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Kagami Aug 2014
Previous commemorative
                          memorials of positivity
     drown in radioactive slime.
    
   Disperse chi like flooding water
                              Contaminated, laminated with oily tears.

*"How is pain controlled?
Though life should come
With all its marshalled honours, trump and drum,
To proffer you the captaincy of some
Resounding exploit, that shall fill
Man’s pulses with commemorative thrill,
And be a banner to far battle days
For truths unrisen upon untrod ways,
What would your answer be,
O heart once brave?
Seek otherwhere; for me,
I watch beside a grave.

Though to some shining festival of thought
The sages call you from steep citadel
Of bastioned argument, whose rampart gained
Yields the pure vision passionately sought,
In dreams known well,
But never yet in wakefulness attained,
How should you answer to their summons, save:
I watch beside a grave?

Though Beauty, from her fane within the soul
Of fire-tongued seers descending,
Or from the dream-lit temples of the past
With feet immortal wending,
Illuminate grief’s antre swart and vast
With half-veiled face that promises the whole
To him who holds her fast,
What answer could you give?
Sight of one face I crave,
One only while I live;
Woo elsewhere; for I watch beside a grave.

Though love of the one heart that loves you best,
A storm-tossed messenger,
Should beat its wings for shelter in your breast,
Where clung its last year’s nest,
The nest you built together and made fast
Lest envious winds should stir,
And winged each delicate thought to minister
With sweetness far-amassed
To the young dreams within—
What answer could it win?
The nest was whelmed in sorrow’s rising wave,
Nor could I reach one drowning dream to save;
I watch beside a grave.
Madeleine V H Jun 2013
And maybe we are all a little broken but that's okay because I know some people throw out their old broken things but others notice that they are broken and love them even more because they see the imperfections as beautiful. And there are others who look down at tiny little shattered pieces and get the glue and magnifying glass and get a table out they haven't seen in years and put all the pieces on it. And they sit down for hours and days putting it back together knowing that it will never be what everyone else sees as perfect again but it will be together and damaged but it will be loved. Because the first time it was created it was instantly whole and someone else thought it was good enough. But a lot of things are just good enough. Every single Hershey's kiss looks the same except for the ones labeled as mistakes. Those are less likely to occur. But if they turned out this way normally than we would consider our current norm abnormal. So then the normal would be abnormal and the abnormal would be normal. It's all perspective. So the guy who spent all that time fixing you thinks you're absurdly and absolutely perfect. Because he saw the broken bits that were your original as even better than the whole you started as. Some people just get a few cracks in shipping and some people want the discounted price. But you gotta find the ones who see scars as beauty marks. That's what it's all about. Perspective. We are like this because we aren't like everybody else. We have the abnormal make. We are the 3 am word fighters and the night riders. We are all the bad and the good and we speak in bittersweet tongues. Nobody can fix us because we aren't broken. We are disassembled and can build ourselves. We don't need anyone else's tool chest because we have one right below our rib cage. Our lungs are practically indestructible because they know just how sacred air can be. We are the strong because we've cried ourselves to sleep and thought that was normal. We are the ones who were told they were doing it wrong the first time they cut but were strong enough to realize that they were wrong and there is no right way to destroy yourself. We are the future. We are the pain. We are the daydreamers who know how brilliant the sky looks at 4:27 am east coast time in Atlanta. And just because we've thrown up in too many bathrooms and told too many family members we ate before we got there, that sure as hell doesn't mean we aren't craving life and have had too many heartaches for breakfast. We are the ones who rolled over in bed and realized that the boy was gone and that we would have to hug ourselves. My shoulders are strong from carrying the weight of the world. Our eyes think that floods are normal because that's all they have seen. I have lived my life walking along the train tracks trying to find a way to get home. All I have gotten is calluses on my feet and strangers dreams in my heart. We keep them there. We carry the letters of the broken hearted and deliver them to the lost. As we saved others we lost ourselves. And then we look up and see the stars and realize that there's this whole galaxy that we are. We are everyone's broken promises and expired wishes. We carry the spirits of the deceased and the never born. We hold on to the spirits of the people who changed. I've cried myself to sleep too many **** nights for one person so I know I am the embodied spirit of everyone who's never had a voice and everyone who has needed one. We are the ones who were pushed against a wall and didn't say no because we thought that was the only love we may ever get and didn't realize just how twisted it was to trust a boy who treated you like trash and to think his kisses were your anti depressants when they were your poison.  But then we wake up and push him off and say, "Boy, I don't need you. You were nothing but heartache and pain. You see these scars? Don't tell me to stop until you are there to take away the ******* blade. Do not tell me suicide is a joke because every single part of me has thought it was a blessing at one time or another. Do not ever touch me until the day you will not be repulsed by the blood or *****. Do not tell me you are not in to scars because that is all you have left on both my body and my heart."And we are the sad nights where the boy you just fell in love with leaves on a plane to go home to California. We are the tropical islands where we met the loves of our lives. I am the tears I shed on the balcony in the Bahamas the night I got so scared I may never see you again. I am the song I sang out to the tropical storm winds that night where I repeated, "love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah." I am the same girl who pushed the tears off her cheeks after letting their significance sink in and put on her makeup to go out and fake a few smiles. We are the ones who take care of the drunk girl we just met even though the boy we love just left. We are the ones who love our fathers even though they’ve broken more than a few bones in their lifetime. We are the ones who have treasure chest souls where children hide their keepsakes so that in twenty five years they can tell the story of their discovery to a 6 year old little girl with huge green eyes. We are the freckles on the lonely girls shoulder that made a beautiful boy fall in love with her; yet she wishes she could erase them. And we are the long distance phone calls between broken lovers that last 1 hour and 6 minutes and deliver lost hopes and shattered promises. We are the weddings that unite two people who thought about stepping in front of buses just 8 years before. We are the ones who cried on bathroom floors thinking it was our fault but stopped when we thought someone would hear. We are those who never want to be seen as weak because we don't want anyone to figure out that we can't always hold it all together. We are the ones who are bones and flesh and have died because their souls and bodies were robbed of nutrients. We are the ones who bled out on the carpet and weren't found for days. We are the student deaths that never made the announcement and never got a commemorative tree. There is nothing beautiful about sadness. But there is something beautiful about watching destruction save itself. There's something beautiful about terrible moments that turn gorgeous. We are the thorns that were trimmed back too soon because no one ever realized we were a rose. And we were never broken. We just needed to be too many heroes at once. So sometimes we get stretched too thin because our souls are too wide. Because there are a lot of broken promises and heart breaks and love affairs and sad minds and beautiful days and long nights that we must embody. We are the ones who would never change being all those things because we like having an ever changing soul. We are the ones who must fight to live even though we have patchwork hearts and memories that are in love with romanticizing the past. We must fight because when we die, others die with us. All the things we have carried and delivered turn to ash and lay beside us in a velvet and oak box for the rest of eternity on the day we are lowered in to the ground. But in reality we know that things will get better because the grandmothers dreams of an education located in our left knee cap on the right hand side tell us to never give up. So that's what we do. We listen to the demons in our souls and the angels that also pay rent. But we carry all our memories even when they jab us in the ribs and make us believe that we will never breathe again. But we are breathing. We are living and the daughter we are yet to have needs us to tell her about the world. Because I pray she has a soul like mine so that I may show her that the world is both bitter and sweet but that every single thing looks better after thinking you'd seen the most beautiful thing in the world. So we keep these bodies and live our lives so that we may realize that there are many more parts of us that magnifying glasses don't show and pounds can't measure.  And we hold on for everyone but must learn to hold the firmest grip for ourselves. Because I will always love that boy who left the island with the crystal clear water and I will never forget the girl who told me I didn't destroy myself in the right way. And I am okay with that. I am okay with carrying these things. I am used to the weight of noth the beautiful and the terrible. And although it makes me feel empty at times, I realize that it is only because my ever hungry soul is still craving even more life.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
You cannot polish a heart,
there is no tarnish remover for sale

once,
a thought exists,
then always, extant

once a feeling felt,
there is no erasure,
no white out,
just another wear and tear
to thy fabric added

it enters and infects,
no surgery can excise,
chemo and radiation
leave scars
and remainders

certain sadnesses are unreadable,
even if counterbalancing weights worn,
we are the sum
and the summation,
we are the holy ghost
of everything
we have ever known,
even if we did not
father it

a storage facility,
you rent permanently,
for the "stuff"
you don't want
but can't discard,
pay dearly for that inability

the poetry,
an artifice,
a cheaply hired psychologist,
a rented imaginary friend,
from whom there are no secrets kept

