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JJ Hutton Jun 2010
I'd like to think that she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"

As she sits on the corner of her bed,

Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.

I imagine her,

Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.

Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,

Then looking to her class ring,

Made entirely of imitation ingredients,

Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.


When she was still a friend of mine,

I never saw her wear make up,

I never saw her show off in tight jeans

or low-cut tees.


But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,

Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,

Next to the side door

that leads to his sister's side room.

The make up she wears

is from the night before.

It's skewed and shows evidence of running,

Like a wasted watercolor.


I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,

And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.

I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,

He's in grey sweatpants,

He's wearing a black tank top,

With a Confederate flag backdrop,

With two barely dressed babes looking ******

in the foreground.


His hair, unwashed and greasy.

He rubs his belly,

And bears an idiot grin

on his face.

Looking like he just learned how to smile

at this pace.

"Did it feel good?"

feel good.

After he asks, he scans her body,

Beginning at those crimson toes,

And Ending at that clumsy hair.

Every second he scans,

He still wears that drawn-on

Idiot grin.


I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.

Of my warnings and prophesy.

Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,

Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.

And finally reach the only thing she has on,

A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.

A t-shirt, when given by him,

It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".


Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,

During last night's expedition.

He still paid her back with a morning

one-sided session.

"It felt good" she says.

In reference to the ten minute *******,

When her body was strummed and plucked,

Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.


As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,

On a bed that is six days *****,

While he is grinning,

Being everything but wordy.

I'd like to think she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"
Copyright 2009 by Joshua J. Hutton
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
you can undercook pork - a little bit of pink
is rather - favourable -
you can undercook beef - a little bit...
let's go full bleu: which has a name... pittsburg
blue...
but please don't slaughter the cow,
send it to the butchers for the cuts...
and then shame it by cooking it well done...
thrice the cow thus dies...
aside from... fish...
well...
i was never a fan of chicken *******...
because whenever someone cooked them:
i.e. my mother - they tended to be... dry...
chicken drum-sticks and the almost grey area
of muscle flesh close to the bone -
these days? the former schnitzel fan has
become a chicken roulade fan...
because the stress for 165°F - and 5 minutes
worth of rest... for the cooked meat...

Ciara - another daughter of U Kʼux Kaj -
she can still be felt in the early night
when walking the streets...
some storms never reach essex -
and that's probably why i decided to grow
my beard long - to feel it combed
by the wind... this elongating chin to match
the moon's scythe -

point being... cooking chicken is unlike cooking
beef or pork... because...
well beef is born from blood -
in the body of another -
the mother - the pork is born from blood -
in the body of another - the mother...
you can undercook it... most certainly:
esp. the beef...
trouble with chicken: is the trouble
with undercooking fish...

to perfect the cooking of chicken meat...
is very much like cooking the perfect
soft-boiled egg...
you want the yoke to be runny...
and the white to be a: ścięte białko...
a coagulated white...
it's quiet amazing how chicken meat
behaves like the egg - the protein
in the atom -
how you have to mind cooking chicken:
for that juicy chicken breast roulade -
in the same way as minding a soft-boiled
egg...

i've never noticed this...
apparently that's the glaring obvious...
it always was!
beef you can undercook: cook it perfectly:
overcook it...
pork you can undercook: cook it perfectly:
overcook it...
chicken? you can only cook it perfectly
or overcook it...
undercooked chicken is a bit like...
finding a raw scallop nugget kiev-esque
in your chicken -

perhaps because: we can eat a poultry abortion:
the egg -
that i forgot or never minded to think:
the meat will behave like the egg -
the protein is borderline with seafood...
after all.. the birds are fish with wings...
that we managed to domesticate
a wolf and breed it with a dingo
and give it a bark...
how did we pluck the hawk from the sky
and gave it marching orders among
the strutting gehenna-game of the wehrmacht
with the geese...

i have no "beef" with the british and their past...
how many zulus became slaves?
hot topic...
if only a people were as fortunate -
not to be landlocked -
the last known invasion dates back to
1066 - nothing is spoken about the ottoman
empire or the mongol empire at the gates...
perhaps other people too...
could have their idle -
and been left to their own devices...
their high tea and all sort of *******...
but i'll still bemoan that...
this language does not have any orthography...
but it does have: n'dubz...
and a york-shyre from peckham and the rest...

- you simply can't undercook chicken...
you can either cook it to perfection...
or overcook... anything undercook is not going
to be eaten!
an undercooked chicken breast roulade?
that's scallop nugget in a kiev-esque chicken..
but why didn't i see it sooner...
how chicken meat would behave like
the egg when it was being cooked?
after all... what becomes of the yoke
when translated into the full-grown chicken?
the internal organs? the bones?
i'm pretty sure the egg-white translates into
the skeleton...
and the bones? it's not like the egg-shell
implodes...

in my hand i hold a chicken's egg:
a poultry abortion...
in my hand, also... a babushka doll...
this: little matron... бaбушкa...
because who would have thought that...
cooking the perfect chicken roulade...
would be akin to... 15 minutes extra...
when working from a soft-boiled egg...
oven-baked of course...
prior to the skin needs to be butter-fried...
and you can't enjoy
a chicken's neck... if it's not poached...
too many bones: not enough meat...
the neck of the chicken needs to poached...

again: one feels inclined to stress the importance
of curating the meat: curing it is one "thing"...
but it's almost an art...
as long as you respect the meat...
i find that most vegeterians or vegans
become thus...
because they have not learned to respect
the meat they're about to eat...

beef you can undercook... the sooner you do so...
the less chance that you'll butcher a second time
with a well-done: eating sand...
wishing it was poppy-seeds itching at the gums
between your teeth...

to respect the meat is to also bite off the heads
of the bones... for the over-cooked marrow...
i once held 30 or so poultry hearts in a cusp of hands...
hands prior to romeo & juliet's amen and kiss...
before i imagined what 30 hearts would otherwise
look like: if i was given the remaining body parts...

or 30 poultry stomachs readied for the broth...
with groats...
i too would become a vegeterian...
if the only chicken ******* i ate in my life
were: usually over-cooked...
dry... simulating imitation cheese
and chalk... the sort of meat: overcooked...
whereby your teeth start to experience
protein glue... and it's hard to pull the jaw
from the skull apart...

i have mentioned pittsburg blue, haven't i?
you can undercook beef and pork...
but you can't undercook chicken...
now unless you want to encounter
a pocket of a raw scallop sensation...
a chicken has to be treated as well as an egg...

most of the time you need to undercook
beef and pork...
but chicken requires...
oh glory be to the poached egg on toast...
the scrambled eggs undisturbed fried on
some pork dewlap...
when you can tell the difference between
the yoke and the whites...

such a versitile creature - this domesticated
hawk... this chicken marshal...
this would be cannibal... i've seen how one
becomes butchered with an axe -
one chicken, one axe - on stump of wood...
the rolling eyes of the decapitated...
the other chickens didn't mind...
they'd run up to the altar with the running
blood of rivers making letter markings
on the woody crumble...
and drink the blood... peck at left-over
flesh from the decapitation...

"gender expressions"... and... what's that?
leftover grammar from french...
translated from inanimate objects:
as being either endowed with a phallus
or a floral pattern -
but in english almost all objects of worded
interaction are gender-neutral!

native tongue "endowement"...
słońce - sun - is feminine...
księżyc - moon - is masculine -
krzesło - chair - i'm siding with masculine...
stół - table - that's clearly "gender neutral" /
alias: hermaphrodite... alias for the *******...
son / daughter of Aphrodite...
kamień - stone - masculine...
góra - mountain - feminine...

and so the heavens opened and became:
short on breath and soul...
the groundwork of earth...
the earth itself... started to nibble
on the delicacy of feet - the wind whispered...
and the echo: and the footsteps...
and the dutch clank convened and called it:
marriage!

how grammar transcended casual english
usage... how it bypassed orthography...
how it never attained orthography...
oh yes... the russian have it...
but... who would have expected it...

n'est ce pas?

what was once the gestalt primer...
that became a rorschach test...
i say: it's either a ink-blotch of a pelvis or a moth...
but with regards to the selfie:
i always require two mirrors...
i still remember the days when someone
would take a photograph of you being:
oblivious...
as if god: the narrator...
convened and descended upon the scene
and imposed directions of keen: montage...

the basis of gender neutrality of nouns...
it can't be extended to encompass verbs...
an oak: dąb - is male...
but a pine - sosna - is female...
all fruit bearing trees are female connotations...

whatever sheryl crow's debut album was...
wasn't alanaise morissette's jagged little pill -
however the conundrum spins with no
favor for the electric currents passing via
Ariel... give me the wind god...
the daughters and barons of: the lesser involved!

because i'm a far cry the alpha...
kindred of the omega... and all that alphabet
of meaning behind letters...
"self-imposed"... less a ******* and more...
feeble guide of watching others get
pleasured by the mantis
and the black widows of tomorrow...

a cactus would grow in my palm should
i witness germany re-united:
at least that's how the proverb stood its ground...
before common or passed on "wisdom"
learned to gravitate toward...
soap bubbles pop... charcoals smoke...
ms amber becomes a river
when there was no river expected...

the tides are hardly shy: they're buying time...
this one last commodity of the rotten mind
of the gambler...
puny prophet - of fate -
alongside the weathermen of a forgotten
afternoon: come birthday prior to noon...
and the fungus umbrellas chat
among themselves in a premature autumn
cascade...

fungus or just... lungs... devoid of a body?

my god: the kids are going after the grammar
that has already absolved them...
knitting mosquitos and lambasting
gherkins' worth of would-be:
pickled cucumbers...

that herring tartar... with dill and juices...
that baltic sushi never to arrive
at the cusp of the Caspian sea...
Molotov shots;
the Russians will always bring glasses
and ***** with them...
because... they somehow can...

- and that's because...
sheryl crow's debut album wasn't
alanaise morissette's...
but never makes the cards of a...
poker-match-up to better not earn
money if all that money is a gambler's
Eden...

- there are better ways to get away with
cooking an egg...
there's this entire myth of...
no poultry sushi...
mein gott! how the meat agrees with
abortions...
you can undercook beef,
you can undercook pork...
but when there are poultry standards...
they're just as risk-aversive as when...
a soft-boiled egg is required...
same with meat...

this direct translation of the atomised meat
in an egg white...
how it needs to coagulate to pristine juice
and all that perfect *******...
and... ****** via the runny yoke...
because i believe there's a puritanical
aspect of all life in general...
when hard-ons are sold
within the quarantine confines
of a viagara episode of: ***** into a hard-on...

chuckles and whittle charlie chaser says:
no man was ever ***** into a hard-on...
no?!
when charlie met chuckles and chuckie
and charles...
it must be a russian "thing"...
they have them... and hide them better...
there's nothing to hide in english...
just bad grammar and trans-grammar....

i.e. чa-чa-чa
            believe me... they managed to fold...
hide the caron in that alice through the looking-glass
of greek mu: μ - or (h)atches open!
how about hiding...  (letovers: č              č
the caron, in russian?          č č             č č         č)
or the H and the Z in english and polish
respective - whole - attached to the S?

epsilon lying back... the toil
of Sysiphus is a bore: шit...
****... and... шarp...
and... mateuш...
    
maybe people... or so we at least,
have inkling to hope to be receptive of...

щ: twice the hiding caron...
it's not that the russians don't use diacritical
markers - they just hide them differently...
the self-exposed vowels...
last of the reminders...
because there's the carpenter's obligation
to chisel a Y into an I...
or at least a J...

to add this currency of momentum is...
to... leave without a memory spare...
whipped along the trail via
a maine ****'s finicky worship of
air that will never translate itself
as being: breathed...

and yes: i drink... i drink to relax
my lexicon from the everyday strict: rules
and obligation of formal mr and mrs
and what doesn't fit into
a metaphor tuxedo...

over-cook pasta: we'll never talk again...
over-cook beef or pork: ditto...

it's an art to treat cooking poultry meat
with a quasi seafood status of scallops...
to curate a soft-boiled egg -
not quiet the abortion portioned
within the confines of a lost shell when
thrown into the dead-bath of
a lobster's litany when the neither alive
nor dead is cooked...

some bloos is necessary when it comes
to either beef or pork...
but you can't just have undercooked
poultry...
the grounded clipped wing marshall:
the decency of cooking poultry has
to be equated with cooking
a soft-boiled egg...

otherwise the common saying:
one apple a day... keeps the doctor away...
well...
one poem a day... keeps the psychiatrist away...
no? who are the circus freaks
the pseudos and the quasis of what...
has to be compensated by mr. rather dr.
surgeons and... the better half of whatever
becomes the butchering degree:
a degree in: what's not to be eaten...
but what has to be left intact
and reused?

less the homosexual yet still la la land...
not quiet cuck...
but still... every time i visited...
and never managed to peer at
the sort of first-person doom shooter experience
that otherwise third party sources would
allow me when...
the best fallatio is done in third-person...
talk about having someone to sit
on your face like...
never the literal metaphor translation
of ****** acts...
face-grubber from alien and...
performing oral *** on a woman...
no... none of it is true!
******* and winding archaic clocks...

some would even call it electricity should
it come from a burning candle!
Anthony Perry Jan 2016
Coagulated blood dried out from the sun, footprints pressed into the mud from a night on the run, chased and ravaged, pressed against a tree with emotions gutted.

Mutilated and dying, I'm laying under falling stars, saturated skies and underlying scars, every conversation with you feels like being run over by a highway full of cars.

Blood screaming from a cautourised wound travels farther than your ability to listen to reason, wide eyed, your pasteurized white eyes seem cold but searing like the flesh of a steaming heathen.

Necrosis sets in on the heaping pile of me drudged upon the roots of my personification, watch the black blood slipping through the dirt like molasses as it climbs over your teeth and grips the lips before it passes, blood loss is creating a hallucination.

Watch as I become hollow from your cannibalistic lifestyle. Your desperation, human flesh you defiled, mindless separation, our family's bodies stuffed in a corner and piled, you became a Wendigo, a wicked transmorgification.
B E Cults Feb 2019
We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.
This is me pushing sentences to the max. Sentences that just shamble on through the space they themselves create.
Monks and magick practitioners use trance states to penetrate deeper.
I stretch these sentences which stretch your conscious mind's attention span well past being interested letting my imagery embed itself somewhere you'll realize is there farther down the ro
Valsa George Aug 2016
As I beheld a flower of rare beauty
In the silence choked heart of wilderness
The facsimile of a pretty woman came alive
From the coagulated heap of images

A woman…….! Isn’t she
God’s supreme handiwork
An animated form of chiseled art
A joy to behold
A figure of curvaceous ups and downs
God’s beautiful calligraphy
Her skin glowing as satin
Hands and fingers of creamy softness
Eyes reflecting love and gentleness
Voice musical and sweet
Moving with measured cadence
And walking with fluid ease
One who smoothens the rough edges of life
But Alas! A treasure rarely valued.

A loving daughter to her parents
An adorable mate to her man
A forgiving mother to all
The fountain spring of new life
The lovely mother to her children!

Though she is branded by many
As frail or fickle, infirm or impish
How empty is a man’s life
Who hasn’t known a woman,
Either as a mother, sister or daughter
Or a lover, companion or wife
This marvel of creation,
This miracle worthy of adulation!
In a world where women are discriminated, I feel proud to be a woman and believe that a woman is the light of her home ! I dedicate this poem to every woman big and small..... and affirm that her sacrifices are never wasted!
In a dream I shall feel
The wings of the world unfolding, and
Worlds spinning on the axis of mad journeys;
And the seas breaking turquoise, upon their rippled surface.

In the heart of the ears
I shall hear the shivering willows, dreaming their
Wood-smoke dreams, full of sap and  funneled sunlight;
Pierced by light for a thousand years

And the flowers sleeping nestled in stars;
Gathered in the deep, among the wood-thrushes,
In coagulated violet forests, all shadowed and dark:
And a whispered peace barely rustles this world.
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”
Prophecies of Aiónius
Sitting on the edge of Andromeda, in his planetary chamber Zefián; Duoverso computer, separated the parasitic interchamber of the Duoverso, which would be born from the Charioteer and that in its gigs would unleash the senses of structures and luminosity between this colossal interplanetary chambers. Being between points that venture through the axon of infinite time longitude for light years, which even so, will intervene from the Duoverso, for purposes of thermicity and other changes of the remnants, when especially the luminosity will speak of the destruction of the darkness inherent in the eyes of the universe, which can only stabilize areas that have not been fused in the discs of the Universe-Duoverse spatiality, long before the initial explosion between the Orion Constellation and Andromeda. The central axis of time between both astral components, is in the dissonant nebula that contracted in the dark portion of the Universe, making the field of Andromeda and Orion, the ring that was spectra towards the lower consciousness of Betelgeuse, expropriating the Hunter's boast, for that of Commander Hetairoi, for his right chest invading semi-coagulated blood and liquid homeostatic body-mind with miscellanea, versus matter and energy, between the central nuclear circulators and the tangent, which caused changes but of a galaxy pierced by Hetairoi glebes, satirizing brick outlets for retracting galaxies from existentiality, under the precept of Soldier and his solar mass, under the super homeostasis of his distance on an astronomical scale of 2.5 million light years. Within the chins and phylastics that covers the greater proportional between the milky Galaxy and the peripheral spiral that outlines Andromeda, breaking out the twisted phylasticism of the Duoverse, along with the Spiral that rolls over the Betelgeuse sobalcal, postponing to telescope regions and spell, to execute its nocturnal translation, like the Hypersdisis Galaxy that collects the bubbles from the belt of minor star conjunctions, making star mechanics for exalted infra-luminosity and sky disorders, generating other higher atmospheres in the heads of the phylastic that they detached themselves from the Andromeda cordon, the Milky Way and Orion. Globular clusters will make up the perfect delay of transfusing the blood and not another, which makes the Hyper character calling pectoral hyper-blood, which flows from this tri-astral polynomial, compromising the method of area, shape and refinement of the sagittal profile of Hyperdisis in the Duoverse in the reversible intergalactic plane. Going from lenticular to irregular over the bludgeon of the trapezoid, towards the right arm of Orion, where its radius becomes hypocentric sequentially, but taking advantage of interstellar matter, to generate its own light. Some explicit explosive arms of Andromeda were expelled from its center towards the right arm of Orion, in order to implode in the effect of the Club or Clava, as a sublime hemorrhage on other stars, which lost essential stellar mass, to differ from one another. They carried nuclear energy, like wifi waves, for each gaseous region that multiplied its Solar speed towards Hyperdisis, causing hyper channeling with Patmos and its impetrations, even being empty in the establishment of Hyperdisis as dogmatic matter, towards the Omega Man prototype in Orion and in Vernarth.


Radio-Patmos, or galactic energies of Andromedian origin, would arrive as devout prayers to the confine of Skalá, as astro-omegas and Invisible Universes, which inhabit the flaccidity of the Universe of Conscience from the contact of the pole, with the Xifos or Kopis, when Andromeda contacts the spur of the club or Clava, inciting the Astro-Omegas space capos, which would begin to take the front and front, after having been the atrium of invisible stars, only visible in the spurs of the swords, which were only moistened with the viscous blood draining from Orion towards Hellenic land, as an Omega age, for Vernarth that is done early when he carries the keys of the Omega world, towards the protogalaxies that overshadow, knowing that the Milky Way and Andromeda come so close in their matting mass, being able to collide in a few million light years, as an anticipation since the Duoverse of Hyperdisis will be conformed as a Galaxy of change, to interact with each other by dismembering, but retransform ending in the new mental nucleus of the Duoverse, like A great Black Hole, embedded in the heart of Patmos.

Hyperdisis, navigates from the past confines, from the origin of nothingness itself to the origin of the Universe, but now it has become a Duoverse, reimplanted in the helical polarity and bifurcations of its luminosity, of colorful reincarnations or re-astralities, to allow the cessation of darkness and to value luminance, opening steps of collyrimetry and children's cuetosa chromatics in requests of inafant galaxies, which of all lives by Greece Vermart gave by their ancestors, articulated in the iconology of Orion, in candles per square meters, in vigils of :


LV is the luminance, measured in Nits or candela per square meter (cd / m²).
• F is the luminous flux, in lumens for the triad Andomeda, Milky Way and Hyperdisis in conjunction with Orion.
• dS is the surface element considered the triad Kímolos, Rhodes and Patmos.
• dΩ is the solid angle element, Vernarth Omega and origin of the Duoverse.
• θ is the angle between the diameter from Andromeda and the Milky Way (2.5 million light years)

The luminance can be defined from the radiometric magnitude and the radiance without more than weighting each wavelength by the sensitivity curve of the eye. Thus, if LV is the luminance, Lλ represents the spectral radiance and V (λ) symbolizes the sensitivity curve of the Vernath eye in the area of the Betelgeuse, with plasma and hematoms derived over the galaxies and the Orion Eyes.
Hyperdisis
POSSIBLE Feb 2016
Take your first steps and do not refuse the heart taurus calling of of this journey.

Enkidu contemplated for a moment [seemingly eternal, but flowing into itself for a new moment of ‘now’ as it continues] how could there be a before in this equation?  He couldn’t remember.  “You have died, but are not yet done Enkidu,” The chorus continued  His name, those voices, all of them coagulated into a recognition of the past in a weighted epiphany.  

Welcome to the Divine imagination, it is here that you will truly be tested.  Your life on earth, that was simply the practice period, here is where you literally put realization into action.  This may be a place of light, but you are in a transitory period.  In order to find yourself you must achieve the wholeness that you were unable to achieve in life.  However, You are not alone in this journey there will be guides as there always have been.  IT is up to you to not miss them, it is up to you to truly listen and realize, it is up to you alone to act.

“You may have thought you were a hero once,” the voices sang, “but this is the true forge of heroes.  This is the cosmic smelter through which you will be folded and folded in such a way that you might fulfill your potential and help others to do the same.”

Instantly visions of Enkidu as a King welled forth from the surroundings.  The environment began to take on a similar substance to whatever he was thinking about.  Concepts became steps and Enkidu saw himself standing once again with Gilgamesh facing the Great walled city of Uruk, the masses chanting the brother’s names, and in his hand a rather grotesque piece of the great monster Humbaba!  

He wanted to look Gilgamesh in the eye, to cry to his brother how much he missed him, but...he forgot why.  Had he been gone?  Surely, this was the present moment as it is, and presently Enkidu and Gilgamesh were showing off their Great accomplishment.  A serpentine whisper projected from what sounded like Ishtar made itself heard, soft and clear though the crowd’s roar was shaking the foundation of the city.  

“Look what you have done!  Look how you have succeeded.  Gaze into the eyes of these assembled adorers.  Can you not feel the power that such recognition brings?  You can have all this and much, much more.”

The lure of accomplishment lingering in the air quietly preparing to harpoon Enkidu with the its’ concrete & possessive tendrils.  Something innately prompted him to not look into the eyes of the roaring crowd or to the eyes of his brother, Gilgamesh. Instead he squinted through the pupils as portals to the truth of their being.  In each of the eyes he saw a subtle poison.  In each was a yearning to possess the power of Enkidu, the aching delusion that they too could own such an experience as felling a demon and the riches that would follow from such an event. 

A lone pair of eyes shimmered behind the crowd’s edge.  They were the only pair of eyes empty of delusion empty of desire for what he had.  He was confused by this.  WHY would someone not want what he had?? They alone in the crowd saw the truth as it was.  They eyes spoke to him as a voice never could,

“Let go of these delusions.  You have already finished your journey for accomplishment, this journey is for truth.  This is your duty.  Remember to do your duty and let go of the results, if you hold onto the results you will be lost in your own hell and we will be unable to find you, let alone save you.”

As soon as this was understood the poised and now scorpion and serpentine tendrils of accomplishment made to strike at Enkidu’s heart and eyes.  To take his chance at immortality.  Enkidu became still and saw that the city, the people, and his accomplishment were illusions; complex, detail laden illusions, but illusions nonetheless.  Sand paintings which were constantly created and blown away.  

Understanding manifested as a chest piece of armor and a helmet both crafted from the light of the heavens.  The hooks of the tendrils found no hold on Enkidu’s spirit armored as it was.  And the light of understanding poured through the armor to foil the strike.  The illusion was thus illuminated through understanding. The environment faded back into the infinite light that was his existence before his journey back towards delusion....

The only thing that remained after the experience were the pair of eyes that had instigated his realization.  What appeared around them was a resplendent chariot with an infinitely beautiful being making itself manifest, first its structure shown through a light-lattice grid, then its frequency fell into form.  Krishna spoke to him through his eyes.  The speech was an invitation.  

**“Join me on this path of authenticity and duty.  Be a true hero and come aboard the chariot this moment.  Do not refuse this call my love.  This is a call to see yourself as you have yet to witness it.”
The journey continues, the illusion prevails....
James Amick Jul 2013
Rubber bracelets adorn her wrists like she just strolled out of a punk concert (like she just strolled out of middle school) , she picks the scabs of playground ostracism till they look as though they were ripped into her self esteem yesterday.

In her mind, they were.

I find her burying her face between her knees during an ice breaker activity.

The quadruple piercings on one her ear portend an imagined mosh pit, but she digs her own as she cradles herself against the wall.

Her arms are bowling alley bumpers, she throws them up around her head to protect them from the familiar miasma that pervades every inch of her whenever she is in a group of more than three.

Gutterball.

She let me in her room last night. She invited me to share in solitude w/ a good book. I brought a tattered poetry anthology. She said I could sit next to her in her bed; I took a seat at the head, she sat coiled in the far back corner against the wall, legs tucked in against her body.

She was an injured rabbit, her burrow of blankets and books only gave her so much shelter.

She eats alone at breakfast amongst the group.

She starves herself. Her blood fills her stomach as the ulcers feed her imploding hunger that half glasses of chocolate milk cannot

She was dared to eat five gummy bears, and I swear by my own scars that she was about to bawl, eyelids pulled back by the judgmental demons she sees every day in the mirror, they chastise her for the chocolate milk, but her desperate hunger wins this battle. Barely.

Her headphones are like sunglasses shielding her eyes from meeting gazes with another.

I’m sorry Sarah, no matter how hard you push your spine against the bricks you will not phase through them, you are stuck with us here for five weeks my dear, and it is only day one.

I’m sorry that all I know of you is that your name is Sarah and that your last name begins with an R, I think. I haven’t had the guts to look back at the group text message our counselors sent out to check your last name because that would be closer to stalking than I feel comfortable going.

I’m sorry that I notice how your wrists and ears contradict the smile you stitch across your face just before you hide it behind your hair, and that I notice the absolute terror in your eyes as you stare at the mass of your peers before you.

I’m sorry that noticing makes me believe that I know you at all.

I’m sorry for how they all gawk at how adorable you are when more than three people give you their attention. I can only imagine how flush your cheeks become.

But I would think that you stopped blushing years ago. The permanent outflow of blood from your aorta to your face coagulated long ago, leaving your face with a perpetual hue of dull purple. Your body doesn’t know what to do with all the excess embarrassment.

I think you compensate by blood letting.

The only bracelet you wear that suits you is of the Deathly Hallows. A tiny silver stencil on a blue piece of twine. It’s blue like the four A.M. sky.

I think it gives you strength.

Sarah, your arms are not an invisibility cloak. While your hair may hide your face and your bracelets your scars, the world will see you.

It’s ironic that the very things you use to protect yourself bear your self-loathing like a family crest.

Class time. She darts to the back corner desk like a painted swordtail to a coral shoal, she curses her opaque scarlet hue, she thinks it ugly but the reef can still see her beauty behind the jagged outcroppings of her fragmented self-esteem. It shines through and refracts off the water, viscous like teenage judgment, and we see the spectrum of her beauty.

She’s a cognitive science major. She looks for a road map through her own thoughts in the curriculum, turn left at her fear of eating in front of others, bear right at her boyfriend of four months. She tries to make herself two dimensional at the lunch table, arms strapped to her sides like a straight jacket.

She jokingly told me to stop whistling about dreamt dreams and the French Revolution, she said it would make her cry. So I stopped.

I’ve never read Les Miserables, but I’ve sung enough about dreamt dreams to know that Life can fill your lungs like a zeppelin and can resonate through your mouth like Notre Dame just before Sunday mass if you only let it.

Let Life build a cathedral inside of you Sarah. The bricks are yours for the taking, and we are all standing here beside you with mortar at the ready.
JJ Hutton Feb 2011
The light quit working in the jukebox,
the melodies' surrender,
a commonplace extinction,
against the salt and the breeze
of your false Mediterranean.

The burden of your rational soul
in a world of extremes
has torn your spirit to tatters-
tatters littered across
your Toronto abode.
Divided amongst the heirlooms
and emptied bottles.
This desolation you
sought to translate
for the harmonious pulse
of the dial tone.

Hazy,
is this ancient mind,
a smoking fallout of
yesterday's parties
to be discussed over
lukewarm coffee
and cigarette butts,
while the shivering streams
and green plains become
commodified for a higher power.

Dan, my dearest friend,
I loved you
ferocious and freely,
fanged and supremely,
and as your mind coagulated
on a couch,
microphone in-hand,
I felt nostalgic for
your clumsy alcoholism,
and clumsier guitar strumming.

The white fog descends,
the city is hungry--
no longer can it expand.
Toronto eats itself
with you inside,
shall I write you a postcard?
Shall I kick down your door?
Shall I let you join the bones
you so beautifully alluded to?

Whisper, my friend,
amidst the soft croon of
the saxophone,
whisper, my friend,
of a Europe gone defective,
whisper, my friend,
for an apocalypse of sun
to release us all from
the white fog slowly burying
our Toronto.
© 2011 by J.J. Hutton
Laurel Elizabeth Oct 2013
So there I saw-
and then I curled
into my fetal ball of envy

my happiness had coagulated
and chilled
like a refrozen popsicle
at the back of the freezer.

even if you melted
my
stale
cracked
enclosure
you would still smell
the jealous-
like
hangover
on my breath

I swear it even
exploits my muscles
my tendons grimace
like massive internal
pulley systems.

when my mind
frowns condescendingly
at my juvenile grievances,
the follies laugh their
disassembled modulations
and ignore my pleas

no-it takes more than that.
my every yellow Laureling
becomes a necessity
to coax, soften my
serpentine
charity
from whence I have locked it.
Dave Bosworth Aug 2013
At trees reunited or the Great Timber-yard in the sky
There are certain branches
who remember the incisions made
to fell their growth.
spurts & seasons,
and the wind rustling
through imagined leaves of
appendages long gone

All the gunge
symptomatic of sap coagulated
won't replace the
holes in the sky

© Copyright David Bosworth August 2013
time for a cigarette
You are
a brass framed
feather bed
in the middle of
a dilapidated forest
white
waxen
cadaverous
arms and metacarpals
outstretched
screeching praise to
Father Fumigated Sky
a tie dyed atmosphere
embodying the ambiance
of some apocalyptic rose garden
bled gold, wine,
& liquid ecstasy
and leaked through chemical clouds
or the coagulated tears of
God...

my strange,
creaky comfort.

may we

watch it all
crash down
in peace.
It came to me in a dream. For my manbeast. <3
PrttyBrd Oct 2015
it lies in wait
in the sighs after a statement
in the pause between words
hanging in the air
it looms overhead
thickening with each passing second
coating the lungs with heavy silence
yea, the silence
'tis wear dreams go to die
for when exposed to another
it's the silence
that is coagulated disillusionment
and it is in that place
that the silver in the clouds
begins to tarnish
10815
JJ Hutton Sep 2010
I woke up
to a nightcalm-shattering
cell phone ringtone.

"Can I come over, baby?"

"What time is it?"

"I don't know 3, 4."

"****," eyes roll, sigh,"yeah I guess so."

"Don't sound too excited," Molly said, Molly laughed.

"Are you going to be long?"

"Nah, I'm already outside."

"Awesome. Okay, let me put on some pants."

I opened the door.
Her hair was up.
Her skin was the color of milk.
Her eyes were grey.
She held keys in the palm of her hand.

"I like your hair," Molly said, Molly laughed.

I said it was getting ridiculous,
she put her hands on my chest,
the tension in the tips of her fingers grew,
exploration, exploration.

"Do you want something to drink?"

"Nah, can we just sit on the couch?"

"Sure."

"How's your fella do-"

She kissed the words, to lock them in.
She started to tear at my shirt,
I stalled her advances,
turned the tables,
I'm done with being prey.

I pulled her up gracelessly,
I fell through her crimson shirt,
through her black bra,
I drank each ounce of her chest,
I grabbed her nape gracelessly,
her eyes briefly frightened,
turned sinister,
turned to validation,
turned to encouragement.

I mapped her stomach,
made quick work of her
cotton shorts,
I bit the waistline of
her lace,
she clung to my coagulated hair,
I laid her to the ground,
we warred atop notebooks and
***** t-shirts,
kissing vigorously in an attempt
to stay far ahead of morals, of reasoning.

I feasted on her hip bone,
she tugged at my shirt,
no,no,no.

I removed the lace with my teeth,
her breath was exciting,
I feasted on the insides of her thighs,
she convulsed,
cursed,
grabbed tight to shirt, to hair, to every piece of furniture near.

Molly's pupils, irises, all grew.
Molly's panting *******, moans all rose.
Howling.
Peaking, breaking, releasing, falling,
sighing,
sighing,
breathing.

I wiped my lips with the back of my arm,
got up,
went to the bathroom,
used some mouthwash,
Molly walked in behind me,
"Things have been going better with him, lately, actually."

"I'm ******* happy for you guys."
Copyright Sept. 14, 2010 by J.J. Hutton
M W Feb 2013
A clay *** holds your happiness.
It's halfway tall,
reaching up to your thigh,
Narrow, blown up in the middle, narrow.
Simple lid with a spherical dot for fingers to grasp,
and a black drawn line
that curls from base to lip,
and over.
Insides encumbered by sweet darkness,
shaded glory,
because outside,
gleaming.
Spiraled gold that must have dribbled off the sun's ice cream cone
leaked through the bottom where the end had broken
and flavor escaped
to land on your mirthful urn.
Blue so clear,
the sky surely lost a piece of itself
as a crack appeared
and a fragment cascaded downward
to shatter along your pleasant chalice.
And in between,
are lines of green
that could have only originated
on pinewood trees
in a forest so dark
that monsters beware.
Bordering a little town
where children played
and only truth was called,
never dare.
Because there is red on your delighted decanter.
Spattered droplets
of coagulated sparks.
Jaded needles saturated,
with pine fresh essence
emanating from your zesty flagon.
And a single spot,
Barren.
Bereft of treasure.
Parted from cerulean.
Robbed of Viridian.
And severed in the roots of a blushing Amaryllis.
Occupying there,
a white blemish,
a shape of infinite corners
immaculately defined
and so small,
you will never find it                                                                                                 ­               on the canister
that harbors your smile.
pin Mar 2015
I'm like wily
You're wiry
You're thin lips
toe clippers
pinched mongrel rat's tail off
She is bleeding all over my new hands
I can't use these anymore
You're thin lips
You're coagulated
Coagulated mongrel

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

Laying in the bed
Bedridden
Covered in old friend's blood
Don't you wish they did
Don't you wish they dead
Don't you wanna touch me with the holy ghost for once
that tiny **** cloth for a worldly affectation
worn for vanity grew without any cessation
engulfing my being swiftly in total negation.
turned now a cloak black of inhuman sedation
a second skin becoming skin itself, then seeped
to the very bones and a coagulated heart reaped
of consequence,truth layered the real concealed,
the self an image, just mirrored slick in Gucci attire
a fig leaf terrible now hiding the whole,wise tree entire!

*PS-no offense meant for Gucci designs or the beautiful people who wear them!
s u r r e a l Aug 2016
hark near!
speak knives upon ears...
make them plea,
and beg upon swollen knees.

for we are truly so,
the ones in which we sow
coagulated clots into a beaded necklace,
blood berries--blood berries
of an aching vocabulary's.

waiting.
begging.
pleading for one swipe.
aching for someone to hurt,
and hope they fully bleed at night.

we merely want to help,
aide the eulogies and add a scissor kiss,
to the concoction of labor,
and amalgamation of agony,
in order to spice,
and to cease.

nothing but a sweet disease
for the white blood cells,
and wish you deep luck,
on a tall grass journey.

we simply wish for ****
after ****,
and smile when you still go up running,
blood stained grin after blood stained grin,
and spitting saucers of cut lips upon your hurt cheeks.

spit teacups
and an half full glass
have nothing to do with a child
or years of class.

you may think we're nothing but a nuance,
and don't mean anything but to watch you cook your own brain,
but we are simply here,
to help you on the chair,
and tighten your own noose.

save the ache of being petty,
and moans of disgrace,
we're here to swallow your pity,
and make you drink your own ****.

simply--surely--simply and surely so,
but we don't mean anything but to guide you to the ditch,
with slices of paper from rusted scissors,
and help you die with your pitch.

you're one of those, are you not? a ******* and nothing more?
you'd best be reminded,
that what is a song,
without its poem?

you have nothing to fear but your own tongue,
and your own blood,
and your own tears,
and make you think you're nothing but clod.

but you'd best be sweating salver if you really are what you say you are.

a place with no shelter?

no story to show?

no roof and no halter?

no place to know?

for the earth mirrors the heavens
and you place what lays between.

you are truly pathetic--but you scribble that.
you are truly meaningless--but you bleed that.
you are truly wordless--but you speak them.

and no one--not even us--can tell you what you really are.

and if you really are what you say you are--then show us.

but don't prove it.

remember, you have a noose that is tight.

all you need is a chair to kick over...

and paper--and pencil--and keyboard--and mind.

now, go ahead and tell me what you are...

the naive scholar for all mankind.
For the critiques and the wordless man.
Skylar May 2015
The libraries and bookstores of the world
Are stocked with pleasantries:
Prim, proper, peach juice-oozing volumes
That made the grade.

These books are all well and good,
        And are not unworthy of examination,
Simply because they were deemed so
By a jury of your peers.

Make note, however,
Of the myopia inherent
In limiting yourself
To the savoury.

Observe:

Past the shelves of
        Well-lit,
        Worn-covered
        Thoroughly thumbed delicacies,
There is more to be seen.

Do not hesitate to approach the shelves
Wreathed in thorns and security tape
And kept under dim bulbs.

The books that lurk there
Are sealed tight
And wear jackets plastered in sludge:
Sludge laid thick by heavy-handed brushstrokes.

Prying open the padlock
Will sometimes reveal
Further grime coagulated upon the pages.

Further prying, however,
Will split open tomes
Scrawled with fractures of light,
Lending to the eye
An illumination unique
To such tarred works.

Do not fear these banned books,
These veiled wonders,
For they contain pure, unscreened scrawlings
Soulfully wrought upon simple scraps of paper.

It is within these that truth can be found.
Serenus Raymone Oct 2012
Cannibalistic animals

Feeding off of each
others pain

Blood ******* leaches

Reaching for their
own personal gain



Civilized savages

Educated fools

Empire of vampires

Rearranging the rules



Disguised in neckties

Briefcases and
smiling faces

Cloaked in lies

Spiritual wickedness
in high places



Coagulated rivers

Calculated killers

Cryptic crimes

Comprised by

Gifted minds



Concrete jungle

Play the game "or be
the game

The weak who stumble

Are hunted down and
maimed



If you can’t beat ‘em
-join ‘em

It’s the only way to
survive

Stepping on the heads
of others

Just to stay alive



Its dog eat dog

And every dog has its
day

Today is mines- so be
smart

When you hear the bark

Stay the hell out of my
way
K Balachandran May 2016
Just a drink of water,
to quench my thirst
for your presence
for ever---

A loving pat on one cheek
for all the love on me you showered,
and softly, ever so softly
on the other cheek
give  the parting kiss for keeps.

That's all I ask for,
all the love we shared between us
never fully contained in whispers and kisses
all night conversations and caresses.

Taking a deep breath, look in to my eyes,
and pour all your blues, for me not to forget,
we are a coagulated scented mass, rare
no one in this world could separate.

Let me  emulate the wind, that rustles leaves
well before leaving without telling anything
and in return shuffle my hair, like before,
I will leave smiling, without thinking.
even when my heart is in fire hissing:
"Ah! this is how it all ends, never to repeat"

I 've learned the art of containing pain,
quite early in my life, without much effort,
a white fluffy haired pup,my dad's first gift,
that made happy beyond my little heart's content,
the one I bathed cared and fed, day and night
left for ever, in one cold  after noon...
heart broken I wept, tried to wake him up
Dad consoled "Let's buy another".It didn't help, a bit.

But when the pet parakeet, that flew around our home
was made his meal by our own rouge cat
the scattered wings, feathers and bones scared,
I didn't cry or panic, the pain died down within
I was learning a lesson then for a path strewn with thorns.

I'll walk away straight, with a smile,
like many smiles went past you,
but now, I know  you'll whimper,
But don't,  please don't shed that drop of tear
at the corner of your eye, hold it there,
it'll mutely tell you about a love divine, for ever.
Ms J Nov 2013
The stage lights fade
Supporting cast
All dispersed
No applause to echo
No encore heard
From the empty stadium.

Two stars remain
Upon the empty stage
As the colors fade
To black and white.

"You's" flew
Like shurikens
With expert
Accuracy;

"I's" were daggers
Digging deep.

From the endless trill of
Stab words
That began in pleasantries,
Their hearts lay
Beating,
Bleeding

And

With each weakened throb
Love life,
Love lusts,
Loves lost
Oozed and coagulated
Till at the others' feet.
Graff1980 Nov 2014
I hated him, that slimy, stupid, putrid drunk. His ***** brown hair was crusted with the stink of old hairspray. Half-closed eyes ran red. His body flabby, with frequent bouts of flatulence. I watched him drink himself dumb, slobbering in his stupidity, succoring on his self-entitled rage. Anger and depression made him into a slurring mongrel. Contempt turned him into a raving lunatic. Many nights he held court with the mirror, glaring fiercely as if his reflection was an opponent to be destroyed.

That said, He did have some good qualities. Little lights that glowed in certain special moments. I saw them more times than I could count. Many times he would give his last dollar to a stranger in need.  There were quite a few times he picked up strangers and gave them a ride. When winter came he would shovel the driveways and sidewalks of the elderly for free.

Still, this list was not enough to satiate my rage. Perhaps part of my disdain came from the ill words of others. Meanness wearing the guise of kind criticism stirred my fury further. The resentment I bore him was too great. Thus, after another night of his drunken behavior, after another bout of self-indulgent whining and threats of suicide. I slit his throat.

Blood bubbled from his neck as he struggled to remain standing. Red liquid rained down enveloping his throat then partially covering his chest. Then a thin string of red lights exploded from the wound. Each line jerking the neck in a different direction as it sought its connection. The thud of these lines hitting the walls and sticking solidly echoed in the living room.

He screamed with a rage. The kind that I had never heard before. The bubbling blood choked him into silence as it began to thicken.  More crimson liquid oozed out and down the writhing figure. He was struggling so hard, which I found so amusing. Flakes of coagulated blood chipped off and settled on the puke colored carpet. The sharp strands of red vibrated and tightened as if they were trying to cease his agitated struggles.

After an hour of this strange horror show the blood stopped flowing, he stopped moving, and all that seemed to be left was a massive black, brown, and dark red cocoon. In the distance music played, songs of love, community, and social justice reverberated through the dingy house.

After several days the cocoon started to shiver and glow. Flecks of the clotted blood crumbled and fell to the floor, this time at an alarming rate. After another day the cocoon cracked and began disintegrating even faster.

It took another three or four hours till a figure emerged. Then he was back. The object of my disgust returned. However, he had changed. His eyes were no long weary or drunk red. His hair was smooth and silky, though still brown, it lacked that old stinky quality. His body had shrunk and hardened. I think I saw a small cotton tail, But the most striking change was the calmness.

When he spoke, poetry flowed from his lips. His new demeanor sang more of compassion then anger. Something had changed. Something was new. Old bitterness had almost completely faded. The anguish had been replaced with a hopeful grin.

As I stared into the mirror I knew I would never see that dark fool again. There was no more self-loathing only honest introspection.
Elise Chou Dec 2012
The summer before
her chest hollowed out,
ribs bowing around vacuums,
her lungs ballooning new geometries.

The summer seas invaded body cavities,
feral and chemically sweet.
Her body became a gondola
ferrying pale, diminutive hopes
across the wide strait of your pelvis.

Oceans shifted gingerly,
unborn into the intimate dark
of throats, heart chambers,
marshes between thighs.

She drew the shores around her close, paranoid.

When they got to her
she’d filled her mouth deep
with different types of char: love, anorexia, Quaaludes.
Marrow coagulated and stopped ebbing
with the orbit of the moon.

Her heart smelled like day-old fish.
Jodie LindaMae Mar 2015
A man at my local zoo
Once showed me how snake venom
Effected human blood.
While dripping a drop of the acrid mess with one hand,
He held a small container of life in the other
And with a drop and a swirl of his wrist,
The blood was coagulated
And obviously unable to flow.
In that moment I knew
That love
Was the venom
And I
Was the blood,
Slowly congealing and
Falling at my only purpose:
Staying alive.
Reece Apr 2015
Your Instagram tinted daydream solo self-help projects
are naught compared to the many faces of my Ketamine addled
multi-faceted bed-ridden wasted ****** aesthetic
Bring me my poppers while I can smell them
or get off my ******* rocket ship
These are the bed sores of regret
tinged in tingly jingle-jangle garage rock twattish twee twaddle
Smoke my tea drink my plants, Kratom of the smack recovery
cat come cat-call **** all to be done
the ladders lead to the plateau that the Meat Puppets sang about
Some say I've been away, some that I've been dead
dada said daddy in the monotone voice, slippin' mickeys and mandys in the drinks of the boys and girls for spoils of war
and causalities of the political system
I hope the vote for your preferred pederast is enough to stop *******
or in fact let us turn to your queen so the monarchs can reward the patriarchs that beat the matriarchs and maybe we can sleep a little better tonight
Truth is these four walls are enough of a prison within the prison that I feel free in slavery
Words too imprison the soul, so I stopped using them
implicit in silence
explicit in message
call on your horses
kneel before the great *** of democracy
these are truly the end of days
and her natural milk shall flow through our veins
until the new dawn awakens from solemn slumber
and your faux-intellectual ******* returns to witch doctor ritual seance ******* matador squeaky clean record having gutter-troll reprobate sunshine easy listening solipsist elite country club golf retreat in the hills where you **** the carcass of the empire with your dysfunctioning penises and praise your zionist overlords that mock your ****** hospitality through gritted teeth as they push you over the edge onto the wailing crowds of peasants below where your alien bones crumble to dust and your stagnant coagulated blood oozes into the Earth where it burns like gallons of acidic chemicals and the world rejoices at the sight of fallen greed and toppled regime until the next time it happens again
There is no meaning in these words, don't read them, don't worry, stop caring
Michelle Graham Feb 2012
Like honey, cloyingly, sickeningly sweet
You cling, coagulated, dripping
Sticking and

I find you between my fingers
caught in the corners of my lips
Taste of clover stinging and

No matter how hard I
Try to scrub, clean, lick you away,
You remain ever present and

I find that I am helpless
Stuck solitary and motionless within
A candied cocoon
Glenn Sentes Jan 2012
His hair grew as coagulated blood
His scalp perpetually trying to reach his eyebrows
Skin greased and calloused
His eyes soulless
Yet seemed searching
Everybody was not afraid of him.

I gave him food once
I placed it on the ground where
He stood outside the church’s door
He barely moved
He slowly stooped
It was like watching a snail’s body melt
when you put salt on it
I wonder if he has ever uttered a word in his life
Of course I never expected him to say thanks
He was still slowly bending but I knew he
Wouldn’t get it unless I was not in sight.
But I desired to see him get it
I wanted to see if his face would ever change a bit
So I just went away thinking I starved him with my presence
I went back after a moment
The container lay on the floor, no chicken bones.
His eyebrows twitched no more
But the eyes were looking…somewhere.
Somehow.

I was baffled, have always been.
How is he supposed to live?
I can’t always give him food.
The priests might be busy too.
The altar boys might have been annoyed by his stench
So they would not get near either.
My house’s far from the church.
That wounded man would just keep staring at him from up the cross.
I wonder if the ***** ever asked the man to come down from his cross
And give him something to eat.

Or did he ever contemplate on bringing him down?
Inspired by an old ***** that stays most of his life outside the church...and never actually begs for anything from anyone.
There is a boy bathed by the light of the full moon
I wrote about it, then I burned it
Now.. sitting in the shade of the budding lime trees
I realize that which is once written..cannot be destroyed
An oddness is abroad I believe
An oddness that allows for the purchasing of warm apricot juice
An oddness that produces groundless but powerful fears
An oddness producing an impulse to run away
An oddness that weaves itself into a shape among the sultry and coagulated air
An oddness in the shape of a boy
Captured by the blue light of a full moon in the middle of the day
I shut my eyes but the vision flutters before me
As if it is impressed on tissue paper
Blown gently by a soft breeze
The boys face though beautiful is one made for derision
I think to myself..this can't be.. but alas it is
For when I now open my eyes the hallucination
For that's what I believe it to be
Still flutters before me as a candle flame flickers
My heart is beating in a wild desperation
I am about to scream
The mirage dissolves itself and the boy vanishes
The fear that has griped me evaporates
I put the whole episode down to the drinking
Of warm apricot juice on a very hot day
But am I wrong am I wrong...that would be an oddness
morning light
angels proud of themselves
red sunset
look in the mirror
see the damp infants
limping
history is a seedling
feed it or free it
hours ago she left
for coffee and company
do you care to see her again
clearly its a butterfly
hungry for the caterpillar’s food
blood is used
reduced and coagulated
the storms are raging in the attic
pornographic finger-painting
panting and smashing
she lashes out in anger
lanterns are her favorite
these trees are our brothers
deepen and soften
kiss and listen to these secrets
you are sullen and forlorn
the impermanance of mourning
goats are born to roam
and eat
freedom seeks meaning
while history is dreaming
and i am all alone
in her company
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Heard from the bathers that-
The Princess had been abducted
By the Dark Beast.
A bounty of thousand gold coins was announced
If you brought her back alive and the beast dead
And Death if you brought the beast alive and the Princess dead.

The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Hung their drums around their necks
And drummed their way
Through the Forest Dark

When  the Elder Brother drummed the sleep-inducing roll,
The storks that roosted in the trees
Dropped as if they were one big bunch.
He picked them up one by one
While the younger one,
Elated,
Shouted 'Pelicans!' and drummed the defeathering roll
Upon which the plumage came off
The Elder Brother drummed the roasting roll
And the birdflesh caught fire.

On the second day a leopard that looked-
More like a boulder in leopard's clothing
Lurched at the brothers.
The Elder Brother drummed the age-reversing roll
And the poor old leopard grew younger and younger
Until it became a watery foetus which-
The Drummer Brothers ate,
Dabbing crushed chillies, and sprinkling salt.

On the third day a bear of grisly proportions
Ambled, roaring, into their sight
The Younger Brother drummed an *****-enlarging roll that-
Stretched the bear's mammaries far too long-
They dragged on the ground like two pythons.
The Elder Brother drummed the light-the- candle roll
And the oily **** caught fire like wicks.

Having vanquished the two deadly beasts
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku met,
On the fourth day of their journey,
The Dark Beast.
The Dark Beast, as it turned out,
Was no beast as such
But an Outcast once expelled
Into the heart of darkness
Who wrapped himself
In the dark of the Dawn
And became one with All the Beasts
And rumbled.

The Princess' pygmy horse was impaled
With the stake coming out of its mouth
Grossly gory, its hindlegs missing
And the blood, coagulated, hanging like icicles.
Near it was the Princess herself,
Naked, except for the gold waist chain
And the anklets.

The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Drummed a very ordinary roll,
Steady and throbbing.
The Dark Beast who listened to it
Was transported into his past,
His memory of listening
To the old drummers of Ikku Ukku.
Excited,
He spun on his heels and stretched out his arms
He gyrated and pirouetted-
And on reaching the peak of his frenzy
Exploded, like a watermelon
The pieces flew in all directions.
The Drummer Brothers picked them up
And licked
While the Princess, shaken out of her languor,
Rose and sauntered towards them.
Holding out her honey hands
She said, "Now I belong to both of you."

The Younger Brother came up with a plan:
The elder one would have her from the waist up
While he would have her from the waist down.
The Elder Brother approved.
Vain and coquettish,
The Princess rammed her fists into either drum
And said: "I loathe their sound- too unrefined."

On the fifth day,
The Drummer Brother  drummed a jazzed up roll
On their new drumhead
Made of the Princess' hide.
Olga Valerevna Jan 2013
stripped down to a nakedness she's not the hands to cover
plundered by a lover
a rogue who's undercover
tarnished and possessed
in slavery undressed
taken to the gallows with a noose around her neck
the hanging will be public
her snap to death cathartic
and she'll be made a mockery in front of people manic
their illness like a flood
a passion for the blood
they stand and sink their feet into coagulated mud
she was just their silver
some money they could pilfer
pay their dues in stolen goods that they could not deliver
tactfully selected
made to feel accepted
then callously rejected
in treason's name erected
I bet she'd not expected such a glorified demise.
SW Jul 2012
Fallen
Into Sweet Mother's arms
The night's embrace like silk,
perforated with needles of Solace.
No thought, no memory
of anything but nothing.
Lost in Forever-never-land

Fallen
Into cecity of self.
Denial no longer, escape
the Shell Of Hallucinations.
And fly.

Fallen
Into the me Beneath
Spiral down-trail, gilded with failures
That have coagulated into sanity
and Reason

Fallen
Into a Flawless-Confusion
No meaning is evident
Within my soul-cage-metaphor
and my failures-turned-reason/sanity
Tell me to seek help

Fallen
Into Un-reason
Fallen
Into self
Fallen
I have
Fallen,
Fallen,
Occido

— The End —