreadful sight of the moonlight,
and wish that it could soon fade away into sunlight.
'Tis all but too coherent-far too lovely and too bright;
such a flaw indeed, to my mood and my womanly night.

Unlike the whole silence of the morn;
Whenst no'ne shall speak but the comely red thorn.
Whose soul is far too genuine-and one too like thee,
Clumsy but witty as thou strolled startlingly by me.

Ah, thee, whom I once loved, and now still do,
Whose love I cannot resist, neither can subdue;
But to whose charm I know I must desist,
For neither shall I be thy snow; nor ever, thy mist.

Ah, as not even abruptly in thy mind,
I snare thy conscience nor make thee blind.
Forever and ever to her thou choose to be bound,
Even when this world remains loud, but emits no sound.

And to her, her feeble soul thou art committed,
Into whose fingers art thy varied souls submitted.
And thy palms, both palms entwined whilst walking hand in hand,
Making herself proud, of claiming such a heart-of a perfect man.

But not to me, I-who thou detained too perfectly,
and turned to when all proved to thee, too beastly.
I, who shall forever be a distant friend,
I, who hath no right to thee, nor thy sweaty bare hands.

And not to me; I, who love thee all the greater,
I whose love for thee is but much sincerer, and cleverer.
I, whose passion for thee is too genuine, and tenderer;
Ah, but which to thy senses, might never even matter.

I, who love thee like I love the summer;
I, whom to thee a mere sanguine poet and a cold writer.
Ah, thee, but do thou know not-that my poems are alive?
They speak of my feelings, they speak of my noble life.

I, who love thee as deeply as I love my poetry;
I, who secretly wish thou could only be with me.
I, who shall love thee still-in my maidenhood and later wifery,
But whom to thee sadly nobody; and clearly no more-
Than a bewitching fellow, and on Sundays, a thoughtful young lady.

Ah, my soul is but crossed by this uncivil noise,
Noise in the night, noise that possesses even no voice;
Noise that hath no desirous wishes, and gravely no bliss;
Noise that is born not, out of a deep, passionate secret kiss.

Silence, oh thee; all-too-unmighty voice!
For thou only trouble the mind,
with an unconsciousness that make me blind;
within a joy my soul cannot retrieve, much less rejoice.

Angry, angry am I-with all these burdens of jealousy,
Ah, besotted I am, with those galleries of envy,
And their echoing portraits and songs of undefined melody-
Full of sorrow; and bloodied fits-of uneventful tragedy.

Hungry, hungry then is my soul-for love,
Which hath never come, nor ever seemed enough.
I am deterred, unlike those free giggling starlights above;
From joying in affection, from rubbing myself against love.

So gross, gross is how my blood-looks like;
Bereft of its breath, unloved by its might.
And its impure conscience that now only troubles the light;
Provoking my innocence, torturing my fair sight.

I hate the dreadful sight of the moonlight,
and wish that it soon fade away into sunlight.
I better hope that morn come daintily earlier;
whenst spring comes back into view and so turns everything, lovelier.

And t'is hope, hope for thee shall spring again;
As I shall pray before yon vase of sweet lavender
Which stays still-and loyally to the windowsill, unbent;
Even when it shrieks gallantly, and makes all not by any, tender.

For morn shall refine those current tides of summer,
so that the lake shall blow again-and grow stronger;
And as it does, my love for thee shall return, and be better,
For t'is time it shall bloom; like words that I write, and thou decipher.

And all this noise shall fall into poetry;
Which every day grows statelier and comelier.
For as we kiss, only thy eyes that shall speak onto me;
That our love is true, and shall remain so, forever.

I took care of others, walked in their shoes,
got their trivial pains and forgot my loyal legs...
If I present you the baneful thorns I have trodden,
would you be ready to follow me again and barefoot?
My mind will always be bitterly cold
as an intact valley and never understood...

Though I am sure that you do not care,
I feel well, very well, except longing.
Your dreams are flying even everywhere
while I try to stop contemplating...
You know, I am a bit chatty when I am inspired
and the poet inside me never gets tired.