I am not delusional
or deluded

there is a new tiredness in me
that I did not ask for
and sorry to have met

now a parcel I must carry
like the delicious awful testing images
of one's own end.

there was a joy here for me once,
a day and way
of atonement in my
writing and reading

and though it is 400am
and here I am
writing again,
I surely expect
the music genie
to play for me
"the thrill is gone"
any second,
for it surely is....

once upon a time,
in that chair,
could easy poem
and easy write
but the thrill is gone,
the love "of it"
upped and disappeared
the weave and the woof
"of it"
not the same

cannot get that tarnish removed,
the commemorative wall plate visible crack'd
though reglued,
the cracks are
mirrored images reminders
of what I feel I have lost,
and what is sadly indeed,
just a commemorative now

full in a heavy way,
self-absorption ended, really,
my paper towel self
a soaked ragged mess,
the more it wipes,
the more it spills...

a fullness that comes
from human hate
a sidebar loud, all overhear,
in the courtroom of
humans racing
"to excel,"
they misunderstand,
as they just finger point
to their own chest blasting,
look I got into harvard,
made a million,
but I am still a major *******
in a grand tradition

this stuff has ashen pilloried me,
everywhere in my
not so red anymore blood

I am not delusional
or deluded,
or even depressed,
just weary,
tarnished,
and
writing this does, releases nothing,
changes nothing, makes, improves nothing

the stitch in my side still there,
saying poetry, nice but who cares,
what once was fair and comely,
now just ordinary fare, unlovely
a McDonalds of common words

once the poetry of hate is writ,
it cannot be deleted,
a curse upon all
that abused this child so,
your promotional coupons
are discarded
with today's newspapers
and tomorrow and even today!
no one will care
about this or the
mismeasurement markers of no glory
or of hate, or the
pseudo popularity you create
or relish into thinking of yourself,
as valuable

tell me I am wrong,
tell me of New Year's Day
start overs,
will be grateful
for your trying,
your counterbalancing attempts,
if genuine, are
truly glorious

even if the thrill is all gone,
your trying to untarnish me,
well, every little bit helps
at the very least
gets me sets me,
down more evenly,
untilltng the lean of what ails,
ever so less

but the tilt,
the tarnish,
is immeasurable like divinity


here is where,
I leave it and
the fast approaching sabbath,
depending where on  your calendar
it resides,
can be both a weekly ending
and/or a beginning,
but a sabbath rest from the garbage of words,
by humans abused,
un blessings saying I am better than you

so, a place, a time to start,
to polish over just a tad, the stains
of what cannot ever be deleted,
cleansed
even if it is pseudo-gone from the internet
833

Perhaps you think me stooping
I’m not ashamed of that
Christ—stooped until He touched the Grave—
Do those at Sacrament

Commemorative Dishonor
Or love annealed of love
Until it bend as low as Death
Redignified, above?
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2015
~for you~*

me you and this here
writ somewhat clothed
pretty ****, imaginative
words, six-pack abs,
sheathed in black lace thigh highs,
a verbal escapade to reality

lick the screen
dare...
lick yourself,
dare...
only fair,
words so fluid, so sensual,
when shared...
best, stupendous
commemorative

come to my bed,
come inside my tablet
thrive on pleasured kisses,
exchange of the essentials
bean~genes of threeselfs blended

what glory glorious
that moment,
can relive it,
with eyes contacted ..

where to here now hereafter,
when to here, poem return come once more
knowing we have jointed,
acknowledging the creation of a
co-memorizing-tionary diction,
recycling this one poem,
our commemoration coin
that only goes up in value
I love you...
A year ago...
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/568736/things-to-know-bout-me/

eat my cinnamon raisin bread
from the inside out,
so if you follow the trail of
crust and crumb to my bed,
swear innocent but not one
cinnamonized raisin will be found

put on my slippers with
trepidation,
for slippers so named,
slip off my toes
at the worst moments,
that my life insurance
expressly forbids our
cohabitation

Well gifted and well returned,
my parents taught me to love
words and the human voice enthralling,
voyage never ending,
love of words

If our issue be our mark,
then mark them well
for you reputation recedes
with them

so as I ponder the why and where,
of the last poem I will write,
issue a tiny prayer that the notes
be cinnamon raisin sweet
and that each letter
slip from my heart,
and let these marks of me
come with smoothing ease of
a welcoming finality
Norbert Tasev Jan 2021
… Because in every movement you live, there is a Memorial model! You wave at him, saying you can easily forget! Time-Space is just a small part of yourself! It is as if the traitor is already deliberately shrinking himself! You can die in your iris life if you can't trust anyone with a vow of allegiance, and history will dissect all your petty deeds with a pin! What you may have done and imagined to be bitter is all motionless: a chapel can only open to exceptional People in your heart! And it can be opened daily by Someone who will lift it!
 
A thick crust has become your matter of sorrow; like incense! Invisible judgments have raised an eternal word against you, your silence on the deliberate solid wall and your deeds will be excused! Will everything remain as it was abandoned ?! I wish a reconciled side by side could always surround us so that we can no longer betray ourselves! Spread out from the comfort of reflected cramps! - The shining star-flowers of the night are allowed to be seen; the last cry of those kneeling before the killer minute may follow, like the conspirator!
 
Facts purgatory! The end cannot simply be the End! Conscious completion cannot even be measured by mortality! The ever-disappointing, trembling Hope can hardly gather in spirit!
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life’s foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life’s form and Love’s, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.
Glenn McCrary Aug 2012
Callous sentences saunter into the quaintest of landmarks
Capturing the cinematography that is the mockery of felicity
At times I ponder on whether its veins quake with fear
In lieu of the eyes marring her with bullet holes
Whilst humming commemorative memories
That now lie lifeless just as the wealth of their youth
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
"BE NOT AFRAID OF THEM THAT **** THE BODY."
( for Wendy Falla  )

Perotine Massey
is giving birth

amidst the flames
of 1556.

Her belly bursts open
with the fire's ire

and her fair-haired man child
is born in Death's embrace

"to be consumed
to ashes."

A man named House
snatches the new born from the flames.

But the child is ordered to be
thrown back!

Birth and Death
the same to him.

A born martyr.

An horrendous Herodian act
by this "...graceless generation

of Popish tormentors..."
this the era of Mary ****** Tudor.

Now over 400 years away
I stare into the Past

the heat of this summer's day
making my skin blsiter

a yellow butterfly alights upon
the Commemorative bronzed words

held in place
by a spider's web

it trembles every
now and then

in both past
and present

flying between
both times

"...faithful unto
death..."
Guillemine Gilbert and Perotine Massey were sisters, who lived with their mother, Catherine Cauchés (sometimes given as "Katherine Cawches"). Perotine was the wife of a Norman Calvinist minister, who was in London, possibly to avoid persecution. The three women were brought to court on a charge of receiving a stolen goblet. Although they were found to be not guilty of that charge, it emerged that their religious views were contrary to those required by the church authorities. They were returned to prison in Castle Cornet and later found guilty of heresy by an Ecclesiastical court held in the Town Church and handed over to the Royal Court for sentencing where they were condemned to death.

The execution was carried out on or around 18 July 1556.[2]:39 All three were burnt on the same fire; they ought to have been strangled beforehand, but the rope broke before they died and they were thrown into the fire alive. John Foxe recorded that Perotine was "great with child" and that "the belly of the woman burst asunder by the vehemence of the flame, the infant, being a fair man-child, fell into the fire".

The baby was rescued by a W. House and laid on the grass] taken by the Provost to the Bailiff, Hellier Gosselin who ordered that "it should be carried back again, and cast into the fire."

