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not the milk, you see, is too sweet,
thick, which will rhyme if i write,
for me.

thick like the wool that filled
breaches in the wall, saved the lives.

save some with shelter, needing shelter,
while others lean to watch the birds fly,
talk of the bell tower, and all the implications.

the man parked his car, tidily went to poundland,
bought cards.

sbm.

*notes verb
verb: condense; 3rd person present: condenses; past tense: condensed; past participle: condensed; gerund or present participle: condensing

1.
make (something) denser or more concentrated.
Sympathy I feel for those who haven’t seen what I’ve seen, and for those who have felt what I’ve felt. The embodiment of my regret, shining with all the light once saved me, now engulfs me in torment of my mistake. As I orbit in harmony with the rotation of a green star, that is much more than just a green star, I ponder what my life would be if I still had my green star. I know that in time, this green star that means everything and more to me, will collapse and perish, but we will only be able to see the star frozen in time, that very instant before it collapsed, desperately clinging to one single moment. I still cling to that moment, the moment I saw my soul break free from the chains that I thought would hold me down perpetually, in her eyes. I don’t quite know how it happened, I wasn’t looking for it, I wasn’t on the make, it was the perfect storm, I said one thing, she said another, and the next thing I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my days in the middle of that conversation. It’s painful to admit that I ruined the most precious friendship I’ve ever had, which tends to sting more when she was the only genuine friend I’ve ever had. I prefer solidarity most of the time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t long for a companion every now and again, but lately that desire grows stronger and stronger, holding on to the memory of the companion I once had and lost. My life on Earth, my past life, would be considered prosperous; I was one of the top aerospace engineers in the world, which is a very time consuming and painstaking practice, but exploring the unknown territories of the universe had always been my passion. I didn’t have much of a family, my mother and father passed away when I was 22 years old, and my brother and I severed ties shortly after the death of our parents, and I had not desire nor time for a significant other, let alone the willingness to dedicate my life to another person. I always believed that I embodied the definition of misplacement, I never seemed to fit in any particular group of people, nor with any other person, really, I enjoyed getting lost in the sea of my thoughts, riding the waves, pondering ideas, asking questions that can only be answered in theory, which essentially renders me incapable of interacting with others. However, being your own best friend can sometimes lead to psychotic thoughts of self-loathing, and eventually the last straw broke the backbone of my perseverance, and I convinced myself to commit suicide. Originality and pretentiousness ****** me, demanding myself to end my life a way no one else’s life has ended, and my imagination spiraled into a storm, brainstorming my own demise. My most recent endeavor at the time was to manufacture a personal bubble that would sustain in space, and condensing a spaceship into the size of a smart car was the threshold between my pathetic life of this planet, and self-destructive glory. After a year of an extremely unhealthy intensity of research, my talisman of my soul, my most cherished invention, my cosmic coffin. I traveled from my home in Anchorage to the highest point in Alaska, Mount McKinley, and inserted my body comfortably inside my space bubble and proceeded to ascend into my eternal salvation, ascending towards achievement of my life’s dream, ascending the edges of space, where no human has ever occupied in history. The butterfly feeling in my stomach, caused by the sheer joy I felt, is probably the closest feeling I had ever felt at the time to true love, the irony of my affection for death. As I slipped past our atmosphere and found myself floating closer towards the stars and planets, I sat down and enjoyed the galactic show of entropy before me, and after a while the visual melody put me in a hypnotic state, and before I knew it I was being stated down by a saucer shaped spaceship with luminous blue lights encompassing the round edge of the ship. I felt my capsule gravitating towards and entering the ship through a small hole on the underbelly of its structure, that appeared to look like a portal. As I passed through the light I was being observed by a feminine looking blue creature, with bright green eyes that sparkled like emeralds in the moonlight, and long, luscious blonde hair, straight and smooth as silk. She was tall, which I realized as I stood up out of my capsule, about an inch taller than my six foot frame, with long, skinny fingers and decently big webbed feet, and a long slender tail hanging down from her backside that wasn't quite long enough to touch the ground. She had shiny, scaly skin that had a deceptive rough appearance in texture, but felt soft and smooth when her hand reached out to embrace mine, and she said, "Hello, I am called Elora, what are you called?" Still in shock, the only awkward response I muttered was, "Eric" and she asked, "Why are you here Eric?" As I regained my quick wit I declared, "Does anyone know why they're here?" She smiled, exposing her sharp white teeth and proposed, "Well, you can help me find out." I think it had something to do with the adrenaline rush caused by the mystery and uncertainty of the situation, but I caught myself grinning, I didn't even realize I was smiling, it was an odd, unfamiliar feeling, but I was madly attracted to this blue angel from the stars. I spoke to her about my life on Earth, and my elaborate suicide plan, and she explained to me that she abandoned her home planet Eridani to conduct galactic research, and that she was from the Altair race. She elaborated on how life on Eridani did not satisfy her, and that she would spend her life roaming around nebulas, exploring galaxies, researching stars, and documenting her experiences. She showed me a star that she claims as hers, a green star called Zohra, which was her favorite star because she said she could only feel happiness when looking at it, to which I said, “It reminds of your eyes” and she looked at me and seemed flattered. She loved that star, her eyes lit up brighter than the star itself when she would stare at it, hypnotized at the sight of it, which I cared little to notice because I couldn’t look away from her. I couldn’t quite understand how someone could be so invested in something like that, something that just sits there spinning and spinning, peacefully participating in the orchestra of the universe. I think she was so fascinated by this object because she felt the same disconnect from others of our kind. The lonely, outcast feeling connected us, ironically, and we carried on intriguing conversation for what felt like an eternity, and I only wish that conversation could've lasted longer. I found in Elora what I had not found in any human being, she understood me, to the point where I was convinced she had mind reading abilities, and her understanding me didn’t diminish her interest in me, like what usually happened to me on Earth. I found happiness in her company, I found salvation in her embrace, I found unparalleled beauty inside and out, and I found myself in our friendship.  As time slowly rolled on my affection for Elora grew increasingly unbearable, and eventually the realization dawned upon me that I had to inform Elora of my feelings for her. We were accelerating towards the Crab Nebula, and I noticed the blurred blue light in the center, wrapped around by streams of red and yellow light, holding the blue heart in the center together. Elora was to me what the red and yellow streams were to the integrity of the Crab Nebula, without those streams, without Elora, my soul would fall apart and disburse, just like the blue light in the center of the Crab Nebula. When I turned, looked her square in her eyes, her gorgeous eyes that were accented by the light emitting from the Crab Nebula, those eyes that pull you in and leave you in a trance, those eyes that display the beauty of nature condensed into two little spheres that seemed to effortlessly gaze inside my soul, breaking down every single wall that I have ever built up to hide myself from other people, and uncover everything I so desperately attempted to hide deep down, and I said to her, “You are the only reason I’m still alive, the only reason I still want to live, the only other soul that accepted my lost, broken soul, you are the most amazing, most beautiful creature born from the stars we now roam around, I tried to die to see what heaven is like, but heaven can wait, because there is nothing more I want than to be with you until the day my soul slips away from my body, I am madly in love with you Elora.” I poured my heart and soul out to her, bleeding out every ounce of passion and love and sophistication to her, exposing every bit of my emotions, leaving me naked and defenseless before her. Different scenarios raced around my head about how she would respond, and she glanced down at the ground, looked back up at my blank face, and she said, “My people do not love, we do not believe in love, and we cannot love. Love, no matter how polarizing it may seem, always fades in time, everything fades in time, love fades in time, ideas fade in time, you will fade in time, I will fade in time, in the end, nothing is perpetual.” My heart sank down into my stomach, and right at that moment I grasped the idea of why they call it “falling in love” because I landed harder than I could even fathom, I did not know that such powerful emotional sorrow could physically hurt so bad. I dropped down to one knee, and the streams of tears ran from my face and splashed down on the ground, like delicate little glass beads shattering as they made contact with the surface, shattering like my heart and soul. The pure agony and embarrassment of staying with the love of my life, whom I had just made an absolute fool of myself in front of, was enough to crush any man’s esteem, so the only rational option I could think of was bail towards my space bubble, and go as far away as I possibly could from the light that saved me. With every inch of separation between her and I, my heart and soul grew sour and stone cold, and new theories to rationalize my reaction and actions that followed. As a child I went to an amusement park, and I was particularly frightened of a certain attraction that lifted you straight up, a couple hundred feet, and dropped you straight down, and now I realize that my fears of love are comparable to this ride. I was so mortified by the ascension, which precedes love, that I could never enjoy the thrill of the fall, even though this time the safety harness didn’t soften the landing. I came to the conclusion, after years of thought, that I could not blame Elora, it was who she was and there was nothing she could do to change that, and instead of accepting the fact that she did not love me, I cowardly abandoned the only thing in my life that I gave a **** about, I ran away from the only other being in the universe that could make me smile the way she made me smile. After years of solidarity and self-loathing I realized that I would much rather spend my life with Elora, even if she didn’t love me, as opposed to regressing back to my lonesome life, only surrounded by a vast, more captivating scene. The only reason I am still alive is because I have not given up hope that one day I will find Elora again, and I will beg for her forgiveness, and hopefully I will be able to cherish every precious moment I spend with her. I solemnly believe that the slim chance will occur that I will once again see that face, gaze into those eyes I once did, and curse my old self for being foolish enough to leave her. I am not certain, but I can only hope that she is at least indifferent to encountering each other once again, but if she denies me I cannot blame her, because after all it is my fault for my impulsive escape. But for now I wander as a nomad amongst the stars that form constellations that all remind me of Elora, watch the planets rotate, and reminisce on the time we shared together, the time I took for granted, time that I consider to be the most precious moments of my life’s experience. I spend most of my time roaming around Zohra, which was where she and I parted ways, in hopes that one day she will return to her favorite star, to find me right there waiting for her, however patience has not served me well, and my actions which I so deeply regret caused her to abandon the star which she claimed as hers, the star that radiated happiness upon her, the magnificent star that embodied her in beauty and essence, to avoid the thought of me leaving her, which is justifiable because she was probably very flustered by me scrambling to leave her after my episode. I rotate around Zohra, observing its physical qualities, seeing Elora’s face every single time I look upon its surface, but one day the light exiting the pores of the planet grew significantly brighter, and Zohra began rotating and shaking at a phenomenally fast speed, and I witnessed Zohra swallow itself in a supernova, creating a black hole. I interpreted this to represent the death of the hope I had to once again see Elora, or maybe time had taken her like time had taken her beloved star. I allowed myself to succumb to the irresistible force from the black hole, and the death of hope I had to once more see the angelic face of my love, swallowed my space bubble and my hollow body occupying it, to the point of no return, where I can no longer regret what I had done to her, because in time, my love for her destroyed me.
Each day with so much ceremony
begins, with birds, with bells,
with whistles from a factory;
such white-gold skies our eyes
first open on, such brilliant walls
that for a moment we wonder
"Where is the music coming from, the energy?
The day was meant for what ineffable creature
we must have missed?" Oh promptly he
appears and takes his earthly nature
   instantly, instantly falls
   victim of long intrigue,
   assuming memory and mortal
   mortal fatigue.