You can't grasp how painful it is to emanate a poem,
how you go out of your infatuated mind...
When 'clevers' seek for justice, but only for themselves,
there is nothing else purer than the tears of madmen.
So, happiness would have been an evident injustice,
if all of the people attained their desires.
I have faced many types of mental battles,
but no war is harder than the lack of love inside.
Love is living your life for another one's sake,
sacrificing everything with honor and pride...

Now I am sure that there exists no hate,
but just does the love of hatred indeed.
Before the absurdness of irrevocable fate
only love will save us in eternity...

No feeling will help you to be deeply blessed
while mass is spurious and loners are obsessed...
As you **** your hopes you gain fake freedom,
but free slavery will still be going on,
sometimes feeling oppressed, depressed, repressed...

However,
Invincible I am before such odd jobs
and I have found ways to keep myself up.
Now I live slowly till the time begins to blur,
paradoxes take place within my dark thoughts,
I divide the time to its perpetual aeons,
all the rules and limits I swear to deny
and save the endless time when we were eye to eye...
Through your looks the heavenly sky is clear
and all the possibilities are real there...
My benevolent angel,
let the eternity recur from the start,
only the eyes of blinds do not show their hearts...

I feel very sorry and deeply upset,
when the human inside silently regrets ...
Yet I am too clumsy to move mountains,
to achieve sanctity which I want to serve.
I wish I made you happy at my any chance,
But I can only make you happiness itself...

a calendar
lies in the corner of a table,
forgotten,
two weeks into the New Year,
its simple pencil sketch at the top
showing at an angle.
late at night
a noise can be heard from that corner,
the sound of protesting sobs,
and a little voice
can be picked out here and there,
"all the other calendars
had pretty scenes
of mountain lakes and forest glades.
now they are all gone.
someone has taken them
to hang on their wall.
and I am still lying here.
nobody wants me.
my big, clumsy letters
are clear and dark.
a child could read them.
and my large, awkward boxes
have plenty of writing space.
I am the best calendar around
and could help someone greatly
in their struggle
to remember their place in time,
if only someone would stay long enough
to see what I am
and not what I look."

---TW: themes of self harm---


I'm hungry,
******* hungry.
I'm not really in the mood
For the moldy apples in my fridge.
My brain is hungry though,
******' hungry.

A nagging, a pulling, and a tapping.
The urges crawl to and fro in the back of my skull,
Like drunken, confused spiders.
I roll my eyes back
To take a peep at the spiders,
And I stare at them for a while.
Their clumsy crawling is mesmerizing;
I can't look away, even though I want to.

The stomach growls,
The skin quivers,
And the aroma rises.
The blood running in my veins,
Along with the goosebumps on my skin
Are tantalizing.
Why does it smell better than any actual meal?
My thoughts begin to narrow in on my hunger,
On my skin,
And on my hunger,
And on my skin,
And on the box cutter,
And on my hunger,
And on my skin.
Eventually it's all I can think about,
God ******.

I bite and groan;
I bite and wail.
The guilt consumes me,
But the hunger consumes me
With an even sharper bite.

Biro poetry doesn’t work
It does not flow or fill the page with easy thoughts
The pen is a bulky lover, rather than the finer bodied pencil
It gives no quarter in correction, and scribbling out is just a messy affair
So it is unsatisfactory, clumsy and clogging
Oh for my pencil, where have you gone, my love?
Your fine point skating the velum,
An extension of my mind
Allowing expression beyond such coarse biro
******!

My name is Rachel
But others may refer to me as
Rach, Rachie, or Rae-rae.

I am nineteen years of age.

When I was a little girl
My smile was as bright as the sun
I ran and jumped and tumbled
I climbed trees that were so tall they touched the sky
And if ever I fell down
I picked myself up, still smiling.

It was when I was ten
That my smile finally faded
And my parents grew frustrated
With themselves
And the day they told my brother, sister and I
That they weren’t going to be together anymore
Was the same day I fell
And wasn’t strong enough to stand back up.

Four years
Of complete and total darkness
Is what followed

And then half my face froze up
Stuck in a permanent state of nothing
A paralysis of the nerves
Labelled ‘Bell’s Palsy’
Was what finally motivated my dad
To get me out of there
And after a while
I must’ve been smiling pretty hard
Because the paralysis went away.

And now I’m here.