On the death of Queen Mary (1558), the Bailiff and the Roman Catholic élite of the island were subjected to a series of commissions and investigations encompassing not only the circumstances of the execution of the women, but also embezzlement; James Amy, the Dean, was committed to prison in Castle Cornet and dispossessed of his living. Gosselin was dismissed from his post in 1562 but along with the Jurats managed to obtain a pardon from Elizabeth I.

Reactions to the executions played a role in the rise of Calvinism in the Channel Islands.

In 1567 Thomas Harding criticized Foxe's account, not for his description of the event, for which Foxe quotes eye-witnesses and official documents, but on the grounds that Perotine Massey was responsible for the death of her own child; had she revealed in court that she was pregnant, the execution would have had to have been postponed until after the birth.

A memorial plaque to the martyrs can be found on the Tower Hill steps in Saint Peter Port, near the site of the execution. It was unveiled at a commemorative service on 24 April 1999.

"Be not afraid of them that **** the body.."
(MATTHEW 10:28)

Faithful unto death........Rev 2:16
Olivia Jane Dec 2013
I'm tired of screaming
And not being heard
I'm tired on blabbing
On and on
It's absurd!
Just wake me up
From my forever sleep
And restrain from my master's keep
The dark forbidden tomb
That is my cascading mind,
Is trapped forever,
Frozen in perpetual time.
Striving for perfection
You get nothing but "perplextion"
Confusion
"Bemusion"
Mystification
It's my only relation.
As I wander in dead darkness
I feel the heat creep up behind me.
I feel the flame lick my neck
I feel the cold linger
No longer a speck
A speck of hope
A speck of fear
A speck of soul I cling to dear!
My love is my torch
My love is my lamp
Even when God's tears drip and fall
Trying to make my spirits damp.
But I tread on
Through that doomed sepulcher.
I tread on...
No one can help her.
They say God has a plan
One everyone must follow
Right up to the very man...
A plan called fate
A plan I hate
A plan that dooms us all in state,
The state of fear
We wallow in,
The state we hear of indifference...
Every night I hear the screams
In my commemorative dreams
The screams of my peers
That echo in my ears
They match my own
My silent screams
They mask my dream
Their silent screams
From neglect above,
He neglects to save me
For I fear to speak aloud
For I fear to be misunderstood
From what i suffer...
The count down to the ever-stated doom
Is pounding in my head
A heartbeat that is hushed
Am I really so dead?
Wish me luck as I travel to space
The clock goes tick
I have one wish
I wish for freedom
I wish for tears
I wish for more people with ears
Ears that will listen to the cries
Of everyone
Everyone that dies
But everyone must die
So now it's my turn
Wish me luck
Send me to space
Please! get me away from this place
I want to be free
So please
Let me be
Count down
say five
Don't drown
say four
Not from my tears
say three
Not for many years
say two
Just please Lord forgive me,
say one...
For I have sinned.
Peace
Rakha Sep 2015
i.
the autopsy proved negative
the bullet meant nothing

0.9 caliber with no mouth
pretty red-tainted stain on your tee

they say you took the sedative
two by the morning


ii.
before i drouth
let us go hunting

to a sepulcher with commemorative
decoration, and darling

you wouldn't have to keep your mouth
shut after we go on rampaging and quarrelling
Poetoftheway Sep 2017
for the Missouri Ma'am, a reminder, for the "show me" lady,
who should know better than
like a novice lawyer,
never ask a question,
the question,
you don't want to
know the answer to...

struggling for months to answer truly
your Aristotelian query,
from now over a year ago:

who the hell writes poems like this...?

the older early answers are writ in another place, three, four drafts,
by another's face, and another hand, curdled and burdensome,
none to ever see complete-shun

now I believe, those early answers provided are out of sync,
life is messy and stressy and my pre-pubescent, precipitously yet
carefully considered, visionary imaginary invisibles, naive,
now comes similar, like this piece, which sat down and wrote 
in a minute, charging myself a lot,
mostly the costly breathing the stupid from a failure stench,
whose face is locked into a grimace

without missing a heartbeat,
messy and stressy,
fully forged, seeing a head ahead,
breathing out the fire of the dying dragon who does not,
give no longer giveth a good *******

see the man on the street, the man,
lying on the street whose cardboard sign says:

for two bucks,
will write you a commemorative,
custom tailored for the occasion, name and season,
no waiting, done in five minutes

four lines $2
eight lines $4
(obits cost more)


who the hell writes poems like this...?

the sad angry ***** *** on the concrete,
who stinks from
overuse and misuse,
everybody's fave faun, now gone,
now writing *****
for a living dying

now, that's who writes poems like this!
ask him nothing, and he will rhyme it for you, child,
the prior life, previous name, the perchance poems, ah, who cares...
just don't ask a question, that you may not want to know
the answer
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
To Ellac, I bequeath a nifty hat trick:
     The Treaty of Margas,
        Which Rome will probably now
          spit upon,
     The Sword of Mars,
        Once taken by your unscrupulous
          cousins, the Vandals,
     And Esperanto,
         For talk around the water cooler.

To Dingizich, I bequeath my Alexander the Great
     Commemorative plates and the Gaza Strip
         --have fun with that one.

To Emak, I bequeath the Goths
     --Visi, Ostro, and Joy Division.

To all my remaining children,
      I leave you a year's supply of
      Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat.

To my many, many wives, too numerous to count,
      I leave my fingers and toes
      Or a portion thereof.

And to that one particular wife, you know who you are,
      I bequeath the title
     The Scourge of God.
Star BG Feb 2019
Ding  ****
I went to a word party
hosted by fellow poet Kristy.

She was dressed
to the T with grand words
that shined out divinely.

it was the highlight of my month.
And I arrived in perfect timing,
to share commemorative hug
while feasting on words
that tickle our creative pallets.

Ding ****
I was so glad to see her,
as I held glass high to toast
with passionate punch
to celebrate our fine writer gifts.

Kristy's hors d’oeuvres were delicious
with their vivid images.
The ambience that of
grand hallways framed
with luminous alliterations. 
          
The night was grand
with endless poet phases baked inside dessert.
I got drunk on her word punch.
but gratefully, I didn't have to drive home.

Thanks Kristy you are the hostess with the mostess.
So much I owe to Crazy Diamond Kristy and Hirondelle
Both talented and inspiring. Thanks

In my mind I traveled to a party.
It was grand.
Carrillo Sep 2016
I took a commemorative drive
Back to a town that glorified the wise
It was 500 miles and three packs of cigarettes
The crisp, burning sound embedded in my head

Endlessly deep trenches
That birthed my inflictions
Created character, said my intentions
To rise above, and destroy pretenses

I went passed those rusty, horrid gates
That allegedly guarded us and kept us safe
Then, I entered the palace, the core of my pain
Where the man stood, stoically and still bound in his chains

He was a deathly entity without any shame
But his smile was deceiving, as if he had changed
“This time” he said, “We won’t die” he tried to explain
But his eyes lied, and his tone was vain

The crisp, burning sound echoed as I left
The man, helpless and distressed
Became nothing more than a substance that
I won’t digest
Jude kyrie Feb 2016
Portal To Infinity
for Yuri Gargarin
respectfully
by
Jude Kyrie


The explosion erupted like an inferno below him.
Not a naturally religious man he prayed to his maker.
Then the rush as he lifted off from the sweet earth
At the edge of the atmosphere an invisible barrier
Eons old untouched by mankind but not this day.