More slowly falling into sight
and showering into stippled faces,
darkening, condensing all his light;
in spite of all the dreaming
squandered upon him with that look,
suffers our uses and abuses,
sinks through the drift of bodies,
sinks through the drift of vlasses
to evening to the beggar in the park
who, weary, without lamp or book
   prepares stupendous studies:
   the fiery event
   of every day in endless
   endless assent.
Richmal Byrne Jan 2011
We don’t really understand

How atoms behave;

Or infinity;

Or how winds carry the seasons -

Like ‘Olde April ‘ with it’s 'showers sweet' !

Yes, I’ve felt them...



The clean stinging scent of rain

Scratching at the earth,

Pelting aromatic plants,

Condensing the smells of seas, winds, continents;

Infusing the sum of all these aromas in its perfumery,

Marketing it: April, again.



And Eliot said,

There be April,

'The cruellest month'.

Oh my (!)

Appealing April, with its sunny flavours,

Cascades of cats & dogs,

And dead-eye jack,

Firing frosts that just might spend the tender herb.



It was snowing in April,

And Easter was early, that year

When I took Schrödinger’s cat walking

On a leash, And April was still new,

And capable of shocking...



Now any month - could bring pitiless ruin.

The year annually

Out of step with migratory designs,

Throwing epithets out of its greenstick pram,

Its months in disarray ,

No-one knows what’s going on...





The drunkard earth sups up it’s own tears,

Reeling in its spin,

Until,

Saturated,

It can drink no more,

And every dip fills,

Every meadow spills,

Banks overflowing,

Its resolve drowning,

Questions washing

Up like a tide of interrogative curiosity.



OK – so I am really hiding in my acres...

At least I can tell - it’s April !



Enquiring lily-of-the-valley,

Puts up green periscopes.

Peering through the sodden grass,

The remnants of last year’s soggy leaves,

Cosset primrose & ramsons.

Daffodils are past their best, but soldier on

Like hungover squaddies,

Snowdrops have fat capsules where white drops shone,

Hellebores have been up since the crack of time -

Good movers - they could dance all spring!

Dingles are glinting green with native bluebell leaves,

And their mophead mates have muscled in the garden,

Quiet violets lounge on the field’s chaise long,

Coy, understated,

How British!

Oxlips and cowslips join the brave primroses

Who have been on the razzle for weeks.

White & purple lilac in green cassocks,

Will soon burst out

Like kiss-o-grams.

Boughs hung with clematis,

Still tiny shoots like birds on wires.



I am giving a prize for the first celandine on my patch;

Each little celandine - Rannunculus ficaria - is

A miniature sun uttering: Oi! You up there, old currant bun!