If I were to describe myself
I’d point out that I’m five foot, four inches tall, on a good day
When anxiety isn’t weighing me down.
Rarely do I ever stand up straight.
I have deep, dark brown eyes
That observe more than they can really see.
They remain hidden behind thick framed glasses
For they, themselves, wish not to be seen.
My hair is as brown and ordinary,
Long and untamed and always in the way.
I’d cut it all off, like when I was younger
But I look older this way
And my friends like it.

I spend most of my time blogging
Even though rarely does anything exciting happen to me,
But then, that’s what John Watson said
Right before he met Sherlock.

I love television and movies
I love video games
I love books
Because I love stories.
Listening to them
Watching them
Reading them
I’d never get bored.

I like books, their pages dry and crinkling at my touch.
I put more effort into procrastination than I do into any sort of work.

Death laughs, and life depresses me.
I’m afraid of a lot of things.

Sometimes I feel too much,
Sometimes I feel nothing at all,
And that frightens me.

My imagination tends to run wild,
And sometimes it’s beautiful
But sometimes it’s brutal.
Sometimes I’m just paranoid.

I think about thinking
I think about other people thinking
I think about other people thinking about what I’m thinking
I’m an over thinker.

Secretly I’m a hopeless romantic,
And I hope to fall in love without getting confused by the idea of it.
But that’ll happen when I’m ready for it.

I believe in the equality of all things, though I’m hesitant to say it’s achievable.
I know there’s good to be found in people
But I don’t understand why all I keep finding is bad.

I’m proud and prejudiced against prejudiced people
Jane Austen is my hero.

If you ask me my name
I’d probably stumble over it
Like I stumble over everything
Words seems to curl my tongue
They do wonders at the tips of my fingers
But die as soon as they cross my lips.
I get nervous when I have to speak
Or look someone in the eye
And I’m pretty sure my mouth has a mind of its own.

I like being alone but sometimes I get lonely.
I’m moody and temperamental, and a little mental
But those that care for me don’t mind.

I’m more inclined to listen
If I can sing along too.

I’m clumsy and uncoordinated.
I walk into doorframes and apologize.
I stub my toe and laugh
But other people’s pain makes me cry.

I know a few words in Italian,
Even fewer in Russian,
And they’re all slang or swear words.

When I blush my entire face is painted scarlet,
And my skin is so sensitive it’s sometimes a blotchy mess.
I stutter
Unless I’m ranting.
Usually my thoughts make more sense
When I’m not thinking at all.

I am Rachel and this is barely scratching the surface of who I might be.

My heart is clumsy, heavy, and shy
It stumble through love, ensure of the sky.
I reach for the stars, but my fingers fall.
I dream of the moon, yet I loose it all.

Each beat is a whisper, a delicate sound,
But I drop every word before it's found,
It longs for the light, yet stumbles in dark, A dance without rhythm, a miss in the spark.

The weight of my heart, it drags on the floor,
A longing for love, but it's never quite sure it alteres, it quivers, with hope and with fear,
A heart full of love that can never quite steer.

And yet, through the weight, it still dares to beat,
With every misstep, it rises, repeat for even a clumsy heart, through it may fall
And still dreams of a love that can heal it all.

Tied by a rope to the image
Of familiar comforting predictable
Misery seeing not the truth you cling
Like a baby to the cold hateful mother
She drags you through cities and islands of
Solitude filling you up on hate like
Rotten breast milk
They say you're a hopeless case
Unfit for true greatness for you have
So little to give
I say you Fear life more than death
Too many chances to take
Too many disappointments to endure
For the fickle heart Lost and confused
Child full of love
Don't listen to it's song
It only aims to fill you with disdain  
To embrace the hate in you
As one more comforting hateful failure
That proves it was right
All along

I found it while unpacking boxes of old books in the basement.
It slipped out of a Spanish to English
dictionary that I probably smuggled out
of a middle school library ten years ago
and haven't opened since.

I knew what it was, of course-
whole years were spent with bad posture
listening to substitute teachers and CCD carpool-drivers
lecture about the bold beauty and senseless frailty
that was youth.
Their bodies were at once tense and earnest.
Their voices were at once condescending and pleading as
they sang deeply of the space we blindly occupied and
they fiercely missed.

My understanding of youth was a
sepia-streak stumble through tall reeds below an open
sky; taking clumsy steps on sea-cut feet
and one day regretting not passing enough
notes kept folded in pockets or taking
enough pictures of the faces whom I ran beside.