As he moved into orbit he saw the wonder of Mother Earth below.
The first words uttered by our species in the vacuum of space
"I see Earth! It is so beautiful!"
He witnessed the Earth for a single orbit

Over Africa the ground control shut of his engines
And he re-entered the earth’s atmosphere
With no power to slow down the craft.
He ejected above earth and parachuted to fame
As The first man in space the pioneer of space travel

When the American astronauts landed on the moon
In July 1969 the crew left a commemorative medal bearing his name
Warmth of mutual occupation and respect melted the ice of the cold war

From Russia came this special man
Thank you Yuri Gagarin




Author Notes

On 27 March 1968, while on a routine training flight from Chkalovsky Air Base, he and flight instructor Vladimir Seryogin died in a MiG-15UTI crash near the town of Kirzhach. The bodies of Gagarin and Seryogin were cremated and the ashes were buried in the walls of the Kremlin on Red Square.
Gagarin was survived by his wife Valentina, and daughters Elena and
Galina. Elena Gagarina, Yuri's elder daughter, is an art historian who
has worked as a director-general of the Moscow Kremlin Museums since 2001.[25] His younger daughter, Galina, is department chair at Plekhanov Russian Economic University in Moscow
nihiliti Jun 2018
guilty guillotine
cut the cordiality
decapitate my capital
bereft of debt but dead

sins cashed out
at the redoubt
the readout states
he served the state medium-well
high stakes games
never play out
prime timely

passed the ball before his
(half)time trials in the hall
of Hades' heroes
trophy case cages commemorative
accompanying accommodations
on company A's dime
dyed (c)ammo/comedy gold

commies died in red tape
holding back third wave
tsunamis made by little boys
and fat cats in league
of farms with the pigs
beating b(l)ack the blue
in the faces of pro-testing
human lives in danger of
aborting the right to ask
who's right?

do not collect/make cents/money ☞

unmarked graves
poor marks/low grade
explosive yields in fields of
gilded grain against woods
buying forests by the tree
swaying serenely, at peace
like only broken bodies can be
felled for freedom from failed
harvests, too costly
inflating lives now worthless

revolutionary's revolting; reminding readers
read the red print
for Jesus wept
'cause Lazarus died again
and this timestamp
demarcates the end
of resurrected american dreams
democracy demands your undecapitated capitulation

live free™ or die
"United we'll fail, divided we'll fall / We're ******, but you're making it worse"
Audrey's lips wrapped around his teeth like a wrist watch. Toby could feel her savage love so much. Audrey pulled her thighs into the naked hollows of his underarms. If this wasn't love he couldn't tell. How long they had wondered what closeness felt like. Audrey had to say: "My lover, I need to know the sexiness of your intimacy a lot." Toby answered, "Me too." That day Audrey became impregnated big time. Would anyone notice in 8 months? Toby might, especially if he ran into Audrey's pregnancy doctor.
   Audrey's uncle was visiting from New Mexico for a month. He was a kindly man whom Audrey liked. No monkey business with uncle Chuck. He was 100% normal. That's for sure. One morning when Audrey was rinsing her ****** uncle Chuck entered the kitchen. "What's up Audrey?" Chuck asked.
   "Just washin' my *******."
   "Big night?"
   "No, Uncle, just routine laundering."
   Their back-and-forth banter was casual.
   "Today, I've got 3 appointments," Chuck mused.
   "Hand to me my Kunta Kinte commemorative *****,"
Audrey instructed casually enough.
   "This one?" Chuck asked.
   "Yes, thanks," Audrey said as she relaxed her **** muscles.
   "Good-bye," Chuck said 30 seconds before he left.
   "Good-bye," Audrey replied 7 seconds before he left.

Chapter 2, Toby's gay link to the Mafia was about to be revealed. Toby wasn't gay, not even a little bit. He loved women a lot. Once when a gay man asked Toby to marry him, Toby didn't hesitate to say NO! and the gay man knew it. Deep respect warmed the gay community as word spread quickly. So when anyone says that Toby's gay ties to the Sicilian Cosa Nostra Mafia were homosexual they're wrong, Mafia-gabage-dumpster-dead-wrong!

Chapter 3, Uncle Chuck's hidden secret wasn't that he was normal, 100% so and everyone knew it. But uncle Chuck had a hidden secret that Audrey must not find out about or her life would be irreversibly changed and it could never be changed back again.

Chapter 4, Audrey took L.S.D. and had an awful flashback to 1999 about illegal drug use. She had been shacking up with a man who respected women a lot. He saw that she was L.S.D.-free and self-lessly offered to her L.S.D. for free. She accepted it and immediately felt that life was enhanced by Hospice care in the long run.

Chapter 5, "His lard *** brought him down. He fell to the floor, not to the ground" was what uncle Chucky wanted on his tombstone that marked the muddy grave where he would be buried dead. It didn't matter, the seepage. Lee Oswald was corrupted by it and no comrade cried for months because he was a stinking, cruddy, raunchy, Marxist, Leninist, ****** red ***** Russian spy.
The Apokálypsis is triggered and in a fraction of seconds, all appear in the premature appearance of Vernarth when all were waiting for him. Saint John the Apostle came from the iridescent nimbus escorting the curtain of othónes that filtered the Didaché that Saint John the Apostle brought in his patronage to make him a fellow disciple of primitive Christianity, and of the subtraction of the Twelve Apostles in congruence with the Twelve Islands of the Dodecanese to carry him apart from controversies. His purgation would vanish and a certain dating would begin that would merge with the thunderous projectile that would trigger from the Horcondising, then to Piacenza and would end up on Patmos tri locusing ..., it was a parapsychological projectile or mass of light in the score of the Didache's prayer or Propedeutics , which would date the demarcation of his chest when he was cracked by this pellet with a mass of light that pierced his fearlessness, and then would make him wake up from his parapsychology witnessing the Judeo-Hebraic catharsis at the beginning of the premiere of his religious ordinance in the Didache , providing the Judeo-Christian transition that would displace him through the centuries in the hecatomb of his Auric parapsychological mass, which would particularly make the fundamentalist predilection to inhale his intuition letting him know how to sustain himself more active than anything, but next to ascend to the Iridescent Nimbus where awaited him the radicality of the Mashiach, reviving in his primary ego baptism and Eucharist as or fragmentary of the biblical Canon making him the son of the apostolic patriarchs. Vernarth felt yielded but at the same time encouraged to know that the trajectory of the munitions with the mass of light would free him ..., and would take him through the epistles of the Codex or Codex Raedus, to be escorted by the Sybillas. The thickness of light that passed through the thymus gland reverberated in his Áspis Koilé that would hold it by the antilabé or Hoplon's hilt, which jointly ran the runaway projectile that was formed from his vigor and free Corpus that collided with the Kosmous where it was already extreme with the Arms of Christi in the patriarchal that ordered him to be part of the splendid Greek Orthodox Universe, specifically in the aedicule (Koilé, as a hollow shield) or Holy Sepulcher that made him exempt from the catalog of men sons of Hashem with more than two or three light paths in the Bios that had happened and that will happen! All clemency formed bewitching allegories that came from Antioquia that were contractually discovered interpolated into authentic adulterous women, who still depended on his inert entity, abandoning his nocturnal and spurious ethereal body.
Along with the chiaroscuro, the beams of mystery were transposed as a star that approached the vicinity of the Megaron that was anguished at the cracked guideline of the Opistodomos, indicating that the zoomorphic figures were coming that adorned all the symmetries that were crowned in the twelve stars that were emancipated from the orbit of Aurion. Vernarth felt an excessive burning on the back of him, making him prevail over crying, evictions of courage along with angels who carried flames that were absorbed in the chiaroscuro that sought to save him from all external subjects, like souls that intended to devour his absolved soul from Kathartiryum.

Between remanded expulsions they headed to the limen of Erebos that he transplanted from all the hollows that had teleported him from the infinitive of parapsychology, leaving him on the edge of his purification in his abscess like a skylight of Erebos, which would carry him into wandering spaces that ignored who could take pity on his conditional freedom at the expense of being freer than any body and his immortal soul, to cohabit in competitive everlasting worlds, which would personify him as superabundant of an underground world, towards the gift union to meet all his close beings free of all their redeeming quality, sentient if of all affiliation of the Caligo or Calígine that did not confiscate any hint of proceeding with or without senses that could thunder in the Vanguards of the Vernarthian Poems, where the Aether held him like the Porpax or bracelet in its primordial phase that would illuminate the vast earth, considering it as custodian and with assignee shadowing of Darkness where every fabulous impression would have to consider him a primal being of the Kosmous and the Calígine or darkness, which would soon carry the fabulous shudder of the introductory Aether where the Kingdom continues to feed back mortals and immortals, while all millennial past approaches the future with great commemorative glosses that revive, and make everyone join together in their commemorations, nevertheless leaving in their usufruct Heaven in the canopies of each dwelling, and of the future Hebrew that will be reborn in future Hellenic reincarnations, even when it is not intoned the hymn that will fly in colossal times.

The sacred word of the Apokálypsis was written alone in regard to the fact that it would not happen yet, where a holy case could be precipitated in a profusion of the garment that waved for whoever decided to see everything that is intangible, and that his diadem would alight before all who do know that they can aspire to a ceremony with hundreds of aid before all those who come saved from the Kathartyrium, narrating to him with winds and privileges that they wanted to possess him and warn him revived, before being handed over to the Mashiach who was moving before Vernarth. Swift golden eagles run on the roof of the Opistódomos, where the wrathful Eden gurgled that only Venarth could distinguish once he grasped the massive edges of the Himation. Here he kneels and asks the Mashiach, to grant him a tiny consent before escorting him, to reunite with all his descendants who would leave with the Hexagonal Birthright.

From the six edges that appeared in the Hexagonal Birthright, the identity silhouette of Eurydice, King David, Raeder, Petrobus, Saint John the Apostle, and Vernarth, once close to them, would go on the sixth Giga camel so as not to question themselves in some reverse diaspora that takes them into organisms where they do not wish their souls to be transferred. The verses booed by the Old Testament wind, or from the Old Testament, were invented in the analogy of Vernarth's Emptying or Ekénosen, leaving behind the footprints of the sixth ungulate, consolidating its sleeping body between lavenders and astragalus that were re-grafted from annihilation on the same ruins of the silence of himself (Myein). Vernarth was already chaff of the wind and incarnation of the same chaff that rose from the plantar legs of the sixth Giga, here they will be transfigured in its immaculate spectrum with golden trim by stoically using the Himation, and knowing how to reject any apathy at the power to silence his senses and ignore, that seven steeds with their vermilion eyes would pass at great speed and in the opposite direction, trying to ****** the kenosis of any of the six that claimed to be usufructuaries in the work of who can take the Life of any fiduciary steed that take away in your boldness.

The Sixth Camel was dislocated in the polygons of the Star of David, seeking the six edges of each linear that was destined to the six concatenations of the six bifurcations of the Hexagonal Birthright, forming the hexagram that somehow impelled them from the coincident central of the segments that would unite them even though they were intervals of each planting of each camel, simulating a hundred kilometers of distance to be the closest to the Opistodomes that would receive them in the resplendent Cinnabar flowing in triangulated equilaterals within the conformation of the Vas Auric or Beatific Medallion that it floated within the naos and the ceremonial physical structure. Everything was attributed to the Entasis of the Megaron that was combined in the mechanics of triangles that were attached to the concentric one of the Vas Auric, there were a hundred kilometers of routes where each dilation narrowed in dimension zero that bounced with another congruent zero of the six points of the Primogeniture and the vertices of the Star of David, from the fords that waved the generous Semitic skills, which alluded to the other haven of the concentric hard shoulder that turned them into six curbs of the same seat that was engaged in the Kenosis in the validated proportion of the auction that became friendly on the sixth camel, very close to him until the last step of the plantar basement is issued, thus allowing the same fatal wind from the desert of eternal life to destine him to the esotericism of human nature dressed in military garb , heir to all the panoply that would desert its guarantees when the sixth camel approached the first Giga where Saint John the Apostle was going. Everything was understood as a Vas Auric or reliquary of the Seal of Solomon immersed in the six points that symmetrically coincide with six dramatic points that would indicate the contiguity of the last hundred kilometers before reaching the last second and of the mystical power that would become resonant with six universes to later be transferred to the mighty Duoverso in each bias. The regular hexagon that King David conceived was made by lowering his head, almost touching the palfrey of the steeds that followed him rapidly running near his camel convoy, the opposing forces joined the hexagram of the Birthright in the Pentagram of King David, demonstrating little clarity of biblical innate gnosis to attend to the Old Testament of the remote metamorphosis, lavenders were already authorized that would penetrate into the Dipylones of the Megaron, in the face of any confusion that will be indicated as an Agia or a splendor synagogal that Vernarth presumably already dimensioned of the Universe behind his back of this same one so as not to revile the presence of the Mashiach by taking him out of the abject Kosmous, which filled him with ill-contained hopes of bad conjectures and stale past pundonor ..., not being self-referential! The twilight was unwound in the midst of the light orientation of the Star that would guide them as Unitarianism through the retrospective that would be added in intrepid pasts within another equal to himself, to make him Israelite-Hellenic, who would safeguard the Apokálypsis as the shield of emptying of his body granted by the Kenosis immersed in a Kosmous or recondite body, taking him together with Saint John the Apostle to the Dodecanese and the dodecagon itself, full of tribes that do not reposition themselves from the mega imagination when shepherding and traveling the immeasurable distances of Universal Faith submerging in fire and water, inciting the Macedonian Mezuzah as a pentagram or Five Strokes that vindicate the "V" Lacedaemon as a Penta or five that would initiate Vernarth as an inheritance of the world where everything is mentioned in the Fifth Dimension or Ependysi Imatos in the Investiture of the Himation of Vernarth.
Apokálypsis
Jonathan Moya Jun 2022
Her mother’s tale of the red string
foretold that Miko and Makoto
would be together,
tied little finger to little finger
by a taut invisible  blood line.
What she didn’t tell her
was that the line would fray,
break, need to be
retied over and over.

In their wedding photos
Makoto would stand stiff,
sincere in his white suit,
chrysanthemum in lapel,
hands by his sides,
close to her but
never really touching.
Miko in her red-white kimono
was almost a shrine
with butterfly ribbons,
a sigh more than a smile
adorning her face.

She imagined years
of ritual devotion
turning the gown gray,
the white high heels into
black sensible pumps.
Her gaze would eventually
never match Makoto,
it would rest on her feet,
turn inward until
she saw only herself
alone on the shore.

Makoto would spend
long hours in his cubicle,
drawing house after house
for others to live and work in.
At home the drawings would
fall into an exhausted heap
on the living room sofa
forming a charcoal pillow
for his weary head.  

Miko would put away
the uneaten food,
separating half  
into a bento box for
Makoto’s next day’s lunch,
the other half reserved cold
for her own silent noon meals.
She would dry her hands
on the old never worn
yellow girl’s onesie cleverly
repurposed to a dish rag.

Her mind drifted back to the time
they visited the Snow Monkeys of
Jigokudani bathing in their hot spring.
She would watch a mother macaque
and infant slipping their fingers
in and out of each other forming
rose strings in the slow rippling splash
until the last echo almost touched her womb.
She listlessly gazed at her feet as she
listened to Makato denounce
the silly animal antics she delighted in,
how he snarled out without regret
“Akachan wa noroidesu”
(Babies are a curse.)
Nevertheless he gladly purchased
the commemorative photo of them,
taken at the park’s entrance,
of them posing stiffly because
it echoed their wedding one.

On the bullet train back to Tokyo
she felt sick and rushed to the toilet.
There, Miko knew the yellow secret  
bought at Akachan  Honpo the
day before and hiding in her purse
would become a dish rag.
In the hygienic blue flushing water.
her hope turned to grief
and her grief became a silent wail
that emptied out, a crimson string.

Seated in her assigned chair
she glared at Makoto
staring out the train window
searching the darkening horizon.
He never turned his face to her.
He didn’t even know she was next to him.
Miko stared at the walls, stifling a sigh.

Inside her the red string
shriveled, then broke.
Her sky rearranged
to a desert. Her precious
water evaporated.

She awoke to Makoto,
saying not a word,
entering and shuffling
to the sofa.  

The gas stove hissed.
The yellow dish rag
laid close to the flame.
Another uneaten meal
existed unwanted on
the dining room table.

Miko, this one time,
never bothered to
awaken Makoto.
She walked to the
balcony searching
hard for but neither
finding sky nor horizon—
only houses,
some which Makoto drew,
surrounded her.
She put little finger
to little finger together
then pulled them apart.
Looking down,
Miko knew she
was destined to fall.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 30
A single lyric on a single song, sung, by one of my chosen ones, a brother and friend,
a brethren, whose hidden meanings are never hidden from me,
as we both, both gentle souls who, when lost, have been
lost
witnesses and also been witnessed:
weeping into the rags of remorse

this season is nearing conclusion, I know the sun rays penetrate, in a vain vanity of a last attempt to purify and make my soul stains,
a burnt offering, rising as smoke up to the wind,
my hearted words lifted,
letter by letter, to whence they came from

My senses are not cold, rhymes run, forgiving the sun for it’s inevitable disappearance, so it shall be displaced,
just lie us,
over then under, a nearby horizon,
with a sunset wave goodbye, a multi colored coat spectacle,
that reflects well off & on
my pallid skin

When it returns, it will be a different star, re-angled, in such a way that it can no longer do heavens work on my body and soul, both
kindred entities, each with each other,
a commemorative tree ring commonality,
a newly incised cain mark

sensitive locomotives ply between the sides of my head, knowing better than most the true meaning of fleeting, for although I am in my eighth decade now, and those words,
“there is nothing new under the sun,”
ring inherent inside like
they too newly born
 but,
running on a track well worn,
now nearly scrap iron

yet clothed in my sinner’s wet rags, the remorse ever lingers,
directed to mine own mark of Cain,
awaiting the day when the sun touches my
forehead, and those loco- motives ride higher,
for their denouement, their untying(2)

Aug 30 2024
fini 2:17 pm
by the Sound
(1) The Window Lyrics by Leonard Cohen

[Verse 1]

Why do you stand by the window?
Abandoned to beauty and pride
The thorn of the night in your *****
The spear of the age in your side
Lost in the rages of fragrance
Lost in the rags of remorse
Lost in the waves of a sickness
That loosens the high silver nerves
(2)literal translation of denouement is untying
Vessels  and Wine menus of the archaic formulas seemed from the new Universe that was approaching them vertiginously, concelebrating the unitary form of the union of the pilasters of the Opistódomos with Hellas , which was constituted as an inter-dimensional state, for two strategists universal and immortal that provided the beginning of a new Christic language, based on the relationship of the unified polis but with an infinite calendar perspective. The courage to start an end with a beginning full of excitement and celebration where clearly the dances would be from beginning to end to treasure the influences of endless complacency, and that would hold commemorative celebrations of station processes, being established fiercely in the treasuries of Metroon ; as a duplicated and bilocated agoras on Patmos, besieging all the documents of the glorious past of Mythology towards the new preservation of Submitology, where the people of heroes and anti-heroes of all the Pleiades come to life from the Vernarth transcript, as a multidimensional memorial archive housing in all the concerns of eternity written, and preserved tangible and intangible that would transport them to the annals of a sanctuary that would agree with the repositories of everything that was and will be of this Myth annex beyond a fantastic reality, going back to the Hellenisms that they will compose next to the Beit Hamikdash Temple, as a sacred mansion where the ceiling and the floor would rest in total communion. The dimensions will be given in the own open foot that will standardize the buttresses that would make up the access chambers to the privileged place of Rea, with dimensions that could be displayed in the confines of the inflection of Orion, naturally illuminating the vault of Greece in the head of the Agora and from there to Theoskéspasti, to then be triangulated with the Doric and Ionic colonnades specifying the Vernarth chamber, which will have its quantum progression and multidimensional link throughout the Archaic Hellas to all of Judea that will re-sanctify the possibilities that the heroes will parade eternally for the waters and lands that are proper to inertia, where Athena and Nike will make the pots with mead in the rejection of more miracles that will flow from Galilee to Patmos. The etymology would be of Hellenic customary avant-garde, evidencing realities where every day the peasants sharpened their sickles, as a feast that celebrated the first-rate courts with the first-grade olive oil with the Almazara or oil press that will bring the fruits of the table. The flapping of the pelicans would tie laudable sounds from the Thuellai worshiping the phonograms that were emitted from the Metroon, attracting the classical periods of the conformation of Greece when it was only Chaos and Seas in conflict. From this mythological proposition, everything was a reality where the lack of custom proved as a cultural character, it was the vertical cultural basting coined in the gloss of the signifier, rather than the meaning, leading everything to these festivities of edibles and drinkable towards the Panhellenic that it would bring new vigor of expansive territorial function, towards Macedonia and Delphi as a holiday that could celestially have more than twelve lunar months.

Meanwhile Vernarth was hugging a rattle more than two meters high and one in diameter, this resonance implied the inaugural sound of the Symposium of the Athletic Agon that together with the Almazara would run rials of oilseeds, to anoint the attendees as all Sacred of the jubilee of the Opistódomos and the Hamikdash, towards the new Submitological Era Duoversal between the events that will delight everything that concerns accompanying the pairings of liquids and solids in this competitive challenge, so that the mythical hero becomes the credible hero stationed in the ninth laurels that would make up the foundation and inauguration of the games, after the victory of those who never threw the victor's crown. The votive offerings and monuments joined the agonal journey that referred from the perspective of a soul that wanted to compete with its existential soul, and then reluctantly redirected itself through the unusual temples that seemed to vanish amid the crowds, making this festive ritual the greatest expression. of all the votive festivals in Patmia. In practice, the meals would once again be rewards for the support of the sky by the Matakis, as a snowy reflection in the pouch that does not display any icon other than a numismatist that sniffs the pieces of bronze that were surrounded by the other derivatives of the terminal of saturation of Zeus, seeming to identify that Matzoh would fall from the sky, and Manah that will highlight the laurel artifice when the conceptual of the sages give the beginning of the activities with a meta-praxis that will stand out from the full stomachs, and the bladders supplemented with oenological colors, eradicating physical competitions for those of the allegory of Dionysian pleasure that suggests a human and mythological hybridism, Submitological-supernatural. Everyone became restless and ran along the golden trails of the iridescent nimbus creating capacities to unfold the time of Kairos and at the same time re-inaugurating the feat of noble bread and the skills of collecting the green fords, where Persephone refrained from an illegitimate pressure by leaving the intellectual bulwarks for the destiny of the force that subtracts the will, but if it defines the feminine character that caresses the tongues of the soulless and they call us with the features of competing prostrate to a Goddess who worships the eternal shine of the wheat field that refers, and what makes the ibidem in the conferences of a hero who smacks the features of all the sculptures that will follow the cause of reason of the allegorical agoras and the competition where the meek will only toast when nobody sees them face inhibition itself of what is and is not.

What the languages uttered became shouted to sit near the inns and tables with dairy products and wines from which they all stood up with a cantiga in unison, ***** in the joy of being called to the Hellenic invitation to compete, to make dynamics and refer to physical skills assiduously to the constellations that made them awaken the intellectuals. The attributes of each one were a trigger to celebrate and laugh before the divinity of the new Age, along with the solemnity of Himation. This lasted twenty-eight days exchanging the full moons that would bring the shooting stars with boiled genetics that were forged from the Souvlaki prototype, and flashes that would take them to the symposium where the feasts were dimensions that surpassed the entire width of the galaxies, to praise and cheer the crowded Pleiad of assistants fully compete in the intelligentsia, before the various rituals and spells that were prepared with the consecration of the Symposium that would bring together Alpha and Omega, as a Semitic language that filtered through the iridescence nets that manifested from the Nimbus where they remained the vaporous entity of the Mashiach.

Vernarth imbibed, above all, a segment of space that allowed him to look without being distracted towards the height of the Nimbus, creating in the tract of languages that they wandered between Aramaic, Greek, and Hebrew, after that the extra-biblical witness Marzeah would designate in the liturgy of celebration of the Symposium, always noting that the allusive rhetorical conversations at the side of the Symposium meeting, understanding that they would become a brotherhood of tasters of the ethyl elixir, which would flow from the iridescent tract between seven iridescence that would translate into bittersweet solid foods and rolls with thyme from Kalymnos. The ingestion in two portions was lived from arm to arm in the jars of hand, reciprocal in the distractions that Vernarth made looking at the Nimbus, and offered him with his Khaire, promoting distraction and jumping over the dark clouds that were tinged with purple tones of the ethyl elixir, creating dance forms that revived the altruism of euphonic auditions that divined that the world could be all Wine and Matzoh, which was lavished on those who would not be excluded from the drinking of the sky that flowed as food from the fermented Hydor, alongside some concave stones with toasted chickpeas, fresh fruit, and Lepanto beans. Saint John blessed food considering that Eurydice, Circe, Medea, Hecate, and Walekiria would be incorporated into the festive Andron, although the feminine essence should be reserved for other stages of the solemn festival. The expositions of contentment were to have the vessels permanently facing the sky of the Nimbus, because from there holistic ethyl liquids would constantly fall that would shine with their deferred colors, sensitizing what the ear wanted to hear more than their collisions of Epichisis and Enócoes to pour and serve. in geometric ciboriums from Laconia. Vernarth would walk around the Profitis with Askos full of the essence of the Mashiach wine, which served them with the seven cosmic thoughts, thus frequenting the distractions for those who did not skimp on Apollo's delirium of dipsomania, distracted in Vernarth with the dancers of music by Hetera. Vernarth filled the glasses of all those who carried Guttus and Lecitos who relaxed and brought their Cretan flavors in the chirps of their pharynxes coming out from their mouths with verses that seemed the same as those of the Heterias, which the soldiers of the phalanx influenced the Small groups in a circle to applaud the gift and virtue of celebrating with improvised cheers, which in the bedrooms invited even the dissuasive shadows of their own evil that wanted to seep into the symposium. The afternoon was reinvented from the agora and the proscenium that attended for all from all the borders that would bring the storms of the ethyl nimbus, inviting new tides from the Aegean that would add to re-condense in the parasites that swarmed deserts with the rhythm of one night in all the borders and optics of the world, being able to be seen clearly and precisely to be reissued. The comedy of Dyonisius was present with all his court of Syracuse, and Dionisio was reiterated with Thespis and his supports that spelled ruffian verses between bitten, one being King the other being a God, sticking to his origin as a demigod in the feminine inheritance of a mortal, to come to serve in Cantharos to Dyonisius, where they roar in his mortal consciousness. The parasites bustled through the floodgates of intoxication that could be textualized and verbalized in the shrinking of colic, or perhaps boldly sitting on a tripod to imitate the Sybillas if they were to be supported by the effluvium of Alcyoneus, covering with snakes that they would carry potions in the wine glasses when representing the banquets that would falsify to be scenes of a feast, with the criterion of an over-relief.
Opistódomos Symposium
Howard Offenger Dec 2016
More *******

While covering tracks
written on monkeys backs
falling into quiescent wells of black
tranquil lakes of ink blot
(Rorshach commemorative  untitled selections)  
discovered accidentally uncovered
A light beyond the precipice of night
Between the horn on the left
and the horn on the right.

All's well behind the wall of time
beyond these simple symantic assimilations
Yet the spirits due to run it's course
Revolution upon revolution
until the spirits desire is filled
and man succumbs to the other will.
Jackie Mead Apr 2021
A woman full of love comes home.
On the large dining room table, she places her bag, a book and her house keys.
She adds the warmth of the sun, the sound of the sea, the wind whistling through the trees and the voice of her dad saying “Hi, it’s smee!”
She takes off her shoe and empties sand and seaweed, stubbed toes, marmite sandwiches and a surf board.
From her jacket pockets she adds a child’s dummy, a pocket hanky a Frog and Toad.
On the table she places a wine glass, very gently and a bottle of fine red.  A pizza of Jamaican **** chicken to keep her well-fed.
The table is large and there is room for more. She scoops a child’s drum from the floor and places it on top too.
The scrapping sound of a child’s chair.  Also gets placed on top with such love and care.
Looking around for more items to include she adds memories of her family young and old.  Stories which have yet to be written or indeed told.
An image of a young girl playing roly poly down the hill.  A Queens Jubilee commemorative five-pound bill.
The table bears the weight well, it stands tall and upright. The woman she will sleep well tonight.
Thank you, table, for always being there. For the load you carry, your unwavering support. Throughout the years you have witnessed much joy and tears.
A noring pain ,
I know so well between my tooth and gum,
did flossing try and many pills to quench this pain did I .
So off I went to see a man in white coat and kindly smile ,
to sit down in my dentists chair to relax and watch the world go by .
" it will have. to come out that there is no doubt the nice man said with a grin .
The sergeon s here have no fear open wide so I can begin .
Now pull he said to his assistant nurse this won't take long at all ,
It's a sergical procedure .
Now spit and swill here's some wool this won't take very long ,
There's a good boy your doing well it's out now ,
all wrapped up in a commemorative box for your mantelpiece above
the fire ,"
" Oh thanks " I said between my gum so raw it should be on a slab .
So home I went all wrapped in cotton wool ,
with blood pouring down ,
and cotton wool biting down such a brave boy I know .

Two days in bed how long I've spent. With a straw and soup and
day time tv ,
It's a sergical procedure they said boy did those words comfort me .
Still I bite  with all my might and tablets and straws at hand ,
Then one day the pain did go no more soup straw and pills ,
Be kind to your dentist ,
Just sit back and relax and open wide next time the dentist shall call
The monolithic columns were beginning to be built that transferred to the transition columns of the period of the 6th century BC. That they would stipulate the fixed number of units of the Doric columns that would be installed towards Vernarth in the transom that would join the crossbars between Mount Profitis and the Iridescent Nimbus, representing a theosophical concept, which when divided into the chromatic ones would materialize, making a commendable incipient epoch of eternal humanity, where the individualities were decompressed from the descendants for more than 500 thousand years in the perspective that would allude to the logos of the Universe, and that very few of their ins and outs were unraveled in the convergences of their diction, before they could be concretized facts that exceed the reality of a theory that is not proven when it is really all consummated. And although everything is the result of a period that will not be reissued again, everything in the Apokálypsis would be of renewal and thoughts with characters of the Factotum interspersed with the forces of the Universe, Elementals and Spirituals that would be teleported in the trans-religious vehicle of Vernarth , with its own intellectual scope that would go back to expressions of philosophical writing but with the grace of the Logos that would redirect itself through vestiges, where there are disquisitions in the claim of Saint John the Apostle referring to that beginning that everything was re-indicated as Genesis was, in which this world has already proven is only the manifestation of a new Universe that would leave the spare one, and would give us the Duoverse full of Light and Hope, vindicating the divine concept in all the voices that were never heard by the fine ear of conception. of the Camera Obscura, where all the voids of the Universe would be engaged in the strengthening of man through super credibility, and d e the support of pre-knowable favors, based on the Logos of hearing everything that is heard, and saying everything that is spoken ..., creating the pronunciation is everything first, and that the word is of significance in what is pronounced in all the processes of withdrawal and insistence that our evidences be resonated, allowing that what remains to be included is the incarnation of a Creator of worlds where no body has been occupied, nor that all the spheres that govern him are in the capacity of the will of empowerment, which is recited in all the multi-evocations, which come from all the well-smelling essences of Cosmic Thought and the Logos of the Monolithic Columns, attracting and magnetizing what “is not thought” to become the verb that resonates in the form of the waves of its creation and of the sense of existence, with the only spiritual spirit that denies all capacity to increase all the plans that have to be made and that are to re-study, under a world that belongs to those who have been humiliated of their will, who have been sullied and who will be liberated in their own exaltation where the words will be lost so that they can later find themselves in the experiment that whips the truth, in the bed of things that swirl in a cosmos that is fed up with being the same and that no one dared to know more than a Peri Kosmous, which of course will give the origin in everything that remained in the accent for those who listened to him hiccuping on the side of a thoughtless tree. Irrational reflections took over the entire heritage of what was the essence of a Christianity that was beginning to be renewed on Patmos, where the experience was those of a very early encounter with the Truth that was a simile of every basis of truth contained in the genome that is woven into the lordships of which it has only the sharpness of facing the self-confidence of the chills, and of the fright when its meaning leaves you speechless.

The muted iridescent leaves the branches of the trees more significant than the cosmic thought itself, which was the light of life in all the voices that cheered him where nothing could find conceptual footholds in the gaze of a sigil of abstract love, only letting the testimony of beings of Light ennoble the capacity of a love that boils with love under every expiration in the darkness itself, as is Wonthelimar full of the flower of Liz that lies in its familiar heraldic. Everything is detachment in the seed that whimsically delivers its fertile axiom in the purity of the layers of the land of Palestine, where thousands of routes of donkeys do not cease to infuse events from the bases of custom and to move where there is no shelter, but there is an illusion that everything happens on Earth and that it is the same gender than itself, almost more eloquent than those who dare to say that everything comes and goes from this earth loaded with Cosmic thought, loaded with inalienable rights where the beneficiaries will be benefited. doubly, and that being a witness to the glory is the same grace that lulls the feeling where everything is Duoversal in a thought that replaces the one that will partially follow the one that comes, for its concepts and true plans where everything and everything will be part of the Prologue of Vernarth in the encounter of a Purgation that utters all the gales of the Meltemi that will pierce all the orchards where they will finally be able to rest on the head of Jakob, and l The fruits of the Faith of Elohim by recidivism will give the world courage by not being afraid of the changes of the foliage, which are from their own repose in the garden that makes them ascend, which abstracts them in the predominance and in the shallow laws of a Occultism that is associated with universal ideas, that puts names and pro-names in powers that are only subtracted with humility in the echoes of personal power, and in what their foliage radiates, that with the piece of a commemorative arrangement of Lilies, now nothing It mattered as a conceptual universalism, without the axial that rusts in the tendency that after its numerals running in different directions or senses, when contemplating itself from a ruler of the cultural word, being intelligence that transverts the dyes of knowledge in the Greek or Hebrew gnosis, that Vernarth or Etréstles could never take back the barge that took them from Sardinia to La Spezia, or that whatever it was like from a sequence shot could be duplicated with the hidden part of a Duoverso, to always have a substitute brother, and that he does not lack when the effect of his occultism is going to emerge in the Aramaic voice that makes the walls of the oropharyngeal trunk creak, with the thought that it makes an elixir of generational life, when the force that It propels a complete involvement, by shaking all the spheres that were anodyne with a new gesture in a dawn of Eternal life.

The category of anodyne value is that what collides with the solid elements what could be in the new essence of an elemental rebirth, and of occultism that only transgresses the ideas that are proper to those who rectify a greater degree of physical forces than move the world for the minors who sustain the microcosm, before a micro thought that was sometimes more contemplative, of what its inheritance as a software perfects, and that has to be descended in its hereditary integrity as "Inheritance", devoid of any individuality that makes an omen the real estate of the anhistorical sense, perpetuating the anhistoricism that refers to a denial of the relationship with history, in the historical advance or the custom, such as the frequent criticism that the facts reveal a nuance of weakness Where would Alexander the Great's record change, if he had been protected by Vernarth before he was consumed by malaria, or had been abused by his own commanders? They have a trophy of a fever that offends further from everything that is ignored if it is not a real argument, and may have lived many more than the same context of knowing or ignoring what happened, that is why their anhistoric polytheistic-social will describe the vision more adjective of who detaches himself from his history, and repairs in history itself the secondary planes where only a submitological discourse would take him to the source of the timeless Macedonian seat.
Logos, Monolithic Columns
Toby could feel her savage love so much. Audrey pulled her thighs into the naked hollows of his underarms. If this wasn't love he couldn't tell. How long they had wondered what closeness felt like. Audrey had to say: "My lover, I need to know the sexiness of your intimacy a lot." Toby answered, "Me too." That day Audrey became impregnated big time. Would anyone notice in 8 months? Toby might, especially if he ran into Audrey's pregnancy doctor.
   Audrey's uncle was visiting from New Mexico for a month. He was a kindly man whom Audrey liked. No monkey business with uncle Chuck. He was 100% normal. That's for sure. One morning when Audrey was rinsing her ****** uncle Chuck entered the kitchen. "What's up Audrey?" Chuck asked.
   "Just washin' my *******."
   "Big night?"
   "No, Uncle, just routine laundering."
   Their back-and-forth banter was casual.
   "Today, I've got 3 appointments," Chuck mused.
   "Hand to me my Kunta Kinte commemorative *****,"
Audrey instructed casually enough.
   "This one?" Chuck asked.
   "Yes, thanks," Audrey said as she relaxed her **** muscles.
   "Good-bye," Chuck said 30 seconds before he left.
   "Good-bye," Audrey replied 7 seconds before he left.

Chapter 2, Toby's gay link to the Mafia was about to be revealed. Toby wasn't gay, not even a little bit. He loved women a lot. Once when a gay man asked Toby to marry him, Toby didn't hesitate to say NO! and the gay man knew it. Deep respect warmed the gay community as word spread quickly. So when anyone says that Toby's gay ties to the Sicilian Cosa Nostra Mafia were homosexual they're wrong, Mafia-gabage-dumpster-dead-wrong!

Chapter 3, Uncle Chuck's hidden secret wasn't that he was normal, 100% so and everyone knew it. But uncle Chuck had a hidden secret that Audrey must not find out about or her life would be irreversibly changed and it could never be changed back again.

Chapter 4, Audrey took L.S.D. and had an awful flashback to 1999 about illegal drug use. She had been shacking up with a man who respected women a lot. He saw that she was L.S.D.-free and selflessly offered to her L.S.D. for free. She accepted it and immediately felt that life was enhanced by Hospice care in the long run.

Chapter 5, "His lard *** brought him down. He fell to the floor, not to the ground" was what uncle Chucky wanted on his tombstone that marked the muddy grave where he would be buried dead. It didn't matter, the seepage. Lee Oswald was corrupted by it and no comrade cried for months because he was a stinking, cruddy, raunchy, Marxist, Leninist, ****** red ***** Russian spy.
Audrey's lips wrapped around his teeth like a wrist watch. Toby could feel her savage love so much. Audrey pulled her thighs into the naked hollows of his underarms. If this wasn't love he couldn't tell. How long they had wondered what closeness felt like. Audrey had to say: "My lover, I need to know the sexiness of your intimacy a lot." Toby answered, "Me too." That day Audrey became impregnated big time. Would anyone notice in 8 months? Toby might, especially if he ran into Audrey's pregnancy doctor.
   Audrey's uncle was visiting from New Mexico for a month. He was a kindly man whom Audrey liked. No monkey business with uncle Chuck. He was 100% normal. That's for sure. One morning when Audrey was rinsing her ****** uncle Chuck entered the kitchen. "What's up Audrey?" Chuck asked.
   "Just washin' my *******."
   "Big night?"
   "No, Uncle, just routine laundering."
   Their back-and-forth banter was casual.
   "Today, I've got 3 appointments," Chuck mused.
   "Hand to me my Kunta Kinte commemorative *****,"
Audrey instructed casually enough.
   "This one?" Chuck asked.
   "Yes, thanks," Audrey said as she relaxed her **** muscles.
   "Good-bye," Chuck said 30 seconds before he left.
   "Good-bye," Audrey replied 7 seconds before he left.

Chapter 2, Toby's gay link to the Mafia was about to be revealed. Toby wasn't gay, not even a little bit. He loved women a lot. Once when a gay man asked Toby to marry him, Toby didn't hesitate to say NO! and the gay man knew it. Deep respect warmed the gay community as word spread quickly. So when anyone says that Toby's gay ties to the Sicilian Cosa Nostra Mafia were homosexual they're wrong, Mafia-garbage-dumpster-dead-wrong!

Chapter 3, Uncle Chuck's hidden secret wasn't that he was normal, 100% so and everyone knew it. But uncle Chuck had a hidden secret that Audrey must not find out about or her life would be irreversibly changed and it could never be changed back again.

Chapter 4, Audrey took L.S.D. and had an awful flashback to 1999 about illegal drug use. She had been shacking up with a man who respected women a lot. He saw that she was L.S.D.-free and selflessly offered to her L.S.D. for free. She accepted it and immediately felt that life was enhanced by Hospice care in the long run.

Chapter 5, "His lard *** brought him down. He fell to the floor, not to the ground" was what uncle Chucky wanted on his tombstone that marked the muddy grave where he would be buried dead. It didn't matter, the seepage. Lee Oswald was corrupted by it and no comrade cried for months because he was a stinking, cruddy, raunchy, Marxist, Leninist, ****** red ***** Russian spy.

— The End —