Here’s the template for a perfect summer sky !
April 2008
RW Dennen Aug 2014
The great New York metropolitan
stretching its  vibrancy
trafficking its wears.
Car horns combating in contemptuous arguments
habituated eardrums unwittingly pulsating

Great buildings upward; towering behemoths in grandiose splendor
This great asphalt jungle sprawling its electricity for blocks,
for miles
The jazz of the city continues the chanting; the sounds of bass and the blowing of the **** sax, the horn, the piano
and the drums drumming on its rhythmical beat

Beating hearts feeling the vibrancy; the shock waves of nuances echoing the great hustle
Multitude of voices singing praise to the different tongues;
vibrant in diverse rejoicing, the poetry of men and women
Metropolitans claiming the world condensing into small
blocks and listening to its RHAPSODY.
Scandal and Silence the Theme of the Night
When his Dive scorned my Innocence with him
The Endearing One was there - Red in sight,
Marking the Troll for his Disgusting Whim
Which I would agree if Extent permits
The Mirror crying my Conscience to wake
Trust, at my Pocket; Honesty, at brim
And a Cloud condensing to form this Lake
Now fill Evaporation's Time with Blood,
Squeezing the Hour we need to amend:
"****** Holy, Smug Lot! Gossip's Cot Krug!
And whatever ******* left at Tar's Bend!"
Aye. Folly Love-Haskins takes one a-craze
And left the Diver-Boy swimming at maze.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Poetic T Oct 2014
It hung delicately upon it,
Yet not touching.
All was surrounded
It was like clouds had
Wished to kiss the ground,
Moisture,  
Condensation,
Breath,
Suspended between
Heaven
&
Earth.
Each so close caressing between each,
Condensing into a lingering touch,
Dew
Mist
Haze
A gentle breeze like breath.
Exhales, the beads between both
For this moment removed, they nearly
Were one, caressed a lingering never touch.
And moved on, till the next time
Sky gently caresses upon the *Earth.
Xiomara Hussein Feb 2014
Vacancy is occupied
Please come back another time
These four walls are condensing
Every time we begin reminiscing
Oxygen is getting thick
Pungent fumes from your neck
Keep striking up like a match
Lead across a coarse surface
It’s lit

These four walls are condensing
Oxygen is getting thick
That taste is gritty
Slick Slivers of black start swiveling
Swelling up my tongue with sweaty trickery
Suffocation never felt so Zen and yet so witty
My skin is blue and grey
I guess you are what you eat
If only it’s death didn't taste so sweet
These four walls are Condensing
Your oxygen is getting thick
Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!
Wonthelimar  Ibic Rings
Anne Jul 2014
I hate the summer air
The way it sticks to every hair
The sudden need
To shave my legs
Scrape myself ******
Surely instead
The air itself chokes
Me like water
Swimming in mosquitoes
Spiders and moths
When will this horror of summer
Ever stop?

I miss winter
It's bitter chill
The cold piercing me
Like no lover ever will
My breath condensing
In mid-air
The snowflakes falling
White winter wonderland
I understand the opinion I hold is of the few not the many.  Sorry all you summer lovers, I just can't take the heat.
BT Sanders Oct 2010
A valiant woodsman of God’s green earth,
An ever gentle soul,
Treads nobly through the forest’s edge,
To conquer hill and knoll.

Morning chill, punctuates warm breathe,
Condensing on cold steel,
A rising sun greets a friend of old,
With beckoning appeal.

The singing birds, call quick to arms,
Warning to those that hear,
The woodsman’s made his presence known,
To this they must adhere.

The ageless warrior nestles down,
A clearing by a brook,
From iron sights, he takes a bead,
A short but lasting look.

Ten points in all, the target grunts,
And directs a gazing eye,
A trigger’s squeezed a slight indent,
The woodsman breathes a sigh.

A crack of thunder, a flash of light,
The beast is crashing down,
The woodsman offers praise to God,
The forest makes no sound.

A resounding victory born this day,
Upon much hallowed earth,
And from majestic creature lost,
Does spawn a sacred birth.

The woodsman leaves, more quiet than came,
In humbleness and awe,
To tell a tale of conquest sought,
To share of what he saw.
SassyJ Jan 2016
Verse 1
You are the wind that blows
I am a book that you read
Condensing chapters told
My feeble mind relearns
To search the eons of bliss

Verse 2
You are the scent I breathe
I am a nomad that strolls
Guarding blooming depths
Your inner eye is my sight
To trigger seasons afar

Verse 3
Your skin is my shiny glow
I am a mass that revolves
Reflecting the mirrored view
You review within my insight
To align the guarded tusks

Chorus**
I will never punch you
Neither munch you
A sway in desire
I will never judge you
Neither nudge you
A swing to inspire
To an essence ever present felt but not seen!
Leiak, omnipresent vague pneuma-dancing spirit, ductile pious water of epiphany and extraordinary example, lives on the water with his parasitic chin in the Vernarthian epigram; he is seen with his jocular back, breaking the lines of the swamps between muscles and silhouettes. Before the First station..., primitive of the three remaining nights before reaching the volcano of Patmos, its deluge begins. "

It bathes in the Davidian, Alexandrian, and Vernarthian rains. A little touched he is seen and insubordinate in the astragali that he has gained in his allegories, squeezing his chest, exactly for the good of a wonderful Hellenistic city statue of the Dyticá, where he imbibed Vernarth's putti, adhering to the hydric spheres that fell over the ceilings of the heavens that Eros himself and his crush, which struck the heart axis of Medea, totally extracted from Zefian's quiver, constricted in Borker's nanotechnological sub-mythology. From the comedy of Attica and in the superb speeches of endo-adverbial satire, he stigmatized verbal changes of creation, superimposing them on tops of excesses carried by heavy drops inside some amphorae brought from the eastern sunset, tracking happiness that arrived on the western shores, waiting letters of sigh and loneliness stretched out on the thalamus full of stretch marks. So Leiak expanded, where everyone made fun of him being a satyr by essence, but being unaware of it. Perhaps as a unitary gesture of shadows when going to dawn, before having the best light that they put in figures or pirouettes, without disgracing him as a satirical minority in the Epicurean doctrine, he is inquiring a happy life through the intelligent search of innate pleasures, the ataraxia and in apocalyptic friendships with Zefian, Borker, and Kaitelka.

Borker did not intend to heal himself of trifles at all; it will be a habit to venerate the revelations against polytheism, to then cling to an interiority that points to corroded execration from the root to the top of the fallen tree, with force blinded by the blindness of the Automaton, as far as it is concerned. By itself, of identical significance in the background; but with so-called change that he tends to totally eliminate the last trait of personification of the divine. From this dilemma, the values will be spikes in his hands, sheaves in both, and what he envisions of Hellenism will be the property of nano-technology, submitting under the lens of time dividers that have never been pieces of rest under the Duoverse-Universe., the lens will be your Iridium and the microbes that govern us will be the atomic force, to discover them. What atomistic world will there be between Borker and Leiak, if in this nanoworld; The nanometer is one-billionth of a meter ?, What will be enough to start being tiny in this great epic, which is called Vernarth intra-spaces and inter-Verthians of the universal macrocosm, which will now approach the microcosm of human consciousness, and the laboratory of Epicurean affabilities in Ataraxias decreasing the passionate intensity of the Hypothalamus, and the supra desires that can alter the mental-corporal balance, strengthening in misery that they reach said balance, and finally happiness, which is a meta-plane of Epicurean convergence that runs after the lost. Ataraxia is, therefore, tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability analogous to Vernarth's soul, reason and feelings in his dislocated world, and the hemispheres of himself that will be rationalized in their slightest longitudinal measure, in what fits and in the precarious!

Passionate laboratories were magnetized every time Leiak walked on its extension, and his hands went beyond his fingers, touching the Constellation of Aorion, to indicate that the longitudinal metric of man is measured beyond the fingers of the Duoverse, where it appears the Extra-Cosmos in the proximal of a nano-scale is a submultiple of the conferred means of the Saint John the Apostle pattern. The scientific notation will be the safeguard of the magisterial scientist exponentiated brain; 10.1 mm = 10-3., the kilometer or km, is the opposite equivalent in what submultiples of the meter are called a micrometer: 1 μm = 10-6 m. In this scale we find bacteria, which constitute the main group of microbes, hence the name of the submultiple between observation scales of the macro and micro world of this being of Holographic Lux called Leiak, having the composition between this nanoscale, and the opposite of 1 μm = 10-6 m. projected onto a bacterium, which in turn is ten times larger than a viral body. Sizing enough to balance the biosphere that will surround the Automaton Mandragoron.
Leiak's world is an outpatient virtual laboratory, as it is valid in colloquial language, adhering to measures that differ by the conception of transliteration or decimal mathematical positioning. The letters and lines have been interpreted by Leiak, they are Vernarthian Parapsychologies that oscillate gaps of mismatch of billionths of wasted knowledge, in displays of ghostly reigns and in no-man's-land. This nanoscale makes us nano-poetize themes of ultra interference of the Epicurian decree, of tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability, with the meagerness that we know of the enlightened after a thousand moons writing under the stars:
"Woman when you touched my life with the grace of your fingers, I could see how the kind nights closed my eyes, caressing the entire Universe." This is undoubtedly Epicurean Nano Poetry, but the Author is Tagore "

The exponential oscillates in the parameter of the outstanding Astronomer of the divine verb and poetic thinking, in the most intimate and dynamic Hindu techno-language. Quantum mechanics here is the debit of the iconic remnant reached, by parameters not achieved below the average intelligence, providing lost data far from collecting and storing. Tagore's logic is nano-poetry, which balances billionths that are not achieved by occupying the Corporal Dytiká (poetic sunset) and the synchronic soul, rather the material simultaneity of the fifth element of will, emotional and objective desire, condensing into matter already conferred consciousness, in gaps in fit at all times, but linking it to her divinity as intelligence never before out of date; V.G. The Mashiach is always linked to the vertebral and communicational axon of the plasma nano-particles by grasping its infinite numinosity, making this scale it's one billionth, and being within the Eras that will be the largest average of the macrocosm, in the quantum itself of the Christian Era and in other Quantum worlds.

Strictly speaking, the molecules are angels without a will, but the dispensers are the consciousness of Leiak, which transfers hybrid consciousness, for purposes of regulating and shaping the ravings of intelligence and atheistic consciousness, and for purposes of the great remnant always present and active in the emergency. Spirituality of the Mashiach-revolutionized. The by-product will be Zefian's Tetra Sagita with its ergonomic tip, opening up doubts and tracing the future of a rewritten bible in the same character and fidelity, but with the omnipresent Mashiach of a Scientific Eucharist.

Leiak walked through minefields, and in some, he saw universes come out that exploded in livid colors, among them Vernarth, who had been recovering from malaria, and who helped him create a culture composed of a great artifice of immutability, for those who are close to his Greek spirit. Overwhelming those who lack the will, clarifying where the great art galleries of the world will be, not because of their current works but because of those they will have to exhibit? From the rushing philosophical delta, germs of dominance were trickling, distinguishing properties that did not germinate under his feet. Bread and water of the hundredfold fruit of all the lesser forces that resist on the thirty and nine with fever, more than the narrow borders to be discovered, in democracies that will prosper in the hands of kind tyrants, and not in the unitary Ecumene. Vernarth did not denationalize from his grass crops, he was Hetairoi more than all the commanders of Alexander the Great because his native country never sank next to him, he only prospered in centuries where he had to rise again silenced and prostrate oblivion.

The chaos of an absence accuses a majority of sadness that greets the Celtic Gauls for the axon of the anointed cosmos of the divine autarkic world. But not in seditious wars devoid of bread and water that does not support them, nor by papyrus did nets that do not contain them either, in the spiral retransform the land of all, as a plural work done here, by the Mandragoron Áullos Kósmos, intends. The male rectors will trust their works in the widespread Greek language, called koine (common). A language that writes has its own feet to write new divisions, and ordinal paragraphs to fulfill in proskínesis or obeisances in those who have golden knees or not! They will continue to make separate book stores or libraries for Filososfia or science sub-themes that will tackle the top of Profitis Ilias. For all large cities and nations, it will only be Leiak's legacy, of having large spaces for dialogues where no one can resist his man-made preaching, holographic rain forest, and times that not even in billionths will make him melt spaces of ignorance, diverge from the juxtaposed principle of unpopulated urban schools do not deserve.

Says Leiak: “Every time it is more intense to turn the dislocated nature of man, my literary idylls are at the end of everything with his genre works. Life and it's agitated think idyllic of removing the talus, which is not swayed in my chest by the Metelmi..., but by my breath of death! "
Dyticá Leiak's twilight
Atypnoc Jan 2015
Why turn on the light illuminate the beast that's here?
Who stirs beyond the softness of the focus so unclear...
Condensing on the hairs sprung straight from necks the breath so near
And if i light it, we ignite it, I haven't ways to fight it, giving sight to insurmountable fear
Ottis Blades Nov 2012
There was a Rock band playing hard but I didn’t hear them
flashes of lights in the screaming crowd but I couldn’t see them
only your face, drenched in beauty beaming in the middle
pulled your curls over your right ear so I could talk to your dimples..

...then I stood there in your eye’s gaze, swirling in a maze amazed
in wonderland, minus a white rabbit and a white man in a top hat
to get back to the land of the sane, to hear my name in your voice
was insane, no matter how many drinks we already had.

Bohemian eyes, green lights, curly black hair with shades of brown
condensing in your forest sight, setting fire to the entire Amazon
hanging on to the ring that barely bitterly bites your bottom lip,
trying to squeeze that melancholic bohemian smile in-between.

Ripped jeans at the knees, cinnamon skin, low-cut blouse
rockin’ to the guitar’s string, to string me along a flower child
promised to write you a poem while in my mind you were still fresh
even if I didn’t kissed your lips, with my skin I touched your breath.

Then we talked about things while the eavesdropping moon was near
you had a man, it was clear, but that went in and out the other ear
maybe I’ll never see you again, so I’ll take that with a shot of sorrow
because it was no longer yesterday bohemian girl, it was tomorrow.
Lyzi Diamond Dec 2014
Radiator
like hot breath
reminding you of something
wrong, stinging teeth, sweat
and sore muscles
built up with lactic acid, a changing
and slightly more favorable wind

Central air, central heat
some unsung heroes and sparks
of something new, are you sure
there aren't spikes in my
drink, there's sharp pains
in my throat

How was it supposed
to feel, can't find the right
sounds and the room stinks
of hot leather stretched
over decaying bones
"OH, when I was a little Ghost,
A merry time had we!
Each seated on his favourite post,
We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
They gave us for our tea."

"That story is in print!" I cried.
"Don't say it's not, because
It's known as well as Bradshaw's Guide!"
(The Ghost uneasily replied
He hardly thought it was).

"It's not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet
I almost think it is -
'Three little Ghosteses' were set
'On posteses,' you know, and ate
Their 'buttered toasteses.'

"I have the book; so if you doubt it - "
I turned to search the shelf.
"Don't stir!" he cried. "We'll do without it:
I now remember all about it;
I wrote the thing myself.

"It came out in a 'Monthly,' or
At least my agent said it did:
Some literary swell, who saw
It, thought it seemed adapted for
The Magazine he edited.

"My father was a Brownie, Sir;
My mother was a Fairy.
The notion had occurred to her,
The children would be happier,
If they were taught to vary.

"The notion soon became a craze;
And, when it once began, she
Brought us all out in different ways -
One was a Pixy, two were Fays,
Another was a Banshee;

"The Fetch and Kelpie went to school
And gave a lot of trouble;
Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul,
And then two Trolls (which broke the rule),
A Goblin, and a Double -

"(If that's a *****-box on the shelf,"
He added with a yawn,
"I'll take a pinch) - next came an Elf,
And then a Phantom (that's myself),
And last, a Leprechaun.

"One day, some Spectres chanced to call,
Dressed in the usual white:
I stood and watched them in the hall,
And couldn't make them out at all,
They seemed so strange a sight.

"I wondered what on earth they were,
That looked all head and sack;
But Mother told me not to stare,
And then she twitched me by the hair,
And punched me in the back.

"Since then I've often wished that I
Had been a Spectre born.
But what's the use?" (He heaved a sigh.)
"THEY are the ghost-nobility,
And look on US with scorn.

"My phantom-life was soon begun:
When I was barely six,
I went out with an older one -
And just at first I thought it fun,
And learned a lot of tricks.

"I've haunted dungeons, castles, towers -
Wherever I was sent:
I've often sat and howled for hours,
Drenched to the skin with driving showers,
Upon a battlement.

"It's quite old-fashioned now to groan
When you begin to speak:
This is the newest thing in tone - "
And here (it chilled me to the bone)
He gave an AWFUL squeak.

"Perhaps," he added, "to YOUR ear
That sounds an easy thing?
Try it yourself, my little dear!
It took ME something like a year,
With constant practising.

"And when you've learned to squeak, my man,
And caught the double sob,
You're pretty much where you began:
Just try and gibber if you can!
That's something LIKE a job!

"I'VE tried it, and can only say
I'm sure you couldn't do it, e-
ven if you practised night and day,
Unless you have a turn that way,
And natural ingenuity.

"Shakspeare I think it is who treats
Of Ghosts, in days of old,
Who 'gibbered in the Roman streets,'
Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets -
They must have found it cold.

"I've often spent ten pounds on stuff,
In dressing as a Double;
But, though it answers as a puff,
It never has effect enough
To make it worth the trouble.

"Long bills soon quenched the little thirst
I had for being funny.
The setting-up is always worst:
Such heaps of things you want at first,
One must be made of money!

"For instance, take a Haunted Tower,
With skull, cross-bones, and sheet;
Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour,
Condensing lens of extra power,
And set of chains complete:

"What with the things you have to hire -
The fitting on the robe -
And testing all the coloured fire -
The outfit of itself would tire
The patience of a Job!

"And then they're so fastidious,
The Haunted-House Committee:
I've often known them make a fuss
Because a Ghost was French, or Russ,
Or even from the City!

"Some dialects are objected to -
For one, the IRISH brogue is:
And then, for all you have to do,
One pound a week they offer you,
And find yourself in Bogies!
Tawanda Mulalu Aug 2014
HIM, LOOKING AT HER.


She is subtle.
A face hidden behind an iPad;
Only silent eyes are left-

they speak:

-my world is here.
i choose here, i hide here,
i like here.
see it shines?

-my world is here.
pictures picture pictures
the river my news feed;
a status a raindrop;

-my world is here.
and we are the cloud:
condensing, condensing, collapsing
relaxing, relaxing, relapsing

-my world is here.
so send me a message  here
don’t look at me…they're watching
     send me a message

please.

-my world is here.
i choose here, i like here,
i hide here.
so why…
    
...why do i keep looking at you?

outside.
We exist in reality and not in computer screens.
Mariya Timkovsky Jun 2012
The sand is drenched with misty water
Falling from the sky.
My shovel cradles the clustered grains until
They are ready to be deposited
Into the security of a plastic bucket.
Once it is filled,
The infamous flip happens.

Then I am bound to lift the bucket
And embrace whatever I find underneath.
I squint, only wanting to half-look
At the potential abomination.
But I find myself pleasantly surprised;
Shivering
From the cold droplets condensing on my skin,
But grateful.
I'm tired of missed calls
Undelivered texts,
Removing digital evidence
Of an ex.

Typing '****' when
longing to howl
Pressing like, acting,
you're on the prowl.

Weary of condensing my
message
To just on small
passage.

Tap it all out,
Just to backspace,
like what you need to express,
Is a plain old waste.

Look up from your paper thin,
Retina display,
Don't let technology
Get in the way.

Take chances, soar
ignore the device
that makes your life
so impure.

Throw away the shackles,
Reconcile,
Cry on shoulders,
Whisper, wander for hours,
Whatever you do,
Ignore the iPhone's powers.

Love love love,
And don't feel bad,
For not getting a text back,
Is not the worst pain you've had.

Be truly elated, this time
don't pretend
put down your mobile,
As for now, in this moment.
Technology needs to end.
Westley Barnes Jan 2019
In Waterstones
Sighing at the bestsellers
opaque at the corner of my right
eye two ladies late in life
are centre stage amid the table
paperbacks.

“Are you following me?” the taller bellows
brimmed headscarf towering over her NHS bespectacled
sister of afternoons and shopping mornings
continuing a conversation that has obviously
followed them their entire friendship
seeming the matriarch of the pair, she is circumspect
in her contrariness.

Whatever entitles her to this
Guardianship of self-importance
Her being a lighthouse rising above the mists
condensing off beaten shards of rock
is subdued by her companions’ pithy response
“no-you know I have no interest in Autobiographies.”
Where does one start if not with the absolute I,
Beginning with sight,
The sun kept clockwork in check.
The kids kept their songs in their heads
The parents kept photo albums full of smiles where a split second
Becomes the cover letter for years of dread.
The page kept condensing life that is better left unsaid,
While the reader kept considering the page a part of him.

Beginning with sound,
The ocean kept grinding the ground.
The guitar kept articulating the waves that come from
A place that can be found
In the engine of muscled bone,
Arriving at what you know
Through nature's transient code,
Read between simultaneous consideration of scope
And a song that keeps you on your toes.

Beginning with touch,
The cage kept the prisoner condemned
Who was slave to the ego's violent whims.
Hunger ravages the idealism of men,
Who kept on believing in sensory over stimulation.
While rapid eye sleep kept fostering shackled sheep
Towards their only release.

Beginning with dreams,
I start to seem incomplete
Fuzzy puzzles kept flagging themselves as urgent but unapparent in meaning
And even faster in disappearing
To make room for me.
A resurgent thief
That kept insisting on stealing a mind's freedom to be.
Tommy Johnson Jul 2014
Encroaching satellites
High voltage saturation and shade
And an obtuse synopsis of cognitive psychology

Condensing your threshold
Searching for hand outs
Ripping the railings out of the walls
In the stairwells in the doctor's office on the way to your colonoscopy  

Laying on the futon with and your therapist writing down everything you say
"Go on"
"Mhm"
"I see"
"How does that make you feel?"

Skid-marked underwear
Delving, dumpster diving for food
In the lonesome twilight
In the rippling rainstorm

People shelling out gripes
Squinting, doing a double take at you
Followed by a wavering tumult
They're gonna have you capped
That is, unless you purchase this love seat

       -Tommy Johnson
copperots Dec 2013
Took one step into his lonesome world.

The clouds there were peculiarly pixelated in a forgettable shade of #999999
Digitally coded water vapor condensing into dense bubbles of thought
They resembled puzzle pieces childishly misplaced
Naivety was finger-painted along the lining and edges
While other bits played a quiet game that seemed to find them wanting

I did wonder where he hid them
Or if it was someone else who ran away
Who stole the stars in his sky?
Who stole the light in his pocket?

Took another step into his lonesome world.

The wind there had a dance of it's own that seemed to trace a pattern
Oscillating at a rate of 15Hz was a low frequency partner-less sway
Similar to eyelids confused and batting their lashes
Or wiper blades clearing tears off cars during a storm
Occurring without much thought was the drizzle with each wave

I did wonder why he danced alone
Or was it someone else who simply walked off
Who turned his sky on?
Who turned his lights off?

Took a breath standing in the center of his lonesome world.

I looked up and to my surprise found the eye of his mind
Staring back at me from those ***** clouds
It was the reason to all being and the wind was it's doing
Rising high up from an endless undisturbed nap

It was;

Brighter than the Sun itself
  Bursting citrus with each blink
Bleeding pulp over my skin
  Burning like acid on my own wounds
Delightful heat dripping off my tongue
   Psychedelic spirals twisting my limbs

    And
       i danced and spun
    And
       i lost and won

Please find me somewhere in those broken memories of yours
Jessica Wong Oct 2012
Black, reflecting my negative emotions
And yet, also reflecting soft dappling light -
White light, reflecting my optimism for happiness.
Clicking cameras' clinging onto frozen moments.
Curved lenses
Capturing, condensing,
concentrating, and compacting.

A vaguely comprehensible collection
of inconsequence.
While I do enjoy writing poetry, I also like photography and other forms of expressing myself through artistic/creative ways (photography, writing, drawing/painting, music).
Scarlet Niamh Mar 2017
There is a girl somewhere, somehow;
impossible and true. She shouldn't exist -
she should have evaporated so long ago
yet somehow she kept on breathing and existing,
condensing and condensing
until she finally moved with solidity.
She sang in sorrowful silence,
was free in the terrors of the night,
lived and loved
regardless of the loss in her heart.
She survived because life told her not to
and now she is there, running
pure and clear as a dream,
wild and crazed bewilderment
shining in her alive eyes.
That Latin beauty, she is vivid and gleaming
in the light which shines
true and bright and effervescent.
She will be waiting for the liquid to return
and to dissolve into transparency once more but,
as she always forgets,
she will never die out.
We are all like her
in some way or another.
~~ For Katy. ~~
Alyssa Rose Mar 2016
May your eyes never forget
the taste of me-
taken in,
devoured,
in the humid evenings
of late July.

May your lips never forget
the smell of me-
pink skin catching
every glisten of sweat
condensing under
the hot sun.

May your ears never forget
the sight of your name
escaping in a gasp
from my pink lips,
my eyes wide open
never missing a second
of your perfection.
3.14.16
What can I say?
I woke up,
it was Saturday,
seems the weekend's underway
and I am under steam.

I'm shipping out on the noon tide
across the ocean
deep and wide,
dreaming of a sunlit bay,
what can I say?
I woke up,
it was Saturday
Molly Rosen Dec 2013
i am so done with existing but i care so much and i hate when things aren't perfect
there are only like four people in the world that i like unconditionally
and even they can make me cry
this morning my dad yelled at me for seeming sad because i've been "so much better this year"
but he must be blind because i can't focus or find motivation and i feel like i'm slipping
past rock bottom and into the core of the earth where the heat and pressure are condensing me into molten liquid,
and then back into useless rock
Astrea Jul 2021
insomniac

tangible darkness
let me take a picture of you

paint you on the wall
scribble your name on waters

in your naked form
bend you, so no one else

knows you but me, alone

insomniac darkness — tell me
my muse, let me taste you,

bewildering, like arrows in disarray
and white birds

surreal as falling seraphs and forked tongues

moist darkness
what is sulking inside you must submerge

with manta rays hemmed in circles long ago
curled horns probing, testing bygones,

frozen dawn condensing my azure dreams ashore
Hands Aug 2010
Hey

listen here

yeah

listen

here.

LISTEN.

I'm here.

I'm right
here.

Not
up there.

Down
here.

Down.

I'm

"grounded"

if you will.

Will you
listen?

I'm important.

And I have

big

important

things to say.

So

move

out of the way,

I'm here.

I am
here.

So listen

here.

Here

is where

one might hear

the cawing

of ten thousand

sparrow

or see the majesty

of a goose

in flight.

We are birds

see

SEE
HERE

we are

the birds and

HERE we fly
as the birds.

Hey

listen.

Are you

listening?

Listening
with your EARS?

Cause I have big

important things

to say.

Listening
with your EYES?

Cause I have big

important things

to show.

Hey

watch here

yeah

watch
HERE.

Cause I

can only show

you once.

ONLY
ONCE.

Matter

what
is it?

I don't
know

I thought you

might.

Matter
matter is

soft

and

easy to break.

It's like
this roof

or your
ground.

Ha

ha

I guess you're

"grounded."
I don't

stay on the ground

not when

people can't
hear from
down there.

I've been

making noise

trying to break through

this matter
this matter

frozen
and condensing
all around me.

It
is closing in
trying to wait

for a
mistake.

ONE mistake
and it wins.

ONE mistake
and I'm silenced.

Hey

listen

this is
good news.

At least
they can watch

from
up here.

Hey

see here

yeah

see
HERE.

I'm only

going to jump once

so watch now

to see

me

fly.

Watch as

I step
into

the


empty quarters


of the

air
below.
what.
Ma Cherie Jan 2017
Up ahead past frozen trees,
lies a timeless crystal valley,
while some still stand unfrozen here,
in rows of wooden alley,

I step in past behemoth guards,
who protect a prism palace,
as cleanest waters pure and clear,
rush down on earthly ballast,
a chance to sip of sacred wine,
inside a holy chalice,

Roots run deepest in this spot,
away from light,
below,
while tallest branches touch the sky,
all blanketed insnow,
as orchestra's of crystal chimes,
prepare another show,

When one should gaze upon it,
this ancient wooded sight,
as steam is rising steadily,
as daylight moves to night,
night draws down it's curtain,
as stars now shine a lovely light,

Your breath is taken with it,
& frozen there in time,
as daylight changes scenery,
angelic voices chime,
when telling of the beauty here,
I'd say this place sublime,

A wooded lucent heaven,
it's hard to put in words,
I close my eyes to dream again,
and listen to the birds,
and for every other lovely sound,
I hope my ears have heard,

My breath & I,
just cannot linger,
in beauty's frozen place,
where every branch is laden white,
on gaurded trees of ancient grace,
where all adorned with icicles,
& brilliant snowy patterned lace,

The atmosphere is full of vapor,
as the dew point has been hit,
condensing incandescent tears,
low flying clouds now sit,
so near the ground in steamy fog,
translucently still lit,

It captivates my every sense,
as frozen gates unlock,
I do my best to look away,
though all I do is gawk,
I peer inside to check the time,
...if any on the clock,

Sadly here,
not time for me,
inside this sleepy glen,
where birds & death,
they wait assured,
a thorny crown,
in safest den,
boreal a chickadee,
the livest a tiny wren,

Perhaps to come another day,
I stay inside past frozen gates,
I cannot know the how and when,
my thread of life is cut by Fates,
the three Keres I see in there,
it seems I can't manipulate,

I do not know the way to here,
amidst the wafting fog,
when all again will seem anew,
in Spring & newborn frog,
where lovely woodland creatures,
come out from mossy log,

I so wish I could stay here too,
where now the only sound,
is one of snowflakes softly falling,
upon this hallowed ground,
I do not know where I am going,
or where I'm finally bound,

Though I will try again in Spring,
to see my way back here,
I came here with a fear of death,
but left inside that fear,
as little Winter fairies whisper,
of hope into my ear,

I am grateful for today,
with new hope for tomorrow,
I'm walking out of here tonight,
relieved of all my earthly sorrow,
I walk ahead,
now unconcerned,
if no more time...
at all to borrow.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Hey everyone I've been away but I'm doing alright...sorry not here so much,
I'll check in when I can today, and catch up as much as possible. I think being grateful is so important...to live from a place of gratitude. This is full of metaphors for life and death, acceptance of our time, breathing in the beauty it was a mystical spiritual walk as I pondered the fear of death. I carefully thought with this...it felt inspired idk... while at the most beautiful, breathtaking place here I know to go in Winter.... sigh...
Influences of Greek mythology (the fates) and some of my other beliefs. Many thanks poets for always kind words and love - hugs VERMONT ❤ ❤❤
Fheyra May 2020
In the swirling zephyr,
The grass dances weakly
I heard an escort,– Awaits my way to the Wolf Hall.

A triumphant sinister;—
My broken pleasure,— How lovely to see thy scraps again..
Such a bounty hunter
What the gods want now?

Doth not turn me around!—
Doth not hang me!
If thou loose my ties,—
Thou wilt be a murderer of all vines!

Spare me!— I am not thy prey;
I am not one of Greek's peccant,
Please, off loathing my purity!

This predator devoured me..
The ****** of his dark matter, stabbed me..

The mob held me captive,— by net traps
The culprit lies next to me—
Acted one alike raw; then I was sacked,
I felt the bethel was mocked,—
But my Lord won't despise me.

A paralyzed arrest screeched me
I was stroke— by a vermin quenched for meat..

Thou art the most cherished
It is still me..
Scattered with mud,
Dressed in a blanket;
Hoping to kiss thee
Bend for belief,— and not forgiveness
Wherefor thy body shivers?
Thy cup is condensing,
Lips ill-looking;
Red flames changing blue—
Am I still the hue?
I sensed—
Thou fell into the pit
My shreds, thy lust
The roots art on the tip of thy nails!

An ancestral plague poisoning whoever sits,—
And bridesmaking is a promiscuous habit—
To grasp a braided hair,— for an accessory
Behold, the lineage of romantic paintings,
Whence the bonds turn to heist
Looting innocence and staying in history...
In this 4th sequence, the queen met her former lover, but it turns out to be a nightmare rendezvous. He ***** her, for a reward, that she could be dethroned. He made it look like thaf she made love with him by making her unconscious, and after, some people saw it, and thought she committed adultery. Her husband was there when the people saw his wife and the man. Who would ever thought himself, the king, planned this, for he has another woman. The last stanza reveals the political and immoral ways of monarchy.
Anthony Williams Jul 2014
Come closer
by all means come closer where in a blink
pools fix and widen into trackless lakes
your eyes unflinching against my own
forcing mine to yield to look's vortex power
I sink lengthways on to beached magnificence
fearing no fences bind this brimming shore
desiring all of your cresting feistiness

we close in privacy like a whispered prayer
I stoop to overhear furled head to head
the feather of your cheek ticked pinker
confession spilling loosely off shoulders
flowing undressed like some burlesque fantail
and I found myself buoyed up on thin air
shocked by the vapour in essential oils
so lavishly luxurious their condensing iniquity
I could only try to endure your body heat
by closing my own eyes for a moment
but out of focus pours into a concentrate

the control over hands gives me false hope
but I find a clearing of purity overwhelms me
caught helpless in all I add to mire seeping cruel
your lifeline lips offering a hint of moist buoyancy
then sinking a ship of plumped up poison
purple as inky clouds penetrating my mind
the slim tip of your tongue elusively unkind
flickering like a searching candle in a cave
dripping in irregular beats an anti-doting
to form rivulets which in their mystical midst
surround a fresh discovered vale to defile

I feel it's formation in an archway of neck
the undercurrents freed into giving way
you suspend on the bridge an apex and deck
my firmly held happiness into crowning cries
overflowing from the safety of inner recesses
the excesses needing knee breeches on both sides
to wade through a drowning press of paradise
in on the outstretched reach of a relentless tide

yet gorgeous is its precipitous edging test
with bouts of engorged selfishness
I hear your eager call in urge
return
from compliance into shambolic demands
until I am summoned to a trembling portal
biting on its handles like a moon crazed wolf
wanting to escape but in awe of its might
that it will capsize and spring open floodgates

plunging me back into dizzy abandonment's past
to the captivating idea of a last biting grasp
at your sweep-me-up voluptuous swoon
so tight on my heart we both go swimming
from intakes of breath into open eyes again
loving the saltpetre of a spa bath drop descent
into rapids extinguishing hot pulsating harm
which taunts and scolds me to calm the claim
for more days of dangerous vain tainted venom
held at bay
held aloft
by your pressure
bandage
arms
by Anthony Williams
Eleasha Forster Nov 2015
I still love you. Is that a bad thing? I can’t eat or sleep. My thoughts hallucinate at the mention of your name. I see your face. Everywhere; my dreams- you’re holding me close, and you never let go. Remembering that time we shuffled out over the desolate forest in our aging wellies- you’d squeeze my hand tighter for reassurance.  

I can still feel you’re warmth condensing against my skin. But it’s beginning to fade. .  And I’m lost. I’m beginning to drift away. Endlessly searching for that closure you bestowed within me. I need you. I’m lost without you by my side.

Everything seemed to erode when you’d left. The ache for forgiveness is still there and forever will be. You carved that dagger into my heart like it was funny. Like you found humor in my agony. It pierced through your azure globes as your smile widened at the excruciating pain you threw upon me. You just walked away and I shouted and I screamed;

COME BACK! COME BACK! COME BACK!

I just lay there on the ground. Numb.

You gazed deeply into my soul, robbed me from of the little purity I had left. You left me. Shattered. Broken. Unusable. You ripped out part of my heart as we said our goodbyes. And I still love you.
fray narte Jun 2019
I no longer dance
under a raincloud of poems
but if you let me,
I’ll pull you
under every tiny bit
of cloud I find
and we can dance under them;
our sadness,
condensing into raindrops —
our façade,
melting with the petrichor —
as if a downpour of words
will wash away
the bruises and scars
and baptize our soul anew.

a clean slate;

like the soil after the storm,

like leaf patterns that
know happiness

like a summer day,
reborn.
DP Younginger May 2013
****** suspicious schemes,
Right or wrong, I see past all communication into extreme expansions of a negative mindset,
Scarlet buttons compressed with Indian shaded tint, through mistaken pigment,
Veins pumping overtime with boiled fumes of something condensing,
You’re running out of immediate clockwork when days brew skyward and panic appears to be tempting your envious iris,
Behind the machinery are the blueprints,
Directed only towards agitated agony and sour sorrow,
Illuminated by locked doors-
I ask you- as the reader- the listener-
See passed my memories and create room for visions of a tangible imagination and leg-pumping adrenaline,
Needle infested wrenches lock arms with the absent intelligence of conscious deprived brain flow,
I see you peaking around my duct and depict an abstract view of confused, focused eyeliner,
Slick and plentiful dew drops linger between a plugged safeguarded build,
You’re running out of precious seconds as Antoine Fisher burns free the story behind a smearing disguise of gratitude,
Amen to the present and many men for this lopsided track record,
I’ve got a key witness in my pocket, along with images of what I lived for, before mistakes took flight,
Continue on with your heart, as nothing more than a stranger in a cauliflower society where I erase the painted tapestries,
Beware of the ticking, as I await my calendar to run dry,
Prepare your own stopwatch and click on the rolling minutes my old friend,
I hate everything you represent,
Everything you expose to the previously tainted atmosphere,
But mainly, everything you have coming home from war,
Tick…tick…tick…
Lappel du vide Dec 2013
love is eminent.

and if you look at this miniscule existence of yours, you will see that it is stuffed in the cracks of old and memory-ridden sidewalks,
which have had to bare the deepest of weights,
of peoples feet which have been into their lovers homes smiling,
and out of them shredding their skin with their nails.
it is carved into the ancient trees, barren of leaves,
and grown from your old sweethearts seeds,
the one with torn jeans, and an addiction to tea,
and who was too much of a spirit to chain down. you had to let him free.
and of the woman, who owned a small, unheard of bookstore,
with books that smelled like cinnamon, about byzantine subjects,
and she let people take one and leave one and tip as they please.

love is there in the unsure drip of the faucet,
disturbing the silence,
in the morning eyed sun,
when the day has just begun,
and you can feel a sticky tightness on your cheek, where the tears used to run,
and the burn in your mouth, is it from your lover
or your two bottles of ***?

it’s in the old pictures from years ago,
where you cant quite recapture the moment, but the vague feeling is still there.
the film is dark and smoky. just exactly like it is supposed to be,
and all of our faces hold this resonant feeling of whole.

and there’s love in the way you jump off something high, ready to fall, and fall, and fall,
and how you focus on the moment of the fall, and not the crash landing.
the moment of all surrender, underwater, floating, meaningless bliss.

there’s love in your daily cup of coffee, or two, or three,
and there’s a special art in the way you mix your sugar, and pour your crème.
theres love in how you smoke your cigarettes,
and how the smoke creates complex, fleeting shapes,
a new one every drag you take,
twirling, and running, and breathing into space, condensing itself,
in a matter of moments it sinks back again,
and makes your couch smell of ash and sin.

theres love in lots of things.
even still
in the way the hopeless strike the clock,
back to work, over the dock,
into their houses,
cut out of dough,
to presume their tasks, and label themselves,
thoughtless in a row.  
and mindless words,
the dinner table sets,
dry dinner time small talk.
they breed for the numbers,
not the pleasure of ***.

love is there in the cold ridden hearts,
of people who don’t believe in passion or art,
its in the escapees of our generation,
in old trucks, singing oldies, crying of separation,
in the numb of the brain-washed,
without their minds, wandering endlessly to and fro,
but they just have to struggle and dig deeper,
and into their own world of drunken, honest, chain-smoking, dancing love
                                                  They will go.
C Oct 2015
I have the tears of a girl that appreciates the earth it waters.
The soil would be grateful
yet these waves saturate my soul with woe
with whimpers so soft, wishing the lonely sting would dull
the dismal fingerprints that harden my stare,
which they dare not directly gaze.
My reflective pools blind those passing by.
Today, I spit on these sighing waterfalls.
They told me the glacier’s love song was glorious.
But I sojourn, asphyxiating in beauty,
suffocating in once still waters.
Maria Monte Jul 2017
When graphite meets the silky threads of paper
Or when ink drips upon the golden sheet
A beautiful artist is born.

There are many kinds of artists in this world
Although today I shall speak of only one..
A neglected kind that does not wish to
Gain fame or to capture the spotlight
But rather to share to listening ears.

There be people
Who see the world through the eyes of a painter
But are capable of stealing the elegance
Of a dancer, a fighter, royal blood, and much more
And condensing what they feel and see
Into a narcotic thread of words.

There be people
With broken and shining hearts alike
That run on wheels of ideas and epiphanies
And feed on overstuffed buffets of salty tears and sugary kindness.

Idealists and realists,
The poor and the rich,
The hungry and the fed,
The broken and the salvaged,
The logical and the emotional,
This beautiful art is not limited to anyone.
It is the echoing voice of the heart
It is the pleading cries of the soul
And the smile of our childhood innocence.

This art we call "poetry"
It is the life itself whispering ideas into ears.
And if that isn't beautiful.. I don't know what is.

— The End —