Youth, obviously, is subjective-
It can be teased up or sculpted-in tight
in relation to circumstance.
In my own mind youth is a cool breeze,  glory days thing- like prom night or my first kiss.
Really each took place years ago but, since they didn’t
carry the weight or sheen I was told they should,
I still sit tight and wait for them.

They will find me eventually.
They’ll arrive a loud booming from a furious sky that births open-prairie rainfall that quiets my
teenage sadness as I sit shotgun
in some boy’s pickup and we race
a  cornfield to the Wyoming border.

The fact that I’m in my twenties is irrelevant.
The fact that I live in New England, where corn is imported and gas is expensive, is not worth noting.

So when, in the basement among the books I've hoarded and arranged around me like armor,
I saw my golden-ticket youth slip
out between pages and waft slowly down, I let it  hit the ground.
I could have crushed it with a sneakered sole
like a cigarette or crumbled it into nothing with shaking fingers.
I could have let it careen down between damp paperbacks to
the box’s bottom and know for certain it
would never reemerge.

But, surprisingly, I didn’t want to.
It was light and lovely in a way I would have never guessed.
It wasn’t as sticky as I thought it’d be.
In fact, as I flipped my hair forward and
double-no-triple knotted the bouncy, silky strings
(Strings that felt more like existing than regretting)
at the nape of my neck- a smile so severe I thought I'd crack found it's way to me.

My youth will never be something I flip through
like a catalogue and miss and cry out for. I will never
be haunted by it nor will I conjure it
around a fire while trying to make a point.
I won’t tell ghost stories about my youth
to bored kids because I am not going to let it die.

I saw it today. For the first time I could touch
it and smell it and I realized it didn’t have to be
the sarcophagus of who I was,
but instead could serve as the shifting
and stretching prologue to who I will be.

I’ll let it hang loose and light from my neck.
Its colors will fade in the sun and its beads will
probably warp as it trapezes altitudes and climates.
It will dull and tarnish.
It won’t stay pretty but neither will I.

I’ll gladly sacrifice any lace and filtered polaroid memories
and oft-repeared stories of my youth; kept behind glass and propped up among rags at a museum exhibit,
for the low belly excitement of closing my eyes today and not knowing what I'll see when I open them tomorrow.

Every morning I greet the sun smelling like jasmine and spice
the rays roll through my window
bend nicely and tip their hats like good gentlemen
Only to figure out that I am a man

Surprised and Bent waves stiffen up in their stride
as they switch between reaching down to kiss my hand
something they subconsciously planned to do
ever since that smell of sensual perfume heated up
even the hottest, and the coolest
made them too woozy to stand
to giving an improvised hand shake
A clumsy dance between the fingertips of the prejudged
And the disappointed
As if the swirls in their palms anointed my unexpected presence
Uncomfortably appealing

Their mothers told them not to place judgment on a first impression
that they made, drowned in a sensual stupor
Of pretty scents distributed into the atmosphere
but then my personality
my mannerisms
And the way I walk and talk
WAFTED into their nostrils
like some woman dolled up before a date
with no one
to sit alone and wait
for some wreck of a man to pay a visit
It’s a chauvinistic *******
This scent is
Until they see that this jaw line
Is what it clings to
their nostrils and their eyes
seem to not agree
on what is
me

I tell you I wake up smelling like jasmine and spices
like a woman who spent all night in sin
taking pleasure from her vices
With sweet smelling oils contained in florally adorned vials,
and i waft into every man and woman’s nostrils

and eyes say man
but noses always seem to quarrel with eyes
Because to nostrils sensory surprise
It smells woman so it seems
the only logical compromise must be something in between
these sensory organs so caught up in stereotypes
Eyes bicker with ears and noses
And fingertips
Quick judgments followed by
Categories
trying to
make the puzzle piece
make sense Or
make do with what
makes people feel at ease
To make the absolutely effeminate straight male
Fit
With all the other puzzle pieces

It seems I’m a scratch and sniff
Where you scratch the picture of cinnamon
And smell jasmine
So was I packaged wrong?
No I was manufactured just right
The smell was an add-on
That was added one night
where i spent an entire evening in love
with someone I lost the next day
and in our own way
I slaved her body with oils
That smelt of jasmine and spice
And I wasn’t ashamed of it
they caressed us
and gave every motion an unstoppable velocity
every situation was slippery
and things that shouldn’t have been
almost came to be

as we slept the oils clocked out
and slid down our still interlocked bodies and into the bedspread
where it opened up its homestead
buried its dead, started families and grew in number
until the population of the smell was too strong
too strong and the one I shared the smell with
was gone

but i hold that night fondly
i hold it above my head in all its glory
and when i am judged by my scent and
questioned of my sexuality
i just tell them
I am being the scent i smelled when i discovered my masculinity
and that smell sank into my bed sheets
As an non-removable reminder
Of days past embracing my own tendencies
And a girl who I waved farewell to
And never gave that part of myself to
i am 100% man until i find the right person
a beautiful sight in the sunlight
and when night falls and i can’t see them at all
i can find even more things i like
to take that from me
and i will give it up gladly
and find what it really means to be truly in-between

I’ve found
no one is in-between because of their scent
There is no in-between except
In between man and woman
Man and man
Woman and woman
a subtle in between that you can only find
When you gaze into another’s eyes
And read three letter words imprinted on their iris
Only written for you
And discover what can really exist between two
So let’s all realize that whoever we are
We all strive to be in-between

The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.

a hand puppet
unable to put up a fight
the hand goes crazy –
excuse me if i’m clumsy

remember the other months
a december that closed its mouth
cleverness (that’s what moves me)

we new ones are out in the cold

lint resembles snow to me
clinging to your eyelash why haven’t i
been able to see which of us is right

let’s repeat it before i forget
that people die in every season

watch the roses fade

I scream at the demons
pushing over indiscriminate objects
tripping me through clear doorways
knocking things from my feeble hands
laughing constantly in my head
like evil clowns

Paradise
Men falling from the sky using parachutes of peacock plumage hues
The professionals plummeting in perfect spirals
The novices sheepishly prolonging their gentle, gliding drop
The salmon shade adobe dwellings with their thatched, lovely roofs
Shelter me in their auspices from an unforgiving star
Handmade tiles of authentic design line each steep stone step
A covert staircase leading nowhere, we lounge near the pool by day
There I observe a couple through a sour tequila haze
A scarlet clad native and her sometime American lover
Their hands never leave each other’s guilty bodies, sexually charged
His absence of wedding ring betrays his intended affair
In the distance crushing waves claim territory on the shoreline
I underestimate; in a death roll I lose all sense of direction
The blushing sky with rosy smile watches over its children
A lighthouse by its lonesome guards the cliffs from clumsy ship
Locals sell their wares by approaching fair-skinned tourists
Necklaces of beads require long hours of work
Their labor goes unappreciated, sells for meager dollar
Popcorn man blows his lonely, dissonant horn forever
Into the deaf night

A city with a split soul
Once sat high on a hill.
The city was split:
Higher and lower planes.
The higher plane was for
the fortunate,
the powerful,
the wealthy,
the elegant.
Only the best were allowed.
The lower plane housed the
Outcasts,
Forgotten,
Clumsy,
Abandoned.
The society deemed them to
Belong in the sewers;
To be deserving of the worst
Humanity had to offer.
To fall from the upper plane
Was the ultimate shame
Because you could
never go back.
You can fall from grace,
But never rise to elegance.

Upper city was once home,
But, then they learned how
Clumsy and ungraceful I am.
After spilling the soup
Too many times,
They cast me down
To join the lower city.
Home is now among
The lowest of the low.

After fumbling along
Without any sense of direction,
I learned why I was lost.
Upper city was where
Pomp and protocols
Dictated every move.
Now free from that,
I had no way of knowing
The path before me.
The confusion, however,
Came from me,
From my being
unaccustomed to making
My own decisions.

Finding my own way
Was hard, but I learned
That my fall from elegance,
That my fall from grace,
Had been a blessing,
Not a curse.
Free from the rigidity
Of elegance, there was
The vibrancy of clumsiness.
In the stumbling, faltering
Manner through which I
Guided my life, I found
A sweet freedom in
The possibilities.
It is because of this
Wild sensation called
Freedom that I love
The lower city
And pity the upper